Take Care, Sara

by Lindy Zart

  ***

  Sometime during the night, Sara awoke; sweaty and trembling. She couldn’t remember the dream that had awakened her. She could only remember the agonizing sense of loss that stayed with her; that was real and could never be imagined; not loss that profound or inescapable. She sat up in the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees and placing her hot cheek to them. The room was black; a void of space. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. Moments ticked by and still her heart pounded and her pulse raced. The room was suffocating and too warm.

  Before she was aware of it, Sara was walking from the room. The hallway was dark with only the glow of a nightlight to offer respite from total blackness. It cast a dim radiance to the area, giving it a surreal, dream-like state. Am I still dreaming? she wondered, hesitating near the door to her in-laws’ bedroom. It appeared the wood burning stove was in full working order. Only a pink nightshirt covered her and even that was too much. Sara shoved her long bangs dampened by perspiration from her face and inwardly warred with herself.

  Not that she thought Lincoln would think more into it than there was, but still, would it be right? She was hurting, she was destroyed. So was he. Sara wanted a night of peaceful sleep and she was so alone; so alone she thought if she disappeared she wouldn’t even notice it. She thought maybe Lincoln would understand. He always seemed to know her, even when she didn’t know herself. Her bare feet silently moved along the wood floor, the bottoms of them chilled by the coolness of it. Sara didn’t understand how the air could be so hot and the floor still so cold.

  He was waiting for her, sitting up in his bed. A lamp was on next to the bed, turning Lincoln’s features into shadows and light. His eyes didn’t need the lamp to be seen; even in the semi-dark they were bright, intent on her. A closed book rested on the bed next to his blanketed legs. She tried not to stare at his unclothed chest, but it was well-muscled and deserved to be admired, even if only clinically.

  “Can’t sleep?” his voice rumbled, low and quiet. Lincoln’s eyes were dark; his features carefully blank as he gazed at her.

  Sara tore her eyes from his chest, face heating up, and met his eyes. “I—no. I mean, I was sleeping, but then I woke up. Bad dream,” she ended lamely.

  Lincoln set the book on the nightstand. “Me either.” He ran a hand through his already rumpled hair and sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I tried to read. That didn’t happen. I’ve been sitting here, for hours, just…thinking.”

  Sara tentatively walked closer to the bed, hugging herself with her arms. “I want to sleep.”

  His eyes were red, sad. Lincoln nodded. “Me too.”

  They stared at each other, neither speaking. Sara took a shaky breath, seeing all the suffering she felt mirrored in Lincoln. “Can I—? I mean, it wouldn’t…” She blushed, not knowing how to continue.

  Lincoln wordless scooted over, making room for her. He waited, eyes downcast, his body held stiffly. Sara slowly got in beside him, not looking at him. The bed was warm, imprinted with his body and smell. Almost immediately, she relaxed a miniscule amount, but not enough to be completely at ease. Neither moved, neither spoke. A clock ticked off two minutes.

  “It doesn’t—“

  “I know, Sara,” he cut in. “It doesn’t for me either. You don’t have to say anything or explain anything, not to yourself or to me. Let’s just try to sleep, okay?”

  She wanted that peacefulness only Lincoln was able to provide; almost greedy for it. Sara tried not to feel guilty about that. Reaching over, Sara turned off the lamp. Darkness blanketed them. She reclined on the bed, her body straight and rigid. Sara focused on Lincoln’s breathing from where he lay a short foot away. Her eyelids began to droop. The sheet gently rustled and a hand found hers in the dark. Warm, familiar. Sighing, close to content, Sara let slumber take over.

  13

  The sun shone on the day he was buried. Sara didn’t understand that. It should have been gray, overcast, and cold. It was a day to mourn, not rejoice. She wanted to grab that sun out of the sky and fling it far, far away. It shone, but somehow managed to miss her. A cloud of gray hovered over her, shielding her, keeping the sun and all it stood for out of her reach. That was the way she wanted it. Lincoln stood next her, stoic and grim. His parents kept their distance and that was fine. Let them. Sara couldn’t make herself care. She was empty, numb. So many people came to pay their respects; so many people started to approach her and then backtracked. Only Lincoln didn’t stay away. Sara couldn’t have kept him away if she’d tried.

