The night is cold enough that, had it been raining, the pavement would have been treacherously black; ice camouflaged by closeness to the ground. Though a cloudless night, the nearly empty moon shone with a deep redness that cast only long shadows, and not nearly any light at all. The gentle upward arch of the bridge seemed to rise to grip the wheels of the cars as they pulled themselves upwards. Rounding the crest of the bridge, an expansive panoramic view of the city itself was blocked only by the painted green iron and multitude of wires that supported the span. The darkness under the bridge was absolute. If there was a way for a car to slip between the iron girders without disturbing them, it would be swallowed up and vanish as if into a dense cloud of smoke and ash. That there was nothing but empty air for some hundred and ten feet under the bridge was a thought that weighed heavy on the minds of very few drivers, feeling comfortable inside two tons of steel above the deepest natural harbor in North America.
There is exactly zero foot traffic across the McKay bridge in temperatures like this; even just barely touching zero, the wind wails through the railings and chills to the bone quickly, even through heavy winter jackets. Even the cars, this late at night, seem to groan and shudder against the cold as they make the journey from Halifax to Dartmouth, the city just on the other side of the water. But tonight, there was one solitary figure approaching the pedestrian walkway with a determined stride and hood turned up to face the blistering wind. From my angle, I could not tell if the figure was a man or a woman, black or white, young or old. I slowed to a bare crawl as I approached this figure, long coat covering them to their knees; fur trimmed hood pulled tightly into shelter against the wind. In the early morning hour, there was no traffic behind me, and only the disappearing brake lights of the car ahead of me indicated that there was anyone in the world other than myself and my mystery pedestrian. A jolt of wind staggered the figure into the high snowbank that lined the roadside. The next moments were a blur, as my foot slammed painfully into the brake, and I spun the wheel away from the sidewalk as, coat and all, the person slid down the bank of snow and into the roadway, headfirst. Even at my slow speed, I heard the wheels scream in protest, and I was at a full stop before I could collect my senses. I was close enough to where I expected the person to have fallen that I could not see them as I looked out of my car. If I hadn�t hit them, I�d come very close. I left the car running and my door open as I slid out of the seat, and moved around the car. I took a deep breath as I realized that I�d narrowly avoided the hood of the jacket with my front and rear wheels, and hopefully also avoided the head that surely waited under the hood.
The figure stirred, and I knelt to help the person regain their footing, illuminated dimly by streetlamp and the blinking of my hazard lights. After pushing up and off the ground, I caught a fleeting glimpse of dark almond shaped eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. Moisture had gathered and frozen against the fur of the hood for some time, and now cracked and flaked off. She, as I�d determined, turned fully to face me. Her eyes were wide, and I could tell that she was frightened, though probably all right. There was something else, though, that I noticed in her face, and it took me a moment to realize what it was.
She recognized me. Her eyes widened and she blinked, surprised. She took a step toward me, and said my name once aloud. Standing as close as she was to me, her voice sounded as if from far away, buried deep within her hood. I nodded at her, and I could see her eyes turn up as she smiled, a smile I was not, as yet, able to see. She stepped closer toward me, and pulled open the tightly knotted hood. Where I had thought at first that her skin was dark, I realized now that her eyes were both swollen, and black. I still did not recognize her, though blond wisps of hair fell forward and framed the part of her face I was able to see. As she swept the hood completely off, the wind caught her hair and blew it forward over her face and toward me. In the flailing of the blond silken strands, I could make out very few features on her face that were not covered with bruises, both her eyes and cheeks were obviously severely beaten, and even her forehead was marred with large purple splotches. Her lower lip was split in two places and either from the chafing wind or recent beating, they bled slightly. Now that her face was more clearly visible, I realized her nose was not slightly turned up, it was broken near the tip and curved up unnaturally.
My confusion must have been clear in my face, because she reached up and parted her hair back with her hands, and held it behind her ears. The wind chose that moment to lessen, and briefly I was able to get a full view of her face, and imagine what it would have looked like, had it not been a mass of bruises and purple. My jaw dropped, and then snapped shut. She realized what she looked like, and the momentary surprise of our meeting slid away into the night, as did her smile. She pulled her hood up again, and started to turn away. Before she passed the front of my car, I reached out and put my hand on her arm. She pulled away, quickly, but turned back to face me.
Jennifer, the girl I was looking at, was once a perfect porcelain doll, yellow blonde hair straight and soft, even to look at. Now, in the wind, she was disheveled and beaten, wearing a coat at least two sizes too big. She stood in front of me, wearing a defiant pose and a frightened look.
I put up both my hands, palms outward, and then dropped them again, frustrated with myself for being so stupid as to grab this girl. I tried to let my face go slack, though my jaw ground my teeth to the bone as I looked at her. My eyes must have softened, for she realized that I had not changed since she knew me, ages ago it must have seemed, but would be, really, no more than four years. I finally said her name aloud, and she set her head and shoulders forward and looked up at me. She still did not speak, though she watched me with a guarded gaze.
I slowly put my hand to the door handle, and opened it less than a few inches. I took a step back, and didn�t say anything. Jennifer stared at me for a full minute, the depth of the night now fully upon us, the flashing red of the traffic light, and the blinking orange of my signals lit up the empty street, an eerie tableau played out for an absent audience. She sized me up, remembering me from years before. The wind blew a sudden and icy blast into her back, and it made her mind up for her. She slipped into my car, and was shivering within seconds. I got back in myself, and adjusted the heat to nearly Haitian temperatures.
As I pulled the car into drive, the doors automatically locked. Jennifer pushed herself against the car door, away from me. I spoke then, finally more than just her name, and hoped I would say the right thing in the few seconds before she panicked and tried to flee or fight. I stared ahead, and tried to keep my voice level, though it was difficult to think of the battered face of a girl that I once knew to be incredibly attractive. I had forgotten how to speak in that instant, though I tried to reassure her.
�It�s me, Jen� Were the only words I was able to mangle as I drove slowly across the bridge, the car slowly warming up. She relaxed and nodded, the blond hair falling down from behind her ears again and hiding her face. Whatever else she remembered of me, she remembered that I was safe, and that meant she was safe.
