Making Faces (29 page)

FIREWORKS OR PARADES?

“You think Sheen wants to come with us?”
Ambrose asked when Fern stepped out onto her front steps. He'd been
relieved when Fern had circled
Fireworks
on the whiteboard.
Parades were boring and they usually involved lots of glaring
sunlight and lots of staring people. Plus, it was the Fourth of
July and Hannah Lake Township always had a pretty good fireworks
display on the football field at the high school. Fern had seemed
excited when he'd asked her if she wanted to go.

“Bailey's in Philadelphia.”

Ambrose tamped down the jubilant leap of his
heart. He loved Sheen, but he really wanted to be alone with
Fern.

“Should we walk?” Fern suggested. “It's nice
out, and the field isn't far.”

Ambrose agreed, and he and Fern cut across
the lawn and headed toward the high school.

“What's Bailey doing in Philly?” he asked
after they'd walked a ways.

“Every year, Bailey, Angie, and Mike head to
Philadelphia for the Fourth of July. They visit the Museum of Art,
and Mike carries Bailey up those 72 steps and they do the Rocky
reenactment. Angie helps Bailey raise his arms and they all yell,
'one more year!' Bailey loves Rocky. Does that surprise you?”

“No. It doesn't,” Ambrose said with a wry
twist of his lips.

“They first went on a family vacation to
Philadelphia when Bailey was eight. He climbed the steps himself.
They have a picture of him in their family room with his arms up,
dancing around.”

“I've seen it,” Ambrose said, now
understanding the significance of the picture he'd seen in a place
of prominence in the Sheen home.

“They had such a good time they went back the
next year, and Bailey made it up the steps again. It became more
and more significant every year. The summer Bailey was eleven he
couldn't make it up the steps, not even a few of them. So Uncle
Mike carried him.”

“One more year?”

“Yep. Bailey's already defying the odds. Most
kids with Dushenne Muscular Dystrophy don't reach his age. And if
they're still around, they don't look like Bailey. They aren't
nearly as healthy. Twenty-one has always been a bit of a battle cry
for Bailey. When he turned twenty-one this year we had a huge
party. We’re all convinced he’s going to set records.”

Ambrose spread the blanket out on the edge of
the grass, far away from the other folks that had gathered to watch
the display. Fern settled beside him and it wasn't long before the
first fireworks were being shot into the sky. Ambrose lay back,
stretching out so he could see without straining his neck. Fern
eased herself back self-consciously. She had never lain on a
blanket with a boy. She could sense the hard length of Ambrose
along her right side, his big body taking up more than half of the
small blanket. He had chosen the right side of the blanket so the
right side of his face was turned away from her, as usual. She and
Ambrose didn't link hands, and she didn't lay her head on his
shoulder. But she wanted to.

Fern felt like she'd spent most of her life
wanting Ambrose in some way or another, wanting him to see her . .
. really see her. Not the red hair or the freckles on her nose. Not
the glasses that made her brown eyes look like moon pies. Not the
braces on her teeth or the boyishness of her figure.

When those things morphed and eventually
disappeared–well, all except for the freckles–she wished he
would
notice. She wished he
would
see her brown eyes,
free of glasses. She wished he
would
see that her figure had
finally rounded and filled out, see her teeth that were white and
straight. But whether she was homely or pretty, she still found
herself wishing.

Fern’s yearning for Ambrose was something
that had been so much a part of her, that as the patriotic songs
accompanying the display rang across the football field, Fern felt
incredibly grateful, grateful that in that moment, Ambrose Young
lay by her side. That he knew her. Seemingly liked her, and had
returned to her, to the town, to himself.

The gratitude made her weepy, and moisture
leaked out the sides of her eyes and made warm rivers on her
cheeks. She didn't want to wipe them away because that would draw
attention to them. So she let them flow, watching the burst of
colors crackle and boom in the air, feeling the aftershocks ring in
her head.

