Abundance.

(You've forgotten who the prodigal son is, in this case. Think hard, he's difficult to miss, at six-foot-four).

Caleb's putting his fortune to good use. Today we've had a parade of municipal inspectors, engineers and contractors down to see about putting in a removable floating dock. They have to pour concrete pilings and everything. I just can't wait.

I figured I would just be banned from going down to the water ever again. They came close to that until Caleb took one look at my face and offered a solution. One I can't afford so the look came back, elastic panic, we may as well move if I can't get to the sea ever again but the solution was followed by the means. This is nothing five figures won't solve. Pennies to Caleb. More debt to me, mortgaged once again with my soul.

I tell him this and he shakes his head sadly. Safety is a premium, it doesn't matter what it costs.

I should have stayed on the beach.

You shouldn't have to. No worries, it'll be done by spring as long as it doesn't get too cold. Until then, though, I'm not sure what they will want for your margins in the meantime. Don't expect the moon for a bit, okay?

I don't. But I do think they're blowing it out of proportion. Had Lochlan not seen me slip off the rocks I would have continued to work my way back until I could climb up. I'm not a good swimmer but I could use the rocks to stay against the shore and there are several places one can get out. Even with the coat. Even with the surprise and shock of the cold water, I would have been out in another five or ten minutes. I didn't ask to be rescued but maybe I'm in denial.

Ben pointed out that one of my lifelong wishes to see Lochlan step in and cover comfort and safety during or after a major incident is now fulfilled. And his offhand, reluctantly generous comment has set me on my ear.

It was mostly the only flaw Lochlan ever had, ducking and running whenever things went wrong.

He comes by it honestly. If you grew up in the midway and transitioned to the circus you'd be fucked up and have one foot out the door every time something went down too. I just didn't think it would extend to me. Up until two months ago, his method of operation would have been to fish me out of the drink, fling me up to dry land and then take off before anyone saw him.

Instead he stuck around and sorted everything out. He organized some changes and hashed out new rules, he found understanding, he absolved those he found to be in the wrong and he kept everyone calm, even in the face of accusations and outrage and shock. He didn't let go of me for the better part of the past twenty hours or so. This is so new I'm still admiring the shiny wrapper. I don't even know what to do with this.

He said we give him purpose. He can't run anymore. This isn't a roadshow, he can't be the nameless wanderer anymore, he has a legacy. Purpose. People who count on him, and need him to be there.

I have always needed him. It burns me that it took something so fucking stupid to make him see that. The relief that he finally sees it is worth more than that dock is going to cost.

Gratitude and Longitude.

So.

I fell into the ocean this afternoon and if it weren't for all this brandy and the fact that I'm waiting for Lochlan to stop fighting with everything that breathes I wouldn't have even told you.

Considering she said I was too small to keep she did her best, as I was in jeans, boots and a heavy wool coat. The boulders piled up where the drop off is, where the boats can moor in sailing season, proved to be more slippery than they looked today and I chose the water over the alternative of landing directly on the rocks. I didn't want any broken bones, but I've also never been so cold in my life.

Before I could work my way back around to the smaller rocks to climb up, Lochlan grabbed the hood of my coat and lifted me out of the water. Yes, with his left arm. Yes, that unhealed spiral fracture of his ulna? Radial? I can't remember is still there and he's in a brand new cast tonight because they already knew it never healed. They were slated to call him but Ben took him in.

License to hurt, Ben said later as we stood and watched while Lochlan took out his fears and frustrations on everyone in the room, beginning with me and ending with PJ and Duncan, who were supposed to be on duty and did not slip, I was merely given a little bit of leeway to extend my rigid, narrow horizons.

It took him the better part of five or six hours but I think he is running out of steam at last. The painkillers are kicking in, Sam's endless words are sinking in, the adrenaline is wearing off and the fear is wearing through. All's well that ends well. I am still alive. I was not, contrary to in-house belief, purposefully sacrificing myself to the Pacific and I was also not trying to prove a point.

