Ambrose sneaked little peeks through the opening that separated the bakery display cases and front counter from the working part of the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of Fern, wondering if she had finally decided he wasn't worth her time. She had already been gone by the time he arrived at work the last few nights. He had started coming in earlier and earlier so he could see her–even from behind the bakery window–before she left work for the night. He made excuses to Elliott about things that needed to be done at the bakery, but his dad never questioned it. He was probably glad to see Ambrose out of the house and out of his childhood room, although he would never say so. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.
His psychologist, the one the army made sure he had, told Ambrose that he needed to learn to adjust to his “new reality,” to “come to terms with what had happened to him,” to “find new pursuits and associations.” The job was a start. Ambrose hated to admit that it was actually helping, and he’d been running and lifting weights too. Exercise was the only thing that made him feel something besides despair. So he exercised a lot. Ambrose wondered suddenly if spying would qualify as a “new pursuit.”
He felt like a creep, spying on Fern, but he spied anyway. Tonight, Fern was sweeping the floor singing along with “The Wind Beneath my Wings,” using the broom handle as a microphone. He hated the song, but he found himself smiling as he watched her swaying back and forth, singing in a slightly off-key but not-unpleasant soprano. She moved her pile of dirt until she was directly in front of the bakery counter. She saw him standing in full view and stopped, staring back at him as the last words rang through the empty store. She smiled tentatively, as if he hadn't made her cry just a few nights before, and Ambrose felt the newly acquired fight or flight reaction that flooded him anytime someone looked directly at him.
Fern had turned up the music that trickled out of the store's sound system until it felt more like a skating rink than a grocery store. The tunes were a benign mix of soft hits designed to put shoppers in a coma as they perused the aisles for items they could probably do without. Ambrose suddenly longed for a little Def Leppard, complete with full-throated wailing and high-powered choruses.
Suddenly, Fern dropped the broom and ran for the front doors. Ambrose stepped out from the kitchen, rounding the counter, slightly alarmed that something was wrong. Fern was unlocking the sliding doors and pushing one aside to allow Bailey Sheen to roll through in his wheelchair. Then she pulled it back and relocked it, chattering with Bailey as she did.
Ambrose tried not to smile. Really he did. But Bailey was wearing a headlamp on his head, a giant one, with thick elastic bands that wrapped around his head like one of those old-fashioned retainers. It was the kind of headlamp he imagined miners would wear as they tunneled into the earth. It was so bright Ambrose winced, covering his good eye and turning away.
“What the hell are you wearing, Sheen?”
Fern's head whipped around, obviously surprised that he had ventured out from the confines of the bakery.
Bailey wheeled past Fern and kept rolling toward Ambrose. Bailey didn't act surprised to see him there, and though his eyes were locked on Ambrose's face, he didn't react at all to the changes in Ambrose's appearance. Instead, he rolled his eyes and wrinkled his brow, trying to look up at the klieg light strapped to his forehead.
“Help me out, man. My mom makes me wear this damn thing whenever I'm out at night. She's convinced I'm going to get run over. I can't take it off by myself.”
Ambrose reached out, still grimacing at the blazing bluish-white light. He pulled the lamp from Bailey's head and snapped the light off. Bailey's hair stood up on end, and Fern smoothed it down absentmindedly as she walked up behind him. It was a touching gesture, maternal even. She patted Bailey's hair into place as if she had done it a thousand times before, and Ambrose realized suddenly that she probably had. Fern and Bailey had been friends for as long as he could remember. Obviously, Fern had become accustomed to doing things for Bailey that he couldn't do for himself, without him asking or even realizing what she was doing.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Bailey, surprised that Bailey was roaming the streets in his wheelchair at eleven o'clock.
“Karaoke, baby.”
“Karaoke?”
“Yep. Haven't done it in a while, and we've been getting complaints from the produce section. Seems the carrots have formed a Bailey Sheen fan club. Tonight is for the fans. Fern's got quite a following in the frozen foods.”