Making Faces

  Ambrose eyed Bailey balefully. Ambrose wasn't interested in being manipulated, even by Bailey Sheen. He stepped out of the van without responding to Bailey's commentary and rounded the vehicle to the side with the gas tank, not wanting Fern to stand out in the rain putting gas in the car while he sat in the passenger seat being waited on. It was early June and the rain wasn't cold, but it was coming down hard, and he was soaked almost instantly. Fern ran out of the station and saw him waiting by the pumps.

  “I can do it, Ambrose. Get back in! You're getting soaked!” She squealed, dodging puddles as she made her way back to him.

  He saw the credit appear on the gas tank display and immediately removed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle home. Fern huddled nearby, water streaming down her face, obviously not wanting to let him get wet alone. Unfortunately, with Bailey's condition, she was obviously used to being the one who did the grunt work. But he wasn't Bailey.

  “Get in the van, Fern. I know how to pump gas,” he growled. Her shirt was sticking to her, and Ambrose was getting a delightful eyeful. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the nozzle tighter. It felt like whenever he was close to her he spent all his time trying not to look at her.

  An old truck slid up to the other side of the pump, and Ambrose ducked his head instinctively. A door slammed and a familiar voice spoke up behind him.

  “Ambrose Young. That you?”

  Ambrose turned reluctantly.

  “It is you! Well, I'll be damned. How ya doin' lad?” It was Seamus O'Toole, Beans's dad.

  “Mr. O'Toole.” Ambrose nodded stiffly, extending the hand that wasn't pumping gas.

  Seamus O'Toole clasped his hand and his eyes roamed over Ambrose's face, wincing slightly at what he saw. After all, Ambrose's face was also a casualty of the bomb that took his son. His lips trembled and he released Ambrose's hand. Turning, he leaned into his vehicle and spoke to the woman sitting in the passenger seat. The nozzle snapped, indicating the tank was full, and Ambrose wished he could turn and make a break for it while Seamus's back was turned.

  Luisa O'Toole stepped out into the rain and walked over to Ambrose, who had replaced the nozzle and was waiting with his hands shoved in his pockets. She was a tiny woman, smaller than Fern by a couple of inches, maybe five feet at the most. Beans got his height, or lack of it, from her. He was there in her fine features, as well, and Ambrose felt nausea roil in his belly. He should have just stayed home. Luisa O'Toole was as fiery as her husband was meek. Beans said his mom was the reason his dad drank himself into a better mood every night. It was the only way to deal with her.

  Luisa walked past the pump and stopped in front of Ambrose, lifting her face to the rain so she could gaze up at him. She didn't speak and neither did Ambrose. Fern and Seamus looked on, not knowing what to say or do.

  “I blame you,” Luisa said finally, her accented English broken and bleak. “I blame you for this. I tell him no go. He go. For you. Now he dead.”

  Seamus sputtered and apologized, taking his wife by the arm. But she shook him off and turned toward the truck, not looking back at Ambrose as she climbed in and shut the door firmly behind her.

  “She's just sad, lad. She just misses him. She doesn't mean it,” Seamus offered gently. But they both knew he lied. He patted Ambrose's hand and tipped his head to Fern. Then he returned to his truck and drove away without filling his tank.

  Ambrose stood frozen in place, his T-shirt soaked through, his black knit cap plastered against his head. He pulled it off and threw it, sending it flying across the parking lot, a soggy, pathetic substitute for the things he wanted to do, for the rage he needed to expend. He turned and started walking, away from Fern, away from the terrible scene that had just transpired.

  Fern ran after him, slipping and sliding, calling for him to wait. But he walked, ignoring her, needing to escape. He knew she wouldn't follow. Bailey was sitting in the van at the pumps, unable to get home on his own.

  Ambrose had been walking for about half an hour, walking toward home with his back to the rain letting it trickle down the back of his shirt and soak his jeans. His feet squished in his boots with each step. He wished he hadn't chucked his hat. The occasional streetlight shone down on his smooth head, and he felt exposed and vulnerable, unable to cover himself. His bald head bothered him almost more than his face, made him feel more like a freak than the ridges and scars, so when car lights drew up behind him and slowed to a crawl, he ignored them, hoping his appearance would scare them off and make them think twice about messing with him, or worse, offering him a ride.

