by Lindy Zart
Dried and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black top, Sara loosely braided her long brown hair so it rested over one shoulder and pulled on a pair of black boots. She met Lincoln in the kitchen, where he was sipping from a Styrofoam cup and staring in the direction of the nursery.
“Gas station coffee?” she guessed, wrinkling her nose. Sara didn’t want to know what he was thinking, not as he looked at that closed door.
“Nah. From home.” Lincoln handed the other cup to her.
“Thanks.”
“You look nice. Smell good, like vanilla.”
Sara blushed. “Thank you.” Lincoln watched her take a drink from the cup. The coffee was smooth and the perfect temperature. “What? Why are you staring at me?”
“You don’t know what day it is, do you?”
Sara searched her brain. “Wednesday?”
Lincoln snorted. “Yeah. It’s that.”
“Oh. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. What are you…what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Lincoln was probably going to spend it with his parents, like he should. They were still in town, as far as she knew, waiting.
“It’s your birthday, Sara,” he said, sounding exasperated.
She gasped. “Oh my God, I forgot your birthday! I’m so sorry. I didn’t…I wasn’t…I’m sorry, Lincoln.”
Lincoln shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “I don’t care about my birthday. And you didn’t forget. You called me. You don’t remember?”
Sara touched a hand to her forehead, shaking her head. “No. I was…out of it. More than usual,” she added at his look.
“You called. You didn’t say anything. I talked. But, hey, you called.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Lincoln grabbed her shoulders, dipping his head so they were at eyelevel. “Sara. I don’t care about my birthday.”
“But you care about mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lincoln dropped his hands from her shoulders and turned away. His back was tense and his hands fisted at his sides. “You know how sometimes you wanna say something, but it isn’t the right thing to say? Or it isn’t the right time? Or if you did say it, you’d wish you could take it back?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Ready?” He shrugged into his jacket and tugged his boots on.
“That’s it? That wasn’t an answer.”
Lincoln paused and lifted his head. “Yeah it was. Enough of one. Wrong thing to say, wrong time to say it. Let’s go.” He straightened, lifting one dark brown eyebrow. “Coming?”
Sara opened the closet, grabbed a gray jacket and pulled it on, all the while scowling at Lincoln. He laughed, shrugging. “You’re so annoying, Lincoln. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“I seem to recall you telling me that once in a while. Only one ever to say that, just so you know.”
Sara snorted, following him outside. The wind was fierce and biting cold. She shivered, wishing she’d grabbed her gloves and scarf. Sara slung her purse over her shoulder and shoved her hands in her coat pockets as she walked to the truck. Snow crunched under her boots and Sara was already wishing it was spring and winter hadn’t even really started yet.
Ever chivalrous, Lincoln opened the door for her, closing it after her. Sara huddled into her coat, lowering her face under the collar to try to warm it up. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” Lincoln started the engine and the truck rumbled to life, cool air blowing from the vents.
“I hate surprises,” she reminded him.
“If you could go anywhere, right now, where would it be?”
“Texas,” Sara answered immediately.
“Oh yeah. I guess I knew that. Okay, I’m talking internationally. Anywhere in the world. Where would it be?”
“Texas.”
Lincoln sighed as the truth stopped at a Stop sign. “Way to be adventurous.”
“Are you taking me to Texas?”
He laughed. “No. Sorry. Not this trip.”
The cool air warmed and Sara sat up straighter, poking her face out from behind the collar of her coat. “Way to be adventurous. You won’t even take me to Texas.”
“Touché.”
“What are you working on anyway? I mean, when you actually work.” Sara laughed when Lincoln shot her a look as he turned the truck toward Fennimore.
“Shed over by Blue River. Framework and siding and roof are done, but there’s a lot to do inside yet.”
“Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life, Lincoln?”
Sara had asked her husband a similar question. He’d said it was all he knew how to do. He’d trained under a guy he knew over the summer when high school was done, somehow going to school full-time too in the fall as well as working full-time. Then he’d graduated and started up his own business, Lincoln joining him later. She’d always wondered at that; to be so happy with something so simple; to not dream and want more than an everyday life.
She’d thought it lacking; a lifestyle unable to bring one happiness, but maybe she was the one lacking to think such a thing. Clearly he had been happy as a carpenter. She’d never thought less of him; in fact, she’d envied that about him, but she’d always wondered why that was enough for him and others when it wasn’t for her. Sara had always wanted to be something more, to have her name known for creating something out of nothing, and she had found that in her artwork. But that drive; that inner voice telling her anything ordinary was unacceptable; where had it come from? Why did some people have it and others not? Maybe it was something all artists felt and maybe that was why they were artists.
“No. It’s not. For now it’s fine. I make good money. But…” He shrugged. “Do I want to be doing it for the rest of my life? No. I want to be able to walk when I’m in my fifties. I want to be able to keep my knees and hips and not have to have back surgery when I’m older. Construction work is hard on a body.”
