by Lindy Zart
Lincoln pulled away, grim-faced and red-eyed. Their eyes locked. So much pain in his eyes, she thought. Sara wanted to make it fade away.
His eyes darkened, something shifted in his expression, and Lincoln moved away, running his fingers through his wavy hair. “Let’s go.”
***
The cold prickled her skin as hot tears burned her eyes. She stared down at the place he rested, not seeing her husband. It was hard for Sara to come to this place, to see what he’d become. It was turning into an obligation and that made her nauseous. She tried to tell herself it was because it wasn’t really him, that he was in some other place and what she was staring down at was not her husband. It wasn’t him, but it was him. Sara was holding on to what he used to be, not what he was now.
It had been too long, she knew that, logically. Her heart couldn’t accept it. Over a year she’d been coming to this place, looking at what remained of the man she loved, and it killed her, and she hated it. She hated herself. Sara loathed feeling the way she did. Because, in the deepest part of her mind and heart, the place she tried to ignore and pretended didn’t exist, something was telling her he wasn’t coming back, not ever.
Guilt consumed her, telling her what a horrible person she was. Sara didn’t need guilt to tell her that. She already knew. It was her fault he was here. She wasn’t allowed to feel guilty. Sara would forever be to blame and she had to bear that burden. It was hers alone. With each day that passed and she didn’t come, with each memory she tried to escape because it hurt too much, with each breath she breathed that was hers and his he didn’t breathe, she was to blame.
She sucked in a sharp breath, trailing a hand over his cool forehead. Words never came to her at these visits, not anymore. There was nothing more to say. Sara had said it all. She’d pleaded, wept, begged, and none of it had changed a thing. Sara even hated him a little for not waking up, for not coming back to her, for not fighting to be with her. She hated herself for what she’d done to him. She hated herself for hating him.
Everything about this place made her skin crawl; the smell, the beeping of the monitor, the whooshing sound of oxygen being forced into his lungs, the tubes running to and from him. It wasn’t any way to live. It wasn’t living; it was existing.
“How long?”
They stood on either side of him, Sara wanting to look way from the wrecked being that had once been whole and resilient, and unable to. Her eyes hurt to see him and for once she was grateful for the tears that blurred her vision, made his image altered from what it truly was. She hated feeling like she did; hated the relief she felt when she turned her gaze away from him. What Sara hated the most was wondering if she would feel a tiny sliver of reprieve when it was all finally over as well. It was destroying her; seeing him, not seeing him, wanting him to live, and wanting it done.
“Less than two weeks,” she choked out.
Lincoln’s features tightened and the slump to his broad shoulders deepened. He softly swore, slamming fingers through already mussed hair. He turned so his back faced the bed where his brother laid, every muscle in his body tense, to deal with his grief away from Sara’s eyes.
The room had that chalky medicinal smell that made her stomach roil. The lights were dimmed in the white-walled room. It was cooler than Sara thought comfortable, but of course it didn’t matter to him. In fact, he’d always liked it colder in the house than Sara did. So maybe it wouldn’t matter even if he was awake. He’d liked his snow in the winter and snowmobiling and all things outdoors; no matter what time of year it was. He’d found a way to adapt to it all; found a way to make it desirable.
Sara looked down at his gray, sunken face. He’d always had sculpted cheekbones, but now they stood out as sharp blades of bone. His body was dying, his brain didn’t want to or couldn’t wake up, and he was stealing breaths that weren’t his. There was no way to make this situation acceptable. That’s why you gave us the time limit, isn’t it? She hated him for doing that, giving them a figurative clock on the days he had left. But she was also grateful and she hated herself for that. What kind of wife dreaded and longed for something at the same time? This wasn’t a way to live, Sara knew that. He’d known that. But to not have him live at all…it was unfathomable.
It was too much, seeing him as he was. Did he sleep? Did he hear things? Was his mind completely shut off or did he know she was near? The not knowing was the hardest; that was what was tearing Sara up. Was her husband in there somewhere or was he simply gone? Had he left a long time ago, at the wreck? If Sara only knew, maybe then she could cope.
She didn’t realize she was crying until a broken sob left her. “I never got to say goodbye,” she wept as Lincoln strode across the room and scooped her into his arms. Tears flowed like miniature waterfalls from her eyes and down her face. “I can’t say goodbye. How do I say goodbye, Lincoln?”
“You don’t have to say goodbye.”
Sara stiffened in his arms, slowly lifting her eyes to his. That hadn’t been his voice. “What did you say?” she asked, breathless, her heart pounding.
Lincoln’s eyebrows lowered. “I said you don’t have to say goodbye.”
She moved away, putting a shaking hand to her forehead. “But that wasn’t…you…” Sara couldn’t voice her thoughts. She would sound crazy if she did. Was she crazy? Sara had wondered that a lot since the accident.
“What?”
“Nothing. I…” Her face crumpled as she turned her gaze to the bed. He was unmoving, his chest lifting and lowering with artificial life. It couldn’t have been him. Why had it sounded like his voice and not Lincoln’s?
“You don’t have to say goodbye because I’ll always be with you, Sara,” the gruff voice drawled through the air, soft and full of conviction.
