“It doesn't matter. High school's over. You're leaving. Beans is leaving. I don't care if I ever see either of you again.” Fern wiped at the tears streaming down her face. Ambrose took a step back, shocked by the vehemence in her voice, at the finality in her eyes. And it scared him.
So he kissed her.
It was rough, and it definitely wasn't consensual. He gripped Fern's face between his hands and pressed her back against the door of the old, blue van that she drove to shuttle Bailey around. She was the kind of girl who didn't care about pulling up to a party in a mini-van rigged for a wheelchair. The kind of girl who had been giddy to just be asked to play a stupid game. The kind of girl who had come back to say goodbye to him, a boy who had treated her like dirt. And he wished, more desperately than he had ever wished for anything before, that he could change it.
He tried to soften his mouth against hers, tried to tell her he was sorry, but she stayed frozen in his arms, as if she couldn't believe, after everything that had happened, that he thought he could break her heart and take a kiss too.
“I'm so sorry, Fern,” Ambrose whispered against her mouth. “I'm so sorry.”
Somehow, those words melted the ice that his kiss could not, and Ambrose felt her surrendering sigh against his lips. Fern's hands crept up to his biceps, holding him as he held her, and she opened her mouth beneath his, allowing him in. Gently, afraid he would crush the fragile second chance she'd extended, he moved his lips against hers, touching his tongue to hers softly, letting her seek him. He had never tread so carefully or tried so hard to do it right. And when she pulled away, he let her go. Her eyes were closed, but there were tear-stains on her cheeks and her lips looked bruised where he'd initially pressed too hard, desperate to erase his shame.
Then she opened her eyes. Hurt and confusion flitted across her face for just an instant as she stared him down. Then her jaw tightened and she turned her back on him. Without a word, she climbed into the van and drove away.
The doorbell chimed its song-song tune at eight Saturday morning, and the sound meshed so perfectly with Fern's dream that she smiled in her sleep, lifting her face to the handsome man in uniform who had just said, “I do.” He lifted her veil and pressed his lips to hers.
“I'm so sorry, Fern,” he whispered, just like he had at the lake. “I'm so sorry,” he said again.
Fern kissed him frantically, not wanting apologies. She wanted kisses. Lots of them, and hugs too, and somewhere in her subconscious she knew it was all a dream and she would be waking up momentarily, and all opportunities for kissing would melt away into Never-Never-Gonna-Happen Land.
“I'm so sorry, Fern!”
Fern sighed, impatience blurring the fact that it wasn't Ambrose’s voice anymore.
“I'm so sorry to wake you up, Fern, but I need to show you something. Are you awake?”
Fern opened her eyes blearily, mournfully accepting the fact that she was not in a church, that no wedding bells had chimed, and Ambrose was hundreds of miles away at Fort Sill.
“Fern?” Rita was standing about a foot from her bed, and without warning she unzipped her pants and wiggled them around her hips, then she lifted her shirt and tucked it in the elastic of her bra so her mid-section was exposed. Rita stood akimbo and cried, “See?”
Fern eyed the slim curves and the expanse of bare skin beneath Rita's full breasts sleepily, wishing Rita had waited even a few minutes more to barge into her room and begin undressing. Her eyes were heavy and curvaceous girls didn't rock her boat. She craved a certain man in uniform. She raised questioning eyebrows at Rita and muttered, “Huh?”
“Look, Fern!” Rita pointed with both hands at her lower belly, just below her belly button. “It's huge! I'm not going to be able to hide it anymore. What am I going to do?”
It wasn't huge. It was a softly rounded stomach that protruded gently above a very brief pair of black lace panties. Fern had the same pair that she hid in the back of her drawer and only wore when she had to write a love scene, like the one she'd written last night . . . which had only been a couple hours ago. But Rita wasn't going to leave and let her drift back to dreamland, so Fern raised up on one arm wearily, pushing messy curls out of her eyes so she could get a better perspective on Rita's issue. She tipped her head this way and that, her eyes trained on her friend's tummy.
