by Lindy Zart
“Where are we going?” She hauled herself into the cab and put on her seatbelt. It smelled like spearmint in the truck and the interior was clean. Lincoln had always been particular about his belongings; taking care to keep his bedroom, truck, house, and everything else he owned clean and tidy. Opposites; he and his brother. Lincoln started it up and the truck vibrated as the diesel engine rumbled to life.
Riding with people didn’t bother her, driving her own car didn’t bother her, but Sara had yet to drive with a passenger in her car. The thought made her tremble and feel clammy. She didn’t care what happened to her, but she wouldn’t be responsible for another’s life. Never again.
He grabbed a battered black baseball cap from the dash and situated it low on his head so that his hair winged up around it. Lincoln put the vehicle in drive as he answered, “I’m not sure. Wherever the truck takes us.” He glanced over with a grin. Sara blinked at how it transformed his face.
When had his features gotten so sharp and masculine? She remembered him as a baby-faced young man of twenty-two who teased and badgered her the first time they’d met, and pretty much every day after that. She’d always thought of him as being younger than she, though he was actually a few months older. That was the image her mind brought up whenever she thought of Lincoln. Only it didn’t fit anymore. Sara saw that now. This was Lincoln; this leaner, more angular-featured man whose shoulders slumped a little more than they should, whose face showed strain and weariness from too much sorrow. She’d done that to him. Indirectly, but what did it matter?
Sara turned away, a fresh wave of remorse slamming into her. She was drowning from all the guilt she had inside her. Sinking, disappearing. She tightly clasped her cold hands together in her lap and stared out the window, not really seeing anything as the truck led them out of town and in the direction of Fennimore. The truck was quickly warming up, but it seemed to bypass her somehow. She couldn’t get warm.
Lincoln found a song on the radio and cranked the volume up. The bass was loud, the beat fast. It thrummed through Sara’s body, pulsating with musical life, demanding attention, demanding to be felt. She’d always loved music. Sara had loved to sing, loved to dance. She hadn’t done either since the accident. Each song had a story to tell, each song was a small, but significant tale. It had manipulated her art to be either ethereal or angry or simply bold. A good song had the power to change someone’s whole outlook in so many ways.
He began to sing along, completely off key and Sara knew that was on purpose. Out of the two brothers, Lincoln was the one gifted with a musical voice. When he chose to use it. Sara looked at him. Lincoln caught her eye and winked, bellowing out the next verse. He made his voice really high, so high it cracked, and Sara’s lips unconsciously curved. She bit her lip to stop the smile from completely forming, but when he changed the words to ridicule himself, a snort left her.
Sara clapped a hand over her mouth, widening her eyes. Lincoln took in her expression and laughed long and hard. For that moment, Sara forgot everything. For that moment, she was her old self. The person she’d been before the pain had overtaken everything and warped her into what she now was. She giggled; her eyes on Lincoln.
“Come on, Sara, help me out.” Another song started and Lincoln mutilated that one as well, doing a neck roll and upper body dance as he drove the truck up the hill to Fennimore.
She shook her head. “No way. I’m not adding to the horrible sound coming out of your mouth.”
“What was that song we sang at karaoke that one time?”
“The song you forced me to sing even though I didn’t know it?”
“Yeah. That one. You learned it soon enough. What was the name of it?”
“’Love Shack’.” Sara swallowed thickly. It was supposed to have been a double date, but Lincoln’s girlfriend dumped him right before it was time to go and as he had gotten stuck finishing up a company project it had ended up being Sara and Lincoln. In spite of all that, it had been a fun night.
“That would be it. We should do that again.” Lincoln pulled the truck into a gas station parking lot and put it in park. “Let’s get some bad coffee. You game?”
“You go. I’ll wait here.”
Lincoln hopped out of the truck and turned back to her. “If you don’t go inside with me, I’ll be forced to stand on the sidewalk and sing at the top of my lungs. Loudly. And badly. Promise.”
