Making Faces

by Amy Harmon

It was Fern who found herself closer to tears, more fearful, more affectionate, and she wasn’t the only one. A pervading sense of outrage and sorrow intruded on daily life.

They weren’t typical love notes. They were love notes because Fern poured her heart and soul into them, and Ambrose seemed to do the same, answering with an honesty and a vulnerability she hadn’t anticipated.

Lost or Alone? Ambrose said alone, and Fern responded, “I would much rather be lost with you than alone without you, so I choose lost with a caveat.” Ambrose responded, “No caveats,” to which Fern replied, “Then lost, because alone feels permanent, and lost can be found.”

“I loved your notes,” Fern rushed on, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst. “I know they weren’t meant for me. But I loved them. You’re funny. And smart. And you made me laugh. You even made me cry once. I wish they had been for me. So I was just wondering if you liked the things I wrote.”

If wrestling was just about what happened on the mat and in the wrestling room he would love the sport. He did love the sport. He loved the technique, the history, the sense of being in control of the outcome, the way it felt to execute the perfect takedown. He loved the simplicity of the sport. He loved the battle. He just didn’t like the screaming fans or the accolades or the fact that people were always talking about Ambrose Young as if he were some kind of machine.

Since Ambrose was about eight years old, Elliott had invested every last cent into making his son into a champion, not because Elliott needed him to be, but because talent like Ambrose’s deserved that kind of fostering. And Ambrose had loved that part too—being with his dad, being just one of a thousand great wrestlers on any given weekend, vying for the top spot on the medals podium.

Whenever Ambrose was tempted to just phone it in, the whistle would blow and he would start to wrestle, and the competitor in him wouldn’t—couldn’t—go down without leaving it all on the mat. The sport deserved that much. His dad, his coach, his team, the town. They deserved it, too. He just wished there was a way to leave it all behind . . . just for a while.

They were done. Done . . . except Ambrose, who had been highly recruited by several schools and who had the academics and the athletic record to go to Penn State on a full ride. He was the only one who had a way out.

“Too much reality?” “Way too much reality.” “Me too,” Fern said softly, and felt her throat close against the emotion that rose in her chest. Sometimes life seemed particularly unfair, unduly harsh, and beyond bearing.

“It’s hard to come to terms with sometimes,” Bailey said abruptly. Fern waited for him to continue. “It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t ever going to be loved the way you want to be loved.”

“There are times like that, Bailey. Times you don’t think you can take it anymore. But then you discover that you can. You always do. You’re tough. You’ll take a deep breath, swallow just a little bit more, endure just a little longer, and eventually you’ll get your second wind,” Fern said, her smile wobbly and her teary eyes contradicting her encouraging words.

“Sometimes being special friends will be hard. Sometimes you will suffer for your friends. Life is not always easy and people can be cruel.”

“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.”

He had tried not to think about Fern, about that night at the lake, and he’d all but convinced himself it was just temporary insanity, a last desperate act before leaving home. And she hadn’t written like she’d said she would. He couldn’t blame her after everything that had happened. But he would have liked to get a letter. She wrote good letters.

I think sometimes a beautiful face is false advertising too, and too many of us don’t take the time to look beneath the lid. Funny, this reminds me of a sermon I gave a few weeks back. Did you hear it?”

“I remember that verse,” Elliott said softly. “It always struck me that Jesus wasn’t handsome. Why wouldn’t God make his outside match his inside?” “For the same reason He was born in a lowly manger, born to an oppressed people. If He had been beautiful or powerful, people would have followed him for that alone—they would have been drawn to him for all the wrong reasons.”

The whole township was in a state of shock and mourning, leveled by the loss. It was a state of emergency and there was no relief in sight. There would be no federal funds to rebuild. It was death. It was permanent.

Fern grieved for the boy she had always loved. She wondered how it would feel to be beautiful and have it taken away. How much harder would it be than never knowing what it felt like in the first place? Angie often remarked that Bailey’s illness was merciful in one regard: it happened slowly through early childhood, robbing the child of his independence before he’d really gained it. So different from those who are paralyzed in an accident and confined to a wheelchair as adults, knowing full well what they have lost, what independence felt like.

“Love is not love Which alters when alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: Oh, no, it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

She was quietly lovely, unassumingly pretty, completely unaware that at some point between awkwardness and adulthood she had grown so appealing. And because she was unaware, she became more appealing still.

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.”

“I haven’t seen any of them. Not Grant’s family. Not Jesse’s. I haven’t seen Marley or Jesse’s little boy. Paulie’s mom sent me a basket of stuff when I was in the hospital. But my jaw was wired shut and I gave most of it away. She sent a card too. Told me to get well. She’s like Paulie, I think. Sweet. Forgiving.

“Don’t you get it, Fern? It’s so much easier to take if God had nothing to do with it. If God has nothing to do with it, then I can accept that it’s just life. Nobody is special, but nobody isn’t special, either. You know what I mean? I can come to terms with that. But I can’t accept that your prayers are answered and theirs aren’t. That makes me angry and hopeless—desperate even! And I can’t live that way.”

“My dad always quotes this scripture. It’s always his answer when he doesn’t understand something. I’ve heard it so often in my life, it’s become kind of like a mantra,” Fern said. “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.’” “What does that even mean, Fern?” Ambrose sighed, but his fervor had dimmed.

“I guess it means we don’t understand everything, and we’re not going to. Maybe the whys aren’t answered here. Not because there aren’t answers, but because we wouldn’t understand the answers if we had them.”

“Maybe there is a bigger purpose, a bigger picture that we only contribute a very small piece to. You know, like one of those thousand-piece puzzles? There’s no way you can tell by looking at one piece of the puzzle what the puzzle is going to look like in the end. And we don’t have the picture on the outside of the puzzle box to guide us.”

