Out in the gazebo for hours this morning, wind whipping the curtains around me like funeral shrouds, sun rising unsteadily behind the clouds, cool salt air softening every rough edge it can reach. I waited and waited. They brought me coffee after coffee and would hang on the fringe until I asked them to leave, please, can't I lose my mind in peace? And then after Ben spending an inordinate amount of time standing in the center of the yard, precisely halfway between the stone wall that signals the end of the patio and then a five foot drop to the next level where the gazebo ends the formal backyard and it turns into a field, watching me sob into my coffee cup and try and hide it so casually from him even, Lochlan finally came out. 

Every visit with him ends like this. 

Not this bad. 

You don't see it from my perspective. 

His perspective is always right. Always has the answer. Always fixes everything. So I ask him and he ignores the question, instead holding out a big squared off white pill and I dutifully take it to end my own misery and then he hands me a half-glass of whiskey to wash it down. Lochlan is nothing if not fierce and decided. I wish I could be. I wish I could tell them to stop this charade. I wish they would understand that it's killing me. I wish they could see that I was a grown adult and could make my own decisions and I wish they knew that I hate them for this. That I know what they did. That they're going to pay when the time comes and it will be ugly and fresh. That things will change and the only one who will come out ahead is me. 

I wish I could sleep but I can't. I wish I could turn my brain off but it isn't working. It should have worked. Which charade belongs to who? What was the pill then? How come most of the time he's not following the script? Why haven't they noticed that? 

And where does Jake go when he isn't here?

To the death.

My eyes are burning. I stand again at the window, this time looking out over the sea. Jacob isn't on this side much anymore. I can see the fence and the telescope and the roof of the boat shed and most of the expanse of Daniel and Schuyler's backyard and my vegetable garden if I lean over and peer close left. 

God, the view. 

Oops, that part was said out loud and it wasn't by me. I turn with my coffee, elbows in tight to cover myself, underwear on but I wanted that coffee and didn't bother with anything else yet and then he took his back to bed and I said no. I can't drink coffee in bed. I'm neither coordinated enough nor large enough not to roll directly into the heaviest object on a bed, which is never me. 

The Devil wants a mirror day, wanted a full-moon night, wanted to lie in bed with his coffee and watch me look outside, well and content in knowing the ghost is not looking back but most likely knows where I am.

There's no Lochlan either, as while Lochlan can finally sleep if there is someone safe with us, as he can stop having one eye open to worry for me, he doesn't sleep much with the Devil around. 

I do, but it isn't a quality sleep, he'll say with a sad wink.

I knit my brows at Caleb briefly for the pun of a compliment and turn back toward the ocean. Jacob is sitting by the telescope now, joke's on Caleb. He waves with an irritated frown and I turn away for good. 

That's my girl. Come back to bed. 

I shake my head. 

Your annoyed expression is adorable but unwarranted. It's a warning, kindly deployed as an arrow with the tip dipped in wax.

I can't drink coffee lying down-

Not what I meant. 

My blood runs cool through my limbs. 

Do elaborate, then. I am still annoyed but definitely trying to match my blood and his tone. 

If I compliment you what do you do? 

Thank you for your generous observation. 

Good girl. Now tell me what's wrong?

I shake my head. 

Refusal is not an option. 

Wow, you're really going for monster-mode today aren't you? I yell it into his face suddenly, frustrated at the sudden fear and his turn back from tender to frightening. I hate these shifts. I hate his need to match every fucking moment, like he might not get his share, like I might fall in love with someone else and leave him in the cold. Well, boy, do I have news for him. 

Bridget, what's wrong?

It's amazing to me that the only person you couldn't charm around was Jacob. 

He wasn't strong enough, I guess. 

But he was, that's the thing. 

If he was he would still be here. Don't you think? He takes a sip of his coffee and looks smugly at me. 

He is here. He's outside. 

Caleb pales and checks his expression just long enough for me to see both. 

You need rest. Seeing ghosts all the time. Come back. We'll set an alarm and we can just doze for an hour or so more and then I'll send you back. 

Ghosts don't age. 

Sure they do. His tone is jovial and appropriately respectful. His voice is scared. Don't tell me I'm reading this into it. I'll make him crack first. That much I promise you.

Kingdom of sorrow, kingdom of gold.