  “Ambrose!” It was Fern, and she sounded scared and upset. “Ambrose? I took Bailey home. Please get in. I'll take you wherever you want to go . . . okay?”

  She'd obviously switched cars after she took Bailey home. She was driving an old sedan that belonged to her father. Ambrose had seen that car parked at the church for as long as he could remember.

  “Ambrose? I'm not leaving you. I will follow you all night if I have to!”

  Ambrose sighed and looked at her. She was leaning across the seat so she could peer out the passenger side window as she inched along beside him. Her face was pale and she had mascara under her eyes. Her hair was plastered against her head and her shirt still stuck to her pretty breasts. She hadn't even taken a second to change her wet clothes before she'd come after him.

  Something in his face must have told her she'd won, because she slowed to a stop and hit the door locks as he reached for the handle. The warmth that blasted from the heaters felt like an electric blanket against his skin and he shivered involuntarily. Fern reached over and rubbed his arms briskly as if he was Bailey and she had rescued him from a blizzard and wasn't soaking wet herself. She shoved the car into park and leaned over the seat, reaching for something in the back.

  “Here. Wrap this around yourself!” she said, dropping a towel in his lap. “I grabbed it when I switched cars.”

  “Fern. Stop. I'm fine.”

  “You're not fine! She should never have said those things to you! I hate her! I am going to throw rocks at her house and break all her windows!” Fern's voice broke, and he could see she was close to tears.

  “She lost her son, Fern,” Ambrose said softly. His own anger dissipated as he spoke the simple truth. He took the towel from Fern's hands and used it on her hair, wrapping and squeezing, absorbing the moisture, the way he used to do on his own. She stilled, obviously not used to a man’s hands in her hair. He continued his ministrations, and she sat quietly, her head lolling to the side, letting him.

  “I haven't seen any of them. Not Grant's family. Not Jesse's. I haven't seen Marley or Jesse’s little boy. Paulie's mom sent me a basket of stuff when I was in the hospital. But my jaw was wired shut and I gave most of it away. She sent a card too. Told me to get well. She's like Paulie, I think. Sweet. Forgiving. But I haven't seen her since I've been back either, even though she works the front counter at the bakery. Tonight was the first time I've had any contact with any of the families. It went about like I expected. And frankly, it was what I deserved.”

  Fern didn't argue with him. He got the feeling she wanted to, but then she sighed and wrapped her hands around his wrists, pulling his hands from her hair. “Why did you go, Ambrose? Didn't you have a big scholarship? I mean . . . I understand patriotism and wanting to serve your country, but . . . didn't you want to wrestle?”

  He had never spoken about this to anyone, never verbalized the feelings he'd had back then. He decided to start at the beginning.

  “We sat at the back of the auditorium–Beans, Grant, Jesse, Paulie and me. They laughed and made jokes during the army recruiter's whole presentation. It wasn't out of disrespect . . . not at all. Mostly it was because they knew that nothing the army could throw at us could possibly be any worse than Coach Sheen's wrestling practices. Any wrestler knows that there is nothing worse than being hungry, tired, sore, and being told at the end of a brutal practice that it's time to run halls. And knowing if you don't bust you
r ass, you'll be letting your teammates down, 'cause Coach will make everyone run 'em again if you aren't pushing the whole time. Joining the army couldn't be harder than wrestling season. No way.

  “It didn't scare us, signing up. Not the way I imagine it scares most guys. For me it felt like a chance to get away, to be with the guys just a little longer. I didn't really want to go to college. Not yet. I felt like the whole town was depending on me, and if I screwed up or didn't perform well at Penn State, I was going to let everyone down. I liked the idea of being a different kind of hero. I always wanted to be a soldier, I just never told anyone. And after 9/11, it just felt like the right thing to do. So I convinced the guys to sign up.

