Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart_ 2 page

He shifted his feet and shoved his hands in his brown leather coat pockets. “Hey, Sara,” he said, shoulders hunched.

“Uh, hi.” Sara pushed hair out of her face and waited.

Spencer met her eyes and faintly smiled. “Can I come in?”

With a hot face, Sara opened the door wider. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”

He ambled by and stopped in the kitchen, did a slow circle, and faced her. “Place looks the same,” he commented.

She closed the door and pulled at the hem of her shirt, eyes downcast.

“Clean,” he continued.

Sara glanced up and caught his grin. She looked away as she answered, “It keeps me busy.”

“Right.” He nodded. “So what’s new?”

Sara swept past him and began to fiddle around the kitchen. “Nothing. Would you like something to eat? Drink?” She had a carrot cake on the counter and coffee going before he had a chance to answer.

“Sure.”

Manners and small talk were not something one had to worry about by oneself and Sara found herself struggling to act human. “Um…sit,” she commanded and pointed at a chair. Spencer gave her a look of surprise and she modified her drill sergeant tone. “I mean, please sit.” She gestured toward the table.

Spencer pulled a chair out and slowly sat down. “How are you doing?”

The coffee stopped percolating and Sara kept a sigh inside as she turned her back to Spencer. It was easier to lie that way. “Fine. Everything’s fine.” She grabbed two mugs from the cupboard, recognized one as his, and put it back and chose a different one. She knew without looking Spencer was watching her and was glad when he made no comment.

“Are you doing any painting?”

Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug and onto her hand. Sara yelped. Spencer was instantly by her side, pulling her toward the sink. He quickly ran cold water over the angry-colored flesh of her hand.

“Coffee‘s sneaky that way,” he murmured, still holding her hand. They both went still, studying the slim pale fingers of her hand within his larger, darker one. Sara snatched her hand away and moved to put distance between them.

Spencer acted like he didn’t notice and said, “Why don’t you sit and I’ll get the coffee? Still take it black?”

Sara nodded, realized he wasn’t looking at her, and answered, “Yes. Thank you.”

He set the coffee mugs on the table and slid one over to Sara.

“Thank you,” she said again.

“No need to thank me for your own coffee,” he told her, opening another cupboard and removing two plates.

“I don’t…” she began, but stopped at his lethal stare.

“Yes. You do. You’re skin and bones.”

Sara held the cup between her hands and looked into the black depths. “I’m fine.”

Spencer went about the task of getting them each a piece of cake, making no comment. He sat down, immediately digging into the cake with a fork. “Mmm, this is good. You make this?”

Sara nodded.

He squinted his eyes at her. “Yet you don’t eat it?”

She shook her head.

“Why do you make it?”

Sara rubbed her finger over a line in the wood of the table. “For something to do.”

“What do you do with it?”

With a shrug, Sara responded, “Give it away.”

“To whom?”

“Neighbors mostly.”

“Eat,” he said, pointing his fork at her untouched slice of cake.

Sara took a small bite to pacify him.

“I’ll have to move into the neighborhood. Or stop by more often,” he added.

Sara didn’t respond. She didn’t want or need someone checking up on her, least of all Spencer, regardless of his good intentions. She searched her mind for something to talk about. “How’s Gracie?”

Spencer paused with the mug of coffee close to his lips. He set the mug down without taking a drink. “Gracie and I broke up.” He finished the last bite of his cake and sat back in his chair.

Sara jerked, startled. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She was, in that place deep inside of her that still felt things like empathy.

He shrugged with a little smile on his lips. “It was months ago.”

She met his eyes, and then slid her gaze away. “You didn’t mention it the last time I saw you.”

“You were preoccupied.”

Sara hung her head, wanting to forget the last time he’d made an impromptu visit. She’d been in the throes of a binge of destruction and rage and pain; smashing and breaking anything she’d laid eyes on reminiscent of her husband. Spencer had shown up in the middle of it, calmed her down, and listened to her terrible sobbing. He’d held her in his arms and rocked her like a baby, and then he’d even helped her right the house. All of that before she’d thrown him out.

She was still mortified over the incident. Of her lack of control, of her weakness, of allowing him to hold her and offer comfort. Sara was especially remorseful over her rudeness. Spencer had only meant to help. At the same time, she wished he’d stayed away; she wished he wasn’t here now.

