Fern's hand slipped into Ambrose’s and her feet found purchase on the rocky bottom beside his own. And just like that the memory lost its bite. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, not caring if Bailey gave him grief. Maybe the Tin Man was coming back to life. Maybe he had a heart after all.
They swam around for about an hour, Bailey floating happily, Fern and Ambrose paddling around him, laughing and splashing each other until Bailey claimed he was turning into a raisin. Then Ambrose carried Bailey to his chair and Fern and Ambrose lay out on the rocks, letting the sun dry their clothes. Fern was wearing the most and was definitely the wettest, and her shoulders and nose started to show signs of sunburn, the backs of her pale thighs turning a soft pink. Her hair dried into deep red ringlets, falling down her back and into her eyes as she smiled at him drowsily, half asleep on the big warm rock. He felt a strange, falling sensation in his chest and lifted his hand to rub the spot just above his heart, as if he could soothe the feeling and send it away. It was happening more and more often when he was around her.
“Brose?” Bailey's voice cut through his reverie.
“Yeah?”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Bailey informed him.
Ambrose froze, the implications clear.
“So you can either take me home pronto, or you can accompany me to yon forest.” Bailey nodded toward the trees surrounding Hannah Lake. “I hope you brought toilet paper. But either way, you're going to have to quit looking at Fern like you want to gobble her up, because it's making me hungry, and I can't be responsible for my behavior when I'm hungry and I need to use the can.”
And just like that the mood was broken.
November 22, 2003
Dear Marley,
I've never written you a love note, have I? Did you know Ambrose wrote love letters back and forth senior year with Rita Marsden only to find out Rita wasn't writing them? It was Fern Taylor, the little redhead who hangs out with Coach's son, Bailey. In the beginning, Paulie gave Ambrose the idea to use poetry, but I actually think Ambrose was really enjoying himself until Rita dumped him and told him it had been Fern all along. Ambrose doesn't show a lot of emotion, but he was pretty pissed. We teased him about Fern Taylor for the rest of the year. The thought of Ambrose with Fern is pretty funny. He didn't think so. He still gets real quiet if we even mention her name. It got me thinking that I've never been very good at communicating, and it reminded how far some people will go to get a message across.
We've been on a rotation guarding some prisoners before they are transferred out of Baghdad. Sometimes it takes a few weeks before we have a place to send them. It's amazing the lengths the Iraqi prisoners go to to communicate with each other. They make clay by mixing their chai (tea) with dirt and sand. Then they write little messages on pieces of napkin or cloth and put them inside the clay ball (we call them chai rocks) and let it dry out. Then they toss the chai rocks they’ve made into different cells when the guards aren't looking. I couldn't think of anything to write today, and that got me wondering if I only had a little slip of paper to tell you how I feel, what would I say? I love you seems kind of unoriginal. But I do. I love you, and I love little Jesse even though I haven't met him. I can't wait to come home and be a better man, because I think I can be, and I promise I'm gonna try. So here's your first official love note. Hope you like it. Grant made sure I used good grammar and spelled everything right. It pays to have smart friends.
Love,
Jesse
Ambrose stood outside Fern's house and wondered how he was going to get inside. He could throw rocks at her window–hers was the one on the ground floor on the back left side. He could serenade her and wake up the neighborhood . . . and her parents, which wouldn't help him get inside either. And he really wanted to get inside. It was one a.m., and unfortunately, his baker’s hours had screwed up his sleep schedule, making rest impossible on the nights he didn't work. He didn’t sleep well anyway – ever. Hadn’t since Iraq. His shrink told him bad dreams were normal. She told him he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. No shit, Sherlock.
But it was the need to see Fern that was messing with his ability to sleep tonight. It had been hours since she'd dropped him off and taken Bailey home. Only hours. But he missed her.
He pulled out his phone, a much more logical option than communicating by throwing rocks or playing musical Romeo.
Are you awake? he texted, hoping, praying her phone was by her bed.
He waited only twenty seconds before his phone vibrated in response.
Yes.
Can I see you?
Yes. Where are you?
Outside.
Outside my house?
Yep. Are you freaked out? I've been told I'm scary looking. I even thought about climbing through your window, but monsters supposedly live under the bed or in closets.