Sara knew. He’d come home with his knees bothering him and his back aching more times than he hadn’t. Construction work made young men old.
“Plus, there’s always the chance of falling off a roof.”
She glanced at him. “Yeah. I know.”
“Don’t even bring it up, Sara,” he warned, sipping from one of the cups he’d carried to the truck.
“I didn’t. You did. That was horrible. I’d never seen him so scared.”
You’d never seen him so scared except for the night of the car wreck, just before he lost consciousness. Then you never saw him look anything at all after that. Sara clamped her mouth shut, wishing there was a way to turn off her thoughts at will. Mindless, numb, unable to feel—what a reprieve that would be.
“It’s not like I meant to fall off the roof. I slipped.”
“You shouldn’t have been up there in the rain anyway. Duh you.” Sara remembered the phone call from his parents, the fear in his eyes, the dread that had filled her, and the dread that had stayed with her until they were at the hospital and she saw Lincoln was okay.
“It was leaking,” he said, like that made it all tolerable.
“Stupid man,” she said softly.
Lincoln glanced at her, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “That I am.”
“You’re lucky all you got was a sprained ankle and scraped up.”
“I don’t need luck, Sara. I got skills.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes met his again and she laughed, Lincoln laughing with her.
They reached Fennimore. It was located on top of a hill, Fennimore Hill, as it was called by locals, and had a population under three thousand. It was a pretty, scenic town with a nice library Sara liked to frequent, or used to, when she read. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost herself in a story.
“Coffee?” Lincoln asked as the truck went by Kwik Trip, his lips twitching.
“I’ll pass.”
The truck veered to the left by the Casey’s gas station, taking them in the direction of Dodgevil
le. Lincoln tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in tune to a ‘Nine Inch Nails’ song.
“You never said what you want to do later.”
“I know.”
“So…are you going to tell me?”
Lincoln grabbed a black baseball cap from the dash, repeatedly adjusting it on his head. “Nope.”
Sara crossed her arms. “I don’t understand why you’re so elusive all the time lately.”
“Especially today?”
“Yes. Especially today.”
“All in good time, Sara. The best things in life come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue. You—”
“Lincoln.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
His deep laughter filled the cab of the truck, and something close to, or maybe even, happiness warmed Sara at the sound of it.
***
Sara stared at the counter full of tins and other various containers of flavored popcorn. Lincoln had basically bought the small Montfort Rural Route 1 store out of stock. She could smell the butter and popcorn scent through the boxes.
“Is it overwhelming?” he asked, popping some cheese popcorn into his mouth.
“It’s…” Sara’s eyes watered. “It’s perfect. Thank you. I had fun today.”
“Day’s not over.” Lincoln grabbed a paper towel from the holder on the counter and wiped his hands on it, tossing the used paper towel into the garbage. “Be right back.”
Sara rubbed her face, a fresh wave of sadness hitting her in Lincoln’s absence. She didn’t even know why. It was a different kind of sadness from what she normally felt and Sara couldn’t determine the cause of it. Loneliness maybe; or the loss of warmth; the fading of light and the impending submergence back into darkness.
Lincoln carried in a pizza with a Papa Murphy’s label on it. He set it on the table. The pepperonis spelled out ‘Happy 28 Years, Sara’. Sara stared at it, her eyes burning with tears. She looked at Lincoln and he tilted his head to the side. “You’re gonna cry over pizza, Sara? Don’t be such a girl,” he gently teased, wiping his thumb under her eyes and taking her tears away.
She sobbed and laughed at the same time, wiping her eyes.
“I got one more thing.”
“Don’t you dare, Lincoln. You’ve done too much already.”
“It’s your special day,” was all he said, leaving her once more.
Sara rubbed her aching chest as her eyes lingered on the words spelled out with pepperonis. It was corny and sweet and she loved it. Lincoln had always had a giving nature, but this, this was too much. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve his friendship. Friendship. It didn’t feel like the right word. It was more than that; a kinship of two lost souls struggling to live under the loss of substantial grief.
She flat-out bawled when he carried in a large hope chest made out of cherry wood. Butterflies and vines were carved into the lid of it. Sara loved butterflies. She hadn’t known Lincoln knew that. Or maybe she had and she’d forgotten; everything was a jumbled mess in her head most of the time.
“You’re not supposed to cry, Sara,” he chided gently, stroking her hair as she sobbed onto his shirt, wetting it with her tears.
“You’re not supposed to make me cry,” she wailed, his shirt fisted between her hands.
“Trust me; that was not my intention. Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“It’s my first project. Well, the first I’ve actually finished. I’ve been working on it for months.”
Sara stiffened, slowly moving back so she could see his face. “You made that yourself?”
“Yeah.” Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. “That’s what I want to do. I want to make stuff. Woodworking.” He looked at her. “Do you think I’m lame?”
She wiped her eyes, sniffling. “I think you’re brilliant, Lincoln.” Sara thought of the time and hours it must have taken to make that for her and her chest squeezed.
