Making Faces (18 page)

One man, whom Fern assumed was the chaplain
who had called her father, briefed the pastor on the procedure,
giving him the information that he knew, asking advice on whom to
inform first, on who might have family that they would need to
gather from distances, who would need the most support. Fifteen
minutes later the four men, including Pastor Taylor, drove off.

Jamie Kimball was the first to receive the
news that her son Paul was dead. Then Grant Nielson's family was
delivered the news that their twenty-year-old son, their big
brother, the kid with good grades and perfect attendance would be
coming home in a casket. Jesse Jordan's estranged parents were
notified and then had the unenviable task of escorting the officers
to the home of their little grandson and telling Marley Davis there
would be no wedding in the fall. Luisa O'Toole ran from her house
shrieking when the non-commissioned officer who spoke fluent
Spanish extended his heartfelt condolences. Seamus O'Toole wept and
clung to Pastor Taylor.

The news spread through the town like
wildfire–early morning joggers and dog walkers saw the black car
with the uniformed men inside and gossip and speculation tumbled
out of mouths and into ears before the truth made its way on slower
legs through the devastated town. Elliott Young was at the bakery
when early word reached him that Paul Kimball and Grant Nielson
were dead and that the black car was still parked outside the
O'Toole's home. He hid in the bakery's freezer for half an hour,
praying for his son's life, praying the uniformed men wouldn't find
him . . . surely if they couldn't find him then they couldn't tell
him his son was dead too.

But they did find him. Mr. Morgan, the
grocery store owner, opened the freezer to tell him the officers
were there. Elliott Young shook from cold and terror as he received
the news. And he collapsed into the arms of Joshua Taylor when he
heard his son was alive. Alive, but gravely injured. He had been
flown to Ramstein Airbase in Germany where he would stay until he
was stable enough to bring back to the US. If he lived that
long.

The roles of a pastor and his family in a
community are to love and serve first. That was Pastor Joshua's
philosophy. So that's what he did. And Rachel and Fern did their
utmost to do the same. 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. So there was a lot to
do.

The bodies of the four boys were flown home
to their families. Funeral services were organized and held, four
days in a row, four days of unimaginable grief. The surrounding
counties pitched in and raised several thousand dollars for a
memorial. The boys wouldn't be buried in the town cemetery, but on
a little hill overlooking the high school. Luisa O'Toole had
protested initially, wanting to have her son buried in some remote
border town in Mexico where her parents were buried. But for once,
Seamus O'Toole stood up to his fiery spouse and insisted that his
son be buried in the country he had died serving, in the town that
mourned his loss, with the friends who had lost their lives beside
him.

Ambrose Young was flown to Walter Reed
Medical Center and Elliott Young closed his bakery to be with him,
only to have the townsfolk pitch in and reopen it, keeping it
running for him while he was away. Everyone knew Elliott couldn't
afford to lose the business or the income.

Ambrose's name graced the marquee again. Only
this time it simply said “Pray for Ambrose.” And they did, as he
had surgery after surgery to repair his damaged face. Rumors
circulated that he was horribly disfigured. Some said he was blind.
Some claimed he could no longer speak. He would never wrestle
again. What a waste. What a tragedy.

But eventually the plea for prayers was taken
down, the flags in the windows were removed and life in Hannah Lake
resumed. The townsfolk were battered. Their hearts were broken.
Luisa O'Toole boycotted the bakery because she claimed it was
Ambrose's fault her son was dead. It was his fault they were all
dead. She spat whenever someone said his name. People tsked and
hemmed. But some secretly agreed with her. Deep down they wondered
why he hadn't just stayed home. Why hadn't they all stayed
home?

Elliott Young returned to work eventually,
after taking out a second mortgage on his home and selling
everything he owned of any value. But he still had his son, unlike
the others, and he didn't complain about the financial hardship.
Ambrose's mother and Elliott took turns at Ambrose's side and six
months after he'd been flown out of Iraq, Ambrose came home to
Hannah Lake.