My fingers and toes have warmed up at last and I know that tonight, through my dreams tangled hopelessly with my nightmares, they will be there and they won't be letting go. Maybe the only slip today wasn't on the icy rocks. Maybe we all got too cocky and too comfortable and maybe that's when I need to be the most careful.

Maybe next time Lochlan won't come home halfway through the day and come looking for me even before he disappears into his room to put his things away.

Maybe next time she won't throw me back.

Too small to keep isn't any sort of guarantee. It's more like a warning, subject to change.

Twisted, crooked, broken laces.

Come pull the sheet over my eyes so I can sleep tonight
Despite what I've seen today
I found you guilty of a crime of sleeping at a time
When you should have been wide awake

Too small to keep, he says and smiles. I like that she says that about you. It means I can have you back. Ben is sacked out on the couch. I have thrown myself into his arms and I'm never ever leaving this spot. You can't make me, I won't go.

He laughs and pulls his arms over me. I like being home. You like it when I'm home, little bee?

What a silly question, Benjamin.

It's a valid question, bee. Tell me.

I love it when you're home.

Why?

I couldn't say it out loud so I turned around and climbed up onto his legs and whispered it in his ear. He blushed and said he knew he married me for a reason.

Right. For love.

He smiled. For love. And for what you just said into my ear. You look so sweet and straight-laced and you're the dirtiest one of all.

Chemical Oceanography.

High tide: 7:08 am, 4:56 pm

Low tide: 12:27 pm

His face is soft from three weeks worth of beard growth, his hair uncut since the spring. I am blocked in against the granite of the island. The lights are off and the kitchen is grey, lit only by the skylights above as the rain pours in sheets down the glass. I can't hear it, I feel the rumble, a quavery-light undercurrent to the air, thick and heavy with a post-storm stillness.

He bends his head down until our eyes are even. Blue and green make the color of the sea. Together we are high tide, the dangerous part of the day where you cannot walk on the sand because it's been swallowed by the waves, which now lick against the rocks, seeking further nourishment. I would heave myself into the surf only she keeps throwing me back.

Too small to keep, she says.

Now I know he reads a fortnight behind.

I am the crisis
I am the bitter end
I'm gonna gun this down
I am divided
I am the razor edge
there is no easy now

Sam walked in through the front door and got busy shaking the rain off of his things and carefully hanging his coat on a free hook. I waited patiently in the archway for him to get organized. He straightened his hair and then his tie, ending with his collar and then he bent down and picked up his messenger bag and his travel mug and started to walk toward me. Maybe he wasn't expecting me to be right there but he stopped about three feet away and just smiled that sort of smile reserved for greeting the very truly insane when you don't know what to expect.

Hi, Bridget. His eyes are looking for something. Heartbreak? Backslides? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Deception?

Hi, Sam. Do you want me to switch your mug to tea?

That would be good, thank you. But he didn't give me the cup, he just kept staring. I assisted by waiting with my expressions mostly blank until he was satisfied that I wasn't rejecting the living in favor of hanging out with the dead and the mug was pressed into my hand. I turned and made my way back to the kitchen while Sam started to tell me his afternoon was a little quiet so he thought he would drop in and he kept prattling on in this weird formal manner and when I finally reached the counter by the window I whirled around and asked him to just get on with it.

On with?

Whatever's wrong, Samuel.

I'm just- well, they wanted me to talk to you again.

I'm not backsliding.

I got the distinct impression you might be, and the picture of the road-

Lochlan sprayed me with perfix and I had brain damage, that's all that was.

Bridget, I-

You should talk to new Jake. He's the weirdo around here.

Jake is not my concern! You are! And why in God's name is Loch spraying you with toxic substances?

I had charcoal on my nose and he thought it was so cute he threatened to make it stay forever. And you have a whole flock of sheep to deal with, I'll be fine. I don't know if you guys noticed but certain calendar dates are kind of rough and I imploded a little late, that's all.

Bridget, you know you can come and talk to me any time.

I do come and talk to you. But for emergency's sake, how about right in the middle of your next sermon?

Okay, not during a service, but-

See?

Does Lochlan need to come and talk to me?

Oh, probably, but he doesn't believe in God.

