Making Faces (13 page)

The doorbell chimed its song-song tune at
eight Saturday morning, and the sound meshed so perfectly with
Fern's dream that she smiled in her sleep, lifting her face to the
handsome man in uniform who had just said, “I do.” He lifted her
veil and pressed his lips to hers.

“I'm so sorry, Fern,” he whispered, just like
he had at the lake. “I'm so sorry,” he said again.

Fern kissed him frantically, not wanting
apologies. She wanted kisses. Lots of them, and hugs too, and
somewhere in her subconscious she knew it was all a dream and she
would be waking up momentarily, and all opportunities for kissing
would melt away into Never-Never-Gonna-Happen Land.

“I'm so sorry, Fern!”

Fern sighed, impatience blurring the fact
that it wasn't Ambrose’s voice anymore.

“I'm so sorry to wake you up, Fern, but I
need to show you something. Are you awake?”

Fern opened her eyes blearily, mournfully
accepting the fact that she was not in a church, that no wedding
bells had chimed, and Ambrose was hundreds of miles away at Fort
Sill.

“Fern?” Rita was standing about a foot from
her bed, and without warning she unzipped her pants and wiggled
them around her hips, then she lifted her shirt and tucked it in
the elastic of her bra so her mid-section was exposed. Rita stood
akimbo and cried, “See?”

Fern eyed the slim curves and the expanse of
bare skin beneath Rita's full breasts sleepily, wishing Rita had
waited even a few minutes more to barge into her room and begin
undressing. Her eyes were heavy and curvaceous girls didn't rock
her boat. She craved a certain man in uniform. She raised
questioning eyebrows at Rita and muttered, “Huh?”

“Look, Fern!” Rita pointed with both hands at
her lower belly, just below her belly button. “It's huge! I'm not
going to be able to hide it anymore. What am I going to do?”

It wasn't huge. It was a softly rounded
stomach that protruded gently above a very brief pair of black lace
panties. Fern had the same pair that she hid in the back of her
drawer and only wore when she had to write a love scene, like the
one she'd written last night . . . which had only been a couple
hours ago. But Rita wasn't going to leave and let her drift back to
dreamland, so Fern raised up on one arm wearily, pushing messy
curls out of her eyes so she could get a better perspective on
Rita's issue. She tipped her head this way and that, her eyes
trained on her friend's tummy.

“Are you pregnant, Rita?” she gasped, the fog
of having been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep making her slow
to the punch line.

Rita yanked her shirt free from her bra and
zipped her pants hastily, as if now that Fern had guessed her
secret she was eager to hide it once more.

“Rita?”

“Yeah. I am.” Rita collapsed onto Fern's bed,
sitting on Fern's feet in the process. She apologized profusely as
Fern yanked her toes free and promptly burst into tears.

“Are you going to get married?” Fern patted
her friend’s back as she spoke gently, the way her mom did whenever
Fern cried.

“Becker doesn't know. Nobody knows! I was
going to break up with him, Fern. Now I can't.”

“Why? I thought you were crazy about
Becker.”

“I was. I am. Kind of. But he moves so fast.
I feel like I can't keep up. I just wanted to take a little break.
Maybe go away to school or something. I even thought about being a
nanny . . . maybe even in Europe . . . an au pair. That's what they
call them. Isn't that cool? I wanted to be an au pair. Now I
can't,” Rita repeated and cried harder.

“You've always been really good with kids.”
Fern struggled to find words that would comfort her friend. “So
you'll just have one of your own, now. You may not be able to go to
Europe right now. But maybe you could open a little daycare . . .
or you could go to school to be a teacher. You would make a great
kindergarten teacher. You're so pretty and nice, all the kids would
love you.”

Fern had thought about leaving town too,
maybe going to college, going somewhere where she could start a
whole new life, free of old stereotypes. But she couldn’t bring
herself to leave Bailey. And she wanted to be a writer, a romance
writer, and she could do that living in Hannah Lake, living next
door to Bailey, as easily as she could do it in Venice, Italy or
Paris, France.

“How did this happen?” Rita wailed.

Fern looked at her blankly. “I know all the
words from the Grease II song about reproduction. Would you like me
to sing it slowly?” Fern asked, trying to make Rita giggle instead
of cry.

“Very funny, Fern,” Rita said, but she smiled
a little as Fern started singing about flowers and stamens in a
very enunciated, clear soprano. Rita even joined in for a couple of
lines, the lure of corny show tunes irresistible, even in the face
of such drama.

“Don't tell Bailey, okay Fern?” Rita said as
the song faded and Fern stroked her hair.