“Maybe everyone represents a piece of the puzzle. We all fit together to create this experience we call life. None of us can see the part we play or the way it all turns out. Maybe the miracles that we see are just the tip of the iceberg. And maybe we just don’t recognize the blessings that come as a result of terrible things.”

“Scripture comforts me, and romance novels give me hope.” “Oh, yeah? Hope for what?” “Hope that I’ll be doing more than quoting scripture with Ambrose Young in the very near future.” Fern blushed furiously and looked at her hands.

“Why do you act like I’m the old Ambrose? You act like you want me to kiss you. Like nothing’s changed since high school.” “Some things haven’t changed,” Fern said quietly. “News flash, Fern Taylor!” Ambrose barked, slamming his hand against the dashboard, making Fern jump. “Everything has changed! You are beautiful, I am hideous, you don’t need me anymore, but I sure as hell need you!”

“You act like beauty is the only thing that makes us worthy of love,” Fern snapped. “I didn’t just l-love you because you were beautiful!” She’d said the L word, right out loud, though she’d tripped over it.

“I’ve been in love with you since you helped me bury that spider in my garden, and you sang with me like we were singing “Amazing Grace” instead of “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider.” I’ve loved you since you quoted Hamlet like you understood him, since you said you loved Ferris wheels more than roller coasters because life shouldn’t be lived at full speed, but in anticipation and appreciation. I read and reread your letters to Rita because I felt like you’d opened up a little window into your soul, and the light was pouring out with every word. They weren’t even for me, but it didn’t matter. I loved every word, every thought, and I loved you . . . so much.”

“I have no pride left, Ambrose!” Bailey said. “No pride. But it was my pride or my life. I had to choose. So do you. You can have your pride and sit here and make cupcakes and get old and fat and nobody will give a damn after a while. Or you can trade that pride in for a little humility and take your life back.”

Fern’s face floated in his mind. Maybe Fern would be part of a new life, but strangely enough, Ambrose didn’t want to talk to the guys about Fern. It felt too soon. And he discovered he wanted to protect her, even from the ghosts of his closest friends. They’d all laughed too often at the little redhead, told too many jokes at her expense, poked too many holes, and taunted one too many times. So Ambrose kept Fern to himself, safe inside a rapidly expanding corner of his heart, where only he knew she belonged.

“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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

“How do you stand it, Bailey? Looking death in the face for so long?” Bailey shrugged and glanced at him curiously. “You act like death is the worst thing.” “Isn’t it?” Ambrose could think of nothing worse than losing his friends. “I don’t think so. Death is easy. Living is the hard part.

“Because terrible things happen to everyone, Brosey. We’re all just so caught up in our own crap that we don’t see the shit everyone else is wading through.”

“I do love Fern,” Ambrose admitted, his voice hushed, his gaze heavy with confession, and felt a frisson of shock at the truth. He did love her. “I think about her all the time. When I’m not with her I’m miserable . . . but when I’m with her I’m miserable too, because I know it’s Fern that’s settling. Look at me, Bailey! Fern could have anyone she wanted. Me? Not so much.”

People like Elliott aren’t ever lost. Even when the world tumbles around his ears, he knows exactly who he is. He’s always made me feel safe.” Fern was like Elliott in that way, Ambrose realized suddenly. She was grounded, solid, a refuge.

But when she was finally alone, the truth of Bailey’s absence started to push through her defenses, riddling

her heart with the pricking pain of precious memories—words he would never say again, expressions that would never again cross his face, places they wouldn’t go, time they wouldn’t spend together. He was gone. And she hurt. More than she’d thought was possible.

It was a testament to Ambrose’s love for her, the length of time in which he knelt on the hard floor with Fern in his arms, letting her sorrow wash over and through him. His knees ached in steady concert with the heavy ache in his chest, but it was a different pain than he’d felt when he’d lost Beans, Jesse, Paulie, and Grant in Iraq. That pain had been infused with guilt and shock and there had been no understanding to temper the agony. This pain, this loss, he could shoulder, and he would shoulder it for Fern as best he could.

“Think about it. There isn’t heartache if there hasn’t been joy. I wouldn’t feel loss if there hadn’t been love. You couldn’t take my pain away without removing Bailey from my heart. I would rather have this pain now than never have known him. I just have to keep reminding myself of that.”

As Ambrose spoke the names of his four friends there was an anguish that rippled through the air, an anguish that had not been exorcised, a grief that had not eased.

He said Bailey taught him to love and to put things in perspective, to live for the present, to say I love you often and to mean it. And to be grateful for every day. It taught him patience and perseverance. It taught him there are things that are more important than wrestling.”

“Shakespeare said, ‘The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief.’” Ambrose’s eyes shot to Fern’s and he smiled softly at the girl that had him quoting Shakespeare once again. “Bailey is proof of this. He was always smiling, and in so many ways he had life beat, not the other way around. We can’t always control what happens to us. Whether it’s a crippled body or a scarred face. Whether it’s the loss of people we love and don’t want to live without,” Ambrose choked out.

“We were robbed. We were robbed of Bailey’s light, Paulie’s sweetness, Grant’s integrity, Jesse’s passion, and Bean’s love of life. We were robbed. But I’ve decided to smile, like Bailey did, and steal something from the thief.” Ambrose looked out across the mourners, most whom he had known his whole life, and cried openly. But his voice was clear as he closed his remarks.

“I bet your mom wishes she could put it in your baby book. She wrote down your first step, didn’t she? She probably wishes she could write down your last.” “She probably thought there would be more.” Bailey gulped and Fern could tell he was trying not to cry. “I thought there would be more. But I guess I used them all up.” “I would give you some of my steps if I could,”