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Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart_ 1 page

 

He asked her name and smiled.

It wasn’t the blueness of his eyes or the crinkles around them when he grinned. The brown softness of his hair or the way it curled on the nape of his neck didn’t come close. The masculine beauty of his face; plain, but so much more, and yet nothing more than average wasn’t it either. It wasn’t any of those things that had made her pause and pretend her heart didn’t speed up, though the blush of her skin proved otherwise.

It was all of that and as little as that.

Sara blinked and drew in a ragged breath. Her eyes took in her surroundings, a reminder of where she was and what she was about to do. The park was empty, which was just as well. The wind was picking up, caressing her dark brown hair and sweeping it up and around her head.

She had realized something over the recent months: it didn’t matter who you were or what you’d accomplished in life; none of that mattered when tragedy struck. You had no pull; no power. You had no choice. There was nothing to gamble with; nothing to do to put the odds in your favor. You were there and then you were gone, leaving those around you to realize how insignificant they all really were; leaving them to try to pick up the destroyed pieces. Sara knew now. No one mattered, not really.

The sun, making a brief appearance moments ago, was once again behind the clouds, and it was fitting somehow. Why should the sun shine on this day, as though to applaud her actions? Sara’s flesh was bumpy and tingly and her teeth lightly chattered together.

She looked down and reflexively jerked back. It had seemed so simple earlier, so very easy. Now that she was about to do it, it wasn‘t as uncomplicated as she‘d thought.

“Don’t,” she told herself, “don’t you dare be a coward.”

Sara squeezed her eyes tight against the burning wetness. It trickled past the closed eyelids and made jagged trails down her cold cheeks. He had always loved her eyes, said they were like warm chocolate. Sara let out a shaky laugh. He wouldn’t think they were so lovable right now, would he? The laughter abruptly cut off and Sara forced her eyes open.

It registered in her mind that she was clutching her midsection, as though to hold the pain in, and she let her arms drop to her sides. Inhaling slowly, she stepped toward her destination. Leaves crackled under her shoes and a sob escaped her.

“Leaves make their own music. Listen once. You’ll see what I mean,” he’d told her with a wink and a sweet smile.

She stared straight ahead at the mountain on the other side of the vast river. The mountainside was trees and rocks, and a covering of fog kept it out of focus.

A bird’s cry startled her and she jumped, flinging her arms out to steady herself. Sara’s eyes traveled downward, focusing on the choppy water below. She watched the waves lower and rise, over and over. The river was wide and deep and brown and cold; she knew it would be so cold.

He came home every night from work and before anything else, before he took off his coat or boots or baseball cap, he’d pull her into his arms and hold her close. He’d kiss her forehead and tell her he missed her and he’d smell so good, so familiar, like sunshine and warmth. Like home.



He told her once that if anything ever happened to her, there wouldn’t be enough tears in the world for him to cry.

Sara placed a hand to her mouth.

If she focused really hard, she could almost remember the feel of his arms, the scent of him; that addicting combination of man and soap. His lips had always tasted like cherry Carmex and coffee.

She took a step forward.

Sometimes, when she was really silent and still, she thought she could hear his deep laughter, hear his low voice. He always sounded far away and faint and Sara had to strain her ears to make out his words. But if she thought too hard about it, his voice disappeared, and she was left feeling empty, hollow.

Another step.

They’d bought their first house together. It wasn’t much, just a little two bedroom ranch, but it was theirs. She planted flowers along the front of it, red and pink and yellow ones. Sara kept forgetting to water them and they died. He’d teased her about her green thumb. Then he bought her a fake plant to put outside on the porch.

“This one can’t die ‘cause it ain’t alive,” he’d drawled in that slow country boy way of his. That twang had always been an enigma to Sara, since he’d lived in Wisconsin his whole life.

Sara lined the toes of her scuffed tennis shoes an inch away from the end of Wyalusing State Park. The side of the bluff was jagged rocks and bent trees and dirt. She tried not to look at it. She didn’t want to think about the landing, she didn’t want to think about where that landing might be. She didn’t want to think. Period.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wondering if he could somehow hear her. Sara closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and let her body fall forward.

