by Lindy Zart
It was so much worse than when he’d been in a coma in the hospital. At least then Sara could see him, even if he wasn’t him. Now he was just…gone. It really happened. He really died. Sara fell to her knees and hung her head, weeping into her hands. She screamed her rage and anguish, slamming her palms to the cold, hard floor and shoving herself to her feet.
Shaking and chilled all the way to her marrow, Sara looked up and stared at the bottle with longing. She could end it. The pain, the nightmares, the memories; all of it. Weak people give up; strong people keep going. She was weak; she didn’t care. If being strong meant suffering, then she’d rather be weak.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands and leaning her back against the bathroom counter.
“Lincoln needs you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s stronger than me.”
“Not strong enough to survive the loss of your life. It would crush him.”
“And your death didn’t?”
“Suicide is a sin.”
“In whose eyes?” she demanded.
“In all eyes.”
“Just go away,” Sara whispered, tucking her legs close to her chest and resting her head on her knees. If she closed her eyes, maybe the voice would go away.
“I can’t. Not yet. I need you to live for me, Sara.”
Sara growled, jumping to her feet and whirling around. Grabbing fistfuls of her hair, she shrieked, “Stop fucking with my head!” Heart pounding, her whole body a quivering mass of agony, Sara searched the house for her aggravator, storming through the rooms with closed doors, swinging each one open, mindless with devastation, intent on finding him, anything, something, to let her know she wasn’t crazy.
“You wouldn’t wake up when you could have. You wouldn’t come back to me, but you’re going to fucking haunt me?” Sara’s voice was shrill, unnatural. She was losing it, control was completely slipping away. Sara didn’t care. Let it.
She tore into the bedroom, slamming the closet doors open. “Where are you?” Sara shoved clothes around on the hangers, knocking shirts and dresses to the floor. Some hit her in the face, landing on her, and Sara retaliated by yanking the clothes from the hangers and tossing them behind her. On and on, her breath leaving her in gasping sobs, she destroyed the perfectly ordered closet.
When Sara spun around to see what she could upheave next, sunlight streamed through the window, landing on the hope chest, making it glow. She dropped to her knees, resting her head on the hard wood, and let the wretched tears take over. “How could you leave me?” she moaned to the vacant room.
“Sara?”
She froze, wiping her eyes, thinking she was hearing things again.
“Oh, Sara, what are you doing?” Warm hands grabbed her, turned her around. Lincoln’s sad eyes slammed into her. “Did you decide to redecorate?”
Sara snorted, it turning into a half-laugh, half-sob.
He pulled her to him, rocking her, making her feel safe and taking the loneliness away. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to be alone. You can’t do this on your own. You don’t have to. That’s why I’m here.”
“You left.” Sara closed her eyes, inhaling Lincoln’s scent, becoming centered once more.
“Only for a little bit. I came back. I’ll always come back.” Sara stiffened in his arms and Lincoln said, “I’m not him, Sara. I’ll always come back. I promise.”
She pulled away, searching his tight-lipped expression, seeing the fierce gleam in his eyes. “You don’t know that.”
“Yeah. I do. I’m not leaving you. Not ever. Not ever.” Lincoln’s fingers dug into her shoulders, keeping her anchored to reality. “I swear to you, Sara, ain’t nothing taking me away.”
It was a lie, but it was a lie Sara needed to hear. She let herself believe it. Lincoln needs you, whispered through her head and she shivered at the truth of it.
***
“You’re strong enough to get through this, Sara.”
Sara shook her head. “I’m not strong. I don’t even want to try to be. I’m just…struggling to not want to die, and the thought of living; it really holds no appeal to me. So I exist.”
“I know you lost your parents and I know you lost a baby. Now Cole.” Mason crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You look surprised. You really shouldn’t be. Spencer’s talked about you and Cole often enough, even before I met you that fateful day at Wyalusing. What I’m saying is; you got through all of that and you can get through this too.”
Swallowing, Sara played with her wedding ring. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she’d thrown on an old yellow shirt of his and black leggings. She looked like an oversized bee. Mason had said as much.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Not at all. But it’s not unattainable and you act like it is. That’s what you need to change. The way you think about things. About yourself.”
“Don’t you think there comes a point when it’s all too much? When you cave, give in from all the pain and all the loss? Maybe that’s where I’m at.”
He smiled. “Nah. If you were at that point, you wouldn’t be standing here, talking with me.”
“You make me,” she pointed out.
“Truly? You’re going to do me like that?” Mason looked disappointed in her, but she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t, not really. “You could have not answered the door that first Sunday, or even the second one, or even today, but you did. You want help. You want to move on. You just don’t know how. But that’s part of it; finding out how to handle the things in life you can’t change.”
“You either know way too much or not enough,” she mumbled, rubbing her forehead. She was tired, so tired.
“Have you seen Lincoln lately?”
Her stomach twisted at the mention of his name. “Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “Why?”
Mason shrugged. “No reason. Keep seeing him.”
