For Your Tomorrow

by Melanie Murray

  Throughout the humid afternoon and evening, my sons dig into the red dirt and hack through the matted tangle of tree roots to make horseshoe pits. Dripping with sweat, they haul bucket after bucket of sand up from the shore and wheelbarrow it into the one-metre-square depressions. After a cooling swim, they still have enough daylight to throw their first shoes. I sit on the bank, inhaling the salty air, hearing thuds in the sand and occasional clinks on the iron stakes. The lights of Prince Edward Island blink across the water. Three hundred metres straight out, a reef stretches under the sea—shallow enough at low tide that my father would swim out during the off-season, hauling a lobster trap.

  A solitary blue heron spires on the rocky shoal. Waves foam with lacy flounces, breaking and receding, the eternal sound of breathing, the ceaseless ebb and flow. Through eyes blurry with tears, I see Jeff sauntering down the sandbar in a white tank top and knee-length shorts. He wades through the lapping waves, his muscular body silhouetted against the violet and crimson sky.

  IX. FIFTY BRIDGES

  I’m not a bird but I’m inhabited by a spirit

  that’s uplifting me. It’s my animal, my saint

  and soldier, my flame of yearning,

  come back to tell me

  what it was like to be without me.

  Chase Twichell, “Saint Animal”

  JULY 8. At the entrance to the CFB Trenton airfield in southern Ontario, wreaths of red and white carnations hang from a chain-link fence. Six large Canadian flags sag from the ends of poles planted in the dry grass. On this hot, muggy afternoon, people line the fence, wearing red and white clothing and clasping Canadian flags. Reporters, cameras slung around their necks, are perched on stepladders, zoom lenses poised like cannons above the barbed wire, ready to shoot.

  Inside the passenger terminal of the airport hangar, the families of the six soldiers are waiting. In a brightly lit room that smells of coffee, tables are covered in white cloths and heaped with platters of sandwiches and sweets—that no one appears to be eating. People with blank expressions sit on the edges of the cushioned chairs that circle the edges of the room. Men in dark suits and women in black skirts and dresses stand in small clusters, looking lost—as if they’ve come to the wrong party and don’t know what to say, or how to leave. Russ wears his congenial face as he meets members of the other families, attempting to normalize what is totally abnormal. He can’t think about why he is here.

  Mica stays close to Aaron, fidgeting with her bracelets and rings. She tries to smile when people shake her hand; her face rigid in a frozen mask when the Governor General’s representative says, sotto voce, “Thank you for your sacrifice.” What does that mean? Just four days ago, she was laughing in a boat on the edge of the Pacific. A second later she was flung overboard. She is still just treading water, knowing there’s no one to rescue her. This is her life now, merely trying to survive and support her parents. July 8—her thirty-second birthday.

  Down the hall, in a narrow unlit room, Marion sits—alone. She stares out the window overlooking the runway, rebuffing the pressure to socialize, to make small talk with strangers while she awaits the body of her son. Impossible. The ache in her heart is all-consuming. The plane is late. They’ve been waiting for over an hour. Just as they waited all morning at the hotel in Toronto, waited and wondered how they would endure the hours. Waited and walked, pushing Ry in his stroller through the crowded city streets—streets full of young men, fathers holding the hands of toddling boys. They walked and cried, walked and wondered how they’d get through it, terrified.

  The plane’s imminent arrival is announced. The families are directed to queue up in order of the soldiers’ seniority—the protocol of military hierarchy observed, even into death’s domain. Jeff’s family goes out first, out into the heavy humid greyness of low-hanging clouds. Twelve black limousines are parked, twelve black-suited chauffeurs beside them. In front, six hearses, sleek and black as sharks, wait. Assembled in parallel groupings, the families stand mute, tracking the grey Airbus as it touches down and taxis in. The cacophonous motors and whirring propellers shut down. They all fix their eyes on the cargo door, just behind the front wheels, anticipating the moment none of them wants to witness—when the hatch opens and the bodies of the men they love emerge, encased in aluminum. A young woman rocks a crying baby in her arms. A small golden-haired boy in a green plaid shirt holds his mother’s hand and waves a long-stemmed yellow rose. “Bye, Daddy,” he calls, staring at the airplane.