“Hey!”

The unexpected shout caused Sara to snap her eyes open and flail her arms, which in turn propelled her backward and away from danger. Before she could land on the hard ground, vice-like arms were wrapped around her and pulling her farther and farther away from where she wanted to be. Sara didn’t like the arms around her. She didn’t like what she knew instinctively to be a man holding her that way, the way he’d held her. No one else could hold her that way.

“Get away! Let me go!” she shrieked, kicking her legs out and slapping at the warm flesh.

With a grunt, the arms were suddenly gone. Sara landed on her side in the leaves, the crisp sound of them agonizing to her. She stumbled to her feet, shaking, and turned to face her unwanted rescuer. She didn’t see features or eye or hair color, she didn’t see anything but a person who’d thwarted her plan, a plan it had taken every ounce of her courage to put into motion.

The man asked something. Sara saw his lips move, but there was a buzzing in her ears, blocking out the sound of his voice. She felt numb, like all the energy it had taken to get to that ledge had drained her. She was spent. Sara looked at him, not really seeing him at all, and turned away, back to her car, back to her unnecessary life.

“Hey! Lady! Do you need help?”

Sara walked the short distance to her car, a red four door Pontiac Grand Prix, opened the door, and bent her legs and body into the front seat. She sat with her hand on the keys, looking out the window. She could drive her car over the edge. A vision of her in her vehicle falling, falling, falling into the icy cold water shot through her mind. She saw the car filling up with murky water, she saw herself struggling to get out, to breathe. Sara shuddered. No. Not today.

A knock on the window had her turning her head. Her brown eyes met amber ones. The man motioned for her to roll down her window. She shook her head. He mouthed, “Are you okay? Can I help you?”

Sara stared at him for a long time. He stared back, his brows lowering. She slowly faced forward, turned the key in the ignition, and put the car in reverse.

***

 

Sara sliced a tomato, her eyes fixated on the long serrated blade. She looked at her right wrist, at the way the veins formed an ‘H’. The veins of her left wrist wove a jagged line to her palm. She carefully set the knife down on the counter and turned her attention to her salad.

She sat at the table and forced two bites down her throat. Her body unconsciously turned toward the chair he’d always taken. Sara’s appetite disintegrated as she watched the empty spot, waiting for him to appear and tease her about eating ‘rabbit food’. Abruptly standing up, Sarah threw away the salad. Her eyes skimmed across the kitchen walls, looking through the pale blue wall paint and decorative pieces and white cupboards and remembering him.

“Why do they call them cupboards?” he asked, standing with one lean hip against the counter.

Sara gave him a quizzical look. “Why do they call a door a door? Who knows?”

Cole followed her into the living room to continue the conversation. “But…they’re not boards, not really, and there’s more than just cups in there, so why cupboards? Why not…dinnerware holders? And another thing; why is it spelled like that? ‘Cause when you say it, it comes out like ‘cubberd’, not cup and board together. You see what I’m saying?” he asked, plopping down beside her on the couch and flinging his arm around her shoulders.

“I know you’re saying something, but I’m not sure what.”

To which he responded by grabbing her face and kissing her breathless. “You know what I’m saying and you know I’m right ‘cause I’m always right.”

“I know you think you’re always right.”

He shrugged. “Same difference.”

“In your mind.”

“That’s right, darling, and that’s all that matters. As long as I make sense in my own head, everything’s okay.”

“You’re delusional”

Cole grinned, showing off white teeth that were slightly crooked and completely endearing. “And you love it.”

“I must be delusional,” she said, smiling.

“And I love it.”

Sara took a staggering breath and rubbed her eyes. She was standing in front of the garbage can, an empty plate and fork next to her on the counter. She quickly washed the supper dishes and dried them; putting them in their proper places.

A long, almost unbearably hot shower soothed Sara and she thought maybe, just maybe, this one time she wasn’t crying. But when the water stopped and the wetness continued to trickle down her face, she knew otherwise.

