Making Faces (46 page)

The stands were packed with blue and white
and Fern felt a little lost without a wheelchair to make
arrangements for and sit beside, but they had good seats. Ambrose
had made sure of that. Her Uncle Mike was on her left, Elliott
Young on her right, and beside him, Jamie Kimball, Paulie's mom.
Jamie had worked the front counter at the bakery for years, and
Elliott had finally gotten the nerve to ask her out. So far, so
good. Another silver lining. They needed each other, but more
importantly, they deserved each other.

It was the last duel of the season for the
Penn State Nittany Lions and Fern was so nervous she had to sit on
her hands so she wouldn't resume her bad habit of shredding her
fingernails. She felt this way every time she watched Ambrose
wrestle, even though he won a whole lot more than he lost. She
wondered how Mike Sheen endured this torture year after year. If
you loved your wrestler, and Fern did, then wrestling was
absolutely agonizing to watch.

Ambrose hadn’t won every match. He’d had an
impressive year, especially considering his long absence from the
sport and the disadvantages that he started the season with. Fern
had made Ambrose promise to enjoy himself and he had genuinely
tried. No more trying to be Mr. Universe or Hercules or Iron Man or
anything but Ambrose Young, son of Elliott Young,
fiance
of Fern Taylor. She took a
deep breath and tried to take her own advice. She was the daughter
of Joshua and Rachel, cousin of Bailey, lover of Ambrose. And she
wouldn't trade places with anyone.

She hadn't gone with him when he left for
school. They'd both known it wasn't possible right away. Fern had
finally scored a three-book deal with a respected romance publisher
and had deadlines to meet. Her first novel would be out in the
spring. Ambrose had been convinced he had to slay his dragons on
his own two feet–no metaphoric shield or minions to keep him
company.

Ambrose had been afraid and admitted as much.
The discomfort of curious gazes, the whispers behind hands, the
explanations that people felt they were owed all grated on him. But
it was okay too. He claimed the questions gave him an opportunity
to get it all out in the open, and before long the guys on the
wrestling team didn't really see the scars. The way Fern never saw
Bailey's wheelchair. The way Ambrose finally looked beyond the face
of a plain little eighteen-year-old and saw Fern for the first
time.

The Penn State head coach had made Ambrose no
promises. There was no scholarship waiting when he arrived. He told
Ambrose he could come work out with the team and they would see how
it all shook out. Ambrose had arrived in October, coming in on the
block, a month behind everyone else. But within a few weeks, the
coaches at Penn State were impressed. And so were his new
teammates.

Fern and Ambrose started writing letters
again, long emails filled with either/or questions both tender and
bizarre, designed to make the distance seem trivial. Fern always
made sure to close her letters with her name in bold and all in
caps, just to make sure Ambrose knew exactly who they were from.
The love notes kept them laughing and crying and longing for the
weekends when one or the other would make the trip between Hannah
Lake and Penn State. And sometimes they met somewhere in between
and lost themselves in each other for a couple of days, making the
most of every second, because seconds became minutes and minutes
became precious when life could be taken in less than a breath.

When Ambrose ran out on the mat with his
team, Fern's heart leaped and she waved madly so he would see them
all there. He found them quickly, knowing what section they were
sitting in, and he smiled that lopsided grin that she loved. Then
he stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes, and made a face. Fern
repeated the action and saw him laugh.

Then Ambrose rubbed his chest where the names
were written and Fern felt the emotion rise in her throat and
touched the name over her own heart. Bailey would have loved to see
this. If there was a God and a life beyond this one, Bailey was
here, no question in Fern's mind. He would be down on the floor
scouting out the competition, taking notes and taking names.
Paulie, Jesse, Beans and Grant would be there too, lining the mats,
watching their best friend do his best to live without them and
cheering him on, just like they always had. Even Jesse.

Fern and Ambrose were married in the summer
of 2006. The little church that Joshua and Rachel Taylor had
dedicated their lives to was filled to capacity, and Rita was
Fern's maid of honor. She was doing well, living back in Hannah
Lake now that Becker was in jail awaiting trial, charged with
several counts in three separate cases.

