FWP.

YEP. FORTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, ITUNES.

Trying to wrestle with making a ringtone only to find out you've moved and buried where the AAC version thingie is so I tried to find a version online only to find only MP3 versions that I couldn't seem to convert and Lochlan is SO goddamn cruel when it comes to tech to the point where even Duncan gave HIM a shove and told him to give it a rest already. It wasn't even seven a.m. yet.

He finally showed me where they buried it this time but it was too late, I spent all my free internet time and now it's finished and my Saturday coffee is finished and my patience is finished and we don't have any hot water so the new water heater is arriving any minute now so maybe once I get a long hot shower I'll feel like giving it another go.

Too bad there was no character in the wizard of oz that needed a cure for massive pointless frustration. She would have been small and beet-pink and always in tears over fuck all. That's the worst part, it's all first world problems and I know. I know Lochlan is trying to teach me this and I know. I know. I know I know I know.

I'll be back later when I have my shit together. This is not my post, but I'm human so I'll leave it up.

?Huh?

I was watching footage from Paris online this morning and I leaned back against Dalton and before I knew it PJ yelled Narco and I jumped.

Loch responded. Polo!

Nice.

My narcolepsy is raging, untreated and almost worse than ever now in a bid to try and contain the migraine issues. The anticonvulsants that they put me on have enough side effects to make one yell HELL, NO! and stalk off in a huff and yet I've chosen to give them a chance only because they won't make me gain weight and because the promise of less pain still yearns for the light of day in there where all other hope is now lost.

But yeah, I can fall asleep mid-bite of cereal now. This is ridiculous. Add the hot skin and near-dementia-level forgetfulness with words and wow. I'm a fucking nonverbal pancake these days. But marginally cuter. Or maybe not even.

Paris is sorta-kinda underwater and they've closed the Louvre and I imagine are feeling a sort of springtime kinship with Venice these days. I freaking loved Venice but I didn't like the rats and I wouldn't want to live there because I imagine the kitschyness of it would wear off incredibly fast and the dampness of it would seep into my bones the same way the cold seemed to after eight years in the Prairies. I just couldn't walk another step, couldn't spend another day, couldn't knit another stitch of wool to put on to protect against that cold. In Venice I had nightmares of turning black with mold while I slept. It was profoundly beautiful and also tragic.

Paris is temporary. I always feel like Paris is on borrowed time. Paris is never what you think it's going to be, and then when you get there you think, oh, this is not what I expected AT ALL.

I guess it's like that in a lot of places.

I heard that in Egypt, if you look at the Sphynx and turn a hundred and eighty degrees you're facing a row of fast food restaurants.

I heard that if you see Bridget out and about in the wild of West or Downtown Vancouver she's merely a five-feet-tall former Midway rat who will ignore you completely and hang back from the hand of whomever she's with, not listening to anything that she can't hear, content to let them lead. She's not some point-controlling, man-collecting, husband-slaying demoness like you've read about.

That or she's asleep.

Yeah. She's probably asleep.

Lilac spring.

You're lost in reveries
Holding back the tears
Faint sound of the wires
The butterfly is in the fire now
Lost in a memory you're holding my hands
One heart is in the ground
The other is veiled in the silver all around

Born under a trouble sign
Will it hurt to see me find
The long lost peace of mind
Darling you had me here for a while
It breaks my heart to see you cry
In the wake of incomplete time

It's warm enough to sleep in the camper overnight again. When I open my eyes this morning it's raining and the door is open. Loch is cooking mashed potatoes and tea on the tiny burners. He's already got cheese melting on bread on plates at the table. My stomach rumbles uncomfortably and I turn over and put my head under the pillow.

There's the thunderous sound I know so well. Breakfast is almost ready. Find your clothes. 

Give me yours. 

What will I wear to eat in? 

Nothing. I smile. Just your hair and your boots. 

Ah. I see yesterday's crassness hasn't faded a bit. 

Nope. 

I'll fix that later. 

Good luck. PJ's got his hooks in good. 

He passes me a plate filled to the brim and puts a mug on the shelf by my head, turning it so the handle is easy to reach. There. Breakfast in bed for my circus peanut. 

He takes his own plate and joins me on top of the quilts, adding his mug to the shelf beside mine. His is blue, mine is green.

You slept, I think. I know I did. 

I nod. Maybe we should reconstruct the camper in our bedroom. 

That might not be a bad idea. 

Think Ben would go for it? 

If we see him, we can ask. Eat while it's hot, Bridgie.

PUSSY.

Life is short and tough and I'm going to roll it in sugar, squeeze it until syrup drips from my fingers and enjoy the fuck out of every last drop, even as it kills me.