Wrapped in a towel, she combed her long hair and brushed her teeth. When she looked in the mirror, the face she saw was close to unrecognizable. It was too pale and the bone structure was overly prominent. The red and puffy eyes couldn’t be hers. But who else’s could they be? The life had been sucked from her brown eyes, leaving them dead. Her brown hair was limp and hung past her shoulders.

Never one to consider herself beautiful, or even that pretty, Sara had always found it odd that he told her she was on an almost daily basis. She was average. Average in height, in weight, in looks, and yet he’d looked at her like she was incomparable to anyone; like she was more than. The way her nose upturned at the end had forever been a recipient of his kisses. The fullness of her upper lip had repeatedly drawn his finger to it to trace and receive her kiss.

He wouldn’t like seeing you like this, a voice told her.

Sara blinked and turned away.

She quickly dressed in a pink nightshirt and left the bedroom before too many memories ensnared her thoughts. A look at the clock told her it was eight. Sara grabbed a blanket and a pillow from the closet in the bedroom and set up her bed on the couch, as she did every night. Sara lay in the darkness, looking at a ceiling she couldn’t see. She held her hands together to pray, the act so ingrained in her she almost did so without thought, but caught herself in time. Prayers hadn’t helped before. Why would they help now? And what exactly would she pray for?

Restless, she got up and turned the light back on, her agitated fingers continuously twisting the silver-banded ring with the lone diamond it. Around and around it went over her bony left-handed ring finger too small for the ring to properly fit on anymore. Remembering the wedding proposal brought a fleeting smile to her lips. He’d put the ring around a single red rose and presented it to her with an achingly honest speech.

The walls were ivory and bare, but she still saw the framed photographs that used to grace the walls; their first picture taken together; the engagement photo; Christmas; their wedding. A photograph of them making silly faces at the camera. They had been too painful to look at them, day after day; mocking her. Reminding her of what she’d lost. Sara had taken them down and put them in a box and in the garage they now resided.

Her eyes landed on the pale green recliner that had been his. He‘d complained about the girly color at first, but it hadn‘t been long before it was his favorite place to sit. Sara ran a trembling hand along the back of it, leaning down to sniff its scent. Pain, sharp and immobilizing, shot through her. It didn’t smell like him anymore. When had his scent disappeared? It was one more thing she’d lost of him, and the knowledge was too much to bear.

Sara grabbed the blanket from the couch and climbed onto the recliner, pretending his arms were around her holding her close. She curled into a ball, huddled beneath the cover, and wept until she fell into a fitful sleep.

The nightmares began with a flourish, as they did almost every night. Her mind replayed the otherworldliness of it; how it had started in slow-motion and still somehow ended before she knew what had happened. In Sara’s mind she saw the smile that had mutated to horror, the instant pain, the smell of blood, and the heat; the screech of heavy metal crashing and the eerie silence that had followed.

Sara awoke screaming, tangled in the blanket. She struggled to free herself, to sit upright. Covered in sweat and shaking, her heart slammed against her chest. And of course, there were the tears. They streamed down her cheeks, warm and unwanted, and dropped onto her lap. Sara covered her face with her hands and rocked forward and backward, trying to remove the images from her mind. She would cut them out if she could.

A kaleidoscope of that final moment with him raced through her brain. His smile she loved, the striking blue of his eyes, warm with love and happiness; his hand on her shoulder. Sara squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t block the remembrance of his grip tightening painfully, and then jerking away, as though something wrenched him from her. The shouts ripped from his lips. The fear on his face. But not for him; for her. Always for her.

She found it strange the way she remembered it all; as though she had watched it from afar and her eyes had seen him and nothing else. Nothing but him had registered. Which made it that much more terrible. Because that’s what she remembered, what she relived, every single day.

Him.

In fine detail.

Dying.

***

 

“You have to move on.”

Sara looked at her clasped hands. “I can’t.”

“You have to. It’s not a matter of can or will; it’s have to.”

“He’ll come back.”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Sara pressed her lips together and watched her fingers go white in her lap. “This is all a dream.”

“This is reality. He’s gone, you’re not. Live, Sara.”

“He’s not gone, not really.”

