Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart_ 3 page

You always thought they’d be there, day after day; alive, whole. Sara had thought he’d always be there. She’d imagined years and years of them together; growing old together, having children and grandchildren, and then when it was time, dying together. In her mind it had always been them as a couple; not her without him. If only she’d known. If only she’d known he would be taken from her. She would have done things so differently. But that was the thing about life: no one ever really knew when it would end.

***

Standing just inside the door, she stared at him, watching his black tee shirt tighten over his strong back as he held a nail to the wall with one hand and raised a hammer with the other.

“I’m pregnant.”

Cole dropped the hammer on his foot, cursing. He straightened, turning those magnetic blue eyes on her. He demanded, “What did you say?”

Sara inhaled slowly, shakily. Stomach in knots and alive with wild fluttering she knew had nothing to do with the life already growing inside her, she fought for a calm she did not feel. “I’m pregnant.”

She didn’t look at him; she couldn’t. It hadn’t been planned. Babies were in the future, sure, but not yet. They weren’t ready. They weren’t ready, but she was. Of course she was. Already she could feel the love for her unborn baby inside, already she couldn’t wait to hold her child; their child.

He slammed his hands on his lean hips, inhaling sharply. “What—?” Cole looked down and swallowed. “What was that? One more time. Did you say—did you say you’re pregnant?” His eyes met hers, brighter than normal and focused intently on her.

Nodding, eyes stinging with happy tears, Sara smiled. “Yes. Tell me you’re okay with this.”

Cole exhaled noisily, averting his face. His posture was stiff and he hadn’t moved his hands from his hips. He seemed to be struggling. Sara felt her joy dim. It was scary and new; they didn’t have a clue how to raise a baby, but they’d learn. No one was ever really ready to have one, mentally or financially. If Cole was completely against this, Sara didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t take that.

“Cole? Are you not glad about this?” she whispered, dropping her purse to the floor. She rubbed her arms, cold in the stillness of his response. “I know it’s unexpected and business has been a little slow and…” Sara trailed off as he strode toward her, his eyes on fire and his jaw tight.

“How can you ask such a thing?” he said harshly, stopping before her. Cole’s body heat radiated off him, warming her with his nearness.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “You’re not saying anything. What am I supposed to think?”

“I am so happy,” Cole said slowly, cupping her face in his rough palms. “So happy. You have no idea how happy I am.” He took a shuddering breath, pressing his cherry Carmex-scented lips to her forehead. “So happy,” he whispered.

Sara cried, loving Cole more in the moment he knelt before her and pressed his cheek to her flat stomach than in any other moment she could remember. “Love you, baby.”

“Love you too.” She brushed his soft hair back from his forehead, loving the texture of it, loving him.

He looked up at her. “I was talking to the baby. You know, love you, baby.”

With a snort, she pulled away. “Of course you were. What were you attempting to hang up when I walked through the door?”

Cole stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing.” He looked guilty.

Sara sighed, moving toward the living room. “What is it, Cole?”

“I won it,” he announced, a slight scowl on his face.

Eyebrows lifted, she looked at the 10 X 13 picture resting on the couch. “So everything you win must go up on the wall?”

“No. Just the cool stuff.”

The ‘cool stuff’ was a close-up photo of a vintage red Ford truck from the fifties or sixties. It sat in a field of grass, shining with the glint of sunlight on it and blue skies behind it. The body was rounded in a way the newer trucks had gotten away from.

“I thought you were a Dodge boy?”

“Well. Yeah. But look at it! And I won it.”

Sara smiled at Cole. “I like it. Not above the couch, but I like it.”

“So you’re saying I should put the wedding picture back up?” Cole laughed at the look on her face, grabbing her wrist and spinning her into his arms. He kissed her nose, saying, “We are going to be the coolest parents ever.”

Sara blinked her eyes and the sink full of dishwater came into view; a sink full of water and dish soap for two plates, one cup, and a fork and a spoon. The soap smelled like apples and the bubbles make a fizzing sound. Some things were hard to adapt to, even the lack of dirty dishes. She would give anything to have a sink full of dirty dishes if it meant he was still in her life. With a sigh, Sara quickly washed them and set them in the strainer, wondering how such a small task could so completely wear her out. The effort it took to get through each day wore her out.