“I don’t think Lincoln would let me stay away even if I tried,” she said dryly, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Ah, see? In all of this sorrow and pain you feel, you just smiled. You had a reason to smile, and it was Lincoln. That’s what it’s all about, Sara; finding reasons to smile. It gets easier, it gets less painful, and then it doesn’t hurt so much. You don’t have to hurt to mourn someone. Do you understand what I mean?”
Sara drew in a shaky breath, briefly closing her eyes as she nodded. “I think so. Yes.”
Mason walked to her, grasping her cold hands in his warm ones. “You’re strong enough. Know that. Believe it.” He squeezed her hands before releasing them.
“Why are you so adamant about helping me? It’s not like I’m paying you and I know I’m not exactly your idea of fun.”
“You remind me of me, only more melodramatic.” Mason winked, moving toward the door.
“I’m melodramatic?” she demanded, incredulous.
He paused, his hand on the door handle. “Yes. I think that’s what I said, didn’t I?” Mason nodded. “Yes. I did say that. You define melodrama, Sara dear. You should have been an actress. See you next week.”
Mason had rendered her speechless.
***
Sara marked each day off on the calendar next to the refrigerator, wondering when that elusive day would come when she would be healed, when the pain and guilt would be gone. One month. It had been over thirty days since his body was lowered into the ground.
She set the black marker down on the counter, staring at the bold X on January 2. Another day down and still no relief. Sara ran a hand through her stringy hair, not even sure when she’d last washed it. She shuffled toward the phone, staring at it. She hadn’t heard from Lincoln or seen him in almost a week. Maybe he’d finally given up on her. Maybe he finally blamed her.
Sara had been waiting, the thought always in her mind, no matter how far away she tried to shove it, that the day would come when Lincoln r
ealized everything he’d lost was because of her. It would kill her, losing Lincoln on top of losing her husband. It would take what was left of her life and end it. She swallowed painfully and turned away from the phone. Staring at it wouldn’t make it ring. Thinking of him wouldn’t make him appear. Remembering her husband wouldn’t make him alive.
The knock at the door was soft and Sara almost didn’t hear it. She paused, her head tilted, as the faint knock came again. Sara moved toward the door, not sure who it would be, and almost hoping it would be no one. Her nerves came to life at a name that slithered through her mind: Lincoln. A glance at the clock showed her it was close to eight; late enough to try to shut the world out.
Sara hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. She could ignore it, lie down, and pretend no one had ever been on the other side of the front door. Only she couldn’t, because she knew who it was. Somehow she could feel him, feel his body heat even with a door between them. Even if he hated her, Sara didn’t have the power to ignore Lincoln. She’d rather deal with his loathing than his absence.
And so she opened the door.
Flint-colored eyes set in a face pale with strain stared at her from the shadows of night. It had only been days since Sara had last seen Lincoln, but his cheekbones seemed more prominent, his jaw more angular than square. Stubble covered his jawline and his dark waves were long again, giving him a disheveled look. The death of his brother was physically ravaging him; stripping him down to someone Sara didn’t know. Or maybe she did. He was her.
“You look horrible,” he said in a gruff voice.
Sara couldn’t get mad. She knew it was true.
“Can I come in?”
She nodded, not moving; her stomach churning as she imagined all the hateful words about to leave his lips. One dark eyebrow lifted and Sara flushed, backpedaling into the house to give him room to enter. Lincoln inhaled deeply, his eyes trailing over the kitchen to the right and the living room they stood in. Sara wondered if he saw his brother in the smallest of details, like she did.
He looked at her, his features impassive, shoving his hands into the pockets of his green hooded sweatshirt. Wisconsinite through and through, Lincoln rarely wore a jacket, even on the coldest of days.
“How’ve you been?” Lincoln muttered something and glanced away. “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“Are you okay, Lincoln?” she forced out, immediately regretting her words. Of course he wasn’t okay.
“No. I’m not okay. You’re not either.”
Sara shook her head, looking at the floor.
“My parents left yesterday.” Her head jerked up and her eyes searched Lincoln’s face. “They wanted to hang around until after Christmas.” His mouth turned down. “It was awful, Sara. Christmas. My mom cried, like usual. My dad barely said anything. And the whole time, all I could think about, was you. If you even knew it was Christmas. If you even cared. What you were doing. If you were alone. I hated the thought of you being alone.”
“It’s—it’s okay, Lincoln,” she whispered, turning toward the couch. Sara hadn’t realized it was Christmas until it was the day after. She was glad she hadn’t known. Christmas had always been with the Walker family. A stab of pain in her chest acknowledged that that was no longer the case.
“They don’t blame you, Sara.”
“Don’t lie, Lincoln,” she said wearily.
“They’re just grieving and aren’t doing a very good job of it. That’s all. I just…I don’t want you to think they hate you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Lincoln rubbed his head and sighed, casting a bleary-eyed look her way. “It does matter, Sara. It matters to me, okay? I hate the thought of you hurting any more than you already are.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because I—“ Lincoln cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut.
“What, Lincoln? What is it?”
He shook his head. “Here. This is for you.” Lincoln dug into the pocket of his sweatshirt, pulling something blue and twinkling from it.
