Christmas morning approached without much ceremony.
The base continued operating.
The weather had made the night difficult, and everyone was tired.
I was still carrying the memory of the rescue.
Whenever I closed my eyes for a moment, I could picture the bus lying on its side.
I could hear the wind.
I could see the emergency hatch.
I could remember the little boy's hands gripping my jacket.
Then I would remember Walt.
His voice had been weak.
His leg had been trapped.
But when I asked about his family, he had found enough strength to smile.
Four grandchildren.
The youngest had just learned to walk.
I hoped he would get to tell that story again when he was home.
I hoped the child would have another chance to run toward him.
I didn't know how he was doing.
I only knew that we had gotten him out before the tanker moved farther toward the shoulder.
That was enough to be thankful for.
I eventually checked my phone again.
There was still nothing from my father.
I didn't know whether he had thought about calling.
I didn't know whether he had noticed that I hadn't sent a message.
I wasn't going to invent an answer.
I put the phone down.
The empty space between us had become something I could no longer ignore.
For years, I had treated missed holidays as unavoidable.
I had explained my absences.
I had apologized when duty interrupted plans.
I had tried to make every family member understand that my work sometimes came first.
But this time, I had been available.
I had wanted to come.
I had arranged everything.
And my father had asked me to stay away.
That was different.
I couldn't pretend otherwise.
Still, I wasn't going to let that conversation erase the good that had happened during the night.
The passengers were alive.
The driver had been rescued.
The people who had worked beside me had made it through a dangerous operation.
Those facts mattered more than any argument I might have had with my father.
I thought about Alvarez's invitation to her sister's dinner.
I wished I had accepted.
Not because I regretted helping the younger soldiers spend Christmas with their families.
I didn't.
I wished I had allowed myself to accept kindness when it was offered.
Instead, I had decided that being alone was easier.
That was something I would have to be honest about.
Sometimes I made decisions because they were right.
Sometimes I made them because I didn't know how to admit that I was hurt.
This had probably been a little of both.
I looked toward the window.
The storm had changed the world outside.
The snow that had begun as something ordinary had become part of a serious emergency.
Somewhere along that highway, emergency responders had been working through the night.
Somewhere, the passengers from the bus were beginning to understand how close they had come to something terrible.
And somewhere, a news crew had footage of the entire rescue.
I didn't know that last part would matter.
I had no reason to think about it.
I wasn't waiting for recognition.
I wasn't expecting a phone call from someone who had watched the news.
I wasn't even thinking about whether my father would hear about the incident.
I had done my job.
That was how I understood the night.
I returned my attention to the remaining responsibilities.
The holiday was moving forward.
The work was still there.
And I had no idea that the images from mile marker 214 were about to reach a living room where my absence had already been explained.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Christmas Morning Arrived Without a Single Message From My Father, and I Began to Accept What His Silence Really Meant
Three Nights Before Christmas, My Father Made One Phone Call That Changed Where I Would Spend the Holiday
Part 8 of 20
