The Longest Night

It was another quiet Christmas Eve with Gran. For the past few years, Catherine and her mother went up to visit her but this year Gran made the effort to see them. It was nearing midnight and all the lights were off except those on the Christmas tree. A movie was on at a low volume; Gran had long fallen asleep on the recliner, snoring softly. The clock on the far wall softly struck twelve, and Catherine’s mother squeezed her daughter’s shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

They smiled at each other, then went back to the movie, neither really paying attention to it. It was gently snowing outside, there were gifts under the tree, there was hot chocolate nearby, Gran was there, and both mother and daughter were snuggling under the blanket. It was Catherine’s favourite nostalgic feeling, and she could only ever feel it once every year.

She didn’t know what film was on television, but it looked to be from the late eighties, early nineties, about a Christmas in the future that was sorely outdated. “Mom,” she whispered, “What do you think the world will be like when we get old?”

“When we get old?” she looked her teenage daughter up and down. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to get old. I plan on staying young and exuberant.”

Catherine threw a popcorn kernel at her playfully. “But really, if you think about the fifties, their future just looked like a shiny, metallic…fifties era. And in the movies today, the future looks like it does now, but, like, in ten years, it’ll look ridiculous. So what do you think? What will the future really be like?”

Her mother tilted her head at the thought, then glanced at her sideways. “I think it’ll be something to look forward to,” she answered serenely with a broad smile.

It had been an hour. No one moved, looked at each other, or muttered a single word. She cried to herself quietly, her arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding herself in. Someone stepped up to the back doors that stood wide open and stopped in front of her. All eyes were on him as he knelt. He moved slowly, as if quick and sudden movements would offend her. “I’m Corporal Reid. Are you all right?”

She didn’t reply, but she looked up from her corner, her eyes red and puffy. It was the commanding officer from the hospital room, where Jeffries still lay, his cold face free of the hardness that it used to contain.

All right? She would have chosen different words.

“I know this is a hard time for you, but I need you to come with me. Answer some questions.”

It took some time to pull herself together mentally and wipe her face. Reid stood and held out a hand to help her down. She ignored the offer and made her own way off. To his credit he did not let this dissuade him and moved smoothly to lead her away. She kept her eyes downcast, not to avoid the eyes of others, but because she could no longer look forward.

Reid stopped and turned. He had darker skin and hair than the rest of the soldiers but his eyes were a light hazel. The contrast drew her attention. However she looked made him avoid her eyes and clench for a moment.

“The others on the van,” he said, not looking up. “Are those all of them?”

“I don’t live here.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I had just assumed…”

“I came from McClelland Lake.”

He appraised this. “You came a long way.”

“I was trying to save him.”

“You did well.”

Quiet surrounded them.

“I apologize.” Another pause. “What’s your name?”

He knew her name, all along. He knew. “Catherine.”

“Catherine.” he repeated. He looked at something over her head. “My men and I are going to look for more survivors. Are you sure you don’t know of any more?”

“I’m not sure how many people died.”

He nodded, grim. “I’ll have private Ackermann keep you company. If you need anything, he’ll be there for you.” He hesitated before pointing. “That way.”

She did not look at him, but she followed his gesture to one of the vans. She started in the direction, and after a pause she heard Reid’s feet crunch in snow and rubble as he walked away. She caught the eye of the other officer who had carried her from the hospital, and he turned toward her as she approached. Strawberry blonde hair, pointed blue eyes, a long nose and a square jaw. Healthy tint, tall, filled in. Unbroken.

“I’m Ackermann,” he said as kindly as his roughness would allow. “Reid probably figures you’d be more comfortable out here than in the vans, if I were to hazard a guess.”

She didn’t reply. She moved to sit on the ground, leaning against the large tire of the truck. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her forehead on her knees, her lips gently touching her thighs.

No one spoke to her. Ackermann turned towards two other soldiers nearby, then muttered something to them. They turned and left. He stood with his back to her.

She closed her eyes, her breath shuddering from her lips as she fell asleep…

It was dark. There was no body, no mind; all that was left was her soul. All was so dark, so cold; she could feel a huge and fathomless fear pull her further into the darkness. Alone. Pointless. Terrifying.

Then her feet, planted on a flat and even slate. Legs, body, arms holding a paper, and her neck and face, with her eyes on the print, unseeing. She realized where she was, and looked up from her paper to the platform, looking for him.

There he was, in his spot. The look on his face…the last day at the LRT station. But his eyes weren’t on her paper when she looked to him – they were directly on hers.

The mere look was igniting. A joy that went beyond a smile. He approached, she waited. There was no one else on the platform, but even if there was, she would not have taken notice. It was only him for her, for he was all that mattered.

She lowered her arms to her sides, and the paper slipped away – no need for the shield any longer. With her obstacle gone she was unshackled; she took a step toward him, then another.

They stopped within a foot of each other. Their eyes stayed steadfastly connected, and finally the man offered a small and sure smile. His hand came up slowly and her eyes fluttered closed when he caressed her face, letting his fingertips trace over her jaw, her cheek, her lips. He brushed her chin, then he rested his hand on the base of her neck and stepped closer to her. The burn spread outward as his lips touched hers just barely, and he parted them as he kissed her. She rested her hands on his chest, that wool coat that smelled of pine. Her breath slipped past her.

“Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, “I remember you, Catherine.”

Her eyes opened when a large hand covered her shoulder and shook her gently. She stared at her lap. “We have to get you in a vehicle,” Ackermann said quietly. “We’re ready to head back.”