It was Tuesday. Three weeks exactly from Tuesday the 29th of November. That was the date she’d been told to be there, to talk to Dr. Henderson, to do what had been chosen for her to do. It was a countdown of dread for Sara. She would never be ready to talk about what he wanted to talk about. It was unequivocally impossible for her to do what had been designated as her duty long ago.

Her feet unconsciously moved in the direction of the art room she hadn’t entered in months. Sara stopped by it, running a hand over the rough wood, closing her eyes at an onslaught of sorrow. She couldn’t bring herself to open the door. It reminded her of him. Everything in this house did. But she couldn’t forget. She didn’t want to forget. Maybe part of the reason she couldn’t let go, the reason Sara refused to let go, was because if she did, she feared she’d lose him as well. She couldn’t say goodbye to him.

Sara touched her forehead to the door, hot tears pooling in her eyes and dropping to her cheeks. She closed her eyes, shuddering breaths wracking her shoulders, her whole body. Her mind formed the image of his laughing face with the crinkles around his pale blue eyes and she couldn’t move from the pain that came along with it.

She missed his eyes the most. They’d been electrifying, charged with life and passion, able to see every part of Sara there was to see and those she’d rather weren’t seen. The thought of them never being open again, the thought of never staring into them and getting lost in the blue ocean that was her husband’s eyes, it was heart wrenching. Unbearable.

He used to watch her paint. He’d sit in a chair in the corner of the room and watch her for hours. He’d said it soothed him to watch her work. A sob was torn from her and Sara slapped her palm against the door. She wanted him back. Sara wanted to feel his arms around her; she wanted to have his scent cocoon her. This emptiness inside of her; it was killing her.

“Don’t cry, Sara.”

She inhaled sharply, spinning around. Her eyes scanned the kitchen, looking for a body and face to put with the voice. There was no one. I’m losing my mind. Sara slumped against the door. She put a shaking hand to her temples, closing her eyes.

“He wouldn’t want you to cry for him. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to hurt. But you still have to live. You have to go on, Sara.”

Sara kept her eyes closed. The voice seemed to leave only when she tried to find it. “I can’t go on without him. He’s supposed to be here, with me.” Pain tightened her throat, made it almost impossible to swallow.

“He is, Sara. He’ll always be with you.”

With a hand over her mouth and an arm across her stomach, Sara leaned over, trying to shrink in and away from the hurt that never went away. It had wrapped its arms around her and held her tightly within its grasp. She had to get away, from the pain, from the voice that wasn’t really there.

Sara lurched forward, toward the phone. One voice could ground her. One voice could give her relief. She punched in the numbers, pacing in front of the refrigerator, jittery and sick feeling. One ring. Two. Three. Sara whimpered, beginning to pull the phone from her ear.

“Must be one of those days again, huh?” She closed her eyes, immediate relief dropping her shoulders. Sara leaned her back against the fridge as she listened.

“First time he talked about you I knew you were it for him. There was this look on his face. It’s hard to explain, even now. It was shock and joy and kind of a sick look all rolled into one. The look of love. I teased him about it and he punched me in the gut, so I knew it was true. He fell for you fast and hard.” He went silent.

Sara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

His voice was softer when he spoke again. “He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. More beautiful than the sun or a flower or any kind of scenery I could imagine. That’s what he said, Sara. He said when he looked at you he couldn’t breathe and his stomach went all crazy. He said when he looked at you he was home.”

A sob escaped her and the phone dropped from her hand, clattering as it hit the floor. Sara went to her hands and knees next to it, her head dropping forward. It hurt too much. The pain swept through her, wracking her body with tremors. Make it go away. Please. Make it go away.

Sara pulled herself to her feet, eyes trained on a drawer next to the sink. She was pulled to it by an invisible force, her fingers locking on the top of it. Once it was open, Sara stared at the collection of knives; all different shapes and sizes. She closed her eyes, jumping when someone pounded on the front door. Her eyes went back to the knives.

