Ambrose sneaked little peeks through the opening that separated the bakery display cases and front counter from the working part of the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of Fern, wondering if she had finally decided he wasn't worth her time. She had already been gone by the time he arrived at work the last few nights. He had started coming in earlier and earlier so he could see her–even from behind the bakery window–before she left work for the night. He made excuses to Elliott about things that needed to be done at the bakery, but his dad never questioned it. He was probably glad to see Ambrose out of the house and out of his childhood room, although he would never say so. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.
His psychologist, the one the army made sure he had, told Ambrose that he needed to learn to adjust to his “new reality,” to “come to terms with what had happened to him,” to “find new pursuits and associations.” The job was a start. Ambrose hated to admit that it was actually helping, and he’d been running and lifting weights too. Exercise was the only thing that made him feel something besides despair. So he exercised a lot. Ambrose wondered suddenly if spying would qualify as a “new pursuit.”
He felt like a creep, spying on Fern, but he spied anyway. Tonight, Fern was sweeping the floor singing along with “The Wind Beneath my Wings,” using the broom handle as a microphone. He hated the song, but he found himself smiling as he watched her swaying back and forth, singing in a slightly off-key but not-unpleasant soprano. She moved her pile of dirt until she was directly in front of the bakery counter. She saw him standing in full view and stopped, staring back at him as the last words rang through the empty store. She smiled tentatively, as if he hadn't made her cry just a few nights before, and Ambrose felt the newly acquired fight or flight reaction that flooded him anytime someone looked directly at him.
Fern had turned up the music that trickled out of the store's sound system until it felt more like a skating rink than a grocery store. The tunes were a benign mix of soft hits designed to put shoppers in a coma as they perused the aisles for items they could probably do without. Ambrose suddenly longed for a little Def Leppard, complete with full-throated wailing and high-powered choruses.
Suddenly, Fern dropped the broom and ran for the front doors. Ambrose stepped out from the kitchen, rounding the counter, slightly alarmed that something was wrong. Fern was unlocking the sliding doors and pushing one aside to allow Bailey Sheen to roll through in his wheelchair. Then she pulled it back and relocked it, chattering with Bailey as she did.
Ambrose tried not to smile. Really he did. But Bailey was wearing a headlamp on his head, a giant one, with thick elastic bands that wrapped around his head like one of those old-fashioned retainers. It was the kind of headlamp he imagined miners would wear as they tunneled into the earth. It was so bright Ambrose winced, covering his good eye and turning away.
“What the hell are you wearing, Sheen?”
Fern's head whipped around, obviously surprised that he had ventured out from the confines of the bakery.
Bailey wheeled past Fern and kept rolling toward Ambrose. Bailey didn't act surprised to see him there, and though his eyes were locked on Ambrose's face, he didn't react at all to the changes in Ambrose's appearance. Instead, he rolled his eyes and wrinkled his brow, trying to look up at the klieg light strapped to his forehead.
“Help me out, man. My mom makes me wear this damn thing whenever I'm out at night. She's convinced I'm going to get run over. I can't take it off by myself.”
Ambrose reached out, still grimacing at the blazing bluish-white light. He pulled the lamp from Bailey's head and snapped the light off. Bailey's hair stood up on end, and Fern smoothed it down absentmindedly as she walked up behind him. It was a touching gesture, maternal even. She patted Bailey's hair into place as if she had done it a thousand times before, and Ambrose realized suddenly that she probably had. Fern and Bailey had been friends for as long as he could remember. Obviously, Fern had become accustomed to doing things for Bailey that he couldn't do for himself, without him asking or even realizing what she was doing.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Bailey, surprised that Bailey was roaming the streets in his wheelchair at eleven o'clock.
“Karaoke, baby.”
“Karaoke?”
“Yep. Haven't done it in a while, and we've been getting complaints from the produce section. Seems the carrots have formed a Bailey Sheen fan club. Tonight is for the fans. Fern's got quite a following in the frozen foods.”