  “Beans was actually the easiest to persuade. Then he just kept working on everyone. Paulie was the last one to sign on. He'd spent four years wrestling, doing what we wanted. See, wrestling was never really his passion. He was just damn good at it, and he didn't have a dad around; Coach Sheen kind of filled that role for him.

  “He wanted to be a musician and tour the world with his guitar. But he was a good friend. He loved us. So in the end he came along, just like he always did.” Ambrose's voice shook and he rubbed at his cheek viciously, as if trying to erase the end of his tale, to change what happened next.

  “So we all went. My dad cried, and I was embarrassed. Jesse got wasted the night before we left for basic training and got Marley pregnant. Jesse never met his baby boy. I really should go see Marley, but I can't. Grant was the only one who seemed to take it all seriously. He told me he never prayed so hard as he prayed the night before we left for Iraq. And that kid was always praying. Which is why I don't ever pray anymore. 'Cause if Grant prayed that hard and still died, then I'm not wasting my time.”

  “God spared your life,” Fern said, a pastor's daughter through and through.

  “You think God saved my life?” Ambrose struck back, his face incredulous. “How in the hell do you think that makes Paul Kimball's mother feel? Or Grant's parents? Or Jesse's girl, or his baby boy when he's old enough to realize he had a daddy who he'll never meet? We know how Luisa O'Toole feels about it. If God saved my life, why didn't he save their lives? Is my life so much more valuable? So I'm special . . . and they're not?”

  “Of course not,” Fern protested, her voice rising slightly in response to his vehemence.

  “Don't you get it, Fern? It's so much easier to take if God had nothing to do with it. If God has nothing to do with it, then I can accept that it's just life. Nobody is special, but nobody isn't special, either. You know what I mean? I can come to terms with that. But I can't accept that your prayers are answered and theirs aren't. That makes me angry and hopeless–desperate even! And I can't live that way.”

  Fern nodded and let his words settle around them in the steamy interior of the car. She didn’t argue with him, but after a moment she spoke up.

  “My dad always quotes this scripture. It's always his answer when he doesn't understand something. I've heard it so often in my life it's become kind of like a mantra,” Fern said. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

  “What does that even mean, Fern?” Ambrose sighed, but his fervor had dimmed.

  “I guess it means we don't understand everything, and we're not going to. Maybe the whys aren't answered here. Not because there aren't answers, but because we wouldn't understand the answers if we had them.”

  Ambrose raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “Maybe there is a bigger purpose, a bigger picture that we only contribute a very small piece to. You know, like one of those thousand piece puzzles? There's no way you can tell by looking at one piece of the puzzle what the puzzle is going to look like in the end. And we don't have the picture on the outside of the puzzle box to guide us.” Fern smiled tentatively, hesitating, wondering if she was making any sense. When Ambrose just waited she continued.

  “Maybe everyone represents a piece of the puzzle. We all fit together to create this experience we call life. None of us can see the part we play or the way it all turns out. Maybe the miracles that we see are just the tip of the iceberg. And maybe we just don't recognize the blessings that come as a result of terrible things.”

  “You're kind of a strange girl, Fern Taylor,” Ambrose said softly, his eyes on hers, his right eye sightless, his left eye trying to see beneath the surface. “I've seen those books you read. The ones with the girls on the front with their boobs falling out and the guys with the torn shirts. You read smutty romance novels and quote scripture. I'm not quite sure I have you figured out.”

  “Scripture comforts me, and romance novels give me hope.”

  “Oh, yeah? Hope for what?”

  “Hope that I'll be doing more than quoting scripture with Ambrose Young in the very near future.” Fern blushed furiously and looked at her hands.

  Ambrose didn't know what to say. After a tense silence, Fern put the car into drive and eased it back onto the wet road.

  Ambrose thought about what Bailey had said, how Fern had Ugly-Girl Syndrome. UGS. Maybe Fern was only hitting on him because he was ugly and she thought, because of her UGS, that he was the best she could do. Maybe he had developed Ugly Guy Syndrome and was willing to peck up any crumbs a pretty girl tossed his way. But Fern hadn't tossed him a crumb. She'd tossed him an entire cookie and was waiting for him to take a bite.