Pet peeves of the highest magnitude when the lyrics on Ayla Nereo's website for Tightrope Walker are wrong. Could someone fix it please? No, I don't care if the song came out five years ago, it's difficult enough without having to remember that some of it's wrong. Nevermind. I will do it myself this weekend, if I remember. But it will be here instead so hopefully people won't end up like me, running to the folks with their full hearing to see if it's the website or if it's me.

I played it for August on my headphones and he was impressed. He swings lazily in the bed, cup of coffee in one hand, sheet just barely making him decent (kill me) and I am rocking on my feet, coffee cup in hand, birthday suit on since I can't find my swimsuit that he took off me sometime yesterday. I am gazing out the window at the back side of the property, over the tiny orchard with the swing down toward the tiny vineyard. A tiny princess surveying her tiny kingdom. Jacob stands in the middle of the vineyard in the sun, staring up unmoving at the window where I stand. 

A giant ghost of a prince.

It's been four thousand, nine hundred and eighty-nine days since he's seen me naked. Unless he's looking when I'm not paying attention and lord knows his best friend always paid attention and then his dues and supposedly that lost pink bikini is August's kryptonite but that's okay because August is MY kryptonite and I don't even need to hide it anymore, we've truly settled in to a beautiful routine where we meet up for a talk and don't ever end up saying a single word. 

The best kind of therapy, if you ask me and as a bonus I can lean heavily on a friend Jacob didn't want me anywhere near because August had a habit of stealing all the girls. The problem was he didn't want to keep them but that's okay because I belong to Lochlan again. He sleeps hard on the other side of the hanging bed, not waking up quite yet. The loft is cool and dark, here on the west side of the property, in the shadow of the big house. In the late evenings it warms up but he has two huge ceiling fans that move a mountain of air. 

Jacob puts a hand up to block the glare of the east-risen sun. It's Solstice today. The longest day followed by the shortest night last night, and I hope he suffers as he thinks of me having spent it here.

In breath outside.

Tightrope Walker is now stuck in my head. Completely and yet infuriatingly because I don't know the words. It came on over the speaker on the patio last night and Lochlan got the slow dance he was denied the other night when Ben took me into his arms instead and then distractions came along and we didn't get the chance. 

He's got a glass of wine in one hand and me in his arm, tucked close, my nose parked against his lower lip, our eyes closed. My blood is watered and lit. It's forty degrees if it's a minute and every other soul on this point is in the pool. Smartly so. Lochlan comes to life when it's warm. The heat just fires him up like the sun that he is and we need to shield our eyes. 

And I forgot how warm I am, sweat trickling down the back of my neck, eyes wild, hands sticky, brain mush, heart swollen and bursting in the circle of light his attention throws on me. 

I reach up with one hand to pause the moment and he takes my hand before I can. 

Don't do that. It needn't be one moment you have to try and stay in. It should be every moment. 

I nod and my bangs stick to my forehead. He smiles and plants a kiss against them. Then he puts his wine glass down, taking mine too (haven't needed it in a while) and he puts his hands up around my head and a kiss bursts us into flame. 

(Out breath inside)

He pulls back to stare at me for a second, focusing suddenly. He bends down for another kiss, just to be sure and then he has my hand and we're running through the fields. Back through the years, minutes rewinding, thorns scratching our legs and arms, sun setting, flowers closing as we go. We make it back to the camper and he locks the door behind us, back against it, a laugh on his mouth before he charges three steps into me, crashing us both onto the little cot, crushing me beneath him, pulling our clothes off, music swelling in my brain but it's not Tightrope Walker anymore because it's not the right time and I am pulled back up naked into his arms, keeping him inside me, unwilling to ever let go. He is breathing heavy against my hair, my arms struggle and slip to hold on. He puts us back down and slows to a languid crawl. Crickets fill my ears as darkness fills the windows and the world shrinks down to the size of a camper and that's all we'll ever need. 

When I cry out he puts his hand over my mouth, his head against mine. 

Shhhhh, Peanut. 

And he begins to slow even further, slipping away before coming back harder than ever, gritting his teeth, keeping out the stars as he follows me through, checking himself not to squeeze me too tightly, not to crush me in his release before he lets go but doesn't, keeping my fingers laced in his as he lies on his back, pulling me in close. Our skin sticks together in the summer night heat and I am asleep as he begins to say something.

No idea what it is.

In the morning I remember. 