“Are you pregnant, Rita?” she gasped, the fog of having been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep making her slow to the punch line.
Rita yanked her shirt free from her bra and zipped her pants hastily, as if now that Fern had guessed her secret she was eager to hide it once more.
“Rita?”
“Yeah. I am.” Rita collapsed onto Fern's bed, sitting on Fern's feet in the process. She apologized profusely as Fern yanked her toes free and promptly burst into tears.
“Are you going to get married?” Fern patted her friend’s back as she spoke gently, the way her mom did whenever Fern cried.
“Becker doesn't know. Nobody knows! I was going to break up with him, Fern. Now I can't.”
“Why? I thought you were crazy about Becker.”
“I was. I am. Kind of. But he moves so fast. I feel like I can't keep up. I just wanted to take a little break. Maybe go away to school or something. I even thought about being a nanny . . . maybe even in Europe . . . an au pair. That's what they call them. Isn't that cool? I wanted to be an au pair. Now I can't,” Rita repeated and cried harder.
“You've always been really good with kids.” Fern struggled to find words that would comfort her friend. “So you'll just have one of your own, now. You may not be able to go to Europe right now. But maybe you could open a little daycare . . . or you could go to school to be a teacher. You would make a great kindergarten teacher. You're so pretty and nice, all the kids would love you.”
Fern had thought about leaving town too, maybe going to college, going somewhere where she could start a whole new life, free of old stereotypes. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave Bailey. And she wanted to be a writer, a romance writer, and she could do that living in Hannah Lake, living next door to Bailey, as easily as she could do it in Venice, Italy or Paris, France.
“How did this happen?” Rita wailed.
Fern looked at her blankly. “I know all the words from the Grease II song about reproduction. Would you like me to sing it slowly?” Fern asked, trying to make Rita giggle instead of cry.
“Very funny, Fern,” Rita said, but she smiled a little as Fern started singing about flowers and stamens in a very enunciated, clear soprano. Rita even joined in for a couple of lines, the lure of corny show tunes irresistible, even in the face of such drama.
“Don't tell Bailey, okay Fern?” Rita said as the song faded and Fern stroked her hair.
“Rita! Why? He's our best friend. He's going to know sooner or later, and then he's going to wonder why you didn't tell him yourself.”
“He's always made me feel like I was special . . . you know? So when I screw up and do something stupid, I feel like I'm letting him down. Or maybe I'm just letting myself down and I blame it on him,” Rita answered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and taking a deep breath like she was preparing to jump in the pool.
“But that's the cool thing about friendship. It's not about being perfect, or even being deserving. We love you, you love us, so we'll be there for you. Me and Bailey both.”
“I do love you, Fern. So much. And Bailey, too. I just hope I don't screw up so bad that I lose you.” She hugged Fern fiercely, holding her so tightly Fern couldn't doubt her gratitude or affection. Fern hugged her back and whispered in her ear, “That won't ever happen, Rita.”
1994
“Why don't we have more babies, Mom? Bailey has big sisters. I wish I had a big sister.
“I don't know why, Fern. I tried to have more children, but sometimes we are given something so special, so wonderful, that one is enough.”
“Hmm. So one of me is enough?”
“Yes. You've always been enoug
h,” Rachel Taylor laughed at her tiny ten-year-old with the wild red hair and the crooked teeth that were too big for her mouth, making her look like she was about to hop away into a forest glade.
“But I need a brother or sister, Mom. I need someone I can take care of and teach stuff to.”
“You have Bailey.”
“Yeah. I do. But he teaches me stuff more than I teach him stuff. And he's a cousin, not a brother.”
“He's not only family, he's a special friend. When Aunt Angie and I found out we were having babies, we were overjoyed together. I didn't think I could have children, and Angie had her two older girls and had always wanted a little boy. Bailey was born before you, but only by a few days. And then you were born. Both of you were little miracle babies, little precious gifts from God.”
“I guess having Bailey is almost as good as having a brother.” Fern wrinkled her nose thoughtfully.