  Sylvie snuggles Ry close in her arms. In a red-and-white Canada Day T-shirt, gurgling and grinning, he looks around at all the faces. Through her sunglasses, she scans the men in their tan uniforms, wondering where her soldier is, aching for Jeff’s arms around her. When she returned to her condo this morning to pick up some clothes, a dozen yellow roses lay on her back step—All my love, Jeff—wilting in the sun. And she felt a surge of strength—he’s still here, somewhere. But now she has to go through the motions of this ritual, gripping this yellow rose for him—for his coffin that’s about to come out of that plane. She doesn’t believe he can really be in there. She wonders why this band is playing, and when she’ll wake up.

  A bagpiper—in beaver hat, gold-braided navy jacket, green-black tartan kilt—pierces the still air:

  I’ve heard the lilting, at the yowe-milking

  Lassies a-lilting before dawn o’ day;

  But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning

  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

  Out of the dark cavity, the first flag-covered coffin comes into view; Captain Jeff Francis lowered to the ground, repatriated. Captain Scott Lang stands on guard. Eight soldiers in dark green dress uniforms march forward. With black-gloved hands, they lift the casket onto their shoulders. Their linked outstretched arms form a bridge for it to rest on, as they carry it to the open hatch of the hearse.

  Marion knows that this is the moment they’re meant to walk across the tarmac. Numb, she puts one foot in front of the other, one black sandal following the other. She wades through dense waves of heat. Her gauzy black cotton skirt brushes her bare legs. Russ’s shiny black shoes follow in step beside hers. In a dark blue suit, he holds a yellow rose upright in one hand and clenches her arm with his other; his eyes set with the grim necessity of undergoing this surreal ceremony: Be strong; guide and support Marion. Don’t think about what is actually happening here. Deal with the emotions later. Their moist hands interlocked, they approach the rectangular box wrapped in red and white. Marion embraces it, the cotton flag and aluminum casket cold against her cheek—Jeff, you’ve come back. Her physical closeness to her son’s body brings her relief and release—you’re with us now. You’ve come home.

  This tableau unfolds five more times, for the families of

  Captain Matthew Dawe

  Master Corporal Colin Bason

  Corporal Jordan Anderson

  Corporal Cole Bartsch

  Private Lane Watkins

  Three police cars, overhead lights flashing, lead the motorcade out of the airfield. The families in black limousines follow the six black hearses. The streets are packed with people, dressed in red and white, waving Canadian flags, holding up signs:

  WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS

  THANKS FOR OUR FREEDOM

  WE LOVE YOU

  Veterans, in navy berets and medal-bedecked blazers, salute with knowing eyes—there, but for the grace of God, go I. Children in white T-shirts wave small plastic flags. Hands over their hearts, firefighters stand rigid on the roofs of their engines, huge Canadian flags flying from the tops of the extended ladders.

  The procession winds onto the highway, a serpentine stream of headlights. Passing motorists honk their horns and blink their lights. As the motorcade converges on the first overpass bridge, splotches of red and white stand out against the concrete and misty grey sky. Canadian flags drape the length of the bridge. Throngs of people clad in red and white line the railing and spill over onto the grassy edges.
They stand, shoulder to shoulder, leaning on one another, wiping their eyes, waving flags, hats and hands—a sea of red and white.

  At the second overpass bridge, the same ovation greets the motorcade—and at the third bridge, and at the fourth … past exits to Brighton, Grafton, Cobourg, Port Hope, Oshawa, Whitby, Ajax, Pickering—all the way to Toronto. As the fallen young men pass under the arches of fifty bridges, they are lauded by thousands of flags and thousands of people, young and old. They have stood for an hour on this sultry evening, watching for the headlights down the 401, waiting to pay their respects to the soldiers and their families. And between the bridges, all along the 172-kilometre route, police officers and firefighters in full-dress uniform, ambulance drivers and paramedics stand in salute beside their vehicles.