  With the canvas tarp over the burial site, it seemed circus-like, surreal. She looked at the people around her, not seeing them. None of them registered. They were just things that took up space, like her. Sara swayed and Lincoln grabbed her arm, steadying her.

  “Are you okay?” he murmured into her ear.

  Sara didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge him in any way. He knew better. Why did he ask such a stupid question? She wasn’t okay. Lincoln wasn’t okay. Neither of them was and they never would be again. His hand dropped from her, leaving her even colder than she’d thought possible.

  The ground was covered in a fine layer of snow, and though she wore black boots, gloves, and a thick gray winter coat, it did nothing to keep the chill away. She was so cold. December 2: the day she died with her husband. Sara closed her eyes, her eyelashes miniature icicles against her cheeks.

  How she’d sat through the service she had no idea. Lincoln had given a eulogy. His mother had cried. Sara had sat there, stiff-backed, frozen. His words might as well have been spoken in a different language. None of it had sunken in. It had been a closed casket wake and ceremony. Even in death he was elusive. She kept trying to tell herself it wasn’t real, that it was a bad dream, but the gouged out part of her wouldn’t let her lie to herself, not anymore. It was growing, taking over her being, turning her into a pulsating entity of anguish. That was all she was now. Sara was brittle, ready to snap from it all. Dead. Let me die too.

  “Sara?” Lincoln whispered close to her. “Talk to me.”

  The pastor droned on about God and how her husband was now with Him and it angered her. Sara’s cheeks flushed and her hands fisted at her sides. She didn’t want to talk to Lincoln. Sara couldn’t speak. If she said one single word, she’d collapse, break. But as the pastor kept talking like he’d known her husband, like he knew God on a personal level and had tea with Him and knew, one hundred percent, that her husband would also be having tea with Him for all time henceforth, she bit her tongue to keep in a scream and tasted blood.

  Lincoln put his arm around her shoulders, his scent coming with it, and said into her hair, “If you need to leave, we’ll leave.”

  Her lip began to wobble. She was cracking. Stop talking, Lincoln. The fury seeped out of her as quickly as it had appeared and the splinter deepened.

  “Everyone will understand if you need to leave and if they don’t, too bad for them. Say the word, Sara, and I’ll take you away from this. Cole would understand.”

  Why didn’t he stop talking? Dizziness hit her and Sara stumbled back, Lincoln catching her before she landed. The pastor paused as he looked at her, his lips almost immediately moving again. He was a kind-faced man with balding black hair and glasses. Sara tried to focus on him and what he was saying; anything to center her, but his voice was muffled and far away. She shook her head and another wave of lightheadedness struck her.

  “Talk to me,” Lincoln repeated in a voice low with urgency.

  Their eyes met, his glazed with concern. Sara had to stay. For him. She owed her husband that. Sara opened her mouth, trying to talk around the dryness of her throat, trying not to break in front of everyone. Lincoln’s eyebrows lowered as he waited, never taking his eyes from her face.

  “I’ll…stay. I need to,” she whispered, her face burning as eyes turned her way.

  “Sure?”

  She nodded.

  Lincoln kept her plastered to his side, his arm strong and
steady and enough to keep her standing. Somehow she got through it. Somehow she didn’t scream or break or collapse. Sara’s body trembled as the casket covered in white roses was lowered into the ground, her eyes filling with hot tears. She blinked and they fell to her cool cheeks, warming them.

  People were leaving. She watched, bleary-eyed, as Lincoln’s father finally pulled his wife away and headed for their vehicle. Sara stared at the hole in the ground that held her husband’s body and would be his home from now on. Searing hot pain lashed through her heart, a fiery whip of devastation. What if she crawled into the hole with him? Sara would if it meant she’d be closer to him. She could close her eyes and forever sleep.

  “You lied to me,” she whispered, dashing a hand across her face to make room for more tears. “You said you’d never leave me.” Sara’s voice cracked. “But you did. You left me.”