Rita had been granted a divorce, and she
threw herself into planning a wedding that would be remembered for
years to come. And she outdid herself. It was perfect, magical,
more than even Fern could have imagined.

But the flowers, the food, the cake, even the
beauty of the bride and the dignity of her groom weren't what
people would be talking about when it was all over. There was a
feeling in the air at that wedding. Something sweet and special
that made more than one guest stop and marvel, “Do you feel
that?”

Grant’s family was there, and Marley and
Jesse Jr. too. With Fern at his side, Ambrose had eventually made
the rounds to all the families of his fallen friends. It hadn’t
been easy for any of them, but the healing process had begun,
though Luisa O’Toole still blamed Ambrose, refused to answer the
door when he came by, and didn’t make an appearance at the wedding.
Everyone deals with grief differently, and Luisa would have to come
to terms with her grief on her own time. Jamie Kimball sat at
Elliott’s side and from their clasped hands and warm glances, it
was easy to predict there might be another wedding before long.

Little Ty was growing up fast and sometimes
he still liked to crawl up in Bailey's chair and demand a ride. But
at the wedding, no one sat in Bailey's chair. They placed it at the
end of the front pew in a place of honor. And as Fern walked down
the aisle on her mother's arm, her eyes strayed to the empty
wheelchair. Then Ambrose stepped forward to take her hand, and Fern
couldn't see anything but him. Pastor Taylor greeted his daughter
with a kiss and placed his hand on the scarred cheek of the man who
had promised to love her and cleave to only her, as long as they
lived.

When promises were made, vows spoken, and a
kiss delivered that made the audience wonder if the couple would
hang around for the festivities afterward, Joshua Taylor, with
tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, addressed the
gathering, marveling at the beauty of the couple who had come so
far and suffered so much.

“True beauty, the kind that doesn't fade or
wash off, takes time. It takes pressure. It takes incredible
endurance. It is the slow drip that makes the stalactite, the
shaking of the Earth that creates mountains, the constant pounding
of the waves that breaks up the rocks and smooths the rough edges.
And from the violence, the furor, the raging of the winds, the
roaring of the waters, something better emerges, something that
would otherwise never exist.

“And so we endure. We have faith that there
is purpose. We hope for things we can't see. We believe that there
are lessons in loss, power in love, and that we have within us the
potential for a beauty so magnificent that our bodies can't contain
it.”

“. . . and Hercules, in great pain and
suffering, begged his friends to light a huge fire that reached
into the heavens. Then he threw himself on the fire, desperate to
extinguish the agony of the poison that had been rubbed on his
skin.

“From high on Mount Olympus, mighty Zeus
looked down on his son, and seeing the torment of his heroic
offspring, turned to his vindictive wife and said. ‘He has suffered
enough. He has proven himself.’

“Hera, looking down on Hercules, took pity on
him and agreed, sending her blazing chariot from the sky to lift
Hercules up and take him to his place among the Gods, where the
much-beloved hero still lives on to this day,” Ambrose said softly,
and shut the book firmly, hoping there wouldn’t be pleas for
more.

But silence greeted the triumphant finish,
and Ambrose looked down at his son, wondering if somewhere between
the twelfth labor and the end the six-year-old had fallen asleep.
Vivid red curls danced around his son’s animated face, but the big
dark eyes were wide open and sober with thought.

“Dad, are you as strong as Hercules?”

Ambrose bit back a smile and swooped his
little dreamer up in his arms and tucked him into bed. Story time
had gone long, it was way past bedtime, and Fern was somewhere in
the house dreaming up her own story. Ambrose had every intention of
interrupting her.

“Dad, do you think I could be a hero like
Hercules someday?”

“You don’t have to be like Hercules, buddy.”
Ambrose flipped off the light and paused at the door. “There are
all kinds of heroes.”

“Yeah. I guess. Good night, Dad!”

“Good night, Bailey.”