Graceless (I can see through you).

My headphones are on loud while I wash dishes. I'm singing Outside. Because it's a sad song and because I can easily cover it. Kitchen Karaoke. Tuning out. Pick something. The children are watching movies with August and John and everyone is keeping their distance from me.

I'm angry. Really, really angry. First Caleb has the nerve to bring up the horses. Ben demands heaven for Jacob but isn't there to fill in the gaps and now this. Being accused of setting us up to fail? When I was twelve? What the fuck. I don't even know how Loch arrived at that level of desperation.

Then his hands come around my shoulders and his head lands on top of mine, his sharp jaw cutting into my skull. He takes one of my earphones out and puts it in his ear and he begins to sway against me, keeping me captive in his arms as he reaches around me, taking the brush and the bowl I was washing out of my hands, putting them back in the sink, turning the water off. Turning me around. Pulling my hands up around his neck, putting his arms around my waist, tucking me in against his chest.

We're dancing in monophonic. We're not resolving anything falling into familiar comfort patterns but three-decade habits can't be broken overnight, oh, no. They just can't.

I pull back and look up at him. I want to tell him to fuck right off. To go away. To not do this and just let me figure out how to live but then he looks directly at me and in his eyes I see so many nights and so many stars and so much pain. I see agonizing worry. I see how he taught me to live safely, loved, in the dizzying lights and the power ballads and the blistering heat, every moment a thrill, every ride a masterpiece. Every sky brand-fucking-new, every day. Every time I fall in love with him I ricochet back to this.

I want to concede. I want to tell him he wins but I don't take risks anymore. No one gets one hundred percent of anything except for me now.

He pulls me back in until my head is cradled in his heartbeat and my breathing slows, knees weakening, hopelessness taking over in the dark where reckless abandon and sweet youth used to be.

You can't go.

I can't stay either.

Let me fix it. 

I don't think you can now, Loch. It's too late.

It's not. Trust me. He brings my fingers up to his lips and stupid hope inside me surges forth, as if it's going somewhere. It should know better by now but that's the thing about hope. It's a promise of change.

There's twenty of us and one of him, Bridgie. 

Yes but he's Henry's father. And he's the Devil too.

Because everyone emailed to ask, including my mother.

He is forty-four now. It hardly seems possible that this is the same completely irresponsible maniac I met in my early twenties who couldn't stay out of trouble long enough to take a full breath but he might still turn out to be the best of all of us, bar none.

Ben's birthday was last weekend, celebrated somewhat quietly and without public spectacle. He doesn't like to be fussed over or written about these days. I can't help that but I can attempt to respect it so if he appears to be perpetually absent, it could be that he is, or it could be just that I sometimes listen after all.

But as for his birthday, there isn't actually much to share. He worked through it. We worked on Christmas decorations until he came home. I made his favorite dinner, we watched him open his presents and I think he was asleep by nine, fully clothed, and by eleven I was wrestling his things off his unconscious form so that he could try sleeping in the bed instead of on it. I didn't succeed and he woke up with his T-shirt and watch still on and I had a huge scratch on my back from where he slid his arm out around me sometime during the night.

He does not like forty-four, he said the next morning and I reminded him that he might when he can see past the work he has to finish. Birthdays don't always come at convenient times, or maybe life doesn't always allow for proper celebrations and then we're left feeling ripped off and delayed, forced to celebrate on the run like outlaws. Maybe when the pressure eases on him a little we will celebrate properly but for now, this is the way life happens.

Now you can stop emailing me about not writing about it, because I have. Back to the war I go. The red side is winning, though, in case you want to ask about that too.

Fight club.

He's listening to Lifehouse, singing under his breath.

I never meant to let you go
Why did I leave maybe we'll never know
But I'm a man now broken on the ground
I'm in need and I think that it shows

And I need to pick a fight or something because I feel defensive. Because I'm afraid of his feelings. Only I didn't pick the fight, he did before I could get a whole sentence out.

He sounds like-

Jake. Yes, I know.