“It’s okay, Sara,” he said softly, with conviction.

Sara refused to raise her head. She knew what she’d see in his eyes; pity, sympathy. She blinked her eyes against the stinging in them. Sara took a deep breath, composed herself. Say something. Ask something. Don‘t just sit there and try not to cry.

“You went out a long time, right? You and Gracie?”

“Yeah. Five years.”

Five years. One more year than she’d had with her husband before the accident. “Why’d you break up?”

Spencer shrugged as he got up to refill his cup and plate. “She decided she didn’t like my career, even though I’d had the same one since I met her. Too dangerous. Want some?” He motioned to the coffee pot and cake pan.

Sara shook her head. “Gracie was nice.”

Spencer got a slightly wistful look on his face. “That she was.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He sat down and took a bite of cake. Spencer met her eyes, looking sheepish. “I skipped lunch.”

Sara waved his comment away. “Eat as much as you want.”

“We still talk. I’m over it, she’s over it. We actually get along better as friends than we ever did dating.”

“That’s good then,” was the best reply she could think of.

A long silence ensued.

Spencer sipped his coffee, his eyes on her. “You done any hiking lately?”

Sara went still. “No. Why?”

“You haven’t been to Wyalusing?”

“That’s not what you asked,” she said stiffly.

“So you have been there?”

Sara got to her feet. “Why are you asking me this?”

Spencer sighed and stood. “Friend of mine was there, Sara.”

She backed away, toward the counter. “So?”

The sad look on Spencer’s face was too much. Sara looked down.

“So I know what happened.”

“No, you don’t.”

Spencer slammed his fingers through his hair, messing it up. “Really? Maybe you should explain it to me then. From what my friend said, a woman looked like she was ready to…to kill herself, jump off the damn cliff, for shit‘s sake.”

Sara flinched, but remained silent.

“He had me run the plates, Sara, and imagine my shock when I realized the car belonged to you.”

She couldn’t talk, because if she did, she would cry. So she stood there, silent and still and on the verge of weeping, and willed him to leave. Sara wanted him to go away and stay away and leave her alone.

“Tell me he was wrong. Tell me it wasn‘t you,” Spencer pleaded, his gaze locked on her.

Sara glanced up, surprised to find Spencer was so close, and that he looked so very earnest.

“Talk to me. I lost Co—”

“Don’t say his name!” she shrieked. Spencer flinched. “Don’t say his name,” she repeated, in a calmer tone.

“Why?” he demanded, hands on hips.

“Because,” Sara whispered, tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Because why?” Spencer asked, sweeping the wetness from her cheeks with his thumb.

Sara moved her head away from his touch. She hated anyone touching her. It seemed like a betrayal to him, even with the most innocent of intentions. She didn’t deserve to be comforted; she didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy.

“Why are you doing this?” He ran a hand over his face. “Why are you living this way, Sara? You can’t keep doing this; you can’t keep living like this. You need to stop. If you can’t talk to me, talk to someone. Talk to Lincoln.”

Sara looked at him then, flinching at the sound of her brother-in-law’s name. “Don’t you think I know that? That’s why I was there, to stop living this way! Your stupid friend ruined it!” She suddenly let out a weary breath. “And Lincoln can’t help me. No one can help me. I’d be better off—better off dead.” She swallowed thickly.

Spencer jerked his head back as though he’d been slapped. “You can’t be serious.”

Her chin notched up.

“You think the answer is to kill yourself?” Spencer asked in a low voice, looking incredulous and furious at the same time.

Sara closed her eyes and sank to the floor. She was tired, so tired. She rested her head on her knees and closed her eyes. “Then I don’t have to hurt, then I don’t have to wonder, then I don’t have to worry about any of it.”

“You think this is what he’d want?”

She opened her eyes to find Spencer kneeling beside her. “Maybe.”

“Why? You can’t possibly blame yourself for what happened.”

Sara didn’t answer, just looked at him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said slowly.

Sara blinked her eyes, but the wetness continued to come forth. “Wasn’t it?”