I love you too, Locket. 

The sun has made the camper the size of a room now and there's a resident Ben and we want for nothing and you have to defeat all of seven separate locks to get to me now.

Told you everything would be okay. I keep every promise I can, Peanut.

Windsweep set-down 
shadowside lightaway 
fool-eyed leader of the 
tightrope walker

Never enough words but I like to try.

Happy Father's Day.

To Lochlan who fought for and took custody of both children and more than made up for the years when we didn't know Ruth was even his. He's had nothing but love for them and has been the voice of freedom when I have hesitated and wanted to lock the kids safely away. He continues to give advice and teach them life lessons and he is there at every hour of every day for them no matter what and always will be. He is  the best father. Present, affectionate, patient, loving. Generous to a fault. Never on his phone or too busy or away. If they need him he drops whatever he is doing, no questions asked. He taught them magic and wonder and fire safety too, along the way and they are forthright and pragmatic and honest, just like him.

To PJ, who has been the constant since Jacob stopped being there. Who stepped in and managed wake ups and breakfast and packing school backpacks and doing crazy hair day and pajama day. Who drove them to sports practice and band. Who made sure they did their homework and walked them to school after lunch. Who questioned school dances on weeknights and taught them to always throw the second punch if it came down to it. Who gave the kids a Flintstone vitamin every second day for twelve years straight just in case they didn't get five servings of vegetables in a day. Who made a rocket from a toothpaste tube one morning at seven for physics class when Ruth forgot. Who baked for baked sales and was honestly a better mother than I could have ever hoped to be. He gave us routine and a safety net when what we had was ripped away and he never asked for anything in return. 

To Benjamin, who has spent every minute he was home with the kids from birth. Who was always the first to rock a baby to sleep or sing a lullaby to slowly wake them up. Who never ever failed to swing them from both hands as they walked, spending countless hours strolling down the sidewalk looking at houses and dogs and birds with them. Who was the beneficiary of just about every piece of art they ever made at school and he still has them. Who was always the first to show up with an elaborate plan for the afternoon and follow through right until bedtime. Who learned to be less loud and more tender via them and who stepped in and looked after us, along with PJ when things went wrong and who stepped out again when Lochlan came back for us without question. 

To Caleb, who was the first to find out Henry was Jacob's and made the sweeping decision to just cover everything. All of it. Life. Fatherhood. Who lied to make it easier for me and said Henry was his, in order to let me let him do this. He spent every weekend watching kid movies and making pizzas and being there, and helping to teach Henry (and Ruth because they were and still are inseperable) about manners, money and the world at large. He taught them a hard work ethic and good business practices and he backs up Lochlan's discipline without issue to show a strong united front. Even if it isn't fair. 

To Daniel and Schuyler, who taught the children tolerance and love and the value of family. To Christian who brought the fun and adventure and the idea that kids sometimes should learn the hard way. To Batman who brought the mystery and made sure everyone else was on their toes and then some and then sent money every single month just in case. 

To Duncan and Dalton, who always say Go ask your mother but then let them anyway.

To Samuel, who stepped in and gave them spirituality  and faith when I couldn't find it anymore.

To Jacob. Who gets to miss it all and never knew until it was too late.

To my own father, who's absence and lack of interest spurred a wolfpack who took over and raised me instead, who came around at the absolute end in his advancing age with regret. It touches me and we can finally talk, albeit long distance. 

And to Cole. The first of the pack to become a Dad who died without knowing he actually wasn't but that's probably a good thing. He softened and changed when the kids came along. I had already checked out on him but he was a good father. Thank you for that singular virtue. 

We are blessed with strong men with hardcore values and incredible fortitude who make each other better men by virtue of how we live and I am forever grateful. Today we celebrate them like we do every single day already and there aren't enough words to explain how thankful I am that they belong to us.

He's the spectre, I'm the wraith.

Intrusive thoughts-

No, they're not. I know where they're coming from-

Bridget, please. As in Bridget, please stop interrupting me for once so I can get this looked after and go back to my crises of self.

Hallucinations-

No, they're not. He's actually out there. I can SHOW him to you if you-

BRIDGE. 

Ignoring the elephant girl gets you a trip to the edge of the circus fence. 

This isn't a circus-

Like hell it's not. 