She lifted her face. Everything had been so real. A pain throbbed in her chest. She would lose Jeffries every day for the rest of her life.

“All right.”

Ackermann offered a hand to lead her but she stood without a second glance. She was headed for the nearest van when Ackermann’s hand came down on her shoulder stiffly. He shook his head.

“That one’s full.” He sounded hesitant. “I’ll take you to the next one.”

He gripped her shoulders hard as he guided her away. She turned her head towards the open doors but Ackermann said “No” firmly. Her breathing became hard. Don’t worry, we won’t leave him here.

It spilled forth all over again. How could she still cry when she had melted her eyes with her tears? Ackermann saw her into the other van and droned “It’ll be okay,” The most emotion he had likely ever dealt with was probably doled out by her in the last two hours, or so she thought.

“Ready!” Ackermann called and closed the back door behind himself. She hugged her shoulders again, trying to keep herself together. The memories she used to sustain herself had been maimed, fine china dashed upon the floor. There was nothing holding her together any longer. He is gone, he is gone.

The van began to pull away. Tears would fall down her cheeks like acid occasionally, but no one showed notice. No one said a word; the air was too thick for anyone to mutter a word.

There were very few people. Before she fled the city, there were so many more people left: oil workers, residents, families. There were maybe a dozen in the van now and probably less in the next. The thousands that had died.

They had just passed the upper limits of Fort McMurray when she spotted a side road through the passenger window. She stared. It was very brief but she saw all she needed to see. It was Gran’s road. Two years to make it here.

Her hand twitched as a memory very near whispered in her ear. This is for you. I want you to read it when you get to your gran’s. But no peeking.

She slowly reached into her coat pocket, pulling the letter out gently. Never forgotten, rather a constant reminder, a last piece of her mother she could keep. She never did peek, just to keep her word. The envelope was still sealed, even though it was bent, crinkled, and dirtied with age. She opened it delicately and carefully removed the letter, unfolding it like it was part of a sacred ritual, and began to read.

Dear Catherine,

In all of the twenty-two years that we’ve spent together, we’ve only spoken twice about your father. I realize now that keeping that from you was wrong, but I was not brave enough to tell you. Now I think is the time.

You grew up shy, but after you began to go to college it gradually became worse. I was worried about you. You told me eventually that you had fallen for someone you barely knew.

And so, Catherine, after I read your story of a girl who had caught the exquisiteness of a stranger and became enthralled with him, I was almost certain that somehow you had heard my story. I believed you had found me out, and you knew. But you never approached me. It is strange how a daughter falls in the steps of her mother, even without really knowing.

I was working evenings at a pub while I was in school. There was a particular customer who came every Friday night. Very outgoing, charming. He had this loud, joyful laugh. I loved hearing the sound of his laugh. I would trade shifts with the other girls so I could work Friday nights.

He only came up to the bar to order occasionally. He usually placed orders with the waitresses, and that was when I decided to transfer to a server’s position. I wanted to get to know him, and I didn’t know why. I never experienced such a desire to get to know someone more in my life.

After I started serving, I saw more of him. Every Friday night he was there, and every time it was with the same friends. Eventually they recognized me as their Friday night waitress, and we all became more friendly. He never spoke much to me. It was mainly his friends who did the talking. But after a few weeks, he started to warm up to me as well, and I never remembered being more enticed for a person to speak to me.

It went on for months until one Friday, he nor his friends arrived. I spent the whole night staring at the door, willing him in to give me his lopsided smile, but he never showed up.

I had had crushes before that had simply fell through the cracks. I had never been shattered over not seeing someone for four weeks before. I was thoroughly convinced I’d done something to set them off, and none of them would return to the pub. I was nearly done my degree. I was going to be moving back to Fort McMurray and I was sure I would never hear anything like his laugh ever again.

I came in to work on a Thursday night for a coworker, which was an unusual shift for me, and found the entire pub to be dead for all but one patron. And there sat your father, a beer in hand, gloom hanging over him like a single rain cloud. When I saw him, my world reignited. When he saw me, he gave me his lopsided grin and said, “Life likes to take big shits on us, doesn’t it?”

Not one other person came in for the rest of the night. He and I spent the entire time talking, him going on about how he was laid off his job. There was a resounding problem for overseas workers around that time. Funding poured in to bringing them there but little was done on their behalf to secure their position. He was from Ireland on a work visa and his residency was in limbo while he had no work. I didn’t know what empathy truly meant before that. I cared deeply for everything he had to say.

After closing, he walked me home, and he asked if he could see me again before either of us left. I said he could. We saw each other several more times before I finished my exams and he bought his plane ticket home.

I saw him off at the airport, and he said he would keep in touch. I think we both knew what happened between us would never happen again, but I also felt that both of us would never remember any better time spent with another person. I wondered whether I would hear from him again. I very much would have liked that.

I would like to say he didn’t think our overseas conversations would keep a friendship alive and that’s why he never reached out, but I found out a few days later that a connecting flight between Toronto and Dublin had crashed. I tried to find every bit of evidence I could to tell me that it wasn’t him. Sometimes I firmly believe it was misreported and he is alive and well, and sometimes thinks of a girl who was too far to maintain the bridge between them.

Just thinking on him makes my throat constrict. I can still feel the dread of reading about that plane. I still love him, wherever he is. Letting go is harder than holding on.

My advice to you would be to pursue happiness. Do not let him slip through the cracks. You may look back and regret what you did not say. I live with pain today over the man I pursued, but if I hadn’t, I would have spent the rest of my life wondering. Don’t wonder your whole life, Catherine.

Mom