This is the plan? Loch asks, his eyebrows raised. He has the most glorious bedhead popcan-width red curls this morning. I lay in bed this morning wrapping his hair around my wrist. Three times before he mock-squeals and I laugh. It's getting long. Hope he leaves it. But then three different boys already quoted from Brave as they saw him.

And such lovely, flowy locks...

We can't just run away from whoever we are!

Never craft where you conjure!

(Now he'll cut it for sure. Thanks, boys.)

Yes, this is the plan. To enjoy every last minute. 

The last time you said this you were halfway through a burrito in some sort of Mexican ecstasy and I had to roll you to back to the truck in a fugue state, he smiles dreamily.

Exactly. Eat the burrito! Roll back to the truck! Fuck the calories. Fuck the waiting, counting, watching, checking. 

Right. Fuck the rules!

Fuck 'em! Right in the-

Bridget! 

Fuck 'em in the Bridget? Ow!

No, I thought you were going to say something else. 

Also, stop censoring our words! 

Hell, yeah! Except...

What? 

I hate it when you say that one. 

Which one? 

The one you were about to say. 

Ass?

Oh. You were about to say 'Fuck 'em in the ass'?

Yes?

Okay nevermind then.

Butterscotch Ripple with a waffle.

I'm going to backpedal a little bit here, maybe take a little of my courage everyone is always marveling over and dilute it in a little river of gasoline. I'll swirl my finger around in it until it's good and dissolved and then I'll throw the match. When it burns a good hot sparky line down the brick I'll run back inside and slam the door.

I got my comeuppance this morning in Caleb's lawyers' office for writing about things I am not supposed to write about. They are so gentle and kind about it though. As instructed by him. 

Bridget, we've been monitoring your social media and-

I don't have any social media unless you mean doughnut recipes and Alexander McQueen accessories on Pinterest-

Your blog-

Oh, that. I suppose he wants it taken down.

He just doesn't want you writing about specifics of the case. The broadest of mentions is as far as it can go and you've now been incredibly detailed as to point out that there was a start point and a settlement reached in a judge's office. That's too far and he would like you to stop.

Why couldn't he tell me?

Your... Lochlan keeps punching him and no one listens when that happens. He thought this might be more peaceful.

But I smile inwardly. ("Your Lochlan").

Do I have to remove anything?

No. Just don't write anymore about the specifics.

Fine.

He said including this conversation.

Bullshit, no he didn't.

He did, he even said if he didn't, you'd post it verbatim.

Tell him I'm doing that and then I'll cut him some slack.

Also if Lochlan continues to strike or make contact there will be police involvement.

The hell there will.

He says he knew you would say that and his response is 'exactly'.

Tell him if the tables were turned Lochlan would be dead already.

He says to tell you he knows. He says 'Sad face', he is sorry. Can he make it up to you?

Tell him no.

He already knows that as well and thanks you for your time and understanding and says to have this twenty to get an ice cream on your way out of the building (Lawyer holds out crisp green Queen).

Awesome! How much did you bill him for this twenty?

That's confidential.

Probably three...three-fifty, right?

Have a nice day, Ms. C____. 

Tell Mr. C_____ what my name is one of these days, would you? 

I've tried. He insists we call you this to agitate you.

Is it even legal? 

The paperwork is correct so that's all that matters.

Argh.

King of hearts will break me
Makes me feel like Judas, baby
Does he ever float through your mind?
King of hearts is aching
Silent like a fucus, baby
Does he ever shoot into your mind?

Too many punches thrown, shoves against doors, walls, fences, trucks, other people and I've had it. I get it. This is serious. I'm trying to give a pass to someone but Lochlan doesn't seem to have a merciful bone in his body anymore. He's fed up. Worn out. Done. He tried to coexist for years and suddenly now that he doesn't have to for Henry's sake, he's certainly not going to do it for mine.

So I had to put the dogs on him. August and Sam. Not a nice term but so far I've held them off a bit. They've wanted to talk to him for a while. They think he bottles things up. Holds them inside. Doesn't have many proper channels for blowing off steam, and that maybe his inner sixteen-year-old still running his moral compass based on what he thinks is best using classic America fiction is maybe not going to work so well at this stage in his life.

Or maybe it works just perfectly and that's why he remains so weirdly uncomplicated and sure of himself. Maybe that's exactly what it is. I knew I should have stuck with Anne of Green Fucking Gables and Little House on the Prairie and I would have been fine all along.

Christ on a pancake.

