by Lindy Zart
“What—“ The snow smacked her chest, cold chunks of winter flying up and hitting her neck, face, and going down the front of her jacket. Sara sucked in a sharp breath at the icy sting of it against the heat of her skin. She stood there, disbelief holding her immobile.
Lincoln laughed, bending down again.
Panic set in and Sara searched for cover, her eyes zooming in on the trees closest to her. She knew he wouldn’t really throw another snowball at her and yet her pulse began to race. Then he looked at her, his facial expression telling her, yes, he would.
“Don’t you—“ An involuntary cry left her as the second snowball whirred through the air and made contact with her face. Sara gasped, stunned to find her upper body encrusted in slush.
His head tipped back as his laughter filled the woods around them, loud and deep. Birds chirped in response, their chatter taking the place of Lincoln’s mirth. It was a beautiful sound and Sara went still as it washed over her. The trees, the snow, nature; it was close to perfect. She hadn’t enjoyed anything so simple and significant in too long.
“Come on, Sara. Fight back.” Lincoln opened his arms wide, a grin on his face. “Hit me with your best shot.”
She shook her head. “No.”
With narrowed eyes, Lincoln purposely crouched and grabbed a handful of now. “Sure?”
“This is not Christmas tree searching,” Sara pointed out, her voice a little shrill.
The snowball hit her leg. “Lincoln—“ Another one smacked her arm. Sara gritted her teeth, determination snapping through her. “Fine. You asked for it.”
“Oh, I’m scared. Look, Sara. I’m terrified.” He raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed by her declaration.
“You’re gonna be terrified,” she muttered as she firmly packed snow into a misshapen ball.
“What was that?” he asked, one hand behind his ear.
Sara straightened and whipped the snowball toward Lincoln as hard as she could. It flew over his head and splattered against a tree behind him.
“Really, Sara?” He gave her a disappointed look.
Scowl in place, she quickly scooped up more snow and flung it at him. Lincoln ducked and it hit the ground to the left of him.
“You suck.”
Flushed, her breath leaving her in pants, Sara went to make another snowball.
“I think you should stop before you embarrass yourself anymore.”
She chucked the partially made snowball to the ground and glared at him. When Lincoln laughed, a cry of frustration burst from her and Sara took off toward him, the look of surprise on his face when she clotheslined him across the chest one she would never forget. He stumbled back, hanging onto her. Sara lost her balance and fell on her face in the snow, Lincoln on his back beside her, clutching her arm.
Her shoulders shook and gasps left her as she fought to breathe. She laid there, the front of her lodged in a mound of snow, and laughed, inhaling the icy particles and not caring how wet and cold she was getting. Sara couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed and it surged from her, loud and close to hysterical sounding. The laughter soon turned into a sob and then she was tugged to the left.
Lincoln pulled her into his arms and held her, shielding her upper half from the snow with his body. He rested his chin on the crown of her head as she wept, not speaking, just holding, and Sara was so grateful for that. His arms were warm and tight around her back, his body heat trying to block out the shivers that were taking over her body. The side of Sara’s face was pressed against his cold jacket that smelled like winter and laundry detergent.
“I think,” he began slowly, “what you need to find is a way to not feel bad about living.” She stiffened and tried to pull away. Lincoln only tightened his hold on her. “And I’m going to help you find it.”
“Why?” she choked out.
Lincoln sat up, taking her with him. He tipped her chin up so their gazes locked. “Because stupid people try to do things on their own and smart people realize no one can do anything on their own. And you’re smart.” He smiled and Sara swallowed. “Even when you don’t act like it. Let’s find our tree.”
They spent close to an hour roaming the woods, searching for the perfect tree. Lincoln let her pick and Sara was drawn to the most straggly, uneven, imperfect tree. It was her. Surviving, but in no way striving. There was no better, more fitting tree.
“You’re kidding.” He gave the tree a dubious look.
Sara touched a bent limb. The tree was only as tall as she. “I’m not.”