***

There were times, split seconds of a minute, when Sara forgot that he was no longer there, times when she could stare out at the night, like tonight, and simply take in the beauty of the moment without the constant ache. The peace was fleeting, almost to the point where she barely acknowledged it and then the pain was back. But for just a moment, she breathed easier as she closed her eyes against the star-strewn night. In those rare and brief moments, Sara was almost normal.

She opened her eyes and huddled under the fleece blanket, her feet sliding against the porch floor where they hung down from the swing. It was cold out, the breeze causing a chill through her. The scent of winter was in the air. It was late October and they were lucky it wasn’t colder than it was by now. She should go inside, but she couldn’t seem to find the energy to move.

There was a void, a hole within her only he could fill. She felt like half a person; bereft, lost. Nothing was as bright as it used to be, nothing smelled as good. Everything was dimmed, even Sara.

You’re losing yourself, Spencer had said.

It was true. She didn’t recognize herself from the person she’d once been; the person he’d met that fall day.

Sara gazed at the changing colors of the trees; the many shades of reds and oranges and yellows breathtaking to behold. She loved it here, so thankful she’d decided to relocate after finishing college in Iowa. She inhaled the crisp air, held her arms out at her sides, and twirled in a circle. It was autumn in southwest Wisconsin and it was beautiful, more beautiful than any fall she‘d witnessed in her home state of Iowa. The fallen leaves crunched under her boots as she spun and spun. She laughed; dizzy and happy.

“You know you’re trespassing.” The voice was soft and deep and spoke in a slow drawl.

She gasped and whirled around, almost falling in her unbalanced state. She lurched to a stop, mouth open. Before her stood a man; he was a tall, lanky man. He wore faded jeans that hugged his muscular thighs, boots, and a brown sweatshirt. A baseball cap was low over his eyes and she had to squint to make out his features. In his hands he held an ax.

“I, uh, I didn’t know that. Actually,” she stuttered, eyeing his possible weapon.

He nodded. “You are.”

Sara self-consciously pushed her hair out of her eyes and mouth and looked around the countryside. She’d decided to go for a mid-morning walk and hadn’t realized how far she’d gone from town until nothing but woods surrounded her. Not exactly a reassuring setup with a strange man holding an ax and informing her she was where she wasn’t wanted.

She turned back to the stranger. “Can you, uh, put down the ax?”

He looked down, as though surprised to find himself holding it, and dropped it. The man pulled the hat from his head, revealing a finely chiseled face, piercing blue eyes, and light brown hair. He rubbed his head and resituated the hat. “Shit, I’m sorry. You’re probably wondering if I’m some ax murderer or something, ain’t you?”

“Well, I did hear Ed Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer were from Wisconsin. If that says anything about the state.” Just the names passing her lips caused a shiver through her.

He threw back his head and laughed; the sound deep and booming and a little scary, given the situation. Because didn’t crazy people laugh at things that weren’t funny? Like her mentioning serial killers. Who on earth would find that humorous?

“You’re not from around here, are you?” His eyes flashed with humor.

Sara inched back a step, preparing to run if she had to. “No. But my family visits me often, like, every day. Plus they know I go for walks, around here, right here, actually. And if anything happened to me, this is the first place they’d look,” she babbled.

“You better get going then, before you have to find out if there are any more serial killers here in Wisconsin,” he told her, nodding beyond her to the endless forest, still chuckling.

She just about peed herself at that response. Instead Sara spun around, intent on taking flight. She’d run track in high school, and though it had been a while since she’d tested her long ago skill, she was thinking she’d give him a run for his money in a mad dash, especially if it meant her survival.

“Hey,” he commanded.

Sara stopped, her stomach dipping, and looked over her shoulder.

He smiled at her, a beatific transformation of the lips and face that caught her breath. That smile turned his average features into something extraordinary. It was in that instant that Sara knew she was in trouble. And not the kind of trouble she’d been prepared to sprint from moments ago. That smile, those eyes; they did something to her.

Laughter on his lips and in his eyes, he asked, “What’s your name?”

Sara dashed a hand at her leaky eyes, abruptly brought back to the present by the sounds of neighborhood children playing in the leaves. She turned her head to watch them under the blanket of twilight. They were the Niles children; George at age 6 and Ramona at age 9. Their peals of laughter were bittersweet to her; a reminder of something she had wanted, almost had, and now would never have again.