August, however, wound up sitting on Lochlan somewhere between the studio and the fountain just to be able to finish a sentence because Lochlan wasn't even going to stop to give him the time of day. He doesn't want his brain analyzed, thank you very much. He's just fine. Maybe he's the last one who needs a tune up in the head department, don't you think? And there's August trying so hard not to laugh but at the same time yelling for help because really that's all they want to do is keep him safe. One of these days the Devil's going to stop taking these sucker punches and throw one back. So far he's been good about not doing it but everyone reaches their breaking point and that seems to be what we're all about over here.

Standing room only.

Church this morning was packed to the rafters, and boy was Sam ever pleased, as we were three rows deep, me in the front, smack in the center and two rows more behind and around us, as every single man I know was there just to make sure I had no more unwelcome visitors and then everyone else seemingly came out too from the surrounding areas and yet they all seemed to be familiar faces, people I see all the time in the neighborhood and at church though I go two or three times a month, tops. So Batman is right. If his people are there, I would never have known.

What a gong show though. It was fun, as Sam took the extra attendance to embark on one of his rare call and response sermons that Jake used to do too, telling him it kept people awake, engaged and excited. The boys love that. They embellish the heck out of response. It's very entertaining.

Afterward we went out to eat but since the whole crew went we were divided on where to eat and so broke into smaller groups to find restaurants all over the place. I opted for a hole in the wall that makes epic Monte Cristos and we jammed into a booth in the back and I cleaned my plate. Then we came home, changed and I went out into the garden to putter around, cut some roses, tie up some branches and tidy up a little from the storms that seem to have passed, for now. From the corner of my eyes, more than once I saw Caleb on his front deck or in a window. If I caught him directly I would wave even though he would disappear before he would be able to respond. It's only polite.

After an hour or so of necessary vitamin D Lochlan wandered out to find me.

Caught up? 

Yes. I think. 

Good. You'll burn if you stay out here any longer. 

I'm not sure if he means without sunscreen or under the watchful eyes of the Devil and I smile at either scenario. I hand him my bucket of tools and he takes them and holds his hand out for mine. We need to do some relaxing apparently. It's all the rage. 

I know. 

The pills are being unkind. I am anxious, jumpy, breathless and really tired. Doctor's orders are to take it easy until I catch up and hopefully the side effects will ease up soon. I run full bore all the damn time. I do too many chores. Work too hard. Stay up too late. Wake up too early. Let people get away with too much. I'm trying so hard to get used to letting things go and I'm failing miserably so he's taken over at doing it for me, or at least making sure I do a little, here and there.

Let's go then. Have a plate of snacks and some Netflix waiting for you. 

Is it Chef's Table???

It is! 

Yay!

In which my army gets its instructions from an old book in a nightstand in every hotel across America.

I'm touched that she chose a life with me in your little exercise the other day. 

I'm listening inside the door as Caleb and Sam sit on the covered front porch in the rain.

She didn't. I asked her to visualize a life with you and tell me about it and the first thing she did is conjure up Lochlan, inserting him into it, pushing you into the background, and letting her emotions overwhelm her. No time had passed between them in spite of actual years going by. 

I know who's corner you're in, then. 

Bridget's. I'm in Bridget's corner. I want to help her heal from what you've done to her. 

I had a little fun with her. She's a big girl now. She can give as good as she's gotten at this point. 

I'm not going to split hairs with you on this today, Caleb. It's a beautiful day out. God's giving us rain to ease the fires you seem to stoke up around us and for the moment things are peaceful in her worried mind. Let's leave it at that and work together to make the second half of her life more tranquil than the first. 

It's not just me, Sam. 

I'm aware of that, Caleb. Will you help, is what I'm asking?

I'm doing everything I can here. 

That's a gift in itself. Take heart in your efforts and God will shine a light within you. 

I roll my eyes and walk back through the house. God won't be shining any lights on his forsaken son any time soon. Not sure why Sam chose now to pretend to encourage Caleb but Sam likes to keep the peace all the way around. He likes to feel useful. He likes to minister to us even as we buck and arch and spew pea soup all over him, our heads spinning three hundred and sixty degrees around in a comical display of gentle censure.

We wouldn't actually. We're very respectful toward Sam, just as we were toward Jake. Some of us more than others. Some of us are very spiritual. August, Andrew, Dalton. Maybe I used to be or maybe I tried to be because of Jake. He framed God in a way that made me question how I saw the world and not how I lived the bible. Very open to interpretation. Sam is a little tiny bit more literal and I resist ever so slightly more and he knows it. Sam is an aw-shucks God-fearing very old-fashioned kind of sweet baby preacher. I love him to pieces and I'd follow him off the cliff any day but when he yells IN LEVITICUS... and pauses I turn and start running away, I swear.