“Why does it matter if I go in or not, Lincoln?”
“It doesn’t. To me. But I think it matters to you. Let’s go, Sara.”
Sara glared at him. He was right. Every normal act she’d used to do without thought took great effort from her to accomplish these days, even getting out of a vehicle and going into a gas station to get a cup of lousy coffee. Even getting into the truck. Showering. Getting dressed. All of those things wore her out and some days she couldn’t even get them done. Even eating was a chore lately.
One of Lincoln’s eyebrows lifted as he intently gazed at her, his eyes never leaving her. With a sigh, Sara opened the door and slid down from the cab, huddling in her coat and tucking her chin under the collar of it to keep as much cold away from her skin as she could. It didn’t help much.
Lincoln met her on the sidewalk, smiling, bumping her shoulder with his arm as they walked inside. Sara knew she was being paranoid, but she felt like everyone was watching her, like everyone knew what she was responsible for and they all hated her because of it. He was the only one she didn’t imagine looking at her like that and Sara’s eyes continued to drift to Lincoln because of it. He was her rock. That scared her, knowing she’d come to rely on him so much, because she knew that would change in weeks to come.
It smelled like pizza and coffee and doughnuts in the convenience store; an odd mixture that was somehow enticing all tossed in together as it was. They stood side by side, looking at the different kinds of coffee. Sara and Lincoln looked at each at the same time and when he smiled, she felt her lips turn up in response.
“They all sound terrible.”
“They probably all are terrible,” she murmured, eyes back on the coffee selection.
“Here goes,” he said, reaching for a cup and pouring ‘Jamaican Me Crazy’ into it.
Sara watched his face as he sipped it. Lincoln’s face went perfectly blank, revealing nothing. “Good?”
“Mmm-hmm,” was all he said, lifting his cup in a salute. He methodically raised the cup to his lips and took another drink.
She fought laughter and lost, surprising herself and Lincoln. He went still, blinking at her. Sara turned away as the laughter abruptly cut off, flustered. She fumbled with the coffee cups, knocking a stack of them over and onto the floor. When she reached down to pick them up, Lincoln was there with her, taking them from her shaking hands, and then taking her hands in his. Sara stared at their joined hands, not able to move. His hands were rougher and larger and tanner than hers. The nails were short and blunt, but clean. They were strong hands, hands that worked.
“You don’t have to feel bad for living, Sarah,” he said slowly.
She snatched her hands back, grabbing the cups off the floor and standing. Without looking at the kind it was, Sara quickly poured coffee into a cup. “I’m ready.”
It was a silent drive back to Boscobel. After a few sips of the bitter, stale coffee, Sara gave up on it and set it in the cup holder. Lincoln did the same.
“It really was horrible.”
Sara looked at his profile and saw that he was grinning. “Yes. It really was,” she said.
Lincoln pulled the truck up to the curb by the small white ranch-style house, putting the vehicle in park. He twisted his body so that he faced her, the bill of his cap hiding his eyes in the gloomy light. “We’re going to change some things, Sara.”
She stiffened, but didn’t respond.
“We’re going to do things we don’t want to do, we’re going to socialize, we’re even going to hang out together weekly. I know, once a week just isn’t enough.
Fine. We’ll try to make it a couple times. We’re going to laugh and smile. We’re going to live. Understand?
“This is what Cole would want. He would freak out if he saw the way you’re living now. You know it too. This is stopping. Now. You can get mad at me and you can try to push me away, but guess what? I’m not going anywhere.”
Sara’s eyes filled with wetness. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she swallowed. He was so nice now, but soon, he would hate her. Maybe she should just tell him and get it over with.
“Lincoln…” she began.
“I’m removing your free will from this subject. You have no say in this, Sara,” he said firmly, resituating his hat so that his face was partially shadowed.
Sara sucked in a sharp breath as she watched him fiddle with his cap until he had it just right. Lincoln did it just like him. She’d never noticed that before. It made sense. They’d grown up together, only two years apart in age. Of course Lincoln would have some of the same mannerisms as his brother.