“Yes. He is.”

She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “No.”

“He wouldn’t want this.”

The tears, her ever-present companion, showed themselves. “I know,” she whispered.

“It’s been over a year.”

Her eyelids slowly closed against the pain those words evoked. One year. Had it been so long? Had it been so short?

“I know.”

“Sara.”

She stopped rocking in her chair, and then wondered how long she’d been rocking without knowing it.

“Sara.”

Her eyes opened. Sara jumped to her feet and looked around the room. It was empty. Her house was empty, like it should be, like it always was. She frowned and rubbed her forehead. It pounded. Her hands shook. It was happening again. Not again. She was losing her mind; she had to be losing her mind. There was no one there. On top of everything else, she was mad. But if she was insane, she wouldn’t realize it, right? So maybe she was okay.

The phone rang and she jumped. Sara grabbed it from the wall.

Please be whoever was just talking to me, please don’t let that all be in my head. We were talking on the phone and the phone disconnected and I sat down to wait for you to call again.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Walker?”

Sara squeezed her eyes shut and mutely shook her head. You‘re not who I wanted to be calling me; who my sanity needs to be calling me.

“Hi,” she managed to get out. She sank into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“I’ve…I’ve been busy,” she lied, holding the phone so tight against her ear it hurt.

“You missed your last two appointments.”

“Yeah, sorry, I was working.”

A pause. “On your artwork?”

“Yes.” Sara’s eyes slid to the right. There was a door there, and beyond that door, was her career, dusty with disuse. She hurriedly looked away, as if by looking in that direction she was announcing the massive untruth.

“And how is it coming along?”

“Great.”

“What are you working on?”

Her leg shook a frenzied beat as her teeth gnawed on the skin around her thumb. “Uh…listen, Doc, I gotta go.”

“Can we set up a time to meet?”

“I don’t—”

“It’s imperative that I see you. You have to know this.”

Her shoulders slumped. A whispered, “I know,” left her.

“How’s Tuesday, the 29th? At ten in the morning.”

Tuesday, when was it Tuesday the 29th? What day was today? Sara massaged a circle into the middle of her forehead. Tuesday the 29th. Only a little over three weeks away. It was too soon. Panic seized ahold of her. That Tuesday was too soon.

“Sara?”

“Yes?”

“Great. See you then.”

No! Sara’s mouth opened, but there was no point in arguing when all that would hear her was a dial tone. She hung up the phone. She’d been acknowledging that she was listening, not that she was agreeing to see him, and she knew he knew that.

She lurched to her feet. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t go there, couldn’t see him, couldn’t talk to him. Sara couldn’t even look at him. No. She’d been putting it off for so long and he knew it. But it was too soon. She wasn’t ready. Sara would never be ready.

***

 

Sara had been an only child. She’d grown up in a big house in Iowa with a loving mother and father who both passed away far too soon from this world. They’d tried for years to conceive and had given up when Sara came into the picture. Older than they’d thought they’d be as first time parents, they’d done all the activities parents decades younger than them would have and more. They didn’t want Sara to miss out on anything. They didn’t want her childhood to be lacking in any way. Her throat tightened and Sara leaned back on the couch, rubbing her face, wiping her stinging eyes.

Her mother was a kindergarten teacher and her father an electrician. Jim Cunningham had a heart attack at the age of sixty-one; one he didn’t recover from. Darcy Cunningham died not long after; months only, at the age of fifty-nine. The doctors said she had a stroke, but Sara knew what she’d really died from; a broken heart. They were both seemingly healthy, both taken from Sara when she was only twenty.

It had been hard to accept one of their deaths, but both of them had been smothering. She literally hadn’t been able to breathe for short amounts of time for weeks after her mother’s passing. Sara had had to force air into her lungs when all she’d wanted to do was not breathe. Breathing had hurt. Breathing had meant she’d lived while her parents no longer did. It was like her body had wanted to stop living because it couldn’t deal with the pain of losing them.