“Rita! Why? He's our best friend. He's going
to know sooner or later, and then he's going to wonder why you
didn't tell him yourself.”

“He's always made me feel like I was special
. . . you know? So when I screw up and do something stupid, I feel
like I'm letting him down. Or maybe I'm just letting myself down
and I blame it on him,” Rita answered, wiping the tears from her
cheeks and taking a deep breath like she was preparing to jump in
the pool.

“But that's the cool thing about friendship.
It's not about being perfect, or even being deserving. We love you,
you love us, so we'll be there for you. Me and Bailey both.”

“I do love you, Fern. So much. And Bailey,
too. I just hope I don't screw up so bad that I lose you.” She
hugged Fern fiercely, holding her so tightly Fern couldn't doubt
her gratitude or affection. Fern hugged her back and whispered in
her ear, “That won't ever happen, Rita.”

1994

“
Why don't we have more babies, Mom?
Bailey has big sisters. I wish I had a big sister.

“
I don't know why, Fern. I tried to have
more children, but sometimes we are given something so special, so
wonderful, that one is enough.”

“
Hmm. So one of me is enough?”

“
Yes. You've always been enough,” Rachel
Taylor laughed at her tiny ten-year-old with the wild red hair and
the crooked teeth that were too big for her mouth, making her look
like she was about to hop away into a forest glade.

“
But I need a brother or sister, Mom. I
need someone I can take care of and teach stuff to.”

“
You have Bailey.”

“
Yeah. I do. But he teaches me stuff more
than I teach him stuff. And he's a cousin, not a brother.”

“
He's not only family, he's a special
friend. When Aunt Angie and I found out we were having babies, we
were overjoyed together. I didn't think I could have children, and
Angie had her two older girls and had always wanted a little boy.
Bailey was born before you, but only by a few days. And then you
were born. Both of you were little miracle babies, little precious
gifts from God.”

“
I guess having Bailey is almost as good
as having a brother.” Fern wrinkled her nose thoughtfully.

“
Do you know that Jesus had a special
friend too? His name was John. John's mother, Elizabeth, was older,
like me. She didn't think she could have babies either. After
Elizabeth found out she was going to have a baby, Mary, Jesus’s
mother, came to visit her. They were family too, just like Angie
and me. When Elizabeth saw Mary, she felt her baby kick very hard
in her stomach. Mary was pregnant with Jesus, and even then, the
babies had a special bond, just like you and Bailey.”

“
John the Baptist, right?” Fern asked. She
was well-versed in all her bible stories. Pastor Joshua and Rachel
had made sure of that.

“
Yes.”

“
Didn't John get his head cut off?” Fern
asked dubiously. Rachel sputtered, laughing. Talk about a story
backfiring.

“
Yes. He did. But that's not really what
my story was about.”

“
And Jesus got killed too.”

“
Yes. Yes he did.”

“
It's a good thing I'm a girl and not a
guy named John. And it's a good thing Jesus already came so Bailey
doesn't have to save the world. Otherwise, being special friends
might not be such a good thing.”

Rachel sighed. Leave it to Fern to turn the
lesson on its head. With one last attempt at salvaging a teachable
moment, she said, “Sometimes being special friends will be hard.
Sometimes you will suffer for your friends. Life is not always easy
and people can be cruel.”

“
Like the guys that cut off John's
head?”

“
Yes. Like that,” Rachel said, choking on
the inappropriate mirth that clogged her throat. She steeled
herself and tried again wishing for a big finish, wrapping it all
in a nice reminder of the Savior's sacrifice. “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.”

Fern nodded her head solemnly, and Rachel
breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't sure who that round went to,
or if Fern had learned anything from it. She picked up her laundry
basket and headed for the relative safety and quiet of the washing
machine. Fern called after her.

“
So do you think I will die for Bailey . .
. or do you think Bailey will die for me?

The high school band played a medley of
patriotic songs that Mr. Morgan, the band teacher, had surely
drilled into them. Fern knew them all. She wished she was still in
high school so she could play along on her clarinet. It would give
her something to do besides shiver and huddle with her parents,
clapping along with the tinny tunes, watching the pathetic attempt
at a parade straggle down Main Street. The whole town was out, but
March in Pennsylvania is a terrible time for a parade. The roads
had been cleared and the weather had held so far, but the
threatening snowstorm made the day fittingly gray for the big send
off. The boys had finished basic and AIT–advanced individual
training–and their unit had been called up, just like that. They
would be among the first soldiers going directly to Iraq.