The observation car has windows that wrap all the way around. Sunlight glints off the chrome of the seats and the blue sky sits in stark contrast with the rock of the Canadian Shield. The sunlight doesn’t flash the same way it did in the forests.
After nearly an hour, I decide to go back. As I enter the car, I notice her, cross-legged in her seat, hair tucked behind her ears, looking intently at a laptop. I move towards our seats and simply stand in the aisle in front of her, pushing back the hair from my forehead, not knowing where to begin.
“Hey … morning,” I say.
There’s a long moment before she realizes my words are intended for her.
Then she looks up with the same face I remember. The same green eyes. The same full mouth. The same slightly crooked nose. She doesn’t seem any older.
“Andy!?”
I smile.
She smiles back and I realize that I haven’t remembered everything about her. The way she can make me feel warm and whole in an instant—I have forgotten this. It’s something you can only ever experience in the moment.
She throws her laptop aside, stands quickly. I pause, and my instinct is to hold out my hand. Thankfully she hugs me, hard. She seems shorter. She smells like strawberries and nursery light.
Her embrace is tight and even. Honest like rain.
We let go and I move to sit next to her.
“So it was you last night?” she asks. “I was so late, I nearly missed the train, and then when I got here, it was dark and you were sleeping. I couldn’t see who was in that seat … This is crazy!”
“Yeah, well, you’re telling me—I didn’t even know it was you until now. All I could see was your hair earlier.”
She laughs and looks down at my seat. “You left your bag here but obviously, I didn’t know it belonged to you …” She looks back into my face. “It’s good to see you, Andy. It’s, uh, been a long time.”
It has been a long time but it’s like riding a bike.
“It’s good to see you too, Cara.”
It isn’t awkward. It’s just like it used to be. The same steadiness. The same energy. I don’t know what to make of relationships that don’t suffer with time. Everything else degrades, but it’s like time hasn’t touched her. She asks me why I’m on this trip and I tell her, at least most of it. She tells me she’s a journalist for an online magazine in Belleville. Writes articles about different things, usually the issues of smaller, isolated communities. She is going to a small town in BC on assignment. She asks about my family so I tell her more or less how they’ve been. Definitely less.
We spend most of the day walking around the train, talking small talk. But it isn’t horrible and I don’t hate it because it’s Cara, and I realize again how I’ve missed her.
“Time goes so quickly—four years doesn’t feel that long,” she says as we leave the dining room from lunch. I don’t know what to say. That it’s all relative? For me, these four years have been an eternity.
We find one of the high-dome cars and it’s the coolest thing about the train so far. The entire car, save the floor, is a glass window. All the way around and over. It’s surreal in a way. We comment on rocky hills. We cross the odd road, and kids on bikes wave at us. We wave back. Small towns whizz by in panoramic view. We don’t talk. Just watch the world as we fly past it.
“You still talk to Sarah?” I ask.
Sarah Friesen. Red hair, highly opinionated, kissed her once when I was sixteen. One of Cara’s closest friends.
“Sometimes,” Cara says. “She lives in Montreal now. We’ll talk on the phone occasionally but she’s in university again and engaged to that guy Paul. Statten. Remember him?”
Ah, Paul Statten. Smiled a lot, arrogant, moron. Met him once at a Christmas gathering.
“Yeah, I do. I didn’t know she stayed with him, though.” I turn to look at Cara. “I remember thinking she could do better.”
Cara’s expression mirrors my opinion. “I still think she could. We don’t talk much and when we do it’s not really about stuff like that. I don’t think she wants to be told so I don’t say anything. You know her. She’s more or less the same as always. He’s been awful to her in the past. Really awful. She texted me when he proposed and she seemed excited. I didn’t want to ruin that for her.”
Cara smiles but her eyes are sad. I’m not the only one who hates what time can do.
She turns to me and freezes for a second, then smiles. I just look at her and there’s this weird moment. It doesn’t last long but we both feel it. She’s the first to break it.