  A movement caught her eye and she looked up from the black hole. Lincoln stood on the other side of it, tight-jawed. He wore a gray suit that matched the shade of his eyes and a red tie. His hair was in need of another cut, the waves taking over and unruly once more. One lock of dark brown hair hung on his forehead, giving him a boyish look.

  As she stared at him, he morphed into her husband. His build turned rangier, he shortened a few inches in height, and his eyes were a piercing blue. “I didn’t lie to you, Sara.”

  She inhaled sharply as she lost her balance, careening dangerously close to the edge of earth that led to the grave. Lincoln swore and raced toward her, gathering her in his arms and roughly pulling her back.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.

  Sara studied his features. It was Lincoln. Gray eyes, sharp features, wavy hair. Relief and disappointment warred inside her, and she went weak in his arms. “What did you say? When you were over there?”

  “What? I didn’t say anything. I watched you almost fall into a grave and thought I’d better rescue you.”

  She waited for Lincoln to admit he’d spoken the words she’d heard and seen her deceased husband say. Only he didn’t.

  “I’m losing my mind,” she said softly.

  “I won’t argue with you there.”

  Sara gave him a sharp look.

  The smile that flashed across his lips was thin and didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re all a little crazy at times, Sara. Sometimes that’s the only way to deal with life.”

  Lincoln began to walk away, his back stiff, his strides precise as he took himself farther and farther away from where his brother’s body would reside for all eternity.

  ***

  The unwanted guests with their sad eyes and words of condolences that mimicked every single other persons were finally gone. Lincoln helped clean up even though she’d told him to go. His suit jacket was slung over the back of the recliner and her eyes kept going to it, wanting to remove it so Lincoln’s scent didn’t replace his.

  Her husband would be honored and surprised by all that had attended the services. He’d had a cocky and sometimes arrogant demeanor that had made people think he’d thought he was better than others at times, but that hadn’t been it at all. He’d actually thought he was less than. She’d never understood why. Sara knew that wall of self-confidence had hid the insecurities of a man who’d wondered if he was all that good time and again.

  Sara had seen it; she’d known the true soul of the man who’d acted one way and had really been another. He’d always thought he had to prove something to someone; that he was good enough, or maybe just to himself. But knowing all those people cared for him and mourned the loss of his life; it would have eased some of that. She hoped it would have anyway. Not that it mattered, because he’d never know.

  She looked at his brother. He’d always gone the other way; he really didn’t care what people thought. They’d grown up in the same house and they’d been raised by the same people and they were nothing alike. How did that happen? He was so pale. Lincoln’s shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his shirt and tie were rumpled. He looked tired, his mouth bracketed in sadness, an impossible weight dragging his shoulders down from their normal proud stance.

  The scent of dish soap mixed with the turkey and dressing sandwiches from the local deli and Sara’s stomach roiled. She picked up Styrofoam cups and paper plates, putting them in the garbage. They hadn’t said a lot since his parents had left close to an hour ago. Every time their gazes met, Sara had to look away from the pain she saw in his eyes.

  “Any more dishes?”

  Sara flinched at the sound of his deep voice. “No. Thank you. I can finish up, Lincoln,” she said, motioning to the dishes he was dutifully washing and setting in the strainer next to the sink.

  He rinsed a dish off, it gently clanging against other dishes as he set it down to dry. “Yeah. You told me that. But I’m not going anywhere.”

  Her breath hiccupped. “What?”

  Lincoln’s expression was stern as he faced her. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. I don’t think you should be left alone.”

  Heat shot through her, flushing her cheeks. “I don’t care what you think. It’s my house and if I want to be alone, I get to be alone.”

  Half his mouth quirked up. “Any other time, sure. But tonight…” Lincoln shook his head. “No.”

  “Get out, Lincoln.”

  “No.”

  Sara made a sound of frustration, flinging her hands in the air. “You can’t babysit me forever.”