Lincoln watched her for a long, silent moment. He finally nodded. “Okay, Sara. I get it. We’ll have a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.”
Her eyes burned at his easy acceptance of her wishes, no matter how strange he thought they might be. “Thank you.”
He tied a red ribbon to the tree to mark it. “Don’t thank me yet. This tree is going to need some serious decorating to make it acceptable. You’re in charge of that. I’ll be back later to cut it. You’re shivering. Let’s go warm up.” Lincoln nudged her. “I’ll even make you hot chocolate with a peppermint candy cane.”
Sara’s throat tightened. “Stop being so nice to me.”
Lincoln began to walk, shaking his head as he went. “Stop being so hard on yourself.”
She hurried to catch up, stumbling over a fallen tree limb. Lincoln turned, catching her before she fell. His brows furrowed as he stared down at her, searching her face. Her heartbeat picked up its pace and Sara pulled away, confused by her body’s reaction to Lincoln. She looked at her brown snow-covered boots, wanting to escape all the things she didn’t understand.
“Sara.” He said it quietly, but there was so much emotion heard in the way he said it. Why did he do that? Say her name like it meant something, like it was a benediction or prayer?
Sara could try to pretend it wasn’t there, and maybe for a while it would work, but eventually it would be inescapable, like life. Don’t think about it. You’re imagining things. Maybe Sara could use avoidance for a little while longer. Through the five years she’d known him, there had been instances where Sara had thought Lincoln had said something a certain way; looked at her a certain way, but she’d always brushed it aside, like she would now. A frown on her face, Sara met his eyes, willing him to keep his secrets.
Lincoln hesitated, and then said, “You have a leaf in your hair.”
He pulled it out from her tangled hair and showed her. Lincoln let it drop to the ground, Sara’s eyes going with it. It lay there, torn and wrinkled and dead. It looked so beaten, so sad. She blinked her wet eyes, thinking of her husband and thinking of her and wanting to not think at all.
“I got a joke,” he announced, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her along with him as he herded them toward the house.
Sara squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun as it flickered through the tree branches, periodically blinding her as it played peek-a-boo with the earth. “I’m sure it’s good.”
“Are you saying my jokes usually aren’t?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t be that rude.”
Lincoln snorted. “There’s a blond, a Russian, and an American talking. The Russian says, “We were the first to enter outer space.” The American comes back with, “Yeah, well, we were the first on the moon.” The blond says, “My friends and I are going to the sun.” Russian says, “You idiot. You’ll burn up halfway there.” Blond goes, “Duh. We’re going at night.””
Sara giggled.
“Good, right?”
“I don’t know about that.”
Lincoln’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “You know I’m outstandingly funny. It’s okay to admit it.”
Sara smiled softly as the house came into view. The smile fell from her lips, the fleeting serenity she’d had with it. She ceased moving and Lincoln dropped his arm from her shoulders, stopping beside her.
“It’s just a house, Sara.”
Just a house filled with him in ever
y way imaginable. That was all. What did Lincoln think and feel every time he walked inside the door?
“Is it just a house to you?” she asked softly.
Their eyes met and in his, Sara saw pain, and she felt horrible. It was always about her. Lincoln was always trying to make her feel better, always trying to drag her away from the edge of desolation. What about him? He’d lost his best friend, the older brother he’d looked up to growing up, because of Sara. She owed it to him to let him know his brother’s wishes. Sara owed him so much.
“What is it?”
Sara opened her mouth to confess the secret locked inside her. Her pulse was careening madly, her heart pounded so fast and hard she felt faint. “Your…I…” She stared at him in helplessness and misery.
His features tightened and then his face closed. It went completely blank. “Tell me.”
“He—“
“Say his name, Sara,” Lincoln interrupted sharply. “He’s a person, your husband, say his fucking name.”
She flinched at his harsh tone and words, stumbling back a step. If he’d slapped her she wouldn’t have felt the sting more.