“Do you know that Jesus had a special friend too? His name was John. John's mother, Elizabeth, was older, like me. She didn't think she could have babies either. After Elizabeth found out she was going to have a baby, Mary, Jesus’s mother, came to visit her. They were family too, just like Angie and me. When Elizabeth saw Mary, she felt her baby kick very hard in her stomach. Mary was pregnant with Jesus, and even then, the babies had a special bond, just like you and Bailey.”
“John the Baptist, right?” Fern asked. She was well-versed in all her bible stories. Pastor Joshua and Rachel had made sure of that.
“Yes.”
“Didn't John get his head cut off?” Fern asked dubiously. Rachel sputtered, laughing. Talk about a story backfiring.
“Yes. He did. But that's not really what my story was about.”
“And Jesus got killed too.”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
“It's a good thing I'm a girl and not a guy named John. And it's a good thing Jesus already came so Bailey doesn't have to save the world. Otherwise, being special friends might not be such a good thing.”
Rachel sighed. Leave it to Fern to turn the lesson on its head. With one last attempt at salvaging a teachable moment, she said, “Sometimes being special friends will be hard. Sometimes you will suffer for your friends. Life is not always easy and people can be cruel.”
“Like the guys that cut off John's head?”
“Yes. Like that,” Rachel said, choking on the inappropriate mirth that clogged her throat. She steeled herself and tried again wishing for a big finish, wrapping it all in a nice reminder of the Savior's sacrifice. “Good friends are very hard to find. They take care of each other and watch out for each other, and sometimes, they even die for their friends, the way Jesus died for all of us.”
Fern nodded her head solemnly, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't sure who that round went to, or if Fern had learned anything from it. She picked up her laundry basket and headed for the relative safety and quiet of the washing machine. Fern called after her.
“So do you think I will die for Bailey . . . or do you think Bailey will die for me?
The high school band played a medley of patriotic songs that Mr. Morgan, the band teacher, had surely drilled into them. Fern knew them all. She wished she was still in high school so she could play along on her clarinet. It would give her something to do besides shiver and huddle with her parents, clapping along with the tinny tunes, watching the pathetic attempt at a parade straggle down Main Street. The whole town was out, but March in Pennsylvania is a terrible time for a parade. The roads had been cleared and the weather had held so far, but the threatening snowstorm made the day fittingly gray for the big send off. The boys had finished basic and AIT–advanced individual training–and their unit had been called up, just like that. They would be among the first soldiers going directly to Iraq.
Fern blew on her icy fingers and her cheeks were as red as her blazing hair. And then the soldiers came. They were dressed in desert camo and lace-up boots with caps snug on their shorn heads. Fern found herself jumping up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of Ambrose. The unit was made up of recruits from the entire southwestern portion on Pennsylvania. The soldiers were making their way through several small towns on convoys made up of a long string of military vehicles, Humvees, and an occasional tank just for the theater of it. Every soldier blended with the next, a swarm of the same, and Fern wondered if that was somehow merciful–take away their individuality so saying goodbye wasn't so personal.
And then Ambrose was there, marching right by her, close enough to touch. His hair was gone. His beautiful hair. But his face was unchanged--strong jaw, perfect lips, smooth skin, dark eyes. After that last night at the lake, she had gone through all the stages. Anger, humiliation, anger again. And then her anger had faded as she'd remembered how it had felt to have her mouth pressed to his.
Ambrose had kissed her. She didn't understand why he had kissed her. She didn't let herself believe it was because he had suddenly fallen in love with her. It hadn't felt that way. It hadn't felt like love. It had felt like an apology. And after weeks of yo-yoing between embarrassment and fury, she’d decided that she could accept his apology. With acceptance came forgiveness, and with forgiveness, all the old feelings she'd harbored for so long crept right back into their familiar places in her heart, and the anger dissipated like an unpleasant dream.
Fern tried to call out, tried to be brave this once, but her voice merely squeaked in a timid cry, his name whisked from her lips as soon as it was released. His eyes stayed straight forward, unaware of her gaze on his face and her attempt to draw his attention. He was taller than the men around him, making him easy to track as he continued down the street.