She whipped her head toward Lincoln. “What?”
“I said, he’ll always be with you.” Lincoln frowned, tapping his fingers on the metal railing of the bed. “What’s going on, Sara? Are you okay?”
A laugh that sounded much too close to hysterical burst from her. “No.” Sara shook her head. “I’m not okay.” She staggered back, toward the door, bumping into a metal stand and sending it toppling over. “I’m going…to go…I’m going to go outside. Get some air. I’ll be back…to say…I’ll be back.”
When she bent to right the stand, Lincoln was there, ceasing her movements with his hands on hers. “I’ll get it. I’m going to talk to him a bit and then I’ll be out.” He crouched by her, looking worried. “Will you be okay?”
Sara tugged her hands away and stood. “What else can I be?” Her eyes slid from Lincoln’s to the bed. Pain welled in her heart, expanded, and wiped all other emotions out. Am I losing my mind?
As Sara walked out of the room on weak legs, she wondered if that would really be such a bad thing.
***
“I brought you something.” Mason held out a red notebook and a single #2 pencil. He stood near the door, boots and coat removed, waiting for her to take it.
Sara frowned, hovering near the kitchen counter. “What is that for?”
“I think you’ll need it. Write stuff down. Whatever you’re thinking or feeling, write it down. If you’re not ready to paint, or don’t want to, or simply don’t want me to see what you’re painting, I’m cool with that. But you need a release. Keep a journal. Write. Or sketch even. Do whatever you want. Write down a memory, one page at a time. Only don’t throw this away.” Mason lifted an eyebrow as he approached her, motioning for her to take it.
She did, quickly setting it down on the counter as if it would burn her. “I don’t need it.” Sara stared into the half-full coffee mug between her hands, the dark brown liquid endless and free, nothing to tether it, nothing to keep it from gently lapping against the sides of the mug.
“You know how small towns are.”
“Meaning?” Sara glanced up, noting how the brown of Mason’s sweater made his eyes seem closer to burgundy than amber.
Mason sighed and leaned h
is hips against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze locked on her. “I know about the will.”
She flinched, her elbow bumping into the cup. Mason scooped it from the counter and raised it to his lips, sipping it. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“That was mine.”
He shrugged.
“I drank from it.”
Mason lowered the cup, still not speaking, his expression telling her he didn’t care. “How do you feel about that?”
“Not happy. It was the only cup. Now I have to make another pot of coffee.”
“Sara.”
She averted her face, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. “How do I feel?” Like death would be welcome. But he probably already knew that. Sara clasped her hands together and stared at the uneven nail of her left pinky. “Guilty. Betrayed. Angry. Sad. Horrible.”
“Horrible?” Mason pulled out the chair opposite her, placing his arms on the table as he scrutinized her face, drinking her coffee. “Why horrible?”
“Do you really have to ask that?”
“Yes.”
Sara leaned back in her chair and leveled her eyes on Mason. She couldn’t answer that. Not right now. He lifted one eyebrow in response. “Do you hear your brother in your head? Think he’s talking to you?”
Mason set the coffee mug down on the table, his gaze on the cup. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you said something about Derek talking to you and…” Sara’s face burned and she lowered her eyes to the table. “I hear him sometimes.”
“Who?”
“My husband. And sometimes…I think I see stuff.” Sara looked up, pain forming in her chest. Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her she wasn’t crazy, or maybe that she was. She just wanted to know, either way.
“Stuff?”
“I don’t know. It’s…nothing. Nevermind.”
Mason didn’t say anything for a long time, finally breaking the silence to say, “I think that’s normal, Sara. It’s how we cope.”
“So you don’t think I’m losing my mind? Imagining things? Seeing and hearing things that aren’t real?”
“Is it real in your head?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s real and that’s all that matters.”
“And you’re not concerned that maybe I’m losing my mind?”
“If you were, you wouldn’t know it.”
“Thanks.”
Mason chuckled. “Anytime.”
“I used to hear a voice, but sometimes, now, it seems like it’s his voice.” Sara fisted her trembling hands.
“Sara.”
She looked up.
His features were etched in somberness. “You’re not crazy. You’re not losing your mind. You’re grieving. Your mind only gives you what you can accept, what you can deal with, and maybe that’s what you have to see and hear right now to accept what’s going on. You’re fine.”
“Promise?” she joked weakly.
“I do.”
Sara saw how serious he was and gave a slight nod, looking at the table. “I go over all these scenarios in my head,” she began softly. “What if we’d left a minute earlier or later. What if we’d gone another night? What if he’d driven instead of me? Would he still be here? I’m tormented by the ‘what ifs’.”
“It’s normal. I went through it. Everyone goes through it. It does no good, hurting yourself like that. It doesn’t change anything, Sara. That’s the thing about ‘what ifs’; they don’t matter. They don’t change anything. All they do is make it unable for you to heal. You have to find a way to get past them.”
She exhaled loudly, her breath quivering as she released it. “Right.” Sara rubbed her forehead, nodding. “Okay. I’ll write in the notebook.”