“I haven’t asked! What are you doing for work now? I know you worked at that gym forever, but I saw on Facebook that you got a job working at the college! I was really happy for you. Have you been teaching, or … ?”
“Well yes, I did—or I used to,” I quickly clarify. “I managed to get in part-time over a year ago. It was great and I was lucky to be there. I was teaching some Physiology classes but I haven’t been teaching there for a few months now.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “How come?”
Suddenly we are somewhere I don’t want to be and I can’t stop my face from showing it. Cara realizes it as soon as I do.
“Ah, well,” I stumble stiffly. “You know … I had to step away …”
She’s nodding but I can see a vein throbbing in her temple and I feel my stomach twisting.
“So I’ve been back at the gym with more hours than I need, and it’s been alright.”
I want to say something to diffuse the tension but sometimes there just isn’t anything to say. We both know what’s almost been talked about. The train’s PA announces we’ll be stopping in Hornepayne soon and we sit in the dome car looking anywhere but at each other. After the announcement Cara suggests we go back to our seats; she has some work to do on her computer.
I nod, and as far as we have come, I suddenly feel lost.
We have dinner together but the conversation is rigid. Back in our seats, she focuses on her laptop. I try to read. Night falls as we near the fringe of Ontario, and we’re surrounded again by tall pines flashing by, their silhouettes obsidian against the Prussian-blue sky. We’ll be in Manitoba by morning. I am starting to hate this situation. This is someone I used to spend every day with. I’ve remembered her a million ways but not once like this. It doesn’t make sense to be like this with her.
I turn to face her. “Remember that Rihanna song? You know, that one we caught Mr. Riker dancing to? Back in homeroom?” Her fingers stop typing and she looks over at me. She can’t stop the smile that organically forms on her lips. I tap the floor with my shoe.
“Remember in the mornings they’d play it on the PA before class and he’d tap that shiny shoe of his and mouth the words as if no one could see?”
I’m having trouble keeping a straight face and Cara’s smile widens, her eyes twinkling. She pulls her leg out from under herself and places her foot on the floor, tapping to a rhythm. She exaggerates the lyrics while tapping her foot to mimic the memory, and then I really start to laugh.
“I could never understand … why, of all the music they used to play, of all the songs … that was the one that really did it for him,” she gasps between bouts of laughter. “My God, it was incredible. He probably still has a secret playlist at home and plays it when his wife is out.”
I lose it. My stomach starts to hurt, recalling the ridiculous memory from back when life was very different for both of us. I didn’t bring it up just to heal what went wrong this afternoon. It felt natural to say it. It feels natural with Cara to laugh and feel warm again. I think of the last four years and it all feels like a different world now.
I manage to settle myself a bit. “Yeah, well if he’s still alive, anyway …”
Cara swings a stiff palm at my arm. “Andy! Don’t say that!” But she laughs harder all the same.
For the next hour or so we laugh and talk about Mr. Riker and school and all the old memories that used to be new. The tension dissipates as quickly as it
arrived. Cara sits sideways, cross-legged in her seat, facing me, having abandoned her work.
“I remember when you were dating Greg Lebanski and got mad at me for saying he sounded like a frog.” I smile, poking her forearm. “For the record, he did and I still believe that. He was also a douche. I never knew what you saw in him.”
Greg Lebanski. Tall, kind of chubby, talked poorly about women and their bodies. Cara dumped him after she caught him bullying some kid online.
Cara laughs as she knots her hair up into a less-than-perfect bun. “Listen, he was really nice for the first two months and I was flattered he had the courage to ask me out. I really did notice his voice after you said that, though. That’s probably why I was so mad. I didn’t know you thought he was a douche! I remember you saying he was ‘alright’ when I asked you about him.” She squints her eyes and points a finger at me. I put my hands up.
“Well, I don’t know, you seemed happy enough so I didn’t want to spoil it.”
Cara dated three guys in high school. Greg Lebanski was the first.
The second was Henry Rowell: football player, red hair, complete doofus. Only lasted a few weeks.
Thomaso Marinecchi was third. Average height, brown hair, super-nice guy. Dated for about two years, until he moved away for university.