For weeks, talk was thick and curiosity ran
rampant. There was talk of a parade or a ceremony of some sort to
celebrate Ambrose's homecoming. But Elliott made excuses and
apologies. Ambrose didn't feel up to a celebration of any kind.
People accepted that, albeit reluctantly. And they waited a little
longer before they started asking again. More months went by.
Nobody saw him. Rumors started up again about his injuries and some
asked the question, if he was truly that disfigured what kind of
life could he really have? Some people wondered if it wouldn't have
been better if he had just died with his friends. Coach Sheen and
Bailey tried to see him many times but were turned away . . . many
times.

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.

Ambrose knew what it felt like to be whole,
to be perfect, to be Hercules. How cruel to suddenly fall from such
heights. Life had given Ambrose another face and Fern wondered if
he would ever be able to accept it.

Riding home on her bike after work was as
second nature as finding her way through the hallways of her home
in the dark. Fern had done it a hundred times, finding her way home
around midnight without noticing the familiar houses and streets
around her, her mind often somewhere else completely. She was the
night manager at Jolley's Grocery Store. She’d started at Jolley's
her sophomore year in high school, bagging groceries, sweeping
floors. She eventually worked her way into a cashier position and
finally, last year, Mr. Morgan had given her a title, a small
raise, and the keys to the store so she could close it up five
nights a week.

She was probably riding too fast. She could
admit that now, but she hadn't expected a giant grizzly bear
running on his hind legs to come around the corner as she turned
onto her street. She yelped, yanking her handlebars to the left to
avoid a collision. Her bike flew over the curb and up onto the
grass before it struck a fire hydrant and she was propelled over
the handle bars onto the Wallace's well-kept front lawn. She lay
there for a minute, gasping to recapture the air that had been
forcibly expelled from her chest. Then she remembered the bear. She
scrambled to her feet, wincing, and turned to retrieve her
bike.

“Are you okay?” the bear growled behind
her.

Fern yelped again and jerked around, finding
herself about ten feet from Ambrose Young. Her heart dropped like a
two-ton anchor and rooted her to the spot. He was holding her bike
up, which looked a bit mangled from the impact with the fire
hydrant. He wore a snug, black, sweatshirt with a hood that hung
low on his forehead. He kept his face averted as he spoke to her
and the streetlight cast his face in partial shadow. But it was
Ambrose Young, no doubt about it. He didn't look wounded. He was
still huge, the width of his shoulders and length of his arms and
legs still impressively muscled, at least as far as she could tell.
He had on a pair of fitted black knit pants and black running
shoes, which was obviously what he had been doing when she mistook
him for a bear running down the middle of the road.

“I think so,” she answered breathlessly, not
believing her eyes. Ambrose was standing there, whole, strong,
alive. “Are you? I just about ran you over. I wasn't paying
attention. I'm so sorry.”

His eyes darted to her face and away again,
and he kept his face angled to the side, like he couldn't wait to
be on his way.

“We went to school together, didn't we?” he
asked quietly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other,
the way an athlete does when they are preparing for an event. He
seemed nervous, jittery even.

Fern felt a stab of pain–the hurt that comes
when a life-long crush acknowledges that you look vaguely familiar,
but nothing more.

“Ambrose, it's me. Fern?” Fern said
hesitantly. “Bailey's cousin, Couch Sheen's niece . . . Rita's
friend?”

Ambrose Young's gaze shot to her face again
and held. He was staring at her from the corner of his eye, keeping
one side of his face in the shadows, and Fern wondered if his neck
was hurt, making turning his head painful.

“Fern?” he repeated hesitantly.

“Uh, yeah.” Now it was Fern's turn to look
away. She wondered if he too was remembering the love notes and the
kiss at the lake.

“You don't look the same,” Ambrose said
bluntly.

“Um, thank you. That's kind of a relief,”
Fern said honestly. Ambrose looked surprised and his mouth quirked
ever so slightly. Fern felt herself smiling along with him.

“The frame is a little bent. You should try
it. See if you can make it home.” Ambrose pushed the bike toward
her, and Fern grasped the handles, taking it from his hands. For a
second, the light from the streetlight hit him squarely in the
face. Fern felt her eyes widen, the breath catching in her throat.
Ambrose must have heard the swift intake of breath, because his
gaze locked on hers for a heartbeat before he pulled back. Then he
turned and was running swiftly in smooth strides down the road, the
black of his clothing melding with the darkness and obscuring him
from view almost immediately. Fern watched him go, frozen in place.
She wasn't the only one who didn't look the same.