Sara took it, her eyes watering as she clutched the angel ornament to her chest. It was smooth and warm from being inside Lincoln’s pocket. She tried to say thank you, but her throat was tight with pain.
“Merry Christmas, Sara,” Lincoln said in a low voice, reaching out to gently touch her cheek.
Sara looked up, wanting to say something, anything, but Lincoln was already leaving, taking his warmth with him. Don’t leave me, she inwardly pleaded, but said nothing. He wasn’t hers to keep. Sara’s fingers tightened on the smooth crystal ornament, holding it to her chest. This was, though. This Sara could keep.
***
The house was a mausoleum; a gravesite for him and their baby and the love they’d had. Sara felt trapped within its walls at the same time she felt strangely safe in the past. But today the walls were closing in on her and she had to escape, just for a little bit, until the outside world became too much and she had to retreat back to the house full of ghosts that somehow felt right when everything else felt wrong.
It was the middle of February and it showed outside. The streets were slush, the yards white with packed snow. Sara wrapped a heavy scarf around her neck and put on gloves and a coat. She shivered; her breath frosting as she exhaled. It wasn’t exactly great weather for a walk, but it didn’t matter. The thought of being inside any longer was maddening.
She was numb on the outside like she normally was on the inside. It was still better than being inside the house. When had it begun to feel more like a jail than a refuge? He was always on her mind, but something had changed and now it was like everything was distanced from her, distorted. Her thoughts, her feelings, the memories; they all seemed to be someone else’s and Sara was watching them on a movie projector. A bystander. When had that happened? Why had that happened?
Sara did the usual things, but in a haze of unreality. She bought groceries without seeing people, without remembering if she said a word to anyone while in the store. She drove places, not remembering the drive to them. Sara did what was required of her to survive, but that was all. She’d lost more weight and even she could tell it was to the point of unhealthy. She had no desire to do anything other than what was absolutely necessary. Even that was a chore. It didn’t matter what Mason or Spencer or anyone else said to her. Nothing and no one was getting through to Sara.
Except Lincoln.
He was the one person able to pierce the layer of emotionlessness wrapped tightly around Sara. When Lincoln was near he forced her to feel things, to live. Why didn’t he just give up on her? Because you need him and he needs you. Sara hated that voice. She didn’t know if it was hers, or his, or God’s, but she wished it would go away.
She’d spent almost as much time with Lincoln as she had her husband; while they were dating, and even later, after they were married. He’d been at their house more than his own. They’d had their own form of communication, riddled with good-natured arguing and sarcasm. He’d been her buddy; the person she laughed with the most, especially since her husband didn’t get most of their humor. But Sara hadn’t needed him, not like now. She couldn’t breathe unless he was with her and that scared her. When had he gone from her husband’s brother to her very air?
She crossed the street and walked along the shoveled sidewalk, waving at an elderly man when he called out a greeting. Sara didn’t really know her neighbors. She’d never been too social, and after everything happened, she’d turned into a recluse. Going out in public made her nauseous. It seemed like everywhere she went people were watching her, judging her. They knew her secrets, they knew what she did. They knew the life she’d indirectly taken.
Sara gasped as pain struck her heart. She lowered her head as she hurried her pace, eyes on her boots as she walked. There was no destination in mind. If there was a literal place that could remove the agony in her soul, or even her soul and somehow heal it before putting it back, that was where Sara would walk to. She bl
inked at the edge of the sidewalk, surprised to find herself across the street from the Dollar General store. The parking lot was busy, cars going in and out of it. The building was pale stone with the signature yellow and black Dollar General sign above the door.
“Sara!”
Sara looked to the left of the store. Gracie, Spencer’s girlfriend, waved from where she stood next to a tan Buick. She smiled and beckoned to Sara. Her legs froze along with the rest of her. When Sara just looked at her, too scared to move, Gracie’s smile fell from her face and she looked away. When she looked up again, determination was etched into her pretty features. She began to walk.
Cold seeped through her clothes as she waited, apprehensive. Gracie’s fiery hair haloed her pretty face, her eyes wide and fixated on Sara. Her stride was purposeful. She wore a green jacket the same shade as her eyes and jeans. Gracie stopped before Sara, searching her face for something. Sara fought the urge to look away.
“I’m not going to ask how you’re doing because I imagine you’re pretty miserable, and frankly, I would be too. I’m not going to give my condolences because I know you’re tired of hearing those from people. I’m not even going to judge you for your apparent lack of manners.” She swallowed; her hair fire around her face. “All I’m going to do is invite you to have a cup of coffee with me. Would you like to do that, Sara?”
Sara blinked, not sure what she’d been expecting to hear from Gracie. That had not been it. She didn’t know what to say. “I…”
“I’m your friend. Maybe not a close friend, maybe not a friend you’ve had all that long, but a friend just the same.”
Her chest tightened at the honest, earnest look on Gracie’s face. Gracie considered her a friend? Sara blew out a noisy breath. “Sure. Yes. That would be nice.”
Gracie smiled. “Great! I’ll drive.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” Sara told her as they walked.