Princess of Stockholm.

And then what happened?

Oh, he recognized me instantly but since he's a professional he finished his exhibition and thanked the crowd, passed the hat and packed up his things before he came over.

And then?

And then he said "It's you". He recognized me in my McQueen dress on an unfamiliar street in yet another unfamiliar country in an unfamiliar time. Maybe he felt the Devil before he saw me. I don't know. I'll never know, I guess.

And what did you say?

I asked him if he was okay and he did that thing he always does where he looks off and upwards, squinting at the sun or the stars, whatever happens to be handy and he said "Still singing for my supper, as it were. How about you?"

"Still burning in hell. I like the clothes though."

"But are you happy, Bridget? Was the grass greener? Was it all less painful with the promises that money could buy that one thing you wanted? Did he stop hurting you? Did he make up for the past? Did he brainwash you just a little more so you could forget all about the part where you loved me more? Did you actually move on or did you think about me every time you lit a candle like you always said you did?" He recognized me. In his mind twenty years was the same as a week.

And then Caleb is beside me, having straightened out the issue with the restaurant valet and he's all shits and grins and fake delight. "Who do we have here? Lochlan! How long has it been? You're still busking for a dollar? Well I'll be!" And he pulls out a hundred and tucks it into Lochlan's breast pocket and steamrolls the conversations back to the good old days on the point and then they both look at me with horror and I didn't even realize that tears had begun to roll heavily down my face in a death march off the edge because they didn't want to exist suddenly either-

And abruptly Sam snaps his fingers.

Your imagination is a force to be reckoned with, Fragile Miss b. No wonder he worries so.

But I can't catch my breath.

Bridget. Sam puts his hands on my arms and starts to count so I don't hyperventilate.

Why does my head want one thing when my heart knows exactly what it wants, Sam? 

Bridget, Jesus Christ! Caleb's been brainwashing you for three decades. You are programmed to go to him. This is how he's designed your brain from a young age in going back to him time and time again not matter what he does to you. It's just lucky that you imprinted on Lochlan before that so he can call you back. The problem is I think it's going to take the rest of your life to undo the damage. 

I don't think I have that long, Sam. 

You don't have a choice. The longer you resist conventional therapy the longer it takes. No magic bullets, just hard work.

Give me the bullet instead. I can be a vegetable. Lochlan can spoon feed me and then I'll never argue with him. 

Bridget, keep talking like that and I'll quit this gig too.

Name one thing that's been easy to come by in this life of mine and we'll call it a day. End on a high note for me, please. I need a cheer-up. 

Love. You fall in love in the time it takes most people to brush their teeth. 

This is not a flaw, Sam, it's a perk.

It's the reason you're in this mess, Bridget. 

Which mess?

I rest my case.

Hold the door.

We're talking, the Devil and I.

Because for years, he cared for my son, out of a sense of duty. Out of a need to watch over us. Because for years he's furnished a means for me to have this collective, to keep the circus going, keep it close. Because for years he's provided me the good parts of Cole. Because for years he made the world smaller that anyone else. Because for years he taught me to be brave. To face my monsters. And that the scariest monsters sometimes wear Tiffany cuff links and Valentino suits, and call you Sweetheart, and offer you the moon.

And because even if I continued to cut him off cold it won't bring Jacob back. Jacob isn't coming back. Jacob made the choice that he did and I don't agree with it. How could a technicality overshadow what is right in front of you? And then I remember how easy it is to become overwhelmed by what we feel and I don't blame him at all.

But you're supposed to find a coping mechanism. He had so many. God. Friends. Getting drunk and quoting Winnie The Pooh. His band. Singing all the time besides. Sex. Good. hard. sex. Running, even though he HATED running. Take out food. Long drives. Camping. Horses. Motorcycles. Helping others. Hospice. Chaplain duties. Teaching. Jesus. He had so much to take his mind off his own troubles, it's hard to believe he had time to be troubled.

In contrast to cope Caleb sits in a chair and looks at his brother's artwork.

Which is all of me, I might add.

Healthy.

But he's still here. And he needs more than a chair. More than some photographs and paintings and a dead brother and a surrogate not-your-family-after-all but we used to be related by marriage and a bunch of sometimes/former friends (they're trying, bless their hearts) and I am generous as always because to be anything else at this point just breaks more hearts and we've had enough of that. I have to set an example. I'm the toughest, so it makes sense.

“And I know it seems easy," said Piglet to himself, "but it isn't every one who could do it.” ~A.A. Milne