  Lincoln straightened and moved toward her. “What makes you think I’m babysitting you? Maybe I don’t want to be alone either. Ever think of that? Maybe the thought of going to my house, the house Cole and I grew up, the place he’ll never come back to, is too much for me right now.”

  She swallowed, slowly nodding. “Okay.”

  He frowned and then said, “Okay. I’ll finish the dishes. You go relax. Or try to relax.”

  “I can’t relax.”

  “I said try,” Lincoln said, an annoyed look on his face.

  Sara left him to the dishes, stopping outside the closed door to her bedroom. The house was full of them; all the closed doors. She thought of the painting of the door and wondered what it symbolized. It probably wasn’t that hard to figure out. She just didn’t have the energy to try to decipher its hidden meaning.

  “What is it, Sara?”

  “I just…” She rubbed her forehead, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Do you believe in God, Lincoln?”

  He let the dishrag splash into the sink. “Why do you ask? Do you not?”

  Sara slowly shook her head, turning so she faced him more. “I don’t know. I did. I mean…I always have, but…” She briefly closed her eyes. “I’ve lost so many. My dad, my mom, my…our…baby and…” Sara swallowed, trying to say his name. It lodged in her throat.

  Lincoln crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his gaze on her. “So what you’re wondering is, if God does exist, why does he hate you so much?”

  She flinched, her eyes watering. Sara blinked and tears dropped from her face. “I just—why do so many good people have to die? What’s the point of that? Why does He let it happen?”

  He straightened. “What makes you think He lets it happen?” Lincoln said slowly. “How do you know He’s not crying right along with you, Sara?”

  Sara looked away, her throat closing with pain.

  “He gave us life. All the rest of it…that’s part of living. I don’t think He randomly picks people to lose more than others or that He decided He didn’t like you so He’s making you suffer. I don’t think He has any control over any of that. It’s all about free will, right? We’re given life and what we decide to do with that life and what happens to that life is out of His hands. I could be wrong. I am a lot.” Lincoln snorted. He rubbed his head, sighing. “Anyway, that’s what I think. Maybe it’s stupid.”

  “No.” Sara crossed the room to him. “It’s not stupid. Thank you, Lincoln.” She touched his cheek, emotions choking her into silence. Sara
wanted to say more; she thought she should, but she couldn’t.

  Lincoln stilled, carefully breathing in and out, his hand lifting to hold hers against his face. His silvery eyes stabbed her with their directness; somehow clear even with all the shadows in them. Sara abruptly backed away, her hand falling from his face. She swallowed, averting her face. Without speaking, Lincoln turned his back to her and returned to washing the dishes.

  ***

  Falling. Sara was falling into a swirling vortex of misery and darkness. It was sucking her soul away, ripping it from her, and along with it, him. It was agony, having him severed from her. Sara didn’t know herself without him; she would vanish in his absence. She’d been so lost before she’d found him and now she was lost again. She already felt it happening; the disappearance of her soul. So she clutched him to her; his image, his voice, the smell of him, and yet he was still taken from her.

  She was beginning to splinter in two, she was being torn apart. Sara walked through the house in a daze, haunted by him, longing for him, hurting so much she wondered how she was still alive from all the pain. She felt it in the tightness of her chest; she felt it in the pressure that never left her. No matter how hard she fought or tried to stop, it was winning. The abyss was pulling her down, removing everything that made up Sara, and leaving her empty. Hollow.

  Sara was turning into him; the man she’d thought she’d be with until her last breath was taken; the man that had been her universe, her soul, and was now nothing. He was stolen from her, and with him, she was stolen from herself. He was dead. She was dead. Sara thought maybe she should let it happen. Then they could be nothing together.

  The bottle of prescription painkillers mocked her from its perch on the bathroom counter. One week. It had been one week and two days since he’d been buried. Sometimes Sara pictured him waking up, finally, in the ground, trying to breathe, scratching at the lid of the casket, forever trapped. He screamed for her, using his final breath to shout her name, like he had in reality. She had nightmares of it when she slept, which wasn’t often. It didn’t matter, though, because they followed her, tormented her, even when she was awake. There was no reprieve.