Fern wondered suddenly if the sound was
reminiscent of war and hoped that Ambrose was in the moment with
her and not somewhere in Iraq, his mind on roadside bombs and the
friends who didn't come home. Afraid that he might need someone to
hold him there, hold him to the celebration, she reached out and
slipped her hand in his. His hand tightened around hers.

He didn't interlock his fingers the way
couples do as they walk. Instead he held her hand inside his, like
an injured bird in his palm. And they watched the display to its
conclusion, not speaking, their heads tilted toward the light, only
their hands touching. Fern sneaked a look at his profile, noting
that in the darkness, in the space between bursts of cascading
light, that his face was beautiful, as beautiful as it had ever
been. Even the smoothness of his bald head did not detract from the
strength of his features. Somehow it made them more stark, more
memorable.

With the last crack of the manic finale,
families and couples started to stand and make their way off the
field. Nobody had noticed Fern and Ambrose there on the far edge,
beyond the circle of the track, behind the goal post. As the field
lost its occupants and the smoky residue of revelry left the air,
the sounds of night resumed. Crickets chirped, the wind whispered
softly in the trees that edged the field, and Fern and Ambrose lay
still, neither of them wishing to break the silence or the sense of
pause that surrounded them.

“You are still beautiful,” Fern said softly,
her face turned to his. He was quiet for a moment, but he didn't
pull away or groan or deny what she'd said.

“I think that statement is more a reflection
of your beauty than mine,” Ambrose said eventually, turning his
head so he could look down at her. Fern's face was touched with
moonglow, the color of her eyes and the red of her hair
undecipherable in the wash of pale light. But her features were
clear–the dark pools of expressive eyes, the small nose and soft
mouth, the earnest slant of her brow that indicated she didn't
understand his response.

“You know that thing people always say, about
beauty being in the eye of the beholder?”

“Yes?”

“I always thought it meant we all have
different tastes, different preferences . . . you know? Some guys
focus on the legs, some guys prefer blondes, some men like girls
with long hair, that kind of thing. I never thought about it
really, not before this moment. But maybe you see beauty in me
because
you
are beautiful, not because I am.”

“Beautiful on the inside?”

“Yes.”

Fern was silent, thinking about what he'd
said. Then, in a small voice she whispered. “I understand what
you're saying . . . and I appreciate it. I do. But I would really
like it if, just for once, I could be beautiful to you on the
outside.”

Ambrose chuckled and then stopped. The
expression on her face made him think she wasn't kidding, wasn't
being flirtatious. Ahh. Ugly Girl Syndrome again. She didn't think
he thought she was pretty.

He didn't know how to make her understand
that she was so much more than just pretty. So he leaned forward
and pressed his mouth to hers. Very carefully. Not like the other
night when he'd been scared and impulsive, and had smacked her head
against the wall in his attempt to kiss her. He kissed her now to
tell her how he felt. He pulled away almost immediately, not giving
himself a chance to linger and lose his head. He wanted to show her
he valued her, not that he wanted to rip her clothes off. And he
wasn't sure when it came right down to it, that she wanted to be
kissed by an ugly SOB. She was the kind of girl that would kiss him
because she didn't want to hurt his feelings. The thought filled
him with despair.

She let out a frustrated sigh and sat up,
running her hands through her hair. It flowed through her fingers
and down her back, and he wished he could bury his own hands in it,
bury his face in the heavy locks and breathe her in. But he'd
obviously upset her.

“I'm sorry, Fern. I shouldn't have done
that.”

“Why?” she snapped, startling him enough that
he winced. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because you're upset.”

“I'm upset because you pulled away! You're so
careful. And it's frustrating!”

Ambrose was taken back by her honesty, and he
smiled, instantly flattered. But the smile faded as he tried to
explain himself.

