Making Faces(86)

“I don't want to leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see that bastard dragging her away . . . sorry, sir.” Ambrose apologized, although he really wasn't sure what other word he could have used to describe Becker Garth.

“That's okay, Ambrose. My sentiments exactly,” Joshua Taylor smiled wanly. His eyes roved over Ambrose's face, and Ambrose knew it wasn't because of his scars. They were they eyes of a father, trying to ascertain the intentions of a man who was clearly in love with his daughter.

“I'll make you a bed down here.” He nodded once and turned, walking away from the door, motioning for Ambrose to follow. He moved as if he'd aged ten years in the last week, and Ambrose realized suddenly how old Joshua Taylor really was. He had to be twenty-five years older than Elliott, which would put him at seventy. Ambrose had never really thought about Fern's parents, never really looked at them, the way he'd never really looked at Fern until that night at the lake.

They must have been fairly old when Fern was born. How would it feel to discover you were having a child when you never thought you would? How the pendulum could swing! Such immeasurable joy at welcoming a miracle into the world, such unfathomable pain when that child is taken from the world. Tonight Joshua Taylor had almost lost his miracle, and Ambrose had witnessed a miracle.

The Pastor took a flat sheet, a pillow, and an old pink quilt out of a linen closet, walked into the family room, and began making up the couch as if he'd done it a hundred times.

“I've got it, sir. Please. I can do that.” Ambrose rushed to relieve him of the duty, but Fern's father waved him off and continued tucking the sheet securely into the cushions and folding it in half so Ambrose could tuck himself inside like a taco.

“There. You'll be comfortable here. Sometimes when I've got a lot on my mind and don't want to keep Rachel awake, I come down here. I've spent a lot of nights on this couch. You're longer than I am, but I think you'll be fine.”

“Thank you, sir.” Joshua Taylor nodded and patted Ambrose on the shoulder. He turned as if to leave, but then paused, looking at the old rug that snuggled up to the couch where Ambrose would sleep.

“Thank you, Ambrose,” he answered, and his voice broke with sudden emotion. “I have often worried that when Bailey died something would happen to Fern. It's an illogical fear, I know, but their lives have been so entwined, so connected. Angie and Rachel even discovered that they were pregnant on the same day. I worried that God had sent Fern for a specific purpose, a specific mission, and when that mission was fulfilled he would take her away.”

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away?”

“Yes . . . something like that.”

“I've always hated that quote.”

Joshua Taylor looked surprised, but continued on. “Tonight, when you called . . . before you even spoke, I knew something had happened. And I prepared myself to hear the news. I've never told Rachel about this. I didn't want her to be afraid with me.” Joshua looked up at Ambrose, and his large brown eyes, eyes so like Fern's, were filled with emotion.

“You've given me hope, Ambrose. Maybe restored my faith a little.”

“Restored mine too,” Ambrose admitted.

Joshua Taylor looked surprised once more and this time he sought clarification. “How so?”

“I wouldn't have heard her scream. I shouldn't have. I had the radio on. And the mixer. Plus, I don't hear all that well to begin with,” Ambrose smiled, just a wry twist of his lips. But this wasn't a moment for levity, and he immediately became grave once more. “I heard Paulie, my friend Paulie. You remember Paul Kimball?”

Joshua Taylor nodded once, a brief affirmation.

“It was like he was standing right next to me, speaking into my ear. He warned me–told me to listen. Paulie was always telling us to listen.”

Joshua Taylor's lips started to tremble and he pressed a hand to his mouth, clearly moved by Ambrose's account.

“Since Iraq, it's been . . . hard . . . for me to believe that there is anything after this life. Or, for that matter, any purpose to this one. We're born, we suffer, we see people we love suffer, we die. It just all seemed so . . . so pointless. So cruel. And so final.” Ambrose paused, letting the memory of Paulie's voice warm him and urge him forward.

“But after tonight, I can't say that anymore. There's a lot I don't understand . . . but not understanding is better than not believing.” Ambrose stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at Joshua Taylor for affirmation. “Does that make any sense at all?”

Joshua Taylor reached for the arm of the nearest chair and sat abruptly, like his legs could no longer bear his weight.

“Yes. Yes. It makes perfect sense,” he said quietly, nodding his head. “Perfect sense.”

Ambrose sat too, the old couch welcoming his weary frame into her folds.

“You're a good man, Ambrose. My daughter loves you. I can tell.”

“I love her,” Ambrose said, but stopped himself from saying more.

“But?” Pastor Taylor asked, the many years of listening to people's problems making him highly aware when someone was holding back.

“But Fern likes to take care of people. I'm worried that my . . . my . . . my . . ‘“ Ambrose couldn't find the words.