He cursed again, yanking his gloves from his hands and flinging them to the ground. “I’m sorry, but…this is over, Sara. You can’t pretend anymore. I’m not letting you. So say his name, and stop acting like your world has fallen apart and mine hasn’t and…fuck.” Lincoln turned away, showing Sara his granite profile. “Just say his name, all right?” His throat convulsed as he swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Sara reached for his arm and Lincoln shrugged her off. “I’m doing what Spencer did, only in a different way. I didn’t…I didn’t realize. And I know better. I’m so sorry, Lincoln.” A wave of sorrow hit her, but this time it wasn’t for her or her husband. This time, it was for Lincoln.
He whirled around, his jaw clenched. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Sara. I want you to live. I want you to stop blaming yourself and acting like a martyr waiting for her execution. I want you to smile and laugh and not give up. Because I’m not giving up and Cole wouldn’t want you to give up. Do you know how pissed he would be, right now, if he knew the way you’re living? He would be furious.” Lincoln glared down at her, his hands fisted at his sides.
She was suffocating. Sara gasped for air that didn’t come. She had to tell him. She had to tell Lincoln and face his wrath. “You don’t understand, Lincoln. I don’t know how. I can’t.” The pressure built, in her chest, in her throat.
Lincoln strode toward her, his gaze locked on Sara’s. He stopped when only an inch separated them. “Find a way.”
“He wrote a living will,” she blurted out. Her words ran together until they were jumbled and hard to understand. But once Sara started, she couldn’t stop. “He wrote a will stating that if he was ever put on life support, that once a year had come with no change in his health, he…the machine is supposed to be shut off.” Saying it out loud made it true and she sucked in a ragged breath, pain lacerating her heart.
Lincoln’s face; his face was stone as he stared at her, saying nothing.
Sara swallowed thickly, the words like cement in her throat. It was too late to stop. She had to finish; she had to get them all out. “I’m supposed to approve it. He stated in the will I’m to approve it. I have….they want me to sign the papers. It’s been over a year, Lincoln.”
Everything in her dimmed; shut done, as she studied his expression. It was dead. His eyes were dead. Those stormy gray eyes usually so full of life were flat. He didn’t move; he didn’t appear to breathe. He just stared at her, as though he hadn’t heard her words or couldn’t accept them. The world turned gray, listless, it disappeared as she watched him stand there, too hurt to even move; and she wanted to erase his sorrow. Sara would take it from him if she could.
She was back in time; back to that horrible day the doctors told them the prognosis wasn’t good; the day they were told the head trauma he suffered from was most likely irrevocable and unfixable. His brain was damaged too much. Sara was back to that day when Lincoln was broken right along with her. He’d had the same look on his face then as he did now. Only then there’d been reason to have a little hope; now there was none. A small part of her hoped anyway.
When Lincoln spoke, she knew it was the same for him.
“Maybe…” He swallowed. “Maybe he’ll be okay.” Lincoln’s voice was rough, his eyes downcast.
“Maybe,” she agreed, nodding her head as she reached for him. It felt like a lie and that caused an ache in her chest. Sara cupped Lincoln’s face with her hands. He looked at her, his brows lowered, his jaw tight. His unshaven jaw shifted against her palms, gently abrading the sensitive flesh.
Sara smiled. She smiled for Lincoln and she hugged him, knowing in that place inside a person where the truth was always heard, no matter how hard it didn’t want to be, that she was lying to Lincoln; they were lying to each other, but a lie was all she could handle at the moment. Lincoln too.
Lincoln’s arms slowly enclosed her, stiff and loose at first, but eventually squeezing her so close and hard it was an effort for Sara to suck air through her lungs, but she didn’t mind. At least she was breathing, for a little while. Lincoln’s warmth cocooned her along with his arms, his scent of mint and lemon filling her with peace, the sound of his stable, strong heartbeat soothing. Sara let her eyes close, and though her heart was torn and possibly irreparable, like Lincoln’s, with the two ruined pieces there was one whole heart.
9
“He taught me how to ride a bike. How to tie my shoes. How to bait a hook.” Lincoln laughed gruffly. “He taught me a lot of things.”