“Sara? What is it?” Lincoln leaned closer, a frown on his face.
“Nothing.” She turned away, grabbing the door handle, and jumped down from the truck. It had begun to snow and her shoes slid on the cement.
Lincoln met her at the front of the truck, reaching for her arm. Sara jerked back, not wanting him to touch her. “What’s going on, Sara?”
“Nothing,” she muttered again, hurrying toward the house and away from Lincoln. Only he followed.
He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his eyes like stormy gray clouds. “You need to talk. You need to tell me what’s going on right now. Or I’m not leaving.” Lincoln’s hand dropped from her arm, but his eyes never left her face. Those were stronger than his hands would ever be; they had the power to hold her in place with their intensity. “You know…every time that phone rings and no one talks and I know it’s you, I get this pressure in my chest. Every time I hang up that phone knowing you’re on the other end of it, that pressure builds until it just…aches, Sara. I worry about you. I worry about you a lot. Talk to me.”
She stared at his unrelenting face, tripping over her words. “You just—you remind me of him, okay? Sometimes you do or say something just the way he would have. And it hurts. Being around you hurts sometimes.” Snowflakes fell harder, blanketing them in a layer of cold whiteness and wetting Sara’s face along with the warm tears that never really went away. They were always there, below the surface, waiting to be unleashed in all their sorrow and anguish.
Lincoln stared at her. His lips pressed together and Sara looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. She was so cold. Always so cold. As though he’d heard her thoughts, Lincoln pulled her to him and cocooned her against his chest, his arms warm and strong around her.
Sara stiffened; her first impulse to move away. She knew it would do no good; she knew he wouldn’t let her go. Sara inhaled a ragged breath, lowering her head as his heat seeped into her, finally warming her. For once, she wasn’t so cold. But it felt wrong. It shouldn’t be him holding her. Sara stepped back and Lincoln let her go.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him. Sara kept her eyes lowered as she walked to the door, quietly opened it, and shut him out. She didn’t move away from the door until she heard the loud engine roar and the truck barrel down the street. Only then did she exhale. Only then was she able to get her legs to move.
***
“What are you thinking, Sara?”
She set the yellow fleece blanket on the dresser and turned. Lincoln stood in the doorway of the partially painted nursery, arms crossed, eyes directed at her. His hair was messy in a way only a hand repeatedly run through it could accomplish.
“Where’s Cole?”
“Outside. Where else? What are you thinking?” he repeated.
“Nothing. Why?”
Lincoln straightened. “Bull shit. You might be able to fool Cole because he’s too thick-headed to see the strain on your face, or he’s too deliriously happy to want to think you’re not the same, but I’m not like that. I see you, even when you don’t want anyone to. You’re pale. You’re not eating. Your eyes are red and you’re subdued. What gives? Are you not happy about the baby?”
Inhaling slowly, she said softly, “Of course I’m happy.” But her voice cracked and there was a tremble to it. “I’m pregnant. I’m supposed to be pale and not able to eat and whatever else you said.”
“Hormonal. That one I forgot.”
She gave him a look.
Lincoln flashed a quick grin before becoming serious again. “This is more than that.”
Sara didn’t answer. He was right.
With a sigh, Lincoln put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head so they were at eyelevel. His hands were warm and he smelled like citrusy soap. It didn’t repel her, like most scents did lately. It was familiar, welcome, like Lincoln. “Talk to me.”
“I’m scared,” she admitted, blinking her eyes against tears.
“You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. What are you scared about?”
“What if something happens? To me or the baby. I can’t say any of this to Cole. I can’t worry him.”
“He should be worried,” Lincoln said grimly “He’s your husband; he’s the father. He should be worried.”
She shook her head. “No. He’s so happy. I want him to be happy.”
“You want him to be happy while you’re miserable? That doesn’t sound fair. If anything, you should both be miserable together, worrying about things you have no control over, losing hair, losing sleep, looking…you look terrible, Sara. Where’s your glow?”
