“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?
10: Be a Soldier
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.
And then Ambrose was there, marching right by her, close enough to touch. His hair was gone. His beautiful hair. But his face was unchanged--strong jaw, perfect lips, smooth skin, dark eyes. After that last night at the lake, she had gone through all the stages. Anger, humiliation, anger again. And then her anger had faded as she'd remembered how it had felt to have her mouth pressed to his.
Ambrose had kissed her. She didn't understand why he had kissed her. She didn't let herself believe it was because he had suddenly fallen in love with her. It hadn't felt that way. It hadn't felt like love. It had felt like an apology. And after weeks of yo-yoing between embarrassment and fury, she’d decided that she could accept his apology. With acceptance came forgiveness, and with forgiveness, all the old feelings she'd harbored for so long crept right back into their familiar places in her heart, and the anger dissipated like an unpleasant dream.
Fern tried to call out, tried to be brave this once, but her voice merely squeaked in a timid cry, his name whisked from her lips as soon as it was released. His eyes stayed straight forward, unaware of her gaze on his face and her attempt to draw his attention. He was taller than the men around him, making him easy to track as he continued down the street.
She didn't see Paulie, Grant, Beans or Jesse, though she saw Marley, Jesse's pregnant girlfriend later at the Frosty Freeze, her face blotchy from tears, her belly protruding from the puffy jacket that would no longer close over her mid-section. Fern felt a brief flash of jealousy. The drama of being left behind by a handsome soldier was almost delicious in its tragedy, so much so that Fern went home and plotted out a whole new story about two lovers separated by war.
And then they were gone, across the sea, in a world of heat and sand, a world that didn't really exist, not for Fern, at least. And maybe not for the people of Hannah Lake, simply because it was so far away, so far removed from anything they knew. And life went on as it had before. The town prayed and loved and hurt and lived. The yellow ribbons Fern had helped tie around the trees looked jaunty and crisp for about two weeks. But the spring sleet continually raked the cheerful bows with sharp, icy claws, and before long the ribbons surrendered, wind-torn and weary. And the clock ticked quietly.
Six months went by. In that time, Rita delivered a baby boy and Marley Davis had her baby too–a boy she named Jesse after his daddy. Fern added a new chapter in her romance about war-torn lovers and gave them a child, a girl named Jessie. She couldn't help herself. Whenever Marley came into the store, Fern would yearn to hold her baby and could only imagine how Jesse must feel, thousands of miles away. She composed letters to Ambrose, wrote about the goings-on in Hannah Lake, the humorous things she saw, the stats of the high school sports teams, the books she read, her promotion at the grocery store to night manager, the funny things she wanted to say but was never brave enough to utter. And she signed them: Yours, Fern.