I remember she was really torn up about it. I didn’t know how to feel. When you care about someone the way I cared about Cara, you get a little bit of everything and none of it ever really feels right. I often felt like I was just looking in, watching these things happen while trying desperately not to mess it all up. If nothing else, I wanted to be a constant to her.
“How about now, though … You’ve got a boyfriend at home, yeah? Nathaniel, I think? If Facebook doesn’t deceive me?”
Nathaniel Corrigan. Lawyer, racquetball player, tall, athletically slender.
I feel like it’s okay to ask about him. Cara nods a bit but her eyebrows furrow.
“Uh yeah, him. I don’t know …” She hesitates. “You’ve never met him, right? I’m not sure you’d like him, honestly. Sarah did, though. If I’m honest I had my doubts after the first year, but then we moved in together. Really sweet guy. Goal oriented, ambitious, social. We were together three years but a couple weeks ago I caught him with another girl.”
I don’t know what I was expecting to hear but it wasn’t this. It seems odd for her to be so direct. My heart sinks like a stone. She looks up at me, sees the expression in my eyes.
“Yeah … I’m sorry we never talked about that. That you never met him or anything. You just seemed busy and distant and I didn’t want to bother you, but I’m sure hearing this now seems dramatic. Honestly though, Andy, I wasn’t surprised. If you knew him—if you knew us—it felt like a culmination or something. I didn’t say much to him but he knew it was done. I moved out the next day and I’m staying with some friends until I can get a place. I’ll be looking at places in BC, actually.”
I nod and think of what to say. How cliché. How shitty. I can see she’s trying to be strong about it. There was something loose in the back of her eyes as she spoke.
“Cara, that’s awful. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to surface anything, I just—”
“No, it’s okay, Andy,” she interjects. “I’m glad you asked. If anything, I feel bad you never really knew. About any of it …”
Her voice grows heavy at the end. We sit in silence for a few moments. I’ve been in situations like this with her before: After Thomaso Marinecchi. When her parents told her she couldn’t go to Greece on that school trip. When she would fight with Sarah. When a guy touched her at a party and she couldn’t finish the story. All those times before, I sat there and broke with her. Because I loved her. Is this any different? Do I love her now? Yes, I think immediately. But it’s not that simple. Nostalgia is a powerful thing. And trains are supposed to be romantic, aren’t they? As we sit on this train there are years between us that weren’t there before. For so long, I resigned myself to believing I no longer loved her. But sitting with her now, it’s a hard question to answer.
“My dad told me to give him another chance, which I know is absurd, but you know him—he loved someone like Nathaniel. I thought about that time Tyler … Grysson, I think? Remember that time he tried to defend forgiving a cheater, but you told him it was always a choice? I agreed with you then and I still do now.”
Tyler Grysson. Short, stocky, blond. His girlfriend was constantly flirting with other guys.
“You made the right decision and I’m happy you did, but I’m still sorry. It’s just … well, I know you know that you don’t deserve that.”
She nods but her face is solemn. “I know.”
“And don’t worry about it. It’s not like I tried that hard to know what was going on in your life. There’s plenty I haven’t told you these last few years, so at the very least let’s call it even,” I add with a reassuring smile, trying to keep it light. Cara doesn’t smile. She just looks at me and I know where her mind is. I look away.
“Well, okay …” she says.
My heart begins to race. It’s quiet around us for about a minute. Just the sound of the tracks and the car door sliding.
“About earlier—”
“It’s okay! I know. Don’t worry, I was awkward, too,” I say too quickly, waving a hand.
“No,” Cara says. “Andy, I really want to say this. I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable. I know you’re fine and sorry and you understand and all that but that’s not what I’m concerned about.”
I don’t say anything, just swallow hard and turn my eyes to the blackness outside the window.
Her voice is gentle when she speaks. “Listen, I’m just going to say it. We both know this year has been hard. It’s been awful but especially for you, and I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. You must know that I know about all of it. I wish it wasn’t like this but …” She pauses to gather herself. “D-Dylan …”
Dylan Jameson. Fair hair, freckles, muscular, passionate. The kind of guy who loved everyone and everyone loved back.