  “Why?” he whispered, his eyes locked straight ahead.

  “Why what?” her voice was light, but he sensed a little embarrassment. She obviously wasn't used to tossing cookies to men, ugly or otherwise.

  “Why do you act like I'm the old Ambrose? You act like you want me to kiss you. Like nothing's changed since high school.”

  “Some things haven't changed,” Fern said quietly.

  “News flash, Fern Taylor!” Ambrose barked, slamming his hand against the dashboard, making Fern jump. “Everything has changed! You are beautiful, I am hideous, you don't need me anymore, but I sure as hell need you!”

  “You act like beauty is the only thing that makes us worthy of love,” Fern snapped. “I didn't just l-love you because you were beautiful!” She'd said the L word, right out loud, though she'd tripped over it.

  She swung the car in front of Ambrose’s house and slammed it into park before it had come to a complete stop, making the car jerk and sputter.

  Ambrose shook his head like he didn't believe her. He searched for the door handle and Fern's temper broke, the rush of anger obviously giving her the courage to reveal the things she would otherwise never say. She grabbed Ambrose's arm and demanded that he meet her gaze.

  “I've been in love with you since you helped me bury that spider in my garden, and you sang with me like we were singing “Amazing Grace” instead of “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider.” I've loved you since you quoted Hamlet like you understood him, since you said you loved ferris wheels more than roller coasters because life shouldn't be lived at full speed, but in anticipation and appreciation. I read and re-read your letters to Rita because I felt like you'd opened up a little window into your soul, and the light was pouring out with every word. They weren't even for me, but it didn't matter. I loved every word, every thought, and I loved you . . . so much.”

  Ambrose had been holding his breath, and he released it in a hiss, his eyes locked on Fern's. She continued, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “When we heard the news . . . about the IED in Iraq . . . did you know they called my dad first? He went with the officers to inform the families.”

  Ambrose shook his head. He hadn't known. He'd never let himself think about that day, the day the families had heard the news.

  “All I could think about was you.” Fern was holding back tears and her sorrow made the grief well up inside his own chest. “I was heartbroken for the others . . . especially Paulie. But all I could think about was you. We didn't
know immediately what had happened to you. I promised myself that if you came home I wouldn't be afraid to tell you how I felt. But I'm still afraid. Because I can't make you love me back.”

  Ambrose reached for her then and pulled her into his arms. The embrace was awkward, the gear shift sticking up between them, but Fern laid her head on his shoulder and Ambrose smoothed her hair, amazed at how much better if felt to give comfort than receive it. He'd been on the receiving end of care and comfort from Elliott and his mother, as well as his hospital staff for many long months. But since the attack, he had never given comfort, never offered a shoulder to cry on, never burdened the weight of someone else's grief.

  After a while, Fern pulled away, wiping her eyes. Ambrose hadn't spoken, hadn't revealed his own feelings or responded to her professions of love. He hoped she didn't expect it. He had no idea how he felt. Right now, he was tied up in a million knots, and he couldn't say things he didn't mean, just to make the moment easier. But he marveled at her courage to speak, and beneath his confusion and despair, he believed her. He believed she did love him. And that humbled him. Maybe someday, as the knots became unraveled, this moment would wrap around him, tying him to her. Or maybe her love would simply loosen the strings, freeing him to walk away.

  Strangely, with Fern's confession, a new peace settled between them. Ambrose didn't constantly try to hide his face or cower in the kitchen. He smiled more. He laughed. And Fern found that he was a bit of a tease. There were even some nights, after the store closed, when he would seek her out. One night he found her still at her register, immersed in a love scene.

  Fern had been reading romances since she was thirteen years old. She had fallen in love with Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables and was hungry to fall in love like that over and over again. And then she discovered Harlequin. Her mother would have croaked face first into her herbal mint tea if she’d known how many forbidden romances Fern consumed the summer before eighth grade, and Fern had had a million book boyfriends since then.