Prom, 2002
Fern fiddled with her neckline for the hundredth time since arriving and smoothed her skirt as if it had suddenly become wrinkled since she’d smoothed it four seconds ago.
“Do I have lipstick on my teeth, Bailey?” she hissed at her cousin, grimacing in a parody of a smile so he could see the two white rows of perfect, straight teeth she had suffered three long years in braces for.
Bailey sighed and shook his head no. “You're fine, Fern. You look great. Just relax.”
Fern took a deep breath and immediately started nervously biting the lip she had just covered in a new coat of coral red lipstick.
“Crap! Now I know I have lipstick on my teeth!” she wailed in a voice pitched for his ears alone.
“I'll be right back, okay? I'm just going to go to the girl’s room a second. Will you be okay without me?”
Bailey raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Are you kidding me, woman?”
Fern hadn't been gone for five seconds before Bailey was shooting across the dance floor toward the circle of wrestlers he had been wanting to talk to since arriving at the Prom with Fern.
Ambrose, Paulie, and Grant had come without dates. Bailey didn't know why. If he had a chance to ask a girl to Prom, hold her in his arms, smell her hair, and stand on his own two legs and dance, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass him by.
Beans and Jesse were there with girls, but their dates were huddled a little way off in a serious discussion about shoes, hair, and dresses–their own and everyone else's.
The five friends all saw Bailey coming at break-neck speed in his wheelchair, weaving in and out of dancers on the floor like a man on a mission, and they smiled in greeting. They were good guys and always made him feel like they didn't mind having him around.
“Lookin' good, Sheen.” Grant whistled.
Paulie straightened Bailey's bow tie just a smidge, and Ambrose walked around his chair, giving him the once over.
“You come stag like the rest of us?” Ambrose asked, stopping in front of Bailey and sinking to his haunches so Bailey didn't have to strain his neck to make eye contact.
“Speak for yourself, man. I am with the lovely Lydia,” Beans crooned, his eyes on his date.
Lydia was pretty cute, but she kind of let it all hang out, and Bailey thought she'd be prettier if she had a little of Rita's secrecy. Rita showed just enough to suggest it only got better beneath her clothes. Lydia showed so much you wondered why she even bothered with clothes. But Beans seemed to appreciate that about her.
“Marley looks good.” Bailey complimented Jesse's girl, and Jesse waggled his eyebrows. “Yes, she does, Sheen. Yes, she does.”
Marley's dress was pretty revealing too, but she wasn't as voluptuous as Rita or Lydia, which made it seem less so. She was slight like Fern, but she had long black hair and an exotic slant to her eyes and cheekbones. She and Jesse had been a couple since sophomore year, and they looked good together.
“I'm here with Fern.” Bailey got right to the point, not wanting Fern to come back and see him working the crowd on her behalf. Ambrose immediately rose back to his feet and Bailey sighed inwardly. Ambrose acted like Fern was a Russian spy who had tricked him into spilling the country's secrets instead of a girl who had written him a few love letters and signed someone else's name. His reaction made Bailey wonder if maybe he had feelings for Fern after all. You didn't get that angry over something that didn't matter.
Bailey looked at Paulie and Grant and forged ahead, hoping Ambrose would hear him out. “You guys that don't have dates, would you ask her to dance? Fern's always taking care of me, but it would be nice if she could dance with someone besides her cousin at her Senior Prom.”
Ambrose took a few steps back and then turned and walked away without saying a word. Grant and Paulie watched him go, matching stunned expressions on their faces.
Beans burst into laughter and Jesse whistled low and slow, shaking his head.
“Why does he always act like that whenever anyone says a word about Fern?” Grant wondered, his eyes still on his friend's retreating back.
Bailey felt his face grow hot and his collar felt too tight all of a sudden. It took a lot to embarrass Bailey. Pride was a luxury a kid like him couldn't afford and have any kind of life, but Ambrose's rebuff had embarrassed him.
“What is his problem?” Bailey asked, baffled.
“I think he has a thing for Fern,” Beans said, as if that was the most outrageous thing ever.
Bailey shot Beans a look that made Beans stop short and clear his throat, swallowing his laughter.