“Karaoke . . . here?” Ambrose didn't even crack a smile . . . but he wanted to.
“Yep. Closing time means we have free rein of the place. We take over the store’s sound system, use the intercom for a microphone, plug in our CDs, and rock Jolley's Supermarket. It's awesome. You should join us. I should warn you, though, I'm amazing, and I'm also a mic hog.”
Fern giggled, but looked at Ambrose hopefully. Oh, hell, no. He wasn't singing Karaoke. Not even to please Fern Taylor, which he actually wanted to do, surprisingly enough.
Ambrose stammered something about cakes in the oven and made a hasty beeline for the kitchen. It was only a few minutes before the store was filled with karaoke tracks and Bailey was doing a very poor Neil Diamond impression. Ambrose listened as he worked. He really had no choice. It was loud, and Bailey was definitely a mic hog. Fern only jumped in occasionally, sounding like a kindergarten teacher trying to be a pop star, her sweet voice completely at odds with the songs she chose. When she broke into Madonna's “Like a Virgin” he found himself laughing out loud, and stopped abruptly, surprised at the way the laughter felt rumbling in his chest and spilling out his mouth. He thought back, his mind racing over the last year, since the day his life had been thrown into a black hole. He didn't think he had laughed. Not once in an entire year. No wonder it felt like engaging the gears on a fifty-year-old truck.
They sang a duet next. And it was a stunner. “Summer Nights” from Grease. Wella wella wella oomph poured from the speakers and the Pink Ladies begged to be told more as Bailey and Fern sang their lines with gusto, Bailey growling on all the suggestive parts and Fern snickering and flubbing her words, making up new ones as she went along. Ambrose laughed through the next hour, enjoying himself thoroughly, wondering whether Bailey and Fern had ever considered doing comic relief. They were hysterical. He had just finished rolling out a batch of cinnamon rolls when he heard his name echoing throughout the store.
“Ambrose Young? I know you can sing. How about you come out here and quit pretending we can't see you back there, spying on us. We can, you know. You aren't as sneaky as you think. I know you want to sing this next song. Wait! It's the Righteous Brothers! You have to sing this one. I won't be able to do it justice. Come on. Fern's been dying to hear you sing again ever since senior year when we heard you nail “The National Anthem” at that pep rally.”
“Had she really?” Ambrose thought, rather pleased.
“AAAAAMMMMMBRRRROOOOSE YOUUUNG!” Bailey thundered, obviously enjoying the intercom way too much. Ambrose ignored him. He was not going to sing. Bailey called him several more times, changing his tactics until finally the lure of the karaoke track distracted him. Ambrose continued working as Bailey informed him that he'd lost that loving feeling.
Yeah. He had. A year ago in Iraq. That loving feeling had been completely decimated.
Rita's left eye was swollen shut and her lip was puffy and split down the middle. Fern sat by her side and held the ice to her face, wondering how many other times Rita had looked this way and hid it from her friends.
“I called the cops. Becker's Uncle Barry showed up and took Becker in, but I don't think they're going to charge him,” Rita said dully. At that moment she looked like she was forty years old. Her long, blonde hair lay limp on her shoulders and the fatigue in her face created shadows and valleys that wouldn't otherwise be there.
“Do you want to come to my house? Mom and Dad would let you and Ty stay as long as you wanted.” Sadly, Rita had come and stayed before, but always went back to Becker.
“I'm not leaving this time. Becker can leave. I didn't do anything wrong.” Rita stuck out her bottom lip in defiance, but her eyes filled with tears, contradicting her brave words.
“But . . . but, he's dangerous,” Fern argued gently.
“He'll be nice for a while. He'll be super sorry and be on his best behavior. And I'll start making plans. I've been saving up. Mom and I are going to take little Ty guy and run away. Soon. And Becker can go to hell.”
Ty whimpered in his sleep and snuggled his face into his mother's breast. He was small for a two-year-old. It was a good thing, because Rita packed him everywhere, as if she was afraid to set him down.