The door burst open and Sara reflexively slammed the drawer shut, whirling around to face the intruder, her pulse racing. How had he gotten there so fast?

They looked nothing alike. Lincoln Walker was bigger, taller, with gray eyes and darker hair. But when Sara looked at him, she saw his brother. It was in the perpetually lowered eyebrows, the square jaw, and the stance. Lincoln was the moodier, easier to anger, brother; her husband the more amiable, if slightly wild, brother. Nothing alike in personalities or looks and yet she saw her husband in Lincoln. Maybe because she wanted to.

“What are you doing, Sara?” he demanded.

“I’m—what are you doing?” she shot back.

“You look guilty.” Lincoln strode for her, not stopping until he was inches from her and looming over her.

Sara had to crane her neck back to meet his eyes, and when she did, she saw they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. She took in the dark stubble of his jaw and the unkempt, shaggy hair he used to always keep short. She’d never noticed before how it waved up around his ears on the nape of his neck. Brackets had taken a place around his mouth and he seemed thinner than she remembered. It was wearing on him too.

“You can’t just barge into my house, Lincoln.” Sara backed up a step and Lincoln followed.

He had on a gray hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans and brought the citrus and mint scent of soap and toothpaste with him. It was all wrong. Wrong man, wrong scent, wrong everything.

“Yeah, I can, ‘cause technically, it’s my brother’s house too. You look like shit. When’s the last time you showered or ate a decent meal?”

Lincoln had always been blunt, something Sara had admired. Now, though, she really wished he wasn’t quite so blunt. This was why she had been avoiding him as much as she could. Because she knew he’d do this. He thought he had to look out for her, he thought it was his responsibility to take care of her for his brother. On the phone he could talk to her and not expect anything, because he knew he wouldn’t get anything; not even a response, but in person, Lincoln agitated and pushed her and made demands; he always had. They’d used to argue as a form of communication, something that had forever irritated her husband.

“You’re one to talk. You don’t look much better.”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “What happened on the phone? You were there and then you weren’t.” Lincoln’s eyes went to the floor and he leaned down to pick up the beeping phone. He turned it off and resituated it on the wall before narrowing his flint-colored eyes on her. “I miss him too, Sara, but at least I work. At least I try to be normal. I don’t hide in my house and push everyone away. You lost your husband, but I lost my brother.”

Those words pierced her with overwhelming anguish. “Why don’t you hate me?” she asked raggedly.

Lincoln slammed his fingers through his hair, messing it up more. One lock went to rest against his forehead. “I think you hate yourself enough for the both of us.” He pointed a finger in the direction of the living room. “Go take a shower. Now.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He shifted his jaw back and forth, determination darkening his features. “You get in that shower now or I’ll put you in it myself.”

A trickle of fear went down her back, but Sara didn’t really believe Lincoln would do that. But the look on his face; it said he would. “I’m fine, Lincoln. I just…I dropped the phone and…”

“Don’t lie to me, Sara. Believe me; I’ve said it all before myself. Maybe instead of wallowing away in self-pity, you should think of how Cole would feel knowing you’re like this. Is it your goal to end up like him? Is that it?”

Sara recoiled at the use of his name, sucking in a sharp breath and turning away from Lincoln. He kept talking, but she couldn’t hear him over the roar in her ears. She fought for every breath, wanting to drop to her knees. Sara closed her eyes. Hearing his name was too much. It hurt too much to hear it, to say it, to even think it. So she didn’t.

The tears streamed down her cheeks, dropping to the white and gray linoleum floor. Sara braced a hand against the fridge and hung her head. She felt his warmth like he was behind her, holding her. Only it wasn’t him. It would never be him again. Lincoln touched her shoulder and Sara jerked away, stumbling back and bumping into the stove. “Don’t touch me, Lincoln.”

His jaw clenched. “Why? What happens when someone touches you? Do you melt?”

“You’re an ass,” she told him in a voice that shook.