Sara sipped from the red and blue striped coffee mug, the mint and chocolate mix coating her tongue with pleasure. The mug heated her cold fingers. They sat on opposite sides of the couch, though their bodies were turned toward one another. The room was dim with only one lamp on to offer light. A fire crackled in the fireplace across the room, the yellows and oranges hypnotic as they flickered and danced.
“Like what?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard this all before.” Lincoln set his mug down on an end table and rubbed his face. He looked tired and worn down, his features tight with repressed pain. Lincoln’s shoulders were slouched with the grief he tried to keep inside. It would crack one day; that barrier he kept up, and Sara wanted to be there for him when it did, like he’d been there for her countless times. If he’d let her.
“Tell me again,” she offered softly, knowing Lincoln needed to talk about his brother. He needed to relive their shared history, make him real again so he didn’t completely fade. Seeing him in that bed, it was a punch to the senses. That wasn’t him. It shouldn’t be him. Yet it was.
He glanced at her, sighing loudly. “Cole was quiet growing up. He didn’t have to say a lot to get his point across. Me, I was always the more belligerent, loud-mouthed one. It wasn’t that Cole was shy; he just said what he had to say and then shut up. He didn’t have the time to waste on words. He said so himself.” Lincoln grinned, sadness tingeing it.
“He had better things to do than talk,” Sara agreed.
“Yeah.” He stared at the fire, showing her his profile. “I got in a fight with a kid at school. I was, oh, maybe fifteen. He was making fun of another kid and I intervened. Then he started making fun of me. Of course I got pissed and gave it back to him, even punching him when he wouldn’t back down. I got three days out of school for that.
“Cole reamed me for it. Told me only a dumbass lets another dumbass get to him like that. Only it hadn’t seemed right not to stick up for the kid. When I told him that, he said that wasn’t what he’d meant. I asked him what he had meant then and he told me to figure it out for myself.” Lincoln shook his head and offered her a quick, sad smile.
That was her husband; honorable, gruff, and to the point. It was unbearable how much she missed him. Sara set the mug down on the coffee table, the taste in her mouth going
from good to bad.
“This doesn’t seem real.”
Sara stiffened at the quietly spoken words. She looked up and saw Lincoln gazing into the crackling fire, his mind somewhere else.
“None of it. This past year or so, it all seems like a bad dream. Some days I wake up and forget, but then reality always slams me over the head and tells me what a fool I am to try to pretend, even for a second, that my brother is going to show up at the work site and hand me a gas station coffee.”
“I know. I keep thinking he’s going to come home from work or from a fishing trip. I know he’s not, but…” She took a shuddering breath, clasping her chilled hands together in her lap. “It’s not easy to accept. Seeing him like that, wondering…” Sara swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.
Lincoln jumped to his feet, startling her. “I’m going to the hospital. I don’t know what else to do. This…this is…” His voice trailed off and Lincoln’s throat bobbed as he repeatedly tried to swallow. “I feel like bawling my fucking eyes out,” he confessed roughly.
Sara stared up at him, tears filling her eyes. She wordlessly nodded, her grief trickling down her cheeks.
“Will you…” Lincoln paused and tried again. “Will you go with me?”
Her lips trembled as she whispered, “Of course.”
He offered his hand and Sara slowly placed hers in his, the connection of their hands locking them together. On their own, they were weak, but together, they seemed to be able to cope. Lincoln pulled her to her feet and into his arms, and this time, he was the one that needed to be comforted, this time, he was the one whose heart was breaking. Lincoln’s head dipped forward as his arms held her to him and she pressed her cheek to his soft hair, closing her eyes as she felt his body shake. He was so much stronger than she, so much larger, and so much more fragile right now.
“I don’t want this to be real,” he said against her neck, his breath causing her skin to pebble.
She tightened her hold on him, trying to heal his inner pain with her embrace. As if Sara could take it away with her touch; as if she had that power. She knew she was deluding herself, but maybe she eased it a little, like Lincoln was able to do for her.