He believes in the werewolf boy and the bearded lady but not in....Jesus Christ.

Exactly. I smile and turn to wash the mug. Sam crosses around behind the island and looks out over the water.

Caleb and Daniel trading places in your daily routine isn't all that healthy, is it, Bridget?

I don't want to talk about it, Sam.

You haven't tripped back into such tangible writing about Jacob in a while.

Sure I have. Maybe you don't have time to read enough blogs.

I put the kettle on the stove to boil and then I turn back with my Everything's Eventual smile just for him and he looks right through me to see the thin spots where I am pinned and sewn back together.

Okay, how about I just leave the door open? If you want to come and talk, just find me. Or call and I'll come get you.

My smile changes from fixed to real. Warm. Genuine. I will, Samwise. I promise.

His face morphs into reluctant joy. Okay good. How is the tea coming? I still can't feel my legs.

Stupidly cold, isn't it?

For where I'm from, you wouldn't think it would be so bad but it is. Sam's face is so young and elastic. It changes once more into a pained sort of frustration and I start to laugh. I laugh so hard I start to cry and then I can't stop. I can remember years ago hanging around the door of the study while Jacob mentored him, he was so young. He always had a pencil behind his ear and a bad haircut that left curls and waves sticking out over his ears and he was so eager and green.

Sam is weary now and older too, having buried our dead, officiated our weddings, and taken over the faith of the entire collective while his own life fell apart with equal destruction. Still he clings to his faith blindly with his eyes open wide, toothpicks shoved in them to stay wakeful, stay alert, stay above and he fights a losing battle every damn day until we admit that life is too big and we need help.

And then he gives it with a quietly outrageous, enthusiastic joy that becomes contagious and all-encompassing.

He sips his tea slowly. He watches my expressions, reading them like bestsellers, hot off the presses while I struggle to prove that the poker-face theory holds, as does the theory of time and faith.

Easily reheated, in the microwave of evil!

My soul is painted
like the wings of butterflies
Fairy tales of yesterday
will grow but never die
I can fly, my friends!

I'm not sure if my throat hurts from an entire morning singing along with Freddy Mercury while incense burned and I cleaned the entire house or if I've managed to finally catch the cold that's been knocking down everyone in this house, one after another. When one of them stands back up the cold does a quick u-turn and knocks them down again. It's terrible and I don't want it. Apparently the hourly bleach-dippings aren't going to protect me anymore. Good, because my skin was beginning to disintegrate off my bones.

Daniel is here today. Batman is American so weirdly he gave everyone a holiday. Which is good because Lochlan is just about falling down and keeps calling in sick anyway. Did I tell you I spent most of my morning with him back in the hospital while he had some more x-rays on his arm? Idiot got his camper wheel unstuck, using his recently broken hand. Because Brains: You can't win them at the circus, or so I hear. I'm not sure why he had to posture like that and hurt himself again but they tell me if I was a guy I would understand. They also said if I were a guy they would cry all the damned time which made me laugh and laugh.

I have always wanted to write my name in the snow while peeing standing up.

That will be one of those unfulfilled wishes I take to my grave, I think, along with base jumping and swimming naked in a teacup full of cookie batter. Oh, and watching Paranormal Activity 2, because I can't get ANYONE to watch it with me.

I used to be the queen of horror movies and instead I've spent the last year quoting Megamind:

All men must choose between two paths. Good is the path of honour, heroism, and nobility. Evil... well, it's just cooler.

The doctor is going to call with the results later on (I hope) and in the meantime, Lochlan's no longer allowed outdoors. I like making rules too, and if I can't go outside, he can't either. He shouldn't be out there in the freezing rain with this stupid cold anyway, instead he can curl up with me and Daniel on the couch and we can watch extravagant travel shows and they can both cough on the top of my head and then Ben will get sick and start doing that thing where he spikes a high fever and becomes downright silly, talking nonsense around the clock.

I am ready with my quotes.

Yes, a very wickedly bad idea for the greater good of bad!

But I'm saying it's the kind of bad that... Okay, you might think is good from your bad perception, but from a good perception... It's just plain bad.

