Christmas in Bruges (3 page)

The carriage lurched over a bridge, and as Paula's head bounced once more against the carriage step, above her clouds raced by.

“Whoa! Whoa!” the driver shouted again.

A car horn blasted, brakes screeched, a woman screamed, and now the horse itself seemed to be skidding, the carriage rocking precariously as if about to roll over at any moment.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

At last the horse started to slow and came to a stop beneath a tree.

The driver's face appeared between Paula's and the sky, sweat beading on his forehead. He spoke first in Flemish, before remembering they were Anglophones. “Oh my God! Are you all right down there?”

“No—yes!” she said. Not a gunshot, of course not. A car backfiring. That was all. Just a car backfiring.

The driver looked at James's head, still buried in Paula's hair. “Are you sure?”

“We're fine,” Paula said, speaking for them both. Should she explain to the driver that James had been in Afghanistan? No, probably not. “Can you take us to the Hotel Ter Brughe?” she asked calmly.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “And there's no charge for this ride. I'm so very, very sorry. This has never happened before.”

“It's okay,” Paula said. “It couldn't be helped.”

The driver turned back, and she stroked James's hair. “It's okay. It was just a car backfiring,” she said trying to infuse her voice with lightness. “But you are squashing me. Can we get up now?”

Untangling himself from her, he sat back down on the seat. “You see why I said that last night. About how much someone can change in nine years. Well, welcome to post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD,” he said bitterly.

He helped her up, and she rubbed the back of her head. “Did I hurt you?” he asked anxiously, running his hand over her hair. “I'm so sorry—you're going to have a bump.”

“It's okay, just stings a bit.” Her arm hurt too, but she decided not to tell him and, flexing it as innocuously as she could, concluded that a swollen elbow was the worst she could expect.

“I feel so stupid.” His face was ashen, and he shook all over. Paula felt a little shaky herself.

“Don't. After my dentist's son was in Afghanistan, he had to throw out the microwave popcorn because it reminded him of gunfire. A car door slamming would make him hit the floor. He still hates fireworks. I'm sure he would've reacted the same way.”

“Yeah, probably. But it still sucks. I'd understand if you wanted to shake my hand right now, fly home to Canada, and never speak to me again.”

“You won't get rid of me that easily this time,” she said.

“Not when I wake up in the night screaming? I keep having the same nightmare. I keep treating the same child over and over again. I fix his wounds, set his limbs, and send him on his way, but when I turn around, he's back again, looking at me with pained eyes, blood pouring from another gaping wound, something else broken or missing, and, covered in his blood, I fix him yet again, only to turn around and find he's back.”

She'd read about what some of the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan had gone through, but none of that had seemed real. Looking at James now, she could see how very real it was.

“And it really was like that,” he continued. “I moved in a nightmare all the time. Mothers begging me to save a child already dead. The wailing of their grief. Children, fathers, sisters, brothers . . . everyone lost someone, and some lost everyone.” He paused, looking at a swan gliding on the canal, but she knew he wasn't seeing it, his mind back in the dusty rubble of Kandahar.

“And then my buddies, limbs blown off by IEDs, brains rattled inside helmets. We had better armour than in the past. We lost fewer people, but now they face living without their arms or legs. I get so angry when I read of veterans hospitals having to nickel and dime it. The country asked us to go, but too many closed their eyes when we came back. And are those poor Afghani civilians getting any help at all?”

She took his hand but didn't say anything, feeling the best thing she could do was listen.

“One day, a wedding was attacked by Taliban fighters. We unloaded two ambulances. I won't describe the injuries. My friend, a doctor who over the months I'd come to regard as a brother, was working alongside me. We'd only just started assessing the wounds when a third ambulance arrived. ‘I'll go,' I said, but my friend said, ‘I've got it.' Moments later, that ambulance exploded, and I was picking up the pieces of my friend. The bastards had used an ambulance as a car bomb.”

She held his hand tighter, and he went on relentlessly, as if a dam had broken. “
It should've been me
was all I could think. He had a wife and a new baby at home—he was always getting emails and Skyping with them. He couldn't wait to get back, and all I had was Miriam, and she'd moved on long ago. She told me I knew what I was getting into when I signed up.

“I was sent home shortly after that, but our Western-world problems seemed so trivial to me, like the grocery store being out of your favourite ice cream or your iPhone losing power just when you are about to send a text. I couldn't stand it.” He took a deep breath.

“You're getting help, aren't you?” she asked quietly.

“Of course. My parents have been great. I'm doing worse than some, better than many. Training for the marathon next year helps, but I think I'm expecting a miracle when I cross that finish line.

“And remember when I told you I was almost a doctor? Well, I am one. I just haven't worked since I got back. How can you work when you can't sleep and you're afraid that in the middle of surgery you're going to want to scream? I keep worrying I'm going to screw up and kill someone.”

She looked at him—handsome, strong, smart, and yet so unsure of himself. She wanted to take care of him, to be with him, to make up for lost time.

“Remember my Uncle Ross? He fought in World War II,” he continued without waiting for an answer. “He told us kids they had great parties on the ships. That's all I remember him saying. When I got back, I went to visit him. He had Alzheimer's by then. He told me a story about how one night he and his buddy were sneaking back into camp after partying in town with the locals, and their guard shot his buddy by accident. He'd never told that story before to anyone, but he told me. ‘I've often thought about that night,' he said to me. You see, the pain never goes away, no matter how old you get. It's no wonder the suicide rate is so high among vets.”

The carriage pulled up in front of James's hotel, and they climbed down, waving off the driver's apologies. “It wasn't your fault,” Paula insisted. “And you got us back safely.” He wished them a merry Christmas before driving off.

