by Lindy Zart
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 29? 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.
2
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 acro
ss 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.
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.