Oh, you don't know what's good for bad!

To the ends of the world.

(Who's the juggler now?)

I'm sitting on the quilt. It's some sort of designer Egyptian affair and cost more than my car. I love the embroidery, it should be scratchy and too beautiful to touch but instead it's soft, it's like being enveloped in a cloud. I don't know what it's filled with. He said something about Icelandic eiderdown, but I'm pretty sure this devil reached down the throats of every cherub for a thousand miles and pulled heaven out of them and used that instead. Still, I never want to move. Not even a muscle.

He brings me a tiny silver toy dart and tells me to throw it.

I laugh and my stomach growls. Time to go.

I close my eyes and throw it at the map on the opposite wall. When I open my eyes he is pulling the dart out. It landed somewhere in the vicinity of the Clyclades. Greece. He's been. Twice.

Want to go?

What?

A vacation. Maybe right after Christmas.

No.

Why not?

I have..commitments.

Remember what you told me when you were younger?

I'm thinking. Oh, right, it was 'Can't wait until you're in jail'?

Bridget-

Why don't you just tell me what I said, then? He's ruining what was a fairly successful, although truncated visit. It's lunchtime and I have things to do.

You said you were excited to travel the world when Lochlan joined the show and invited you along. You had such wanderlust. I don't think it's ever really gone away, has it?

I have to go. Thanks for the visit.

Anytime, princess. Generously, he drops the subject. He is devastatingly Cole-like today. Flannel, jeans, beard. Retired now, Caleb has no need for expensive suits here in the house on the verge of the sea. The lines around his eyes and the few silver hairs in his beard only serve to make him more appealing than he was once upon a time and I need to go now.

So I leave. I don't invite him up to the house for lunch.

When I come down the outside stairs and hit the pavement, movement stops me. Lochlan comes around the side of the camper. He's home again. Still so sick with this stupid cold that makes him cough all night long but he won't stop tinkering. He has a wrench in one hand. He's been trying to fix the seized wheel. He stops when he sees me, smilling slightly. He's glad to see me but he's mad because I am coming from the boathouse. Thankfully, curiosity trumps outrage.

Hey, peanut.

Hey, Lochlan. Do you need some help?

What? Ha, no. I'll get it. Not like I want to take it out. I like having a place to hang my hat. I can take my time and fix it properly, you know?

I smile but it tastes bad. My adventurous spirit, my potential for wayfaring was all but swallowed by his need to make something permanent for us in the midst of such a nomadic, tumultuous life. To find home on the road, to have familiarity when nothing was ever the same. A foundation that could be dragged along behind us, freaks that we were, one that we could set up house on in every new seaside town we emptied of gold and laughter before moving on to the next.

I've been busy resenting Lochlan while he's been busy trying to make things feel like home. For himself, for me too.

When he turned his back to give the tire another go I pushed up my sleeves, reached down and picked up the lifeless crow that rested at my feet. I took a huge bite, gristle, feathers and all. And I chewed and chewed until I almost choked to death while the tears streamed down my face and seasoned the meat nicely.

Without looking up, Lochlan proclaims that he will have it fixed shortly. I smile and say that he shouldn't worry, I'll go find find Duncan and send him out to help. Together they'll have it finished before dinner. I'll cook but I won't be eating.

I am too full.

Mad world.

I've never had a lecture while I was getting laid before. Ever. This is a first.

Ben's hands wrap around my hips as he drives his points home. I am crushed underneath him, locked against him and I am desperately trying not to pay attention. He's forcing me to with exquisitely sharp twinges of pain exacted as he pleases to maintain my focus.

He's incorrigible.

He's delicious.

He's maddeningly right, and I never saw it coming.

(Oh, there's a joke in there, a filthy pun. I'm not telling it).

Life isn't a fairytale, bee. It's a difficult climb up a steep hill and we're dirty and tired and demoralized but every now and then we get look at true beauty and a taste of the faith that makes us keep going.