  With every bridge they pass under, Marion, Russ, Sylvie, Mica and Aaron gaze in wonder. The sentiment emanating from the crowds penetrates the tinted windows of their limo. They grasp each other’s hands as tears of gratitude mingle with their tears of sorrow. They never expected such an outpouring—this benediction—during this interminable two-hour journey. It’s the first time such multitudes have inundated these fifty bridges—the route that would soon be officially designated the “Highway of Heroes.” The weight of their grief—from the French word gref, meaning heavy—is lightened, as it’s borne on the shoulders of Canadians. Ordinary people acknowledging their debt, the price that these soldiers and their families have paid on their behalf: The dove is never free.

  The setting sun paints rosy streaks in the saffron sky as the grey city towers rise up in the distance. On the outskirts of Toronto, the overpasses span a dozen lanes. They too are curtained with Canadian flags and teeming with people, red and white from end to end. The entourage turns off at the Don Valley Parkway, continues south to the Bloor Street exit and into the neon-lit streets of Toronto. Red Maple Leafs hang from the lampposts. People line the sidewalks, flourishing flags, all the way to the coroner’s office—the hearses’ final destination.

  JULY 9. Captain Scott Lang sits alone at the front of an Air Canada Boeing 777. He boarded early, after the private ramp ceremony for the loading of Jeff’s casket. On the window seat beside him rests a kit bag, packed with Jeff’s beret and all the items Jeff carried in his pockets during his final operation. Beside the brown leather bag is a black wooden box with a glass face—the shadow box for the flag covering Jeff’s casket. He puts a protective arm across them, knowing that during takeoff he’ll have to stow them beneath the seat. As passengers begin to stream past him down the aisle, he closes his eyes, breathes in the cool air whistling through the vent. He broods over the upcoming stage of his duty: accompanying the seventh and final ramp ceremony at the Halifax airport; securing Jeff’s casket at the Dartmouth funeral home; inspecting every detail of Jeff’s uniform before the family viewing—all the while remaining in the background, respecting the family’s privacy.

  As the plane taxies down the runway, a bass voice sounds over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’d like to inform you of the special circumstances of our flight to Halifax today. As pilot, I have the honour of flying home the body of Captain Jeff Francis, killed in Afghanistan on July 4. The soldier seated at the front of the aircraft is Captain Scott Lang, serving as escort for Captain Francis.”

  Escort—such a benign term, Scott thinks as he shuts his eyes to the glances of passengers seated around him. He has grown accustomed to being treated like royalty with leprosy—everyone knows you have an important role, but nobody really wants to talk to you. He presumed this duty would be tough—bringing his dead friend home, seeing Jeff’s family broken with grief. But he couldn’t have imagined how tough: the accumulation of many small tasks, solidifying into the single hardest thing he’s ever done.

  JULY 9, EASTERN PASSAGE. Just before noon, my sons and I arrive back from Malagash. The blue Atlantic spangles with sunlight. But the house on Shore Road is cold, empty and lonely. The sorrow of its occupants has seeped into the walls and furniture, hangs in the flower-scented air. Luxuriant bouquets—white lilies, red roses, purple delphiniums, delicate baby’s breath—fill the living room, their fading blossoms scattered on the tables and floor. The flowers of the forest are a’ wede away.

  Anticipating my family’s return from Trenton this evening, I clean the house upstairs and down, open all the windows to let the ocean breeze blow through, and water the wilting plants. I make a green salad and garlic bread, heat up Gerry’s chili and a seafood casserole brought over by a neighbour. As dusk creeps in, I light candles in the living room and dining room, turn on the outside lamps. The sun sets a fiery blaze in the sea and sky as their van pulls into the driveway.

  I embrace my sister. Her body feels frail and hollow. “We got to hug Jeff’s coffin,” she sobs. “He’ll be home soon.” I shudder within, think of my own sons, and find that I’m unable to go there—to that place of horror. A curtain drops over the inconceivable.

  “I know this isn’t a time for celebrating birthdays,” I say, popping the cork on a chilled bottle of Henkel, “but I want to toast Mica. I’m so glad you were born thirty-two years ago.” Her face pallid against her long dark hair, she smiles as I pour the bubbling wine into her fluted glass.

  “I still can’t believe I forgot your birthday yesterday,” Marion says, shaking her head.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Mica says, tears welling in her eyes. “Getting this present from Jeff was all I needed.” She strokes the arm of her chocolate-brown lululemon hoodie. “Jeff bought this when he was home on leave, and left it with Sylvie for my birthday,” she tells me with a thin smile. “Mom said that whenever I wear it, Jeff will be giving me a hug.”