But Caleb is back to doing damage control, Asher is back in charge of my every move, what I wear, where I am when I fall asleep and what I eat and Lochlan as always is being blamed for not sounding the alarm fast enough even though I've been ringing the bell for three days now. I'll tell you every way short of sky-writing and Lochlan chooses that exact moment to only find the good, to only have optimism for the future-nay, the moment. 

God, I love him so for that. 

It's fine. He's fine. He doesn't cause any problems out there. (I mean Jacob, not Loch.)

What is he doing, exactly? 

Waiting. For me. 

Well, what does he do while he waits? (I've been waiting for them to acknowledge him as a person all this time. My heart sings as it spiderwebs into cracks.)

Reads his bible. Talks to God. Walks the rows. Helps things grow. Tries to be as helpful and inconspicuous as possible. He's patient. He doesn't want for much.

What does he do when you come out and see him?

Talks to me. 

About? 

Things to watch out for. He can see things we can't. People's true nature. The future. The present. The past. All of it. He sees our weaknesses and our problems from an objective viewpoint.

The idea of Jake being objective when it comes to you-

He has patience even for me now. 

What if..what if you asked him to leave.

He won't go. 

Did he say this? 

No, it's just the way it is. My brain wants him to go but my heart won't let him. And the heart is always more powerful than the mind. It just keeps him here.

What if you weren't here? Would he leave?

No, he would wait. I told you. 

Maybe we should go talk to him. 

Maybe you need to not enable her and this bullsh-

Cale. Shh. Bridget, what do you think we should do?

At least acknowledge that he's here. Ignoring someone is rude. 

Asher looks pale. I think I'm over my head here, guys. Maybe you all are too-

Just keep doing what you're doing. She's fine. We just keep a close eye.

Shouldn't this be transferred to professionals at this point?

Tried that. Tried everything. This is where we are now. Keeping her happy and making sure she doesn't become disoriented or distressed. 

Wow, you talk so cold. Like I'm not even here. 

Bridget, please. 

I guess we've come full circle today. I don't have much else for you today. Jacob is still a little shy about Asher. Asher, to his credit, is scared shitless.

Nevermind. Found a good song to practice and the way I sing it apparently everyone will be crushed by lunchtime.

 

Ricochet pinecone 
riverside elderberry 
underwater rushing 
tightrope walker 

Whistlestop coming 
soon I gotta go, gotta 
tiptoe mudslide 
tightrope walker 

Timid as a raindrop 
bold as the iceberg 
broken as the thorn of the 
blackberry crushing 

Goose-down comfort 
blackbear hideaway 
going out for winter 
tightrope walker 

Undertone overcast 
in breath outside, going on a limb 
and tearing of the bandage 
uncover fearlessness 
when lightning 
strikes it meets 
in the middle, as a 
bone-bent riddle be met with a 
riddle be found 
inbreath outside… 

Ricochet pinecone 
cavernwide honeyberry 
waterbent keeper 
tightrope walker 

Elderwise timestone 
rise a gaze east-side 
telling to the cradle 
tightrope walker 

Told as a footprint 
burned as a brightening 
sudden as the rush of the rib-bent whistler 

Windsweep set-down 
shadowside lightaway 
fool-eyed leader of the 
tightrope walker… 

Ricochet pinecone 
riverside elderberry 
underwater rushing 

Underbelly overcast 
going on a limb and 
tearing of the bandage 
(tightrope walker) 

(when lightning strikes) 
outbreath inside 
(when lightning strikes) 
inbreath outside 

outbreath inside 
inbreath outside

Everything you dreamed that it would be.

A good day to sit down before coffee and bang out This is Your Life and whoever thought it would be a good idea to put a smaller Sauter (upright) piano in the great room and ignore the Petrof grand in the parlour needs to have their head examined unless they actually enjoy me wailing through the end of this song, a particularly poignant song at that, as those are the only ones I sing. 

(Kidding, this was literally the greatest thing to ever happen to me and I've done nothing but play constantly.)

Duncan says he's just happy I moved on from Jar Of Hearts, and that it was a long winter because of it. The song started to weave it's way through my smooth holey brain and I had to instantly start figuring out chords for 24 instead, as 24 is the next song in my sappy morning-warmup playlist. 

PS The very newest Switchfoot song is really really good. I liked every single thing about it save for one line. The one that goes You've got your light and I've got my wings. 

And you only want to see the shit that starts to wind it's way through my shrivelled up little tear-soaked brain at that line, let me tell you. 