His eyes lit up and he grinned. “You haven’t seen all of it. Here, I’ll open it for you.”
They knelt beside it, Sara’s arm and leg brushing Lincoln’s as he explained the making of the piece of furniture to her in great detail. She listened, in awe. He was excited, animated as he went on about things Sara didn’t understand. It didn’t matter; she could have listened to him all night. His eyes sparkled with life and Lincoln’s hands repeatedly gestured as he talked. The gift that he’d made for her couldn’t outweigh the gift of him sharing his dream with her.
“How did you learn how to do this, Lincoln?” Sara slowly trailed a hand along the smooth wood, touched beyond words by his thoughtfulness. He’d gotten a one-sided conversation from her for his birthday and she’d gotten more than she could have imagined.
“You’ll laugh.”
Sara turned her head at the same time Lincoln did. Their faces were only inches apart. “No, I won’t.”
“YouTube and I checked out some books from the Fennimore library.”
“YouTube is very informative,” she deadpanned.
Lincoln smiled, touching his forehead to hers. “That it is.”
“This is flawless. You have a real talent, Lincoln.” Sara had a hard time looking away from it. It would go perfect at the foot of the bed; the bed she never slept in. Sara shoved the thought away.
He shifted his position. “Yeah, well, I got a lot to learn yet too.”
“I can’t believe I never knew you liked to do this kind of stuff.”
“You know guys. Macho and all that. Can’t tell people about stuff like this. What if I got made fun of?” He widened his eyes.
“You’d probably just punch whoever made fun of you.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Did…” She stopped herself and tried to find different words from the ones she was about to say. Sara had been about to ask if he knew about it. “As a child…did you do stuff like this?”
“I tried carving pieces of wood. I sucked.”
Sara laughed at his admission. “Everyone gets better at everything with practice.”
“Think so?” he murmured, his penetrating gaze holding her captive.
“If they want to, yes,” she said breathlessly, her heartbeat picking up for no reason; no reason she could explain to herself anyway.
Lincoln smiled, but there was sadness to it. “There it is in a nutshell.” He got to his feet and offered her his hand. “Hungry? I’m starving.”
“Isn’t pizza what we ate the last time we were together?” she asked.
“Not even comparable. This is Papa Murphy’s. In case you didn’t know.”
Sara stood, releasing his hand. “Right. Incomparable to all other pizzas.”
“Exactly.”
“Where are my twenty-eight candles?” Sara innocently blinked her eyes at Lincoln.
“You want a pizza or a torch?”
Sara laughed. “Smart ass.”
***
She woke up with a smile on her face, forgetting about him and instead thinking of the day before spent with Lincoln. It had been a good day. The smile slid from her face as the heaviness in her heart grew. How could Sara have forgotten, even for a moment, even in sleep? She sat up; staring at the blank TV she hadn’t turned on in months. Everything had stopped, paused, on that day over a year ago. Especially Sara.
Was it really happening? Was he really in that hospital bed, waiting to die? While she pretended her life was fine and laughed with his brother and he rotted away in a sterile room. Sara hung her head as warm tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. He’d been gone for a long time, but where it really mattered he’d left her long ago. It didn’t matter. He was still her husband; he was still her burden or joy to bear. Sara hugged herself, imagining it was him hugging her.
Sara got up, unable to take herself in the direction of the bathroom and into the shower. Her mouth tasted like stale popcorn and pizza and she was sure she didn’t smell the greatest. Sara didn’t care. She wa
ndered around the house in her robe, making a pot of coffee, and staring at all the closed doors.
“One day you have to open them.”
She clutched the edge of the kitchen counter, closing her eyes. Sara had been wondering when the voice would show up again to torment her. Shivers went up and down her body and her scalp prickled.
“You’re not real. Whoever, whatever you are, you’re not real,” she whispered. Sara opened her eyes, forcing herself to turn around and confront air.
Sara took a deep breath, reaching into the cupboard for a cup. She pulled his favorite one down, resting her forehead against it and closing her eyes. It was pale blue with white letters that read: Addicted to Caffeine. It was tacky, but he’d loved it. It was silly to feel closer to him by using his favorite coffee mug, and yet Sara did. It was a connection to him, however small.
She sat at the table, misery adding a slump to her shoulders, grief pulling her head down. Sara sipped the coffee, not really tasting it. It was hot, warming her body, but other than that, it might as well have been water. Thoughts went to Lincoln and Sara wanted him to not come over to pull her from herself, not this day. This day belonged to her melancholy.
Sara knew he’d come regardless of what she wanted and she knew he’d make her laugh and make her feel something other than pain and she wanted to resent him for it, but couldn’t. When she was with Lincoln, she felt closer to normal; Sara felt closer to alive; even if it was an illusion, even if it never lasted for long.
All those dreams they’d had together; the house, the children, the life they’d planned on living together; all of it had been a lie; an unknown one, but a lie just the same.
“Why did you leave me?” she whispered to the emptiness of her house, knowing because she wanted an answer, this time there would be none.