“I’ve been gentle with you, Sara, but no more. This has gone on long enough. Now get in the shower and get dressed. We’re going to go see him.”

She mutely shook her head. No. She couldn’t. Sara couldn’t go to that place. She couldn’t see him. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sara wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over, trying to make the hollowness go away, trying to make the unrelenting sick feeling disappear. She was dying on the inside, losing herself, turning into a pulsating mass of pain and nothing else. That was all she was now. Sara didn’t know how to make it stop. She longed for it to stop.

Lincoln grabbed her arms and pulled her up and toward him.

“I said don’t touch me!” she shrieked, trying to tug her arms from his grasp, but he only tightened his grip. “Lincoln, let go of me. Let go of me!” Sara moved to slap him, to push him away.

He brought her body against his. Panic made her fight harder. No one’s arms but his should be around her. Not ever. Sara lurched away, wanting Lincoln’s hands off her. Not letting her get away, Lincoln pulled her to him again and rested his chin on the crown of her head; large, resilient, and unmovable. Sara made puny, pitiful attempts to remove his touch, but it wasn’t going anywhere. He was too strong and she was too weak.

“Lincoln, please,” she whispered, unable to stand the touch of another man. It felt like disloyalty to him.

He didn’t answer; just kept holding her.

Shaking, spent, she finally went still. Her arms were wedged between them and of their own accord her palms rested on his hard, warm chest. His heart pounded beneath her hand. Bu-bum…bu-bum…bu-bum. Sara turned her attention to that, her breaths slowing, and her body relaxing the longer she concentrated on the steady, strong beat.

The minutes they stayed like that were endless. For the first time in a long time Sara felt not quite so alone. Relief washed over her in the safety of his arms. Lincoln knew her pain. He knew what she was going through. He was going through it himself. He’d lost him too. The catastrophic difference between them, though, was that it wasn’t his fault. It was Sara’s. It was a glaring truth she couldn’t ignore or forget. Sara stiffened as the remorse came back in full attack, punching her in the stomach and taking her breath away.

“What are you doing to yourself?” he murmured.

Sara had no response. When she tried to pull away, Lincoln held her nearer. She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply.

“Stop doing it.” His hands moved to the sides of her head and he smoothed her tangled hair from her face, gently pushing her away and leaning down so their eyes met. “You’re not alone. Don’t ever feel like you’re alone. You know that, right?”

Sara stared at the gold flecks in his eyes, swallowing thickly. His eyes were silver and gold. She jerked her head in a semblance of a nod.

Lincoln sighed deeply and dropped his hands. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

She blinked her eyes against the tears, but they kept coming. “Lincoln, I…I can’t. I can’t go there.” Sara took a shaky breath, moving to put the table between them.

He looked at her for a long time. “But you will take a shower?” Lincoln finally asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it.” He nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom, one eyebrow lifted.

Sara slowly walked toward the bathroom. “What will you do?” she asked when she reached it.

“I’ll be right here.” He patted the back of the cream-colored couch.

Once inside the bathroom, Sara fell against the closed door, struggling to get air into her lungs. She went to the mirror. A hollow-eyed, haunted face stared back. Her eyes had always been big, but now they almost looked cartoonish. Large and dark in a white face. Sara gripped the counter and leaned over it, staring down at the sink. A drop of water dripped from the faucet, disappearing down the drain into the dark unknown. That’s what she felt like. Sara was being sucked into a black hole of nothingness, and once that happened, she would disappear. She would cease to exist.

“How’s that shower going?”

Sara jumped at the sound of Lincoln’s voice on the other side of the door. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone with her misery and despondency. She wanted the world to go away. Sara sighed. That wouldn’t be happening. And she knew Lincoln well enough to know once his mind was set, there was no changing it. He wouldn’t be going anywhere either.

She rubbed her face and turned on the faucet in the shower, the small tan-walled room quickly steaming up with moisture and heat. Sara untied her robe and let it drop to the floor. The worn and ratty robe had been a gift from him and taking it off was shedding a security blanket. It was removing a piece of him from her and doing so for even a short period of time was painful to her. She practically lived in the thing. Its frayed and unraveled fabric was proof of that. Sara removed the rest of her clothes and got into the shower.