She didn't see Paulie, Grant, Beans or Jesse, though she saw Marley, Jesse's pregnant girlfriend later at the Frosty Freeze, her face blotchy from tears, her belly protruding from the puffy jacket that would no longer close over her mid-section. Fern felt a brief flash of jealousy. The drama of being left behind by a handsome soldier was almost delicious in its tragedy, so much so that Fern went home and plotted out a whole new story about two lovers separated by war.
And then they were gone, across the sea, in a world of heat and sand, a world that didn't really exist, not for Fern, at least. And maybe not for the people of Hannah Lake, simply because it was so far away, so far removed from anything they knew. And life went on as it had before. The town prayed and loved and hurt and lived. The yellow ribbons Fern had helped tie around the trees looked jaunty and crisp for about two weeks. But the spring sleet continually raked the cheerful bows with sharp, icy claws, and before long the ribbons surrendered, wind-torn and weary. And the clock ticked quietly.
Six months went by. In that time, Rita delivered a baby boy and Marley Davis had her baby too–a boy she named Jesse after his daddy. Fern added a new chapter in her romance about war-torn lovers and gave them a child, a girl named Jessie. She couldn't help herself. Whenever Marley came into the store, Fern would yearn to hold her baby and could only imagine how Jesse must feel, thousands of miles away. She composed letters to Ambrose, wrote about the goings-on in Hannah Lake, the humorous things she saw, the stats of the high school sports teams, the books she read, her promotion at the grocery store to night manager, the funny things she wanted to say but was never brave enough to utter. And she signed them: Yours, Fern.
Could you belong to someone who didn't want you? Fern decided it was possible, because her heart was his, and whether or not he wanted it didn't seem to make much difference. When she was done writing she would tuck the letter away in a drawer. Fern wondered what Ambrose would think if she suddenly sent one. He would probably think she was a psycho and regret that apology wrapped in a kiss. He would worry that Fern thought the kiss meant more than it had. He would think she was delusional.
Fern wasn't delusional, she was simply imaginative. But even with her gift for daydreaming and storytelling, she couldn't make herself believe he would ever return her feelings.
She had asked him if she could write?
??she'd even said she would. But deep down, she didn't really think he wanted her to, and her pride was too fragile to endure another hit. The letters piled up, and she couldn't make herself send them.
Iraq
“Fern Taylor been writing you any more love notes, Brosey?” Beans said in the darkness of the sleeping tent.
“I think Fern's pretty,” Paulie said from his cot. “She looked good at the Prom. Did you see her? She can write me letters anytime she wants.”
“Fern's not pretty!” Beans said. “She looks like Pippi Longstocking.”
“Who the hell is Pippi Longbottom?” Jesse groaned, trying to sleep.
“My sister used to watch a show called Pippi Longstocking. She borrowed it from the library and never took it back. Pippi had buck teeth and red hair that stuck out from her head in two braids. She was skinny and awkward and stupid. Just like Fern.” Beans was over-exaggerating, poking at Ambrose.
“Fern isn't stupid,” Ambrose said. He was surprised how much it bugged him, Beans making fun of Fern.
“Okaaaay,” Beans laughed. “Like that makes a difference.”
“It does.” Grant had to get his two cents in. “Who wants a girl you can't talk to?”
“I do!” Beans laughed. “Don't talk, just take off your clothes.”
“You're kind of a pig, Beans.” Paulie sighed. “It's a good thing we all like ham.”
“I hate ham,” Jesse growled. “And I hate it when you guys get all chatty-Cathy when it's time to sleep. Shut the hell up.”
“Jesse, you really are The Wicked Witch of East.” Paulie laughed. “The Wicked Witch of the Middle East.” Paulie had written a funny song about Iraq being like the Land of Oz and before long everyone in their unit had a Wizard of Oz nickname.
“And you're The Scarecrow, dumbass. Wasn't he the one who didn't have a brain?”