“You're so small, Fern. Delicate. And all of
this is new to you. I'm afraid I'm going to come on too strong. And
if I break you or hurt you, I won't survive that, Fern. I won't
survive it.” That thought was worse than walking away from her, and
he shuddered inwardly. He wouldn't survive it. He had already hurt
too many. Lost too many.

Fern knelt in front of him, and her chin
wobbled and her eyes were wide with emotion. Her voice was adamant
as she held his face between her hands, and when he tried to pull
away so she wouldn't feel his scars, she hung on, forcing his
gaze.

“Ambrose Young! I have waited my whole life
for you to want me. If you don't hold me tight I won't believe you
mean it, and that's worse than never being held at all. You’d
better make me believe you mean it, Ambrose, or you will most
definitely break me.”

“I don't want to hurt you, Fern,” he
whispered hoarsely.

“Then don't,” she whispered back, trusting
him. But there were lots of ways to cause pain. And Ambrose knew he
was capable of hurting her in a thousand ways.

Ambrose stopped trying to pull his face away,
surrendering to the way it felt to be touched. He hadn't allowed
anyone to touch him for a long time. Her hands were small, like the
rest of her, but the emotions they stirred in him were enormous,
gigantic, all-consuming. She made him shake, made him quake inside,
made him vibrate like the tracks under an on-coming train.

Her hands left his face and traveled down the
sides of his neck. One side smooth, the other riddled with divots
and scars and rippled where the skin had been damaged. She didn't
pull away, but felt each mark, memorized each wound. And then she
leaned forward and pressed her lips to his neck, just below his
jaw. And then again on the other side, on the side that bore no
scars, letting him know that the kiss wasn't about sympathy, but
desire. It was a caress. And his control broke.

She was on her back on the blanket, his big
body pressing into hers, her face between his hands as his mouth
took hers without finesse, without restraint, and without thought.
He simply took. And she gave, opening for him, welcoming the slide
of his tongue against hers, the grip of his hands on her face and
in her hair and on her hips. He felt her hands slide beneath his
shirt and tiptoe up his back and it felt so good he caught his
breath, losing contact with her mouth for a heart-beat as his eyes
fell closed and his head dropped to nuzzle the sweetness of her
neck. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if she too had lost
control. She kissed his head, the way a mother soothes a child, and
stroked the bare skin as he fought for control and lost once more,
his hand sliding up to cradle her breast in his palm, his thumb
caressing the full underside that made him long to pull her shirt
over her head and see if she looked as good as she felt.

But she was a girl who had hardly been
kissed, and she needed many more kisses, deserved many more. And so
with regret, he slid his hand back to her waist. She arched against
him and protested the loss sweetly with a sigh that made his blood
boil and his heart knock against his ribs. So he kissed her again,
communicating his own need. Her lips welcomed his, moving softly,
seeking, savoring, and Ambrose Young felt himself slip and slide,
falling helplessly–with very little resistance–in love with Fern
Taylor.

“Look who's here!” Bailey crowed as he
cruised through the sliding doors into the store. Rita followed
behind him, her little son on her hip and a big smile on her face.
Fern squealed and ran to her friend, taking the tow-headed toddler
from her arms and smothering his little face with kisses.
Apparently, Becker was out of town and Rita had been driving home
from her mother's when she'd seen Bailey motoring down the street
on his way to the store. He'd convinced her that karaoke and
dancing were just what she needed.

Before long, Bailey had the music blaring and
Rita's son Ty in his lap, cruising up and down the aisles, making
the little boy shriek with glee. Rita ran along beside them, her
face wreathed in smiles at her son's happiness. Like Fern, Rita had
changed since high school. Ambrose wondered how just a few years
could alter each of them so drastically, though from what he'd seen
of Becker Garth, he hadn't changed at all. He was still a bully,
and his wife was now his main target. Rita was still beautiful, but
she looked beaten-down and skittish and didn't seem comfortable
looking at him, so he retreated to the bakery not long after she
and Bailey arrived.