Sara had thrown herself into her schooling and her artwork and lived, but not like before, never the same as she’d lived before their deaths. She’d existed in a numb state for months. Sara closed her eyes. It was nothing like what she felt now. It hurt whether she breathed or not. And the one thing that stung the most was knowing her parents’ love had been so true and pure that one had not been able to live without the other, and yet, here she sat, without her love, still living, still breathing.

Though she’d kept to herself after her parents died, scared to give her heart to someone who could leave her as they had; scared to love; scared to be happy, he had pushed past her fears and into her heart and she hadn’t had a chance to be scared before he’d already owned her. She’d loved him and then she’d lost him. No matter how many times Sara loved, she lost.

She lurched to her feet, going still until a wave of dizziness passed. Only it didn’t. It amplified. Sara slumped back to the couch, wondering if she was going to pass out. Twice in her life she’d lost consciousness; both times when death had come calling to tear her world apart. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be any of Sara left to disintegrate. It was all leaving her, fading away, becoming lost as she lost everything that had ever meant anything to her; as she lost herself.

Sara clearly remembered how it happened; that third time death had stolen from her, though that was one of things she would like to fade away. It began with cramps, then blood, then the reality that had to be a lie and wasn’t. She remembered him holding her, crying with her, his grip painful, his arms the only thing keeping her upright. Sara remembered the hollowness, the disbelief, the hope that somehow, it was wrong, and somehow, everything was still okay. Then the blackness as consciousness left her and still the blackness when consciousness returned. The pain in her stomach, the pain in her heart; the pain that had never fully left her.

Her chest ached and she unconsciously rubbed a hand to it. Tears dropped to her lap as Sara cried for that little soul that hadn’t been given a chance at life. Sara cried for her parents, Sara cried for him. She cried for herself. It was too much. There was too much hurt in her life. Sara longed for it all to stop.

 

 


 

Every room in the house was spotless. It had a perpetual lemon and bleach smell to it Sara didn’t think would ever go away. The scent had seeped into the walls and carpet and floor of every room, a blaring testimony to Sara’s obsessive housework.

It was amazing how such menial work could distract one’s thoughts. Sara spent most of every day cleaning and when it was nice out, she did yard work. A look outside told her there would soon be snow on the ground and then the shoveling would begin. But for now, she occupied herself with a complete scrub down of the bathroom.

She was on her hands and knees, inhaling chemicals and sweating.

“That’s not good for you, ya know.”

Sara blinked and looked behind her. He stood in the doorway; one broad shoulder propped against it, grinning. She could have cried at the sight of his tall and lanky form, the rugged tan of his skin. His ice blue eyes were full of love and mischief, his lips turned up at the corners.

She frowned, confused. He couldn’t be here, could he? Not really.

“Did you hear me?”

Sara sat back on her heels and stared. “What?”

He took a step into the bathroom, his shoes almost touching her. She looked at his shoes, reached out to touch him, any part of him. “All those chemicals going into your pretty little head. It’s not good for you.”

“How?” she whispered.

He laughed; a wonderful sound Sara hadn’t heard in over a year. Her ears stung from the sweet sound of it. “Come on, babe, don’t you think the house is clean enough already? Let’s go have some fun. It’s a beautiful day out. You and me. The beach. And your sexy bikini.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

Sara inhaled sharply, blinked, and came back to reality. It wasn’t beautiful out. It was cold and dark. She looked to the place he’d been standing. He wasn’t there. A memory or something her mind unconsciously manifested was all it had been. She swiped an arm across her face and went back to cleaning the bathroom, drops of sweat and tears mingling on the floor.

The phone rang. Sara ignored it. She scrubbed the inside of the toilet with a toilet brush, kept scrubbing even after it sparkled. Her hands shook and toilet water and cleaner splashed up on her. Sobs wracked her body so hard she jerked from them. So pathetic. Can’t even clean a toilet without crying. Weak. I’m weak. He was the strong one. He should be here. Not me. Something hot and ugly formed inside of her. Why wasn’t it me? Why him? Why? Sara let out a scream of anguish and whipped the toilet brush across the room. It hit the shower curtain with a wet smack and dropped to the floor.