***

After quickly throwing on an old UW-Platteville sweatshirt of his and jeans that almost hung on her, Sara hurried from the room too many memories lived in and walked into the kitchen. The scent of coffee hit her along with fried eggs and toast. She looked from the table where a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice sat with a plate of one egg and two slices of toast over to where Lincoln leaned with his elbows against the counter, his eyes on her.

Sundays had been their breakfast days. They’d sleep in late and make a mess out of the kitchen preparing a midday feast. Sara had been in charge of the eggs and potatoes and he’d always prepared the pancakes and bacon. He’d made the best pancakes. They’d melted on her tongue and she always overate on Sundays. She hadn’t had pancakes in over a year, not since the last time he’d made them. A lot of things had stopped with him; her, for one.

Sara inhaled sharply, looking away from Lincoln’s intent stare. It didn’t matter. She still felt the heat of his eyes on her. Those stormy gray eyes were studying, judging. Those eyes were not happy. “I should have stopped by sooner. I didn’t realize you’d gotten this bad.”

Sara tucked wet, limp hair behind her ears. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I really wish you’d quit saying you’re fine when you are so obviously not fine.” He straightened and walked to the table, pulling out a chair. “Sit. Eat.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”

“Yeah. I was.”

He was until she’d called. Lincoln didn’t have to say the words, but she knew that’s what had happened. Sara swallowed as guilt heated her skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry, Sara.”

She grabbed the back of a chair and lowered herself into it, staring down at the plate. The thought of food made her stomach turn. It usually did. “How…how are things going? At work?”

He poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting down across from her at the table. “Work is work.” The room shrank with him inside it; big and towering and intense. It made Sara nervous. She’d never realized how large of a presence he had; how commanding it was.

Lincoln and he had owned a carpentry business together: Walker Building. They’d done everything from roofs to siding to interior renovation. The company did basically anything house-related, other than plumbing. That they didn’t do. Now Lincoln ran it by himself; the lone brother where they should be two. More work, more stress, less help, because of Sara. He was without a lot of things these days, because of her.

Sara took a piece of toast, her eyes stinging. Lincoln had cut the toast for her. In triangles. Why was he so nice to her when it was her fault his brother wasn’t around? She would never understand that. How Lincoln could be so forgiving. He was the one person she had expected to loathe her, above all others, and he was the one person she’d been so wrong about.

“Did I cut it wrong?”

She looked up, the toast still in her hand. “No. You cut it right.”

He paused with the mug to his lips. “Good to know.”

The toast was dry and Sara choked down half of one slice to appease Lincoln. She drank the juice and sipped at the coffee. The silence was drawn out to the point of uncomfortable. Sara repeatedly opened her mouth to tell him about the phone conversation with Dr. Henderson, but she held back. It was her burden alone. And when Lincoln did find out, what then? She didn’t want to tell him until she had no choice. But he had a right to know. Sara knew that. It still wasn’t enough of an incentive for her to tell him. Not yet. She needed more time.

It was cowardly of her, but that was inconsequential when she thought of the alternative. Would he turn his back on her when he found out? Would he no longer look at her with compassion, but with loathing? And why did the thought make her stomach clench? Because he’s all I have left of him. Startled by the thought, Sara unconsciously jerked, her hand hitting the coffee mug. It didn’t tip. Lincoln reached over and grabbed it before it did. He slowly slid the mug to her right, far enough away so there was no chance of her accidently bumping it.

“How long has it been since you’ve gone there?”

She stiffened. Sara knew where he was talking about. There was no pretending she didn’t. “A few weeks.” Two. It had been two weeks and two days.

At first Sara had gone every day to the place where her husband rested, for hours and hours at a time. But the longer she’d gone to that place and stared down at what was supposed to be her husband and wasn’t, the harder it had been. She didn’t want to remember him that way; Sara wanted to remember him as he’d been alive. She’d feared all her old memories of him would fade away and be replaced with the nothingness he now was.

