“I dreamed about Bailey,” Rita's voice was slurred and Sarah didn't interrupt, knowing she was fading fast. “I dreamed Ty was crying and Bailey came and got him and took him for a ride in his wheelchair. He said 'Let Mommy sleep.' I was so glad because I was so tired. I couldn't even lift my head. Funny dream, huh?”
Sarah just patted Rita's hand and tried not to cry. She would have to tell Rita about Bailey. But not yet. Now she had something more important to do. When she was sure her daughter was fast asleep and wouldn't miss her, she called the police.
31: Always Be Grateful
The window was open. Just like it always was. The wind made the curtains flutter slightly and the blinds banged against the sill every now and again when an impudent gust would make an attempt to come inside. It wasn't that late, just after dark. But Fern had been up for thirty-six hours and she fell into her bed, needing the sleep that would come in fits and starts, interspersed with crying that hurt her head and made breathing impossible.
After they left the hospital, left Bailey in the hands of those who would carry out an autopsy and then transfer him to the mortuary, Fern and her parents spent the day with Angie and Mike at their home, acting as a buffer between the well-wishers and the grieving parents, accepting food and condolences with gratitude and making sure they offered comfort in return. Ambrose went back to the store to help his father and she and Rachel kept Ty with them so Sarah could stay with Rita. Becker had run off and no one knew where he was.
Angie and Mike seemed shell-shocked but were composed and ended up giving more comfort than they received. Bailey's sisters had been there as well, along with their husbands and children. The mood was one of both sorrow and celebration. Celebration for a life well-lived and a son well-loved, and sorrow for the end that had come without warning. There were tears shed, but there was laughter too. More laughter than was probably appropriate, which Bailey would have enjoyed. Fern had laughed, too, surrounded by the people who had loved Bailey most, comforted by the bond they shared.
When Sarah came to get Ty that evening, reporting that Rita was going to be okay, Fern had stumbled gratefully to her room seeking comfort in solitude. But when she was finally alone, the truth of Bailey's absence started to push through her defenses, riddling her heart with the pricking pain of precious memories–words he would never say again, expressions that would never again cross his face, places they wouldn't go, time they wouldn't spend together. He was gone. And she hurt. More than she’d thought was possible. She prepared for bed at nine o'clock, brushing her teeth, pulling on a tank top and some pajama bottoms, washing her swollen eyes with cold water only to feel the heat of emotion swell in them once more as she burrowed her face in the towel, as if she could snuff out the knowledge that throbbed at her temples.
But sleep would not come and her grief was amplified by her loneliness. She wished for reprieve, but found none in the darkness of her small room. When the blinds clanked loudly and a flicker of light from the street lamp outside danced across her wall, she didn't turn toward the window, but sighed, keeping her heavy eyes closed.
When she felt a hand smooth the hair that lay against her shoulders, she flinched, but the flash of fear was almost immediately replaced with a flood of welcome.
“Fern?”
Fern knew the hand that touched her. She lay still, letting Ambrose stroke her hair. His hand was warm and large, and the weight of it anchored her. She rolled toward him on her narrow bed, and found his eyes in the darkness. Always in the darkness. He was crouched by her bed, his upper body outlined against the pale rectangle of her window, and his shoulders seemed impossibly wide against the soft backdrop.
His hand faltered as he saw her swollen eyes and her tear-stained face. Then he resumed his ministrations, smoothing the fiery strands from her cheeks, catching her tears in the palm of his hand.
“He's gone, Ambrose.”
“I know.”
“I can't stand it. It hurts so bad that I want to die too.”
“I know,” he repeated softly, his voice steady.
And Fern knew that he did. He understood, maybe better than anyone else could.
“How did you know I needed you?” Fern whispered in broken tones.
“Because I needed you,” Ambrose confessed without artifice, his voice thick with heartache.
Fern sat up and his arms enveloped her, pulling her into him as he sank to his knees. She was small and he was wonderfully large and he enfolded her against his chest. She nestled into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sinking into his lap like a child who had been lost and then found, reunited with the one she loved most.
It was a testament to Ambrose's love for her, the length of time in which he knelt on the hard floor with Fern in his arms, letting her sorrow wash over and through him. His knees ached in steady concert with the heavy ache in his chest, but it was a different pain than he'd felt when he'd lost Beans, Jesse, Paulie and Grant in Iraq. That pain had been infused with guilt and shock and there had been no understanding to temper the agony. This pain, this loss, he could shoulder, and he would shoulder it for Fern as best he could.
“It wouldn't hurt so badly if I didn't love him so much. That's the irony of it,” Fern said after a while, her voice scratchy and thick with tears. “The happiness of knowing Bailey, of loving him, is part of the pain now. You can't have one without the other.”
“What do you mean?” Ambrose whispered, his lips against her hair.
“Think about it. There isn't heartache if there hasn't been joy. I wouldn't feel loss if there hadn't been love. You couldn't take my pain away without removing Bailey from my heart. I would rather have this pain now then never have known him. I just have to keep reminding myself of that.”