“He was one of your closest friends. It was just so, so … terrible. I knew him, but only through you, and of course I was devastated, but Andy …” I close my eyes, her voice thinning. “I just can’t imagine. I just … What you’ve been going through … and your Mom …”
I can tell there are tears. My chest is a mountain.
“I’ve wanted so badly to reach out to you. To be there. I know you don’t have the people you need right now. I feel so fucking bad about it all. I hate that things are different. I know we’re older and I know you’re going to say you understand but it’s not okay, Andy. I thought you might hate me. Maybe you should. It’s been years and I’d just show up after something like that? But I need you to know that I could not stop thinking about you. After the funeral when I couldn’t find you … I don’t know. There are no excuses—I’ve been awful and you’ve just been there, dealing with everything.”
She’s semi-whispering now, fully crying. I can’t bear to look over. I am both on fire and made of stone. I don’t know what to say and I’m not sure what would come out, if anything at all.
“And this is crazy. That you’re here. Of all people. Actually crazy. I’m so happy it’s you. I’m so happy to see you but this whole time it’s like I’ve just wanted to curl up and cry. I feel pathetic. I need to tell you. The last few months—if I’m honest, it’s years that I’ve been thinking about us. All the years and how close we were and I’ve been realizing how terrible I’ve been all along. How many things I don’t know about you. How many times it’s been about me or Mr. Riker or Sarah or Dylan or work or my parents or the world, but never you. How many things I never asked or did for you that I should have. Then the accident and then your mom and whatever else you might’ve gone through and it’s like I never knew that you suffered, too. You were always there and lately that’s all I’ve been remembering. Andy, I’m so sorry. I … I meant to
be there, too. I want to be there. I’m just so sorry.”
Naturally then, somehow, as if released by the sound of her stifled sobs, I feel my body relax and I look over. Cara looks so small. She looks beautifully honest. Facing me, cross-legged in her seat. Her hands on her knees, eyes raining tears silently into her lap. Her shoulders quaking. I remember all the times I’ve seen her cry but it’s never been like this. It’s for me this time, and somehow I can’t have that. I’ve thought many nights about why she hasn’t called me or come to see me but I’ve never held it up. I haven’t called her, either. It was a mutual collapse. Seeing her like this, I realize how I feel about it all. There is something to be said for a love that refuses to melt. I reach out a hand.
She raises her head and her vivid green eyes are highlighted by the redness and tears. We lock gazes and before long I give her a smile that comes naturally, the kind I gave her all those other times, hoping it will say what my words cannot. She knows it. She leans in and we embrace tightly. It feels like the universe sighs. I don’t know how long we sit there but eventually she whispers something as I breathe in the strawberry smell of her hair, and somewhere in my heart a familiar life stirs.
The next two days are incredible. Between stops and scenic routes that lay out the small towns and rivers of Manitoba, the broad blue skies and flat, grassy plains of Saskatchewan, and the rocky escarpments of Alberta, we spend time connecting anew. During the day, we talk about the weather and the geography. The unfortunate nature of politics and the workplace. We talk of sports, music, and all that we’ve been up to these past few years. We always end up on Memory Lane.
Like an ocean spilling from a glass, I tell her everything. About all the girls I’ve tried to love properly, all the ones who’ve tried to love me. The jobs and schools. The people I’ve known and the books and art I’ve tried to master. I tell her about all these things I have been through and am going through. I talk about Dylan. I talk about my Mom. Cara listens like no one has ever listened to me before. I know because I don’t feel as if my words are burning up into ash as soon as they leave my mouth. She looks directly at me and does not move. She speaks when it makes sense. She’s quiet when it makes sense. She smiles and cries and laughs and is close when it makes sense. She is all that I need her to be. It is more than I have ever given her before. It’s as if a small amount of life comes back to me the more I speak to her. I wish it would last. But we both know that it can’t. The journey is nearly over.
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