Sara had hidden away in her house that used to be their house and tried to ignore reality. It was stupid of her to think such a thing was possible; the pain was alive in her; there was no way to escape it as long as she drew air into her lungs. Sara hated herself for staying away as long as she had, and yet she continued to stay away.

The last time she’d seen him had been the day she’d gone to Wyalusing State Park. The day it all had been too much. The day she’d been unable to exist with the constant ache anymore. When the pain had been too much, unbearable; when she’d looked at what was supposed to be her husband and hated herself more than she’d ever thought possible. That was the day she’d wanted to end it all, the day she’d yearned for a way to stop the pain and regret and longing. It was a bitter toxin; her existence. Too weak to live; too weak to die.

“How can you stay away?” he demanded, breaking Sara from her bleary reverie.

Her eyes flew to his face. She saw the anger in it, the hurt, and she looked away. That’s what Sara did. She looked away from things that hurt, she pretended they didn’t exist, she avoided. It was agony going to that place, seeing what he was, knowing what he would never be again. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sometimes Sara could almost convince herself he was on a trip, a really long trip, and someday soon he’d return. Sometimes she almost believed it. But then the pain came back, the memories, the profound sense of loss, the emptiness and the guilt, and she couldn’t pretend any longer.

“Don’t you think you at least owe it to him to visit?”

Sara lurched back in her chair, her breath catching. Pain wracked her as she stared at Lincoln.

He pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing. “Shit. That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sara couldn’t speak.

Lincoln rubbed his face, sighing. “That wasn’t what I meant, Sara. I only meant…he’s your husband. You should go there, be with him, see him.”

“It isn’t him,” she choked out, blinking away tears that continued to wet her eyelashes.

He shot to his feet, causing Sara’s stomach to flip, and stated, “Get your coat. We’re going for a drive.”

“No. I’m not going there, Lincoln. I’m not ready,” she said, shrinking away from him as he advanced on her.

He stopped by her chair. “Not ready? For what?”

She swallowed, avoiding his eyes. Not ready to accept what he is instead of what he was. Coward; that’s what Sara was. Not strong enough to see him; not strong enough to live. She hated herself, she truly did. When had she turned into this person she didn’t recognize?

It happened on a warm summer night when my heart was ripped apart and flung in a million unrecoverable directions.

“We’re not going there, but we’re going somewhere. You need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. And this is what we’re going to do; we’re not going to talk about anything that makes us sad. Deal?”

Lincoln offered a hand. It was large and long-fingered with callouses over callouses on it. It was a hand that swung a hammer on a daily basis. Sara hesitantly put her hand in his. His swallowed hers whole as he pulled her to her feet.

“Don’t you need to go back to work?”

He headed for the closet near the door. “I’m the boss. I don’t have to work if I don’t want to work. It’s pretty much the best thing about having my own company.” He flashed a grin as he pulled a purple jacket from the closet and tossed it at her. Reflexes slow, it hit Sara before she even raised her hands in preparation. Lincoln laughed a little. “I see your athletic abilities haven’t improved with time.”

The only thing she’d ever been able to do was run. Any sports where hand and eye coordination and teamwork were needed Sara was a liability more than anything. She almost smiled. Sara felt her lips muscles begin to lift and instead frowned.

Lincoln’s laughter broke off and he shook his head. He strode for the door, muttering, “It’s okay to smile, Sara.”

It wasn’t.

The air was cold and sharp. It went through her coat and jeans, layering her body with an uncomfortable chill she couldn’t shake. Sara shivered as she took in the gray-tinged day, knowing snow was in the forecast. It would come. That was the one thing that never changed: the world kept moving, even when a life stopped.

The smoky wood smell of a wood burning stove filled her nostrils as she followed Lincoln to his silver Dodge truck. The Walker boys had always loved their Dodges with the diesel engines. The street was quiet; most people were at work and their children were either in school or at daycare. Houses of different shapes and sizes lined the streets; most small, but nice. An occasional shabby house stood out among the more pleasant ones.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 588