“I would really appreciate it if you guys would dance with her. If you think you're too damn good for her then never mind. It's your loss, definitely not hers,” Bailey said, the heat of embarrassment morphing into anger.
“Hey Bailey, no problem, man. I'll ask her to dance.” Grant patted his shoulder, reassuringly.
“Yeah, I'm in. I like Fern. I'd love to dance with her,” Paulie agreed, nodding.
“Me too. I love Fern,” Beans chimed in, his eyes gleaming with mirth. Bailey decided to let it go. It was just Beans. He couldn't seem to help himself.
“You know I got your back, Sheen. But if I dance with her, she's going to know something's up,” Jesse said regretfully. “Marley's my girl, and everyone knows it.”
“That's okay, Jess. You're right. I don't want to make it too obvious.” Bailey heaved a sigh of relief.
“So what you gonna do while we're keeping Fern busy?” Beans teased.
“I'm going to dance with Rita,” Bailey said without pause.
The four wrestlers immediately burst into whoops and laughter as Bailey smirked and pivoted his chair around. Fern had just walked back into the gymnasium and was turning this way and that, looking for him.
“You guys take care of Fern. I'll take care of Rita,” he called over his shoulder.
“We'll take care of her. Don't worry,” Grant reassured, waving him off.
“We'll take care of her,” Paulie repeated. “And I'll take care of Ambrose. He needs someone to look after him too.”
“Can I stay?” Ambrose cleared his throat. It was so hard to ask. But he couldn't leave. Not now. They had all been up most of the night, and dawn was only an hour away. Elliott Young had taken over at the bakery and Joshua and Rachel Taylor had rushed to their daughter's side when they got the call. It had only been two weeks since they were awakened and told to come to the hospital not knowing what had happened to Bailey. It was clear by their panic-stricken faces followed by their grateful tears that they had expected the worst.
Fern and Ambrose were questioned at length by the responding officers, and Becker Garth was taken to the hospital in an ambulance and then remanded into police custody. Fern had refused to go the hospital but had allowed the police to take pictures of her injuries. She was bruised and scraped, and she would be sore in the morning, but now she slept in her own bed, and Ambrose was standing by the front door, his hand on the knob, asking Joshua Taylor if he could stay the night.
“I don't want to leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see that bastard dragging her away . . . sorry, sir.” Ambrose apologized, although he really wasn't sure what other word he could have used to describe Becker Garth.
“That's okay, Ambrose. My sentiments exactly,” Joshua Taylor smiled wanly. His eyes roved over Ambrose's face, and Ambrose knew it wasn't because of his scars. They were they eyes of a father, trying to ascertain the intentions of a man who was clearly in love with his daughter.
“I'll make you a bed down here.” He nodded once and turned, walking away from the door, motioning for Ambrose to follow. He moved as if he'd aged ten years in the last week, and Ambrose realized suddenly how old Joshua Taylor really was. He had to be twenty-five years older than Elliott, which would put him at seventy. Ambrose had never really thought about Fern's parents, never really looked at them, the way he'd never really looked at Fern until that night at the lake.
They must have been fairly old when Fern was born. How would it feel to discover you were having a child when you never thought you would? How the pendulum could swing! Such immeasurable joy at welcoming a miracle into the world, such unfathomable pain when that child is taken from the world. Tonight Joshua Taylor had almost lost his miracle, and Ambrose had witnessed a miracle.
The Pastor took a flat sheet, a pillow, and an old pink quilt out of a linen closet, walked into the family room, and began making up the couch as if he'd done it a hundred times.
“I've got it, sir. Please. I can do that.” Ambrose rushed to relieve him of the duty, but Fern's father waved him off and continued tucking the sheet securely into the cushions and folding it in half so Ambrose could tuck himself inside like a taco.
“There. You'll be comfortable here. Sometimes when I've got a lot on my mind and don't want to keep Rachel awake, I come down here. I've spent a lot of nights on this couch. You're longer than I am, but I think you'll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” Joshua Taylor nodded and patted Ambrose on the shoulder. He turned as if to leave, but then paused, looking at the old rug that snuggled up to the couch where Ambrose would sleep.