More than once I have braved the red hot razor-burn of his three-week beard to look up into his eyes to confirm that he has not been replaced with a poet or a reverend. Maybe this is a dream. Ben's words are never so prophetic or reassuring or...logical. He writes angry music for a living. I would have been less surprised had he talked about how the devil would consume my soul as it burned on through the night, stoking the fires of hell or something.

(Oh, wait. Perhaps he is the prophetic one. After all, my soul was consumed and then spit out and returned to me. Currently it sits on a shelf behind Duncan's unworn, overpriced Oakley sunglasses and the rice cooker I bought that has to be returned because the capacity is nowhere sufficient for my kitchen.)

I wish Ben would shut the fuck up and save it for daylight. He pulls me back down and turns me over. Oh good, my ears are covered and I can't hear him.

But I can't breathe either.

(That's sometimes a fun game in itself, but only if the one in control is aware of the problem and timing a fix, otherwise you're just gunning for dead princesses and a whole lot of explaining to do.)

He pulls my head back up and I take a deep breath and I realize he's still talking. I start to laugh out loud. I don't know what else to do. Ben asks what's so funny. I point out I'm getting an attitude adjustment at the worst time ever.

He tells me he is multitasking, that while he's adjusting my internal organs into their new locations, he is also adjusting my outward attitude. Then he starts to laugh because he's got a very big ego when it comes to this department.

(Big like everything else.)

I roll back over and smile. Ben is taking this well. I mean me, he's taking me well. He stops talking at last and lets the dark take us both under. This is not the time for words. Words can wait for the sun.

Part Two: Killing fairytales.

(Picking up from here.)

Once all of the doors to his rooms were locked and we were in the bedroom by the window, Lochlan held the envelope in front of him in shaking hands.

There would have been no fanfare if I wasn't, peanut.

Just open it.

I can't. He's a leaf in the wind, shaking, pale, serious. I'm not doing any better. My mind is racing, my heart is reeling. The house is so quiet. I am trying to plan for whatever happens next but I can't because I didn't expect to be in this place.

Ever.

He lets out a long quavering breath and rips the end off. He pulls out the papers. He's skimming and passing me pages as he reads. I throw them down, I only want the last one. Paper cuts and tension are making this unbearable.

Oh Jesus Christ. Bridget, she's mine.

The black pushed around my consciousness and then the light blew it all away as I fell apart. Finally. Something good.

There is no moment more bittersweet in life than when you go digging back through years of memories to understand how you missed experiencing things in the way that you were meant to, instead of from afar. I watched all of that play across his face but all I could think of is now everything makes sense to me.

Lochlan's not a religious man. Not by a long shot. He won't pray, he won't go to church unless it's Christmas, he doesn't believe in God anymore than you believe in the bearded lady (she is real, by the way) but for the second time in my life he got down on his knees and prayed for help. The last time he did that was in a ransacked, smashed-up camper on the outskirts of a carnival parking lot, holding me in his arms. This time I just stood quietly and watched. I'm trying to decide how I feel before his input skews it, like it does for everything.

(How's your pizza?

Yummy. What about you?

A little dry, isn't it, Bridgie?

Yeah, it is, actually. Now that you mention it.)

He stands up and picks up the papers again and sits down on the bed to read through everything again. There are no questions left save for the one on everyone's mind.

***

A month later and still the same question remains hanging in the air above me like a cloud with a pull-chain for a light to come on.

How do I feel?

Part of me is cartwheeling-happy, swinging from a rope, shouting from the rooftops ecstatic, and the other part of me is terrified of the thought of a little more of Cole slipping away from my psyche. I'm not ready for that. I might sell my soul to hang on to what I have left of him (I just got my soul back from Satan in an even trade and once I boil off the blackened outer shell I'm sure it will be as good as new). I know that's unforgivable and incomprehensible, but you didn't choose Cole.

I did, once upon a time.

Sometimes the death of a fairy tale is the most difficult death of all and here it is before me in glorious finality and I need to kiss it goodbye.

Aw for fucks sakes.

Eleah died. Amyrn's mother. The giraffe. Now only Jafari (dad) remains. They say she may have died of heartbreak.

I am so sad.