But you're-

Playing it anyway? Sure. Why not?

Because everyone else-

I'm not going to make a Bridget-approved playlist like everyone else. It won't actually kill you to hear some of these songs. You used to love some of them.

I think about this. I'm staring at the ground now seeing if courage will arrive on the wind. 

I need to talk to-

To me? Surprise surprise. Maybe you should have talked to me before you agreed to go.

It's part of my j-

Your job? You don't need a fucking job, Princess. He's playing you. He's playing all of us. Don't you think for a second that he's just making amends. He's making it worse.

Lochlan, I-

You know what, Bridge? Ben works a thousand hours a week because he can't stand the way he feels while everyone else gets their cut of your heart. And you run right over him with that implied permission. Well I'll tell you something. You don't have mine. I don't want you going with Caleb on this trip and I don't want you acting like you owe him a damn thing. So go and tell him you're staying home. Oh, and while you're at it, tell him you quit.

So you can order me around but he can't?

Damn straight. You're old enough to listen now. 

I listened to you before! 

No, you didn't. You never ever listened. I told you to stay away from him and YOU DIDN'T LISTEN. 

I didn't know! I was a child!

In some ways you were, but in others sometimes I think you knew exactly what you were doing, Bridget. Sometimes I wonder if you set it all up on purpose so I could take the fall because you resented me for keeping you down when all I was trying to do was KEEP YOU SAFE!

I have to go in. I have to start packing. I don't want to go but he could take my son from me and I can't ever let that happen. And Lochlan? You're an asshole. 

He dropped his tools and stood up and just stared at me as I walked back to the house. I only know that because his eyes burned holes right through me.

It snows nine months of the year and hails the other three.

It's official. We are four months behind in Keeping Up With Life.

Tonight everyone dropped everything they were doing to gather round ye old television set to watch Dragons: Riders of Berk because, you know, we just found out about it.

It's the series companion to How to Train Your Dragon, which was a masterpiece of a film in that every single person who lives here loved it. That never happens.

We needed a replacement for Revolution anyway, which has gone on a four-month hiatus because NBC is run by narrow-minded fools (I buy your channel. If I miss a show I expect to be able to watch it online the next day. Don't tell me it's not available in my country and won't be back until the end of March.

So instead of watching the antics of Charlie and Miles, we'll watch those of Hiccup, who is way too much like Lochlan to be a coincidence.

A very small window without rain.

The fever finally broke early last evening, helped along by Matt, who generously offered to make me his favorite cure, a lethal concoction he dubbed Polish Tea, which was more rum than tea. It took off my nail polish and I wasn't even wearing any. I worried that if I breathed through my nose, fire might come out. It might have, I don't know. I didn't have the lights off to check.

But it worked, strangely enough and today I feel a little bit better. I also won the Christmas light contest we held in-house but it might have been rigged out of sympathy. That or everyone truly does love my freakishly stark, minimalistic new decorating style. The winner of the draw gets to choose how the outside will be decorated. The losers have to do the decorating as per the winner's instructions.

So today I am standing out in the backyard, bundled in my thick plaid wool coat, scarf tied up tightly three times around my neck by the Scottish Cabinet Minister for Appropriate Outerwear, as I called Lochlan as he tried to talk me into mittens.

Mittens.  It's six degrees out in British Columbia, for crying out loud. I still don't know why I have a coat on. (Or underwear but that's COMPLETELY unrelated.)

He called me stubborn.

Snort.

My two favorite losers of the contest (Duncan and Dalton, who wanted to get an eighty-foot inflatable snowglobe for the front yard and yeah...no) take turns climbing up into the dead trees in the orchard to string the tiny pure white LED strings through the branches.  The only other decorations will be the matching white fairy lights lining the railings of the master balcony, the front porch and the steps down to the water.

Pretty!

Kinda wish I had mittens though. It's chilly.

Good ideas, bad executioners.

You'd better let somebody love you
Before it's too late.