  After dinner, we talk about seeing Jeff’s body, one last time, at the funeral home in Dartmouth, a private viewing for our immediate family. Considering the violent nature of his death, we didn’t think we’d have this opportunity. So we’re grateful for this small mercy, but also apprehensive, afraid we may not see Jeff as he lives in our minds, that death’s hand will efface our memory bank of images. I flashback to my first and last visit to a funeral home. Thirty-nine years ago to see my father, who didn’t look like my father at all. The artificial beige skin, rouged cheeks; lips that were too full, too red; eyes sealed shut. The cleft was still there in his chin, but I knew my father was elsewhere. His body like an empty shell left on the sandbar by the outgoing tide.

  “I have to see his body,” Sylvie says, wiping her eyes. “I have to see him. Maybe I’ll believe it then, that this is real. We were apart so much. It feels like he’s just away. But I’m not sure about taking Ry.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Marion says, meeting her gaze.

  “I’m just not sure how it would affect him,” Sylvie says.

  “But it’s his father,” Marion says, leaning forward in her chair.

  Sylvie lowers her eyes, and sits in stony silence.

  JULY 11. Early in the morning, Marion and Russ leave for Dartmouth. They stop for coffee next to the funeral home and order a triple-triple to take for Jeff. They enter the cool hush of the viewing room. A framed photo of Jeff sits on one table, a bouquet of red roses on another; in between, a half-open wooden casket draped in the Canadian flag, Jeff’s green beret on top. It’s been a week since he died, so even the mortician’s art can’t disguise the mask of death. But his parents can see beneath it—to the face of their beautiful boy, his dimpled chin, his faint freckles, his smooth shorn head. In his tan camouflage uniform, he lies in folds of white satin. Marion requests that the coffin be opened all the way, so she can see and touch all of her son’s body, down to his feet inside his combat boots. Russ embraces him, cold like no other cold, tries to cradle his son in his arms one last time, but he can’t lift him—his body is too heavy.

  A few hours later, Damian and I drive the coastal road to the funeral home. A cornflower-blue sky, a calm sea coruscating with sunbeams—so much light and beauty on such a dark day. When we walk
into the stillness of the viewing room, Marion asks us to stay back several feet from the casket where chairs are arranged. “You’ll be able to see a truer likeness of him,” she says. “This is what Jeff would want.” With his shaven head and peaceful repose, he looks as he did in the cradle, deep in his newborn sleep.

  We sit in a semicircle around him—Sylvie, Marion, Marilyn, Mica and I—trying to absorb the reality of Jeff’s transformation. This is the body that he has left. But the essence of Jeff is elsewhere—in the very air we’re breathing. Sylvie stares in shocked disbelief, dabbing her puffy red eyes with a Kleenex. Lost in the dense woods of memory, we feel a tranquility enveloping us, a serenity so complete that our eyelids grow heavy, somnolent.

  Russ comes in, carrying his grandson who has just wakened from a nap in his stroller. As Russ approaches the casket, Ry looks at his father’s body and raises his hand in a high-five gesture. It’s a way we often greet Ry: “High-five!” And he grins and slaps our open hands. Russ turns and regards us, thoughtfully. “Sitting here with Jeff,” he says, eyes tearing up, “are the five women who loved him best.” He passes Ry to Marion and hugs us each in turn.

  Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and Salome go at sunrise to the tomb where Jesus was laid, bringing fragrant spices and perfumes to anoint his body. But the stone has been rolled away, and the body of Jesus is gone. Two white-robed figures appear. “Why seek ye the living among the dead,” they say. “He is not here, but is risen.”

  SCOTT LANG EXITS THE crematorium. Under his arm, he bears a hand-sewn, thickly woven Canadian flag—the highest-quality flag, reserved for prime ministers, Governors General and fallen soldiers. Bleary-eyed, he drives slowly across the Murray MacKay Bridge, and through the tree-lined streets of Halifax. He pulls into the driveway of his sister-in-law’s home where his wife is staying. She has come from Moncton, New Brunswick, to support him through these draining days. “Cara,” he says, when she meets him at the door, “I need your help with a very important job.”