Making Faces (42 page)

Bailey's final resting place was nestled to
the left of his Grandpa Sheen, Fern's grandpa too. Jessica Sheen
laid just beyond, a woman who died of cancer when her son, Mike,
was only nine years old. Rachel, Fern's mother, had been nineteen
when her mother died, and she lived at home and helped her father
raise her little brother, Mike, until he graduated from high school
and left for college. As a result, the bond between Rachel and Mike
was more like parent and child than brother and sister.

Grandpa James Sheen was in his seventies when
Fern and Bailey were born, and he passed when they were five years
old. Fern remembered him vaguely, the shock of white hair and the
bright blue eyes that he'd passed down to his children, Mike and
Rachel. Bailey had inherited those eyes as well–lively, intense.
Eyes that saw everything and soaked it all up. Fern had her
father's eyes, a deep warm brown that comforted and consoled, a
deep brown the color of the earth that was piled high next to the
deep hole in the ground.

Fern found her father's eyes as he began to
speak, his slightly gravelly voice reverent in the soft air,
conviction making his voice shake. As they listened to the
heartfelt dedication, Fern felt Ambrose shudder as if the words had
found a resting place inside of him.

“I don't think we get answers to every
question. We don't get to know all the whys. But I think we will
look back at the end of our lives, if we do the best we can, and we
will see that the things that we begged God to take from us, the
things we cursed him for, the things that made us turn our backs on
him or any belief in him, are the things that were the biggest
blessings, the biggest opportunities for growth.” Pastor Taylor
paused as if gathering his final thoughts. Then he searched out his
daughter's face among the mourners. “Bailey was a blessing . . .
and I believe that we will see him again. He isn't gone
forever.”

But he was gone for now, and now stretched on
into endless days without him. His absence was like the hole in the
ground–gaping and impossible to ignore. And the hole Bailey left
would take a lot longer to fill. Fern clung to Ambrose's hand and
when her father said 'Amen' and people began to disperse, Fern
stayed glued to the spot, unable to move, to leave, to turn her
back on the hole. One by one, people approached her, patting her
hand, embracing her, until finally only Angie and Mike remained
with Ambrose and Fern.

Sunlight dappled the ground, bending around
the foliage and finding the floor, creating lace made of light and
delicate shrouds over the heads of the four who remained. And then
Angie moved to Fern and they clung to each other, overcome with the
pain of parting and the agony of farewell.

“I love you, Fern,” Angie held her niece's
face in her hands as she kissed her cheeks. “Thank you for loving
my boy. Thank you for serving him, for never leaving his side. What
a blessing you've been in our lives. “ Angie looked at Ambrose
Young, at his strong body and straight back, at the hand that
enveloped Fern's. She let her eyes rest on the sober face marked by
his own tragedy, and she spoke to him.

“It always amazes me how people are placed in
our lives at exactly the right times. That's how God works, that's
how he takes care of his children. He gave Bailey Fern. And now
Fern needs her own angel.” Angie placed her hands on Ambrose’s
broad shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye, unashamed of
her own emotion, demanding that he listen. “You're it, pal.”

Fern gasped and blushed to the roots of her
bright red hair, and Ambrose smiled, a slow curve of his crooked
mouth. But Angie wasn't done and she removed one of her hands from
Ambrose's shoulder so she could pull Fern into the circle. Ambrose
looked over Angie's blonde head and locked eyes with his old coach.
Mike Sheen's blue eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, his cheeks
wet with grief, but he tipped his head when Ambrose met his gaze as
if he seconded his wife's sentiments.

“Bailey was probably more prepared to die
than anyone I've ever known. He wasn't eager for it, but he wasn't
afraid of it either,” Angie said with conviction, and Ambrose
looked away from his coach and listened to a wise mother's words.
“He was ready to go. So we have to let him go.” She kissed Fern
again and the tears fell once more. “It's okay to let him go,
Fern.”

Angie took a deep breath and stepped back,
dropping her hands, and releasing them from her gaze. Then, with an
acceptance born of years of trial, she reached for her husband's
hand, and together they left the quiet spot where the birds sang
and a casket waited to be blanketed in the earth, secure in the
faith that it wasn't the end.

Fern walked to the hole and crouching down
she pulled a handful of rocks from the pockets of her black dress.
Carefully, she formed the letters B S at the foot of the grave.

“Beautiful Spider?” Ambrose said softly, just
beyond her left shoulder, and Fern smiled, amazed that he
remembered.

“Beautiful Sheen. Beautiful Bailey Sheen.
That's how I'll always remember him.”

“He wanted you to have this.” Mike Sheen
placed a big book in Ambrose's hands. “Bailey was always
designating his belongings. Everything in his room has a specified
owner. See? He's written your name on the inside.”

Sure enough,
“For Ambrose”
was written
inside the cover. It was the book on mythology, the book Bailey had
been reading that long ago day at summer wrestling camp when Bailey
had introduced Ambrose to Hercules.