“I'm only twenty-one years old, Fern! How did I get myself in this situation? How did I make such a terrible choice?” Not for the first time, Fern was grateful she had been a late bloomer–small, plain, ignored. In some ways, her ugly duckling status had been like a force field, keeping the world at bay so she could grow, come into her own, and figure out that there was more to her than the way she looked. Rita continued on, not really expecting Fern to answer.
“Do you know that I used to dream about Bailey? About them finding a cure so he could walk? Then he and I would get married and live happily ever after. My mom worked her fingers to the bone taking care of my dad after his accident. And he was so miserable. He hurt all the time, and the pain made him mean. I knew I wasn't that strong. So even though I loved Bailey, I knew I wasn't strong enough to love him if he couldn't walk. So I prayed that he would just magically be healed. I kissed him once, you know.”
Fern felt her jaw drop. “You did?”
“Yep. I had to see if there was any heat.”
“And was there?”
“Well . . . yeah. There was. I mean, he had no clue what he was doing. And I took him by surprise, I think. But yeah. There was heat. Enough heat that I considered maybe just being able to kiss him was enough. Maybe being with someone I loved who would love me back was enough. But I got scared. I wasn't strong enough, Fern.”
“When? When did this happen?” Fern gasped.
“Junior year. Christmas break. We were watching movies at Bailey's, remember? You felt sick and walked home before the movie was over. Bailey's dad had helped Bailey out of his wheelchair so he was sitting on the couch. We were talking and laughing and . . . then I held his hand. And before the night was over . . . I kissed him too.”
Fern was stunned. Bailey had never told her. Never said a word. Her thoughts spun round and round like a mouse in a wheel, running in circles and never getting anywhere.
“Was that the only time?” Fern asked.
“Yes. I went home that night and when I saw Bailey after Christmas break, he acted like it never happened. I thought I'd ruined everything. I thought he would expect me to be his girlfriend, even though I kind of wanted to be. But I was afraid too.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that I would hurt him, or that I would make promises that I couldn't keep.”
Fern nodded. She understood, but her heart ached for Bailey. If she knew Bailey, which she did, the kiss had been a defining moment. Maybe to protect Rita, maybe to protect himself, he had kept it to himself.
“Then Becker came along. He was so persistent. And he was older and I just kind of . . . got swept away, I guess.”
“So you and Bailey never even talked about it again?
“The night before I married Becker, Bailey called me. He told me not to do it.”
“He did?” Fern asked. This night was just full of surprises.
“Yeah. But I told him it was too late. Bailey's too good for me anyway.”
“That's crap, Rita,” Fern blurted out.
Rita jerked like Fern had slapped her face.
“I'm sorry. But that's just an excuse not to do the hard thing,” Fern said bluntly.
“Oh really?” Rita snapped. “Look who's talking. You've been in love with Ambrose Young your whole life. Now he's home with a messed up face and a messed up life and I don't see you doing the hard thing!”
Fern didn't know what to say. Rita was wrong. Ambrose's face wasn't keeping her away. But did it matter what the reason was?
“I'm sorry, Fern.” Rita sighed tearfully. “You're right. It's crap. My whole life is crap. But I'm going to try to change it. I'm going to be better. You'll see. No more bad choices. Ty deserves better. I just wish Bailey . . . I wish things were different, you know?”
Fern began to nod, but then thought better of it, and shook her head in disagreement.
“If Bailey had been born without MD, he wouldn't be Bailey. The Bailey who is smart and sensitive, and seems to understand so many things we don't. You might have looked right past Bailey if he'd grown up healthy, wrestling on his dad's team, acting like every other guy you've ever known. A big part of the reason Bailey is so special is because life has sculpted him into something amazing . . . maybe not on the outside, but on the inside. On the inside, Bailey looks like Michelangelo's David. And when I look at him, and when you look at him, that's what we see.”