Scowling, Sara slapped his arm and moved away. “I haven’t found it yet.”
“Well, until you do, I’ll be miserable with you. How’s that? Cole can be blissfully unaware of reality and I’ll sympathize with you. You have a worry, a complaint, some disgusting tidbit to share; I’ll be here for you to dump your problems on. You can traumatize my brain and ears with all your pregnancy woes. I’m a man; I can take it. Deal?”
Sara looked at her brother-in-law, thinking she couldn’t have asked for a better one. But she had to ask, “Why?”
“I want you to be happy, Sara, and if you’re not happy, I can’t be,” he said simply.
***
It was Sunday. Sara had her portable bed put away and was showered and dressed long before the time Mason had threatened to reappear. She’d even made a pot of coffee, but she defiantly did not bake anything. Part of her wondered if he’d even show up, but in the pit of her stomach, where it churned and flipped all around, she knew he would.
The knock sounded at exactly nine in the morning, startling Sara from her bleak thoughts. She swallowed, opening the door to cold air, a snow-covered street, and Mason. His amber eyes flickered over her, approval in them. He rubbed snow from his dirty blond head, stepping inside and taking off his brown leather jacket to reveal a black sweater. He handed a small white bag to her, the delectable scent of cinnamon and sugar teasing her senses. Sara took it, looking at it and then at him.
“I figured the baking comment was probably pushing it.”
“You were right.”
Mason smiled and bent down to take his boots off.
“Where’s Spencer?”
He paused, glancing up. “Spencer isn’t part of the sessions, Sara.”
She moved to the kitchen, careful not to look at him. Her pulse picked up at those words and her chest squeezed. Spencer she knew. Spencer she trusted. This guy, he was an enigma; she wasn’t sure how to read or take him. Sara didn’t particularly like him either. She set the bag down.
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“The ones that don’t ask are the ones that need it the most.”
“I don’t want it.”
“But you need it.”
“Philosopher on top of grief counselor. Multi-talented.” Sara poured two mugs of coffee.
“T
hat’s me.” He took the mug she offered, blowing on it before taking a sip.
“Do you have any credentials? Anything to show me you’re not a hoax?”
One eyebrow lifted. “Spencer’s a cop. It’d be pretty dumb of me to masquerade as something I’m not when one of my good friends could have me checked out at any time.”
“You never said you were smart.”
He choked on his coffee, setting it down on the table and wiping a hand across his lips. Amusement, fleeting but intense, blazed over his features. “Tell me about yourself.”
Sara wrapped both hands around her cup, slowly raising it to her lips. It hovered there, brushing her lips as she said, “I’m twenty-seven, I’m an unemployed artist, and I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”
Mason acted like she’d never spoken; his facial expression blank. “What’s this room?” he asked, walking toward the room she’d used as her art studio.
“Don’t go in there,” she said, panic making her voice harsh. Sara thumped her coffee cup to the counter, hot dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim as she hurried for the door. Mason was already opening it when she reached him. “Mason! Don’t!” she gasped, her heart thundering and her breaths leaving her in short, panicky bursts.
Cool air swept over her in an icy hug of sorrow as the door swung open and she closed her eyes against it. It cocooned her in longing and unforgettable loss. Whispers of the past tingled through her scalp and under her skin, chilling her. He was in there, waiting for her, waiting to crash her world around her with images, scents, and sounds of everything she missed, wanted, and would never have again. Sara couldn’t open her eyes. If she did, she’d see him.
“Sara. Open your eyes. Face it. You have to face what hurts you. That’s the only way you’re going to cope. Open your eyes and see. It’s just a room.”
Mason knew nothing. It wasn’t just a room. It was where they’d spent hours and hours together in quiet harmony. It was where she’d created with her hands what she wouldn’t have been able to had he not been there with her. It was where they’d laughed and smiled and simply were, existing, together.