“I'll leave you two for a minute. I think I'm
okay . . . but then I come in here and realize that he's really
gone. And I'm not okay anymore.” Bailey's father tried to smile,
but the attempt made his lips tremble and he turned and fled from
the room redolent with Bailey's memory. Fern pulled her legs up and
rested her chin on her knees, closing her eyes against the tears
that Ambrose could see leaking out the sides. Bailey's parents had
asked them to come by, that Bailey had belongings that he had
wanted them to have. But it could wait.

“Fern? We can go. We don't have to do this
now,” Ambrose offered.

“It hurts to be here. But it hurts not to be
here too.” She shrugged and blinked rapidly. “I'm okay.” She wiped
at her cheeks and pointed to the book in his hands. “Why did he
want you to have that book?”

Ambrose flipped through the pages of the
book, not pausing for the mighty Zeus or the big-breasted nymphs.
With the book heavy in his hands and the memory heavy in his heart,
he kept turning until he found the section and the picture he'd
thought of many times since that day.

The Face of a Hero
. Ambrose understood
it so much better now. The sorrow on the bronze face, the hand on a
breaking heart. Guilt was a heavy burden, even for a mythological
champion.

“Hercules,” Ambrose said, knowing that Fern
would understand.

He raised the book so Fern could see the
pages he perused. When he held it upright, turning it so she could
see, the thick pages fell forward, fanning out before he could
smooth them back, and a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the
ground.

Fern leaned down to retrieve it, sliding it
open to ascertain its importance. Her eyes moved back and forth and
her lips moved as she read the words printed on the page.

“It's his list,” she whispered, her voice
colored with surprise.

“What list?”

“The date says July 22, 1994.”

“Eleven years ago.” Ambrose said.

“We were ten. Bailey's last summer,” Fern
remembered.

“His last summer?”

“Before he was in a wheelchair. Everything
happened that summer. Bailey's disease became very real.”

“So what does it say?” Ambrose crossed to
Fern and sat beside her, looking at the sheet of lined paper with
the fringe still attached, where Bailey had ripped it from a
notebook. The handwriting was juvenile, the items listed in a long
column with details listed out to the side.

“
Kiss Rita
?
Get married
?”
Ambrose chortled. “Even at ten, Bailey was in love.”

“Always. From day one.” Fern giggled. “
Eat
pancakes every day
,
Invent a time machine
,
Tame a
lion, Make friends with a monster.
You can tell he's ten,
huh?

Ambrose chuckled too, his eyes skimming the
dreams and desires of a ten-year-old Bailey. “
Beat up a
bully
,
Be a superhero or a super star
,
Ride in a
police car, Get a tattoo.
Typical boy.”

“
Live. Have courage.
Be a good
friend
.
Always be grateful
.
Take care of Fern
,”
Fern whispered.

“Maybe not so typical,” Ambrose said, his own
throat closing with emotion. They were quiet for several long
moments, their hands entwined, the page growing blurry as they
fought the moisture in their eyes.

“He did so many of these things, Ambrose,”
Fern choked out. “Maybe not in the typical way, but he did them . .
. or helped someone else do them.” Fern handed Ambrose the page.
“Here. It belongs in your book. Number four says
Meet
Hercules
.” Fern pointed at the list. “To him, you were
Hercules.”

Ambrose pressed the precious document back
between the pages of the Hercules chapter, and one word leaped from
the page.
Wrestle
. Bailey hadn't clarified the word, hadn't
added anything to it. He'd just written it on the line and moved to
the next thing on his bucket list. Ambrose closed the book on the
pages of long ago dreams and ancient champions.

Hercules had tried to make amends, to balance
the scales, to atone for the murder of his wife and three children,
the four lives he had taken. And though some would say he was not
to blame, that it was temporary madness sent by a jealous goddess,
he was still responsible. For a time, Hercules had even held the
weight of the heavens on his shoulders, convincing Atlas to
surrender the weight of the world to his willing back.

But Ambrose wasn't a god with super-human
strength and this wasn't ancient mythology. And some days, Ambrose
feared he more closely resembled a monster than a hero. The four
lives he felt responsible for were lost, and no amount of labor or
penance would bring them back. But he could live. And he could
wrestle, and if there was a place beyond this life where young men
lived on and heroes like Bailey walked again, when the whistle blew
and the mat was slapped, they would smile and know he wrestled for
them.

Fern returned to work a few days after
Bailey's funeral. Mr. Morgan had covered for her for almost a week
and he needed her to come back. It was easier than staying home and
moping, and Ambrose would be there at the end of her shift. By ten
o'clock Fern was exhausted. Ambrose took one look at her and told
her to go home. Which prompted tears and insecurity from Fern,
which prompted kisses and reassurances from Ambrose, which led to
passion and frustration, which led to Ambrose telling her to go
home. And the cycle repeated.