Isn’t it a little dark for them to be playing outside?

Just as she thought this, the mother; a slim, attractive lady named Tracie, opened the front door and called them inside. She paused, her eyes on Sara, and gave a little wave. Sara raised her hand in greeting. The door closed; shutting the warmth and joy of the kids inside with their parents.

Sara sighed, rubbing her face. It was time to go inside for the night.

Sara grew up going to Sunday school and church. She said her nightly prayers. Her family gave thanks at mealtime. She spoke to God in her mind on an almost daily basis. If she was scared at night in the dark, she asked Him to watch over her and only then could she sleep.

She’d believed so steadfastly in Him; all in His wonder and omnipotence; in her belief that He would always look out for her and keep her safe. She had been so unfailingly devoted. She’d felt sorry for people who didn’t have faith, for those who chose not to believe, for those who doubted.

Sara had always wondered how it was okay for them to tell their children to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and all those other mythical beings, but not in the one true solidarity, the one true Being. She’d known bad things happened to good people, but in the back of her mind, she’d always rationalized that if you were truly good, you would be salvaged and nothing too horrible would afflict you and yours.

She’d been wrong. Unequivocally wrong. Laughably so. Her faith hadn’t saved her husband; it hadn’t kept him with her. Her faith had done nothing to heal her pain; it had done nothing to ease her guilt. Sara had found no peace. It had been like a weight of deception on her shoulders, like she had been kidding herself her whole life, and finally, she saw the truth. He’d never helped her. He hadn’t saved the person she loved above all others. In fact, He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

And then…she just…gave up.

Sara tightened the tie of her old blue robe and glanced at the clock in the living room. It was church time. A look out the window showed her the Niles’, her neighbors with the two kids, were on their way to worship God, as they did every Sunday. She turned away and sat on the couch, staring at a blank television screen. She no longer had satellite service. When she’d forgotten to pay the bill three consecutive months in a row, it had been canceled. It had taken her another few months to figure that out. She had her laptop and the internet; both of which she rarely used, a cordless phone in the kitchen, and a cell phone she never turned on. That was it. Even having those seemed pointless. She was all alone, but that was how she wanted to be; how she needed to be. Sara felt like poison; anyone who came too close to her died.

She turned her gaze to the closed bathroom door. A shower determined how her day was going to be. If she got enough ambition to take a shower, then she normally got enough drive to do other things. Those days were easier to get through. It was such a small, simple task and yet its act had monumental power over Sara’s state of mind. On the days she couldn’t get enough energy to shower—those were bad days. Today was going to be a bad day. Not that any day was good, but some were easier to take than others.

The knock at the door startled her. Sara froze, not wanting to answer the door. She waited for whoever it was to go away. Instead the banging turned persistent.

“Sara. Open up.” The voice was muffled, but distinctly Spencer’s. No one else’s growled like that. Funny how she’d forgotten that about him.

She didn’t want to see him. He couldn’t badger her into feeling a certain way; he couldn’t make her think something she didn’t just by being an insistent pest.

“I’m not leaving, Sara. And unless you want my impending pneumonia on your conscience, you’ll open up, ‘cause it’s colder than…cold out here.”

With a sigh, she unlocked the door and flung it open. Her eyes blinked at the stinging sunlight and she shivered against the blast of icy air. “What do you want, Spencer?”

She quickly deduced Spencer wasn’t alone. A man stood next to him. They were dressed similarly in jeans and brown jackets. He was shorter than Spencer, which wasn’t saying much since Spencer was close to six and a half feet tall. Dark blond hair, unusual colored eyes.

Sara turned away from his penetrating gaze, feeling uncomfortable. Those eyes seemed to be able to see into her soul. It was disconcerting and she didn’t like it. She looked at Spencer. “What’s going on?”

“Colder than cold?” the man asked Spencer.

“Can we come in? Please?”

Sara wanted to say no. She wanted to close the door and never open it again, to have the world outside her house disappear. She wanted to disappear, or end, or be no more. Sara didn’t want useless conversations from people who meant well but had no clue.