We've reached the part of the illness where all I do is drink tea and listen to sad songs while I look out the window at the perpetual rainfall. Too sick to enjoy the melancholy awesomeness of my self-loathing, even.

Christ on a biscuit.

Caleb came to the door this morning, complete with crazed maniacal quiet-grin in place. I raised my eyebrows at the expression substituting for an envelope and he said Not while you're so sick, Bridget.

Peyton?

No, why?

The look on your face.

I'm drawing up a few more plans for the property and I wanted to run some things by you.

I can't work today. I'm clearly disintegrating here.

Not work. Just ideas. What about...stables?! He looked so proud of himself.

You...um. You sold my horses. Remember?

And I'm trying to come to terms with everything so I can fix things.

Buying new horses won't fix the betrayal if that's what you're hoping.

Balloon popped. The look fades into very slight doubt. We'll start over. That's all I want to do. Make you happy.

You want to make me happy.

Yes. Very badly, in fact.

Happy.

Yes, Bridget.

Happy?

Bridget? You're going to implode, aren't you?

Maybe. I don't know yet but you might want to step back just in case.

Yardage.

Because we're so awesome, Friday nights are just the pinnacle of entertainment here at the house, as the boys broke into a impromptu game of tackle football. Indoors.

I was the football, taking off at a flat run to get away, bouncing off PJ and heading in the other direction until Duncan cornered me in the library. I screamed and ran right up over the back of the chair, back out into the hallway, heading up the stairs.

SHIT.

Ben was waiting. He wrestled me down to the floor, held my head very still and squirted Otrivin up my nostrils. I hate nose spray.

Oh the other hand I don't sound like a walrus when I breathe now! Hey!

Too sick to tell you anything important.

When I wake up next (holy Dayquil, Batman! Er...) Lochlan has his head resting on the pillow beside me. He's staring at me and suddenly I'm afraid. This was how I woke up the first day knowing full well that Jacob was gone forever. Only it was Ben staring at me because the Red Chicken didn't want to take the blame for the bad news and it backfired on him and oh well, I wonder what day it is now?

I calm myself as I try to focus on his eyes, the 'completely unremarkable compared to yours windswept-isle green', as he calls them to me. Bleak-green. Brean. Gleek. Something something fever. If he had my color of green eyes, I would walk around throwing my panties at his face all fucking day long.

Hey, is it warm in here or do I still have a fever?

It's Friday, sleepyhead. Want some breakfast? You can't have my crow though, I have to eat it all. 

Huh? I sit up on my elbows. What do you mean?

I did not mean to imply that you were retarded because you physically look for your memories, Peanut. I actually love seeing it. I just ran with a moment and tried a zinger and it was insulting and childish. I'm really sorry, love. 

Apology accepted. I didn't take it personally, Loch. Your timing was priceless.

He half-smiles and moves in to kiss my forehead and I sneeze right in his face.

ACK! Bridget! 

Sorry!

Dammit listen to me good.

Maybe Lochlan's bad mood was residual, contagious, but I was summoned from my bed (sickbed, if you will) by a text from Andrew this morning.

It said Need you. S&D are at it. :(

If Andrew puts a sad face on it you know it's not good. If Andrew, of all people feels the need to call in reinforcements then it's definitely not good.

However, I was feverish and hallucinating so I went over to the house next door in my pajamas. In the pouring rain. I must speak to Satan about building an underground tunnel for the weather, or for fast escapes, as it were.

Up until now Schuyler and Daniel had enjoyed a long period of relative calm. Still in their post-honeymoon phase, with the pressures of housing prices off their backs they were settling in quite nicely. Until today, anyway.

When I arrived it was quiet. False alarm maybe? I walked down the hall and made my way straight upstairs to the master suite. Daniel is a hider. Andrew meets me halfway down and points the other way to let me know Schuyler is in the kitchen but I have a bond with Daniel and I want to see him first. He's my third child and he's just like Ben: tissue-thin and prone to cognitive ruin twice as fast so I went up and knocked on the door. I hear music.

