Jade had gotten used to living in the real world. Well, as real as one could get, living with four children, seven or eight adults (depending on who "popped" in that day), eight cats, four days, scores of llamas and strange birds, and one extremely strange Irishman. If, in fact, one did get used to that sort of thing, she was living a normal life.

Life, for her, had always been some degree or another of Desperate. When she was a child, her parents were always at odds with each other, drinking or fighting. Her later adventures with Ryan in Ireland had caused her to wonder if she would live to see the coming years.

God willing, she had, and she'd met up with Ryan again. This time, he'd been the same man she loved, only he'd given up his prior need to destroy the Northern Irish countryside. Instead, he was working with people who had wanted to do questionable things in the states.

He swore, finally, that he'd given it all up, and for a short while, life was calm. But, unfortunately, some pasts refuse to stay silent, and one of Ryan's prior girlfriends appeared out of nowhere and turned her hate and jealousy upon them. Ryan's Morgan le Fay brought along her Mordred, and they set to ripping everything to pieces. One thing led to another, and they all ended up in Minnesota, seemingly safe from it all. She was comfortable there, it being the Midwest and reminding her of Indiana, her childhood home.

Of course, wherever the catalyst may roam, an interesting life follows, and same goes for anyone near them. George Cole had popped up a few too many times to stay safe, but lately he'd been absent from the picture. Everything was starting to settle to the bottom and find its niche, people started developing routines and expectations, and things got to be so normal and mundane, no-one thought to notice how odd that was.

It hit her as she was washing dishes, her bare arms submerged in hot, soapy water. The dishwasher had not arrived yet, so she was cleaning up the breakfast dishes by hand, reliving a job she'd had at home since she was eight years old.

"I never wanted children."

Instantly, her stomach feel through the floor and stayed there until she realized that no one was around to hear her. the children were gone, taken to school by Ryan. He and Elmore would wander over to the Corner later in the day, and she wouldn't see him again until late or unless she went over to the Corner herself.

Too much to do...

She caught herself in mid-thought.

When the hell did I grow a family?

The thought of it tore her up, and she slid into one of the kitchen chairs and found herself staring at the surface of the table, the faint scars from use, the sunlight shining off its varnished surface.

She rested her chin on the hells of her hands and covered her face with her fingers. She hadn't painted in a year, and hadn't lifted a pencil since before Ryan had come back with the children. not that she regretted them, she simply found it odd that she hadn't had the urge.

"Haven't had time," she said to herself though her fingers.

"Time for what?"

Bill's gruff, sleep-worn voice found her before she turned in her seat. He was just coming upstairs from the basement, coffee mug in hand, hair tousled. He bee-lined to the coffeepot and filled his cup with the rest of Sam's before-work brew.

""No time for anything, I guess. Sleep down there last night?"

"Sorta. After the Punk fell asleep. I wandered down there."

He shrugged and she knew that's all she'd get out of him. She knew that from experience. She and Deb had a theory; that he spent so much time in the basement because he was still working, in some form or another, for Uncle Sam. Why else would he be so insane about his privacy? When the house was being overhauled, he'd had a T1 secured line put in, directly to the basement. He didn't explain and no one asked, although Deb had that knowing look. She knew he was bored as hell, and if he'd had his way he probably wouldn't have retired from whatever service he was with.

"Ya look like someone tried ta bite ya in the face there, girl." He took a drink of the hot, tar-like substance without wincing.

"More like my life tried to bite me in the ass, but that was a good guess."

Bill gave her a wary, skeptical look over the cup and waited. She cleared her throat and methodically started wrapping one hand in her dishtowel, then unwrapping it and doing it all over again to the other hand.

"You ever think you've figured your life out, then gotten up one morning to find that it's all been stood on it's ear?"

She knew what his answer would be, and she knew that he knew she was bating him.

"Yup, was his monosyllabic answer.

"I love them, Bill. Don't get me wrong."

"Not what ya wanted, is it?"

She buried her face in her hands and sighed deeply.

"I... don't know. Nobody ever asked me, I guess. God, I'm whining..."

"Maybe what'cha need is a vacation. Lots'a noise around here."

"You're not kidding." She spread her fingers and was met by the Strannix Grin.

"Does it ever slow down?"

He finished his sludge.

"If ya let it. Ever think about gettin your own place, getting away from this mess?"

:Sometimes, yeah, I do. But..."

"But what? You're allowed your own life."

"... who would help take care of things here?"

Bill shrugged expansively.

"Ya think I can't do dishes?"

"No," Jade said, then laughed.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've been livin' by myself longer than you've been alive, squirt."

"That's not the point, Bill. I guess... I owe it to you. You know, for everything you've had to put up with."

She meant Cecily, Riain, moving to Minnesota, the children, and Ryan. He knew this.

"Girl, I have gone through a lot more hell than a couple a 'lunatics, and two rugrats. Besides, it's been repaid, if you're keepin' score, and I'm not."