She was about to say so when something clicked inside her head. Her eyes flew to the stranger. He watched her, expressionless. Sara felt something like betrayal as she looked at Spencer. “What are you doing?”

“He can help. Please. Just talk to him.” Spencer gave her a beseeching look.

“No offense, but I don’t want to talk to you,” she told the man.

Even shorter than Spencer, he was still half a foot taller than Sara and she had to look up to meet his eyes. They were the color of wine and revealed nothing.

“None taken.” He stepped forward until Sara had to move back or be sandwiched against him. She moved.

Spencer gave her an apologetic look as he followed the guy into her house. Sara closed the door, stunned at the man’s audacity.

“We never got the chance to be properly introduced the other day,” he said, turning to face Sara.

The featureless man from Wyalusing State Park now had a face. It was sharply angled with a long nose and thin lips. It wasn’t handsome, but it was arresting.

“Who are you?” Sara tore her eyes from his and frowned at Spencer. Spencer wouldn’t meet her eyes. Why had he done this? All he was going to accomplish by this spectacle was her embarrassment and resentment.

The man moved in a slow circle, his eyes studying the bare walls. Sara wanted to hide from the knowing look on his face. His expression said he knew her secrets and he knew why she had them. They weren’t his to know. Her pain was hers alone and he had no right to act like he understood it.

“I was just about to get to that.” He stopped, giving her his full attention. “My name is Mason Wells and I’m a grief counselor.”

Sara stiffened, her face turning hot. “I don’t need a counselor.”

“Lucky for you I’m on vacation for the next month. So technically I’m not a counselor right now.”

“I want you to leave.” Sara looked at Spencer. “Both of you.”

“Sara, you need to talk to someone. Mason can help you. Just talk to him. Please?”

She shook her head, crossing her arms and uncrossing them. Sara wouldn’t look at either of them. They’d invaded her home, her privacy, and she wanted them gone. She wouldn’t forgive Spencer for this, not ever. He’d crossed a line, good intentions or not.

“I went to Wyalusing State Park to commit suicide once.”

Sara’s head snapped up and her eyes shot to Mason.

“It wasn’t the first time I’d attempted it. Actually, it wasn’t the last either. It’s so convenient; rocky cliff, choppy waters below. Imminent death.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I hated myself for a long time. Carried guilt around like a blanket I couldn’t remove. I didn’t want to remove it. If I let go of the guilt, it was like saying what had happened was okay, and it wasn’t. It would never be okay. So I had to keep that blanket on, I had to feed the guilt, I had to hate myself, I had to never forget as penance.”

Her eyes burned and she swallowed thickly. She’d hated herself for a long time now. And the guilt…she didn’t think that would ever go away. “Never forget…what?” Sara whispered.

The door softly clicked and Sara looked up, surprised to find Spencer had left, leaving Mason alone with her. She tensed. Sara didn’t know this man. He was a stranger in her home. So what if Spencer knew him? So what if he was Spencer’s friend? Sara didn’t know him and he wasn’t her friend.

“I think you should leave,” she told him, backing toward the bathroom, her fingers tightly gripping the tie on the robe.

Amusement lit up his wine-colored eyes. “I will. In one hour. That’s how long our sessions will run.”

“We’re not—we’re not having sessions. You can’t just…come in here, into my house, and—and boss me around,” she stuttered, disbelief raising her voice.

Ignoring her, Mason said, “My brother died four years ago. Snowmobile accident. We were making jumps. He went first; didn’t make it all the way across. I didn’t know it and drove over him, killing him.” He paused. “I killed my brother.”

Sara’s stomach clenched as she looked at Mason. He was staring at his boots. When his tortured eyes found hers, she felt sick. She’d seen that look before; she saw it every time she looked in the mirror.

“Derek was younger, smarter, better-looking; pretty much better in every way imaginable. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was going to be a lawyer. He was engaged to a girl who loved him like I’d never seen anyone love anyone.” Mason sucked in a sharp breath. “No matter how much Annie, his fiancée, hated me, she never could hate me as much as I hated myself.”

Sara felt something warm and wet on her cheeks, and was surprised to find she was crying. Why that surprised her, she had no idea. Maybe because this time, the first time in a long time, her tears were for someone else, and not herself.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fisting her trembling hands under her crossed arms.