Come in.

I went in and the music was loud. And then I see that Lochlan (who was called first by Christian, unbeknownst to Andrew) and Daniel are lying in the bed fully-clothed singing along and Daniel is crying and laughing a little bit and oh, I get it.

I'm dreaming.

I shake my head and pinch my arm but they're still there. They don't morph into Chris Broderick from Megadeth magically so dammit, I must be awake. (Shhhhh. We won't go there. Feverish! Hallucinating!)

I head over and climb into bed between them. Lochlan reaches out to feel my forehead but I push his hand off. Daniel looks concerned. Why are you out in the cold? Did he call you?

No, someone else did (I never give up names until well..now). What's happening?

Loch is using sappy love songs and quiet conversation to bring Danny around and I'm guessing it worked and I can go back to bed, only I'm in a bed and so I close my eyes and listen for a while. I push my butt up against Loch and rest my head on Daniel's arm which is bent up under his head. He slides it up out of the way and the moment I land on the pillow I'm out.

Out.  

BOOM.

Asleep before I had a chance to find out what happened.

You nearly had me roped and tied
Altar-bound, hypnotized
Sweet freedom whispered in my ear
You're a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away, bye bye

When I woke up it was getting dark. I sat up in the bed and Lochlan turned to look at me from where he had been staring out to sea. The music was off, Daniel was gone and my fever seemed to be waning slightly. I coughed and Lochlan told me that the boys sorted things out.

You gave them both Big Picture talks, didn't you?

Yeah.

It's too bad we can never seem to take our own medicine, isn't it?

We're strong. We'll be fine, Bridget.

But I am still shaky and weak and somewhat out of it and I forget to soften the blow. No, we won't be fine. The way you consoled Danny was the way you used to look after me. Only you said you couldn't do that anymore and yet here you are. It still works. Just not with me I guess. 

He turned back to look out at the water and I lay back down, finishing the song in my head. See, unlike Schuyler and Daniel we no longer yell at each other until we're both in tears, we just sweep it all under the rug, shoving memories aside to make more room for all the new moments, and then pulling the edges tight hoping the coverage is enough, but it's not, exposing all the oldest ones. I keep hoping for the right love song to play that will tie it all together and make it possible to breathe. Knowing that we've played them all and it never has and probably never will. 

Sister Golden Hair Surprise.

Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?

This morning I walked into the kitchen and Lochlan played a few notes on Ben's guitar, which he tinkers with every chance he gets. (It's electric. Apparently that's a big draw.)

I immediately turned around, cocked my head and tried to place the song. I know that song. I know it well.

See? he says and Teflon Jesus nods. She totally moves her eyes when she's rooting around in her brain for memories. It's unbelievable. 

Maybe it's a sign of something, I tell him.

Mental retardation?

Well, SOMEBODY'S in a bad mood this morning. 

He passed the guitar to Dalton and walked out. I looked at Dalton and waited for an explanation. Dalton just shrugged. He needs a little more beauty sleep, I think. He stays awake when you're sick. 

If he's so concerned he has a terrible way of showing it. 

Hey, it's his Scottish bedside manner. 'Go fuck yourself', or something like that. Right?

I suppose. And then I cough some more.

Here's the rub: Ben will keep me awake late each night whether I should be or not (so that we get time! We never have TIME.) and Lochlan does not agree with that, nor does he abide by the None of your business response to his direct orders to sleep and not play. The fucker.

On the other hand I am sicker today. So instead of I told you so, he just acts all miffy and put out for like the entire day and then just as I plan to sweeten him up and make everything better, he starts giving orders again. It's preschool by day, army by night.

See, this is why I go looking (literally, LOOKING WITH MY EYES, BOYS) for those midway memories. Daytimes on the show were pretty much the only time in my life I wasn't treated like a child.

No worries, Bridget. He'll come around. 

When I feel better. 

Yeah.

Hey, do you have that song on your phone? I want to hear the rest of it now.

No, you'll have to go ask Loch. He probably does.