“Thank you, Ambrose,” he answered, and his voice broke with sudden emotion. “I have often worried that when Bailey died something would happen to Fern. It's an illogical fear, I know, but their lives have been so entwined, so connected. Angie and Rachel even discovered that they were pregnant on the same day. I worried that God had sent Fern for a specific purpose, a specific mission, and when that mission was fulfilled he would take her away.”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away?”
“Yes . . . something like that.”
“I've always hated that quote.”
Joshua Taylor looked surprised, but continued on. “Tonight, when you called . . . before you even spoke, I knew something had happened. And I prepared myself to hear the news. I've never told Rachel about this. I didn't want her to be afraid with me.” Joshua looked up at Ambrose, and his large brown eyes, eyes so like Fern's, were filled with emotion.
“You've given me hope, Ambrose. Maybe restored my faith a little.”
“Restored mine too,” Ambrose admitted.
Joshua Taylor looked surprised once more and this time he sought clarification. “How so?”
“I wouldn't have heard her scream. I shouldn't have. I had the radio on. And the mixer. Plus, I don't hear all that well to begin with,” Ambrose smiled, just a wry twist of his lips. But this wasn't a moment for levity, and he immediately became grave once more. “I heard Paulie, my friend Paulie. You remember Paul Kimball?”
Joshua Taylor nodded once, a brief affirmation.
“It was like he was standing right next to me, speaking into my ear. He warned me–told me to listen. Paulie was always telling us to listen.”
Joshua Taylor's lips started to tremble and he pressed a hand to his mouth, clearly moved by Ambrose's account.
“Since Iraq, it's been . . . hard . . . for me to believe that there is anything after this life. Or, for that matter, any purpose to this one. We're born, we suffer, we see people we love suffer, we die. It just all seemed so . . . so pointless. So cruel. And so final.” Ambrose paused, letting the memory of Paulie's voice warm him and urge him forward.
“But after tonight, I can't say that anymore. There's a lot I don't understand . . . but not understanding is better than not believing.” Ambrose stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at Joshua Taylor for affirmation. “Does that make any sense at all?”
Joshua Taylor reached for the arm of the nearest chair and sat abruptly, like his legs could no longer bear his weight.
“Yes. Yes. It makes perfect sense,” he said quietly, nodding his head. “Perfect sense.”
Ambrose sat too, the old couch welcoming his weary frame into her folds.
“You're a good man, Ambrose. My daughter loves you. I can tell.”
“I love her,” Ambrose said, but stopped himself from saying more.
“But?” Pastor Taylor asked, the many years of listening to people's problems making him highly aware when someone was holding back.
“But Fern likes to take care of people. I'm worried that my . . . my . . . my . . ‘“ Ambrose couldn't find the words.
“Need?” Joshua Taylor supplied delicately.
“My ugly face,” Ambrose corrected abruptly. “I'm worried my disfigurement makes Fern want to take care of me. I'm not exactly beautiful, Pastor. What if one day Fern sees me as I really am and decides my need for her isn't enough?”
“Your father came and saw me once, a long time ago. He was concerned about the same thing. He thought if he looked different your mother wouldn't have left.”
Ambrose felt an immediate surge of pain for his father and a corresponding flash of anger for the woman who had discarded him for an airbrushed underwear ad.
“Can I suggest to you what I suggested to him?” Joshua Taylor asked gently. “Sometimes beauty, or lack thereof, gets in the way of really knowing someone. Do you love Fern because she's beautiful?”
Ambrose loved the way Fern looked. But he wondered suddenly if he loved the way she looked because he loved the way she laughed, the way she danced, the way she floated on her back and made philosophical statements about the clouds. He knew he loved her selflessness and her humor and her sincerity. And those things made her beautiful to him.
“There are a lot of girls who are physically more lovely than Fern, I suppose. But you love Fern.”
“I love Fern,” Ambrose readily agreed, once again.
“There are a lot of guys who are needier . . . and uglier . . . than you in this town, yet you're the first guy Fern has ever shown any interest in.” Pastor Taylor laughed. “If it's all about altruism, why isn't Fern out looking to start a home for wayward ugly men?”
Ambrose chuckled too, and for a moment Joshua Taylor looked at him fondly, the lateness of the hour and the brush with death giving the conversation a surreal cast that invited candor.
“Ambrose, Fern already sees who you really are. That's why she loves you.”