Making Faces(34)

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.”