The phone still rang; the shrill sound making her teeth clench together and a headache form. She slapped her hands on the tiled floor, welcoming the sting to her flesh. It brought her back to the brink of lucidity, if only minutely. She stayed there, on her knees, until control came back. Sara got to her feet, swiped a hand across her sweaty, tear-stained face, and answered the phone. No one was there. She slammed the phone back in place. Sara stood there, shaking. Had the phone even actually rung, or had that been in her head as well?

On the verge of losing it completely, Sara picked the phone up and dialed a number.

“Hello?” The voice was deep, familiar. It reminded her of him, and though it hurt to hear it, it helped a little too.

She sank against the wall, slid down it, and cradled the phone to her ear. Sara closed her eyes and waited for the respite to come.

When she remained silent, the person on the other end of the line began to talk softly. “Bad day, huh?” He made a sound of derision. “Not that any day is spectacular. I had one a couple days ago. It didn’t make any sense, not really. I was at work, fixing a leak in a roof, when I remembered a time we went fishing. Nothing significant happened that day we went fishing, nothing to make me remember it, or to think of it at that moment. We were ten and twelve.

“We grabbed our fishing poles and headed to the creek. I carried the bucket of worms. Because I was younger, he said. We sat in the grass at that creek all day. We didn’t catch a single thing and it was so hot out. The sun burned our skin. Bugs had a meal out of us. It smelled like sweat and grass and fish.”

Sara felt herself begin to relax. She took a deep, calming breath.

“But it was just us, there wasn’t another soul out when we first got there. Probably because it was six in the morning on a Saturday. And later, because it was too hot out for any smart person to roast away under the sun.” He laughed.

Sara closed her eyes at the sound and let the sad, but musical notes wash over her.

“Only thing we heard was the sound of rushing water from the stream and my voice whenever I tried to talk, which wasn’t much, since he kept telling me to shut up. We stayed there all day. We ditched the poles in the late afternoon and jumped in the water. Needless to say, we forgot to mention to our parents where we were going or what we were doing that day.

“So when we showed up at home, wet and sunburned, it was to find police cars and frantic adults in the yard. They grounded us. For the rest of the summer. And it was only the beginning of June. That summer sucked.” He laughed softly. A long pause. “I hope that helped.” Then a sigh. “Take care, Sara.”

She turned the phone off and sat there, her back flush against the hard wall and beginning to twinge from her position. Sara didn’t care, thoughts on the phone call. He always ended their one-sided conversation the same: Take care, Sara.

The longer she sat the more that sense of tranquility fell away from her and sorrow once more cocooned her. But for one small period of time she’d been at peace. Sara clung to that as long as she could and when it finally left her, her heart ached at the absence of it.

***

 

There were friends, or rather, there used to be friends, but Sara had alienated them. Friends of his, mostly. Sara had always kept to herself; most comfortable in small social groups and with her family. She’d had a few friends growing up, but none close. Any friends she’d acquired since her marriage had been his first and remained his before hers. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, but she was easily flustered around strangers and wasn’t very outgoing; she preferred her own company to others. He’d been the friendly one.

They came by at first; his friends, after it happened, and offered their support. Some would cry, others would stumble through awkward conversations, and some even took it upon themselves to try to get a smile or a laugh out of her; all failing, of course. They would give her advice she didn’t want to hear, they would say they’d been in a similar situation, they would say they knew how she felt. They told her it would get better. It wasn’t long before only an infrequent straggler would stop by out of a feeling of obligation.

Sara had enough sense to realize that her gloomy demeanor chased them all away. She couldn’t pretend things were okay when they weren’t. She couldn’t laugh when she wanted to cry. She couldn’t talk about it, and everyone wanted to talk about nothing but it. Her soul had been ripped out; what was the point in pretending it hadn’t been?

So she was shocked when there was a knock on the door and she came face to face with Spencer Johnson. He’d been a good friend of her husband’s, one of the last to give up on her. It had been at least a month, maybe two, since she’d last seen him. Time had no meaning for Sara, other than to mock her with its endless sorrow. Spencer looked the same; big and dark-haired and dark-eyed.


Date: 2015-04-20; view: 594


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