Making Faces(25)

“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.

Fern blew on her icy fingers and her cheeks were as red as her blazing hair. And then the soldiers came. They were dressed in desert camo and lace-up boots with caps snug on their shorn heads. Fern found herself jumping up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of Ambrose. The unit was made up of recruits from the entire southwestern portion on Pennsylvania. The soldiers were making their way through several small towns on convoys made up of a long string of military vehicles, Humvees, and an occasional tank just for the theater of it. Every soldier blended with the next, a swarm of the same, and Fern wondered if that was somehow merciful–take away their individuality so saying goodbye wasn't so personal.