When he'd come home from the hospital, Jade had helped take care of him, and had fielded children when he’d felt too miserable to deal with them. There were many days when it was simply Jade, Bill, and the children in the house, and she’d managed to hold it all together and walk away smiling. Lately, she’d been pitching in with Rainer, especially when Bill himself was gone, which happened more frequently these days. Deb said it was something to do with his memory, and she was giving him space to cope with it all, but Jade could tell it troubled her deeply. It had to be hard to find out that you were, or had been at one time, two men.

She sighed.

“Do you miss being alone?”

his eyes dropped to the empty mug. He got up and busied himself with starting a new pot. Jade watched him shovel coffee into the chamber methodically.

“Sometimes,” he answered after a while. “Hard t’comprimise when you’ve had to be alone nearly twenty years due to necessity. It’s not so much I miss it. Just not used t’bein around so damn many people.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Bill poured water into the reservoir—such a pitifully small amount compared to how much coffee he’d used—and sat back down.

“What’s the matter, girl?”

Jade wasn’t used to such direct and probing questions from the Master of Disaster.

“When did you become a psychotherapist?”

He shrugged again in that way he had when he wasn’t going to answer a question.

“Just looked up and realized I was my mother, I guess.”

“Bad?”

“I never wanted it.”

“Neither did I.”

“How do you do it?”

“What?”

“Cope.”

“I did all that shit when I was your age.” He got up and filled his cup with fresh coffee, then turned and leaned back against the counter.

“I roll with the punches,” he said, then wandered back downstairs.

Bill sighed and peeled his reading glasses off his nose, tossed them onto the desk. His eyes dropped to the desk. It was a complete mess—notes scribbled onto notebook pages, post-its, napkins, and other close-at-hand pieces of paper. His usually neat scrawl had been transformed by his haste into nearly illegible script. Memories of a prior life, as ordered and neat as they were in his mind.

In the bottom right-hand drawer was a thick, very neatly-stacked, double spaced manuscript with 1 inch margins, on thick white laser jet quality paper, Times New Roman font, 12 point type, thank-yew-very-much. At the top he’d written:

William Eliot Strannix,

1948 – present

He gathered the messy pile of papers up, dumped them into a file box, jammed the lid down, and wrote in back Sharpie marker over pictures of multi-colored hanging file folders:

Eliot William Gerard

1948 – 1972

Twenty four years of memories had been slamming into his brain inconsistently since he’d been given The Box so many months ago, and he was having trouble thinking clearly through the insanity at times.

Bill had thought with the gaining of his old (Eliot’s) memories, the others, the ones he suspected were false, planted, would fade, replaced by what was right and true. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be the case. Some memories were congruent, while others were completely false.

For instance, Eliot’s father died of old age, in Columbus, Ohio, a high ranking military official, and his mother was still alive. Bill’s mother, who did, or didn’t exist, died of cancer; his father had committed suicide because of his loss a mere six months after that. Both memories felt real. Concrete. He’d dream of being a young man and watching his mother die her agonizing death, and when he woke up in a cold sweat, would feel the loss just as true as he had before he’d learned the truth. Once in a while, the Punk would have to quiet him and reassure him. At times, the memories would become seriously confused, and he had no idea what to do with any of it.

So, he began writing it all down.

The act freed his mind from the calamity it was completely in. The blackouts he had fought so hard to keep from Deb and ceased. It was as if he’d cracked open his skull and relieved the pressure by letting it all drain out.

Bill closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He sat still for a space of moments, and then opened his eyes, seized a beaten-up notepad, and scribbled for a solid four and a half minutes. The rush left him as quickly as it had sized him, and he stopped writing, closed his eyes.

He was breathing hard from the rush.

“Goddamnit.”

There was a tentative knock on the door, and Bill tucked the new notes into the file folder box and pushed it aside.

“What?”

“Open the goddamned door.”

Dawg.

“Open it your damned self, it’s unlocked.”

The door swung open and Sam Gerard stood in the doorway, his shoulders nearly spanning the narrow opening.

Sam stood silently, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable.

“What?” Bill asked irritably, opening the desk drawer and dropping the folder box atop the first manuscript.

“You wanna take a little trip?”

Bill stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.

“Ya know, Dawg, last time ya asked me that, you were comin at me with handcuffs.”

Sam failed to see the humor.

“To hell with you, then,” he responded bitterly, and turned to leave. Bill followed him, leaving the door open in his haste.

“Christ, you knuckle-headed sonovabitch, what’s your problem?”

Sam stopped and fixed him with an icy glare that more than answered his question.

Bill sighed.

“Where?”

Sam shrugged.

“Cabin. Little huntin’… ice fishing…”

“Who else?”

“Whoever. Me, you… I don’t know.”

Bill fought the grin from returning and almost won.

“Somehow, Dawg, I think you know.”

“Well? Are you or aren’t you? Make me wait any longer, and I’ll change my mind.”

Why not? He thought. If we kill each other…

“When?”

Sam shrugged. “I thought this weekend, before Spring gets here.”

Bill raised an eyebrow but was careful not to voice his question. Who put you up to this, he thought, knowing that if he asked, Sam would probably flip.

It was Bill’s turn to shrug.

“Okay.”

TO BE CONTINUED…