Makes me want to shine brighter, just to show Jake how bad he fucked up. How hard he tried to ruin me and how close he actually came and how in spite of the irreversible damage I am still here and I demand to be loved, even with the scars and he can look at them. They can all look at them and they can keep their regrets and they can suck it up and do what they should have done from the beginning and they can still fix it but I will never trust a soul or a song or a key every again.

You don't answer for any of this

 Ben and I had a waltz through the great room this morning to I Need You (to be wrong) which is the most unlikely but perfect slow dance, a smoldering banger of a song swelling into a summer-Beach Boys masterpiece by the end. Second song tonight. Album August twentieth. I am excited. Only three or four bands ever get me spooled up waiting for albums and Switchfoot is the Most Important of those. 

Also again, they stole an album title from me. Probably because over the years I have managed to use every word there is and in multiple languages besides so I am doing a correlation=causation moment here, give it to me, please.

Besides. Hello Hurricane. Their album came out a year and a half or a little less AFTER my post of the same name. 

In other rock star news, there's a beautiful house out in the valley (*link now removed. I figured out who it belonged to. I don't know him but he has a family and so I took the link down) and I'm trying to figure out who owns it based on the belongings and music equipment in the photos. Kind of fun, if you ask me. 

Horribly invasive*, Ben says. 

Excuse me, they put the photos on the internet. Invasive how again?

The internet is an invasion, Ben says. And he isn't kidding. 

If Ben were not so metal, he would be Amish too. Like me. Not as a derogatory label but as something we aspire to be. I broke my sewing machine this week and have resolved to double-down on hand sewing, as I was meant to do because I like it more anyway. 

You can control your tension, Lochlan snorts. 

EXACTLY, FOLKS. 

In other news. Jacob is still in the orchard. Ha. Jesus saves everyone BUT me here, folks. I haven't recalled Asher from Batman's in spite of a million requests a day and now a deadline to bring him back over to work before someone else does, Fidget and I fell asleep at a stoplight yesterday and lost my driving privileges for the summer, as something has triggered my (diagnosed, don't worry) narcolepsy and now I have zero trouble falling asleep. I am the army recruit now, having graduated boot camp with that treasured ability. I sit down in a lawn chair and fall asleep. I close my eyes and fall asleep. Feel the sun on my face as I close my eyes? Nope, I'm in dreamland. Fuck you. 

The doctor (called hastily who came and checked me because he was concerned it might be a blood pressure thing but then stuck around for a quick cup of tea and got to see me in action, don't you know as I knocked off holding a teacup full of hot liquid no less and Lochlan seemed far more alarmed by that then by someone waking me up with horns blaring at a light on the highway up the mountain) said it's probably related to all of the recent stress (HA) or possible the vaccine (GREAT) so yes, I will recall Asher because now I need a driver. It's fine. I'd rather control the music than the wheels any old day. Summers are for sticking your hand out the window and riding the wind, not defensive maneuvers in shitty North Van traffic.

That lion slept for two days hence and we should have robbed him blind. Instead we robbed him sighted and that's good enough for me.

You would have done it too, but for the payout. I know Lochlan is fond of stockpiling money, as he is technically retired but also not in the least and never stops hustling, and this is probably his most-least favourite side-income generator. 

I am a piece of meat dangled in front of a hungry lion. A means to an end. A thorn in each of their sides, cleaved in half in order to inflict as much damage as possible. A poultice, a panacea designed to cure quickly and without leaving scars, though at this point our delicate skin is thickened with them and the fire (and the brimstone too) no longer affect us in the same way it once did. There is no shock left. No surprise. No remorse. No promises and no vows to never do it again.

And there is magic, in such an easy event. An audience of one. A spectator who nods along as the rules are carefully relayed at the outset, agreeing to follow each and every single one, as the punishment is the end of the evening. One who holds out right until the bitter final moment, breaking every rule at once and by then we are too spent, too overstimulated and too gratified to level any sort of castigation for his efforts. Instead we take the money and run into the dark headlong and foolishly, where we finally stop just off the road and by the light of the moon and a single flame Lochlan checks me first, making sure I'm all there still, making sure I'm real, and then he counts the money, making sure it's all there, making sure it's real.

We have not, in all these years, learned the difference between the price of something and the cost of something. I fear we never will.