“Everyone’s sorry, aren’t they, Sara?” Mason’s eyes drilled into hers. “Everyone’s sorry, but does it really do anything? Does it bring them back? Does it bring my brother back? How about your husband? Does it make you feel better? Is there really any point to it? Why do people say it, Sara?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.” She swallowed.

“Then why did you say it?”

Sara stared at him, flustered and confused. “Because—“

“Because why?” he interrupted, his expression stern.

“Because I wanted to help!” she cried, agitated from his berating of her.

Mason smiled briefly. “Spencer wants to help. I want to help. Talk to me. Let me help.”

Sara walked toward the kitchen, stopped, and turned back to Mason. “What good will talking do? It won’t bring him back. It won’t make what happened go away. It’s a waste of time, a waste of words. Just like saying you’re sorry. Right?”

“Spencer told me you’re an artist. Show me your artwork.”

Sara’s body jerked; her mind unable to keep up with Mason’s. “No.”

Mason moved to sit down on the recliner that was his and Sara lurched forward, throwing her body between him and the chair. She trembled as she met his eyes and her breathing was too rapid, her heart pounding. “You can’t sit here.”

His eyes narrowed, but Mason moved away, into the kitchen. Sara wanted him to leave. She opened her mouth to demand it when he directed his gaze toward her. There was stark pain there, so vivid Sara’s mouth went dry. It contorted Mason’s features into a mask of anguish.

“I did a lot of drugs. I’d always had a tendency to drink too much, experiment with illegal drugs, but after Derek’s death, I became dependent on them to function. They dulled the pain, but never for long enough. It was never enough. The pain always came back. The memories. The guilt.”

Mason tapped his fingers on the table, watching his hand. “You don’t have to talk, Sara. You can just listen. I’ll do the talking for now, and when you’re ready, you can talk. Whatever you do, though, don’t do anything stupid.” He looked up, freezing her where she stood with the directness of his gaze. “Don’t do something you can’t forgive yourself for doing.”

“I already have,” she choked out, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

“No. Not yet. That wasn’t your fault.” Yes, it was. It was Sara’s fault. It would forever be her fault and nothing would or could change that.

“So that wasn’t my fault, but what happened with your brother; it was yours?”

“I was drinking. I’d smoked marijuana that night. I think it’s safe to say it was my fault.”

“It could have happened regardless.”

“Only it didn’t.”

A tense silence ensued. Sara finally broke it, curiosity driving her to ask, “What got you to stop? The drugs and alcohol, I mean.”

“I had to find something to make me want to live. I had to find something that was bigger than the guilt and pain I carried around.”

“And you did?”

Mason’s eyes softened. “I did.”

She almost envied that; that Mason had been able to find peace when it continued to elude her for any length of notable time.

A knock came at the door, followed by Spencer. He looked from the kitchen where Mason stood to the living room where Sara was. “Do you hate me now?” he asked Sara.

Sara rubbed her face. Of course she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t especially happy with him at the moment, but she didn’t hate him. That emotion was reserved for herself.

When she didn’t answer, Spencer sighed. “Ready, Mason?”

“I’ll be back next week, Sara. Sunday. At nine.” He didn’t ask; he told. “Be dressed next time. Showered. Oh, and have coffee ready too. I like Dunkin’ Donuts. Spencer said you bake?”

Sara’s face heated at his demanding tone. “You’re bossy.”

He smiled. “Derek tells me that every day.”

She frowned, wondering what he meant. His brother Derek was dead. How could he talk to him every day? Was he loonier than she was? Sara sometimes thought she saw and heard her husband, but she didn’t hear his voice in her head on a daily basis. Not yet.

Spencer paused at the door. “I really did just want to help you, Sara. I hate seeing you like this.”

She hesitated. Spencer was almost out the door. “Spencer.” He stopped, looking over his broad shoulder at her. “I…” Sara blew out a noisy breath. “I know you meant well.” It was as close to a thank you as she could get.

He gave a brusque nod and left, the door closing with loud finality.

The quiet was too quiet. It usually didn’t bother her, but today, for whatever reason, she couldn’t stand it. Maybe because in the silence her thoughts morphed into one mass of questions and remembrances she couldn’t deal with.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 610