Take Care, Sara

by Lindy Zart

  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.

  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 b
een 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.

  4

  It was Tuesday. Three weeks exactly from Tuesday the 29 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 wi
th 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.