“Sara.” Her eyes met his. “Sometimes when you think you have nothing, you realize you have yourself, and that’s something. That’s enough. I know you don’t think you are, but you’re strong. You’re strong enough to get through this. You’re stronger than you realize.” Mason paused. “You wouldn’t have jumped.”
Her eyes burned and Sara blinked them. “How do you know?”
“Because you already would have by then if you were going to.”
***
The three of them sat at her kitchen table, untouched cups of coffee before them. They wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sara looked from his mother to his father, feeling their blame pointed at her like a loaded shotgun, the trigger already pulled, the damage irrevocably done.
Henry and Ramona Walker had changed since she’d seen them last, although she couldn’t remember when that had been. The time since he’d left her was a blur; days, months meshing together until she couldn’t remember one from the other. The first six months she’d existed and that was all. Sara was honest enough with herself to admit she hadn’t progressed very far since then.
Their skin was tanned from the Florida sun, but it somehow had an unhealthy, pale look to it at the same time. Heartache did that to you. It did as much damage on the inside as it did on the outside. They visited their sons from time to time, but never for long, and never her. She knew they held her responsible. Sara didn’t fault them that. She blamed herself as well.
“I didn’t…I don’t know how…to do this. I didn’t want this,” she said softly, knotting her fingers together in her lap, her eyes down.
When Sara looked at his father; an older version of him, she saw his blue, blue eyes gazing back at her with accusation, the same look she imagined she would see in his eyes if he ever opened them again.
She wanted to be angry at Lincoln for calling them, but that would be wrong of her. They had a right to know; even if he hadn’t wanted them to know. Sara wished it was their decision and not hers. They were his parents; she was just the wife. They’d made him; she’d destroyed him.
Lincoln stood with his hips against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “But Cole did, Sara. This is what he wanted.”
His name stung her heart and she lowered her head.
“I don’t know what to say,” Ramona said quietly, her throat convulsing as she swallowed. She was a smaller, more feminine version of Lincoln.
“Were you going to tell us? Or were you just going to let them pull the plug and let us think he’d died on his own?” Henry demanded; his voice harsh.
Pain swept over her, making it impossible for her to speak.
“Dad, that’s enough.” Lincoln straightened from the counter and moved to stand beside Sara. His nearness made it a little easier for her to breathe and she was grateful. “Sara didn’t have to tell you. In fact, Cole didn’t want her to.”
“Sara didn’t tell us. You did.” Those pale blue eyes drilled into hers, unwilling to let her look away. “You can’t do this, Sara. I refuse to let you do this to my son.”
“Henry,” Ramona said, reaching over to put a hand on his arm.
“It’s what he wanted, Dad.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” Henry snapped.
“Dad,” Lincoln warned.
Her throat closed. Sara had to get away. She jumped to her feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “I…” Dizziness hit her and she grabbed the edge of the table.
“You were driving that car. You weren’t paying attention. You did this,” he continued, his voice vibrating.
The room began to spin.
“That’s enough,” Lincoln shouted, slamming a hand against the tabletop.
Ramona began to cry, covering her face with her hands. Her frail shoulders shook with each sob.
Henry shot to his feet, looking at his youngest son like he was a stranger. “How can you defend her? How can you stand to look at her, knowing she’s responsible? My son is gone because of her.”
Nausea hit her and Sara’s grip fell away from the table. Each word out of his mouth was a knife wound to her soul. Sara couldn’t stand to hear them. They hurt. Her soul was ravaged by them; clawed and mutilated. She stumbled back, her equilibrium off. A ringing began in her ea
rs.
“I’m about two seconds from throwing you out of here, Dad. I mean that.” Lincoln’s voice was low, even.
Father and son stared each other down and Sara just wanted them to stop. She wanted it all to stop. The animosity was stifling, making it hard for her to breathe. Sara didn’t want them fighting, especially over her.
“You know what I say is true.”
“No. I don’t. Sara isn’t responsible. She was driving the car, yes, but she wasn’t the one that crossed the center line. She wasn’t the one drinking. Sara didn’t do this to your son. You know that.”
Lincoln was wrong. It was her fault. He didn’t know. The room was starting to fade, their angry voices becoming background noise. Sara shook her head, but only made herself woozier.
She started to fall.
“What do you want do when we get home?” Sara asked, glancing at him with a smile on her face.
The wind swept in through the open windows of the black Grand Am, playing with his light brown hair and sending his scent she loved over to her. The sun caught his eyes just right and they glowed with blue heat. A lazy smile turned his lips up. Sara laughed.
“I think you know how the birthday celebration is supposed to continue once we get home.”
She nodded; her eyes on the road. “I do, yes.”
“Explain it to me, so I know we’re on the same page.”
“Hmm. Okay. You’re going to get naked…”
“Mmm-hmm. I’m liking this.”
“You’re going to straddle me.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And give me a full body massage.”
“Uh-uh. You had it up till then.” He reached over to play with her hair and Sara’s insides sighed. “Thanks for dinner, babe. It was good.”
“Welcome.”
“You always spoil me.”
“You need to be spoiled now and then.”
“Want to spoil me some more and go fishing with me tomorrow, feed some fishies?”
Sara smiled. “Sure.”