A light snow was falling. She'd been so engrossed in James's story, she hadn't noticed it.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Can we do that boat tour tomorrow? I think I need to be on my own right now.”

“Of course. We can do it at noon. And I mean what I said. I don't know much about PTSD, but I'm willing to learn. I know what you said last night, but you're still James to me, and until I saw you again, I didn't realize just how much I missed you.”

He kissed her then, on the sidewalk in front of the hotel doors, and she knew that she wasn't making a mistake. That she was up for whatever this meant. She loved James, always had, always would. Love was never enough, she knew, but because of love, she would help him find peace again.

She left him to watch her leave, as she'd watched him leave the night before. She felt too restless to go back to her hotel and so went to the bistro instead, only to find that she wasn't very hungry. She decided to order some soup and wine before pulling out her e-reader. But she didn't feel like reading any more than eating, and she stared at the words uncomprehendingly.

“Your friend isn't with you this evening,” the owner's wife said, bringing her the tab and a chocolate wrapped in gold paper.

“No, he wasn't feeling well.”

“That's too bad. Especially on Christmas Eve. Christmas dinner is at five o'clock tomorrow. I hope he'll be well enough to join us then.”

“I hope so too,” Paula said and, having a sudden urge to cry, left without saying goodbye.

***

Paula arrived at the dock at a quarter to twelve. The captain wished her a merry Christmas as he fuelled the boat. Big flakes of snow fell from a leaden sky.

People showed their tickets and boarded, but there was no sign of James. Had he slept in?

“Getting on?” the captain asked her.

“My friend's not here yet.”

“No problem. There's another boat in half an hour.”

“I'll wait,” she said and watched as it pulled away, cameras already flashing.

At 12:15, she pulled out her cell and searched for the phone number he'd entered. She called. A message came on:
The customer you are trying to reach is not available. Please try again later.

At 12:20, she tried again, and yet again at 12:25. The boat returned.

“I think my friend must've slept in,” she said unnecessarily to the boat captain. He smiled at her uncomfortably, as if he knew she was being stood up.

She watched the boat pull away again, and this time she called the hotel and asked to be transferred to James's room. The phone rang, and a woman answered.

God, was that why he hadn't shown up? She hadn't expected that.

Moments later, she realized the woman was the chambermaid. No, James wasn't in his room. He'd left an hour ago. Enough time to get to the dock five times over.

As the boat approached the dock again, she tried his cell once more.
The customer you are trying to reach is not available. Please try again later.

This time she boarded the boat. She said nothing to the captain, and he said nothing in return.

Paula knew James wasn't coming. He didn't want to face her after yesterday. She didn't know why, and she felt she'd blown it before she'd been given a chance to try.

Still, as the boat pulled away, she held her breath, watching the street, the bridge, hoping, praying for James to appear out of nowhere.
Wait for me
, he'd call out, and the captain would nod and pull the boat over.
Sorry I'm late. Forgot to turn my phone on this morning. So glad you waited for me!

But of course that didn't happen, and the captain began his commentary: “Bruges dates from Roman times . . .”

Paula heard none of it. Instead, she kept scanning the streets and bridges for James.

She wanted to feel angry, but she didn't. She was just sad. She'd lost him again. And now every memory of Bruges, every Christmas, would be a heartbreaking reminder.

She realized the boat had slowed. “I stopped here,” the captain said, “as I think this is the best view of the belfry in the whole city. Those of you who've seen the movie
In Bruges
will recognize it. It was central to the story . . .”

A terrifying thought began to take shape in Paula's mind. She remembered how reluctant James had been to go up the tower. She remembered him running his hands over the wire mesh that had been put in place to stop people from jumping.
If you were really determined, you could still find a way.

She recalled too his terror when the carriage bolted, the pain of his story.
It's no wonder the suicide rate is so high among vets.

Paula stood up in the boat, fear making her oblivious to the other passengers' stares as she climbed over the benches to reach the captain. “Can you please pull over and let me off?” she begged him. “I have to find my friend. I think something's happened to him.”

The captain looked at her and, without arguing, started the boat again. “I can drop you off on the other side of this bridge.”

She thanked him, thinking how the other side of the bridge seemed a million miles away rather than a few feet. She scrambled out before the boat came to a full stop, slipping on the snowy dock. Recovering her footing, she scrambled up the bank to the street, where people dressed in their best coats were strolling with their families. A group of children sang as they walked, their voices following her as she ran toward the market square:

Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabella

Un flambeau, courons au berceau . . .

She took a wrong turn, and then doubled back.

Oh God, what if she was too late!

Finally, she reached the square and looked toward the tower. All seemed calm enough. Nothing looked suspicious.

She ran around the empty ice rink to the foot of the tower. No one was there, and a chain stretched across the entrance to the courtyard.

Of course the belfry was closed. It was Christmas Day.
If you were really determined . . .

And then she saw it, at the very top, right where they'd been standing the day before. A glimpse of red.

James's scarf.

“James!” she shouted, waving her arms. “James, please come down!”

The spot of red didn't move.

“James! James!”

She screamed again, attracting attention. A small group assembled around her, all eyes on the tower.

“Get the police!” someone yelled. “A man's going to jump!” A boy shot off across the square.

The snow was coming down harder now, obscuring the spot of red.

“James! James! Please come down! I love you!”

The boy returned with a policeman. “What is it?” the policeman asked.

“It's my boyfriend, James. He's gone up the tower. I think he's going to—” and she burst into tears.

“The tower is locked for Christmas,” the policeman said. “No one can get up there.”

“No! That red dot up there. That's his scarf,” she stammered. “He said if you were really determined, you could find a way! I think that's why he came to Bruges!”