“How’s that shower going?”
Sara jumped at the sound of Lincoln’s voice on the other side of the door. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone with her misery and despondency. She wanted the world to go away. Sara sighed. That wouldn’t be happening. And she knew Lincoln well enough to know once his mind was set, there was no changing it. He wouldn’t be going anywhere either.
She rubbed her face and turned on the faucet in the shower, the small tan-walled room quickly steaming up with moisture and heat. Sara untied her robe and let it drop to the floor. The worn and ratty robe had been a gift from him and taking it off was shedding a security blanket. It was removing a piece of him from her and doing so for even a short period of time was painful to her. She practically lived in the thing. Its frayed and unraveled fabric was proof of that. Sara removed the rest of her clothes and got into the shower.
***
After quickly throwing on an old UW-Platteville sweatshirt of his and jeans that almost hung on her, Sara hurried from the room too many memories lived in and walked into the kitchen. The scent of coffee hit her along with fried eggs and toast. She looked from the table where a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice sat with a plate of one egg and two slices of toast over to where Lincoln leaned with his elbows against the counter, his eyes on her.
Sundays had been their breakfast days. They’d sleep in late and make a mess out of the kitchen preparing a midday feast. Sara had been in charge of the eggs and potatoes and he’d always prepared the pancakes and bacon. He’d made the best pancakes. They’d melted on her tongue and she always overate on Sundays. She hadn’t had pancakes in over a year, not since the last time he’d made them. A lot of things had stopped with him; her, for one.
Sara inhaled sharply, looking away from Lincoln’s intent stare. It didn’t matter. She still felt the heat of his eyes on her. Those stormy gray eyes were studying, judging. Those eyes were not happy. “I should have stopped by sooner. I didn’t realize you’d gotten this bad.”
Sara tucked wet, limp hair behind her ears. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I really wish you’d quit saying you’re fine when you are so obviously not fine.” He straightened and walked to the table, pulling out a chair. “Sit. Eat.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”
“Yeah. I was.”
He was until she’d called. Lincoln didn’t have to say the words, but she knew that’s what had happened. Sara swallowed as guilt heated her skin. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop being sorry, Sara.”
She grabbed the back of a chair and lowered herself into it, staring down at the plate. The thought of food made her stomach turn. It usually did. “How…how are things going? At work?”
He poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting down across from her at the table. “Work is work.” The room shrank with him inside it; big and towering and intense. It made Sara nervous. She’d never realized how large of a presence he had; how commanding it was.
Lincoln and he had owned a carpentry business together: Walker Building. They’d done everything from roofs to siding to interior renovation. The company did basically anything house-related, other than plumbing. That they didn’t do. Now Lincoln ran it by himself; the lone brother where they should be two. More work, more stress, less help, because of Sara. He was without a lot of things these days, because of her.
Sara took a piece of toast, her eyes stinging. Lincoln had cut the toast for her. In triangles. Why was he so nice to her when it was her fault his brother wasn’t around? She would never understand that. How Lincoln could be so forgiving. He was the one person she had expected to loathe her, above all others, and he was the one person she’d been so wrong about.
“Did I cut it wrong?”
She looked up, the toast still in her hand. “No. You cut it right.”
He paused with the mug to his lips. “Good to know.”
The toast was dry and Sara choked down half of one slice to appease Lincoln. She drank the juice and sipped at the coffee. The silence was drawn out to the point of uncomfortable. Sara repeatedly opened her mouth to tell him about the phone conversation with Dr. Henderson, but she held back. It was her burden alone. And when Lincoln did find out, what then? She didn’t want to tell him until she had no choice. But he had a right to know. Sara knew that. It still wasn’t enough of an incentive for her to tell him. Not yet. She needed more time.
It was cowardly of her, but that was inconsequential when she thought of the alternative. Would he turn his back on her when he found out? Would he no longer look at her with compassion, but with loathing? And why did the thought make her stomach clench? Because he’s all I have left of him. Startled by the thought, Sara unconsciously jerked, her hand hitting the coffee mug. It didn’t tip. Lincoln reached over and grabbed it before it did. He slowly slid the mug to her right, far enough away so there was no chance of her accidently bumping it.
“How long has it been since you’ve gone there?”
She stiffened. Sara knew where he was talking about. There was no pretending she didn’t. “A few weeks.” Two. It had been two weeks and two days.
At first Sara had gone every day to the place where her husband rested, for hours and hours at a time. But the longer she’d gone to that place and stared down at what was supposed to be her husband and wasn’t, the harder it had been. She didn’t want to remember him that way; Sara wanted to remember him as he’d been alive. She’d feared all her old memories of him would fade away and be replaced with the nothingness he now was.
Sara had hidden away in her house that used to be their house and tried to ignore reality. It was stupid of her to think such a thing was possible; the pain was alive in her; there was no way to escape it as long as she drew air into her lungs. Sara hated herself for staying away as long as she had, and yet she continued to stay away.
The last time she’d seen him had been the day she’d gone to Wyalusing State Park. The day it all had been too much. The day she’d been unable to exist with the constant ache anymore. When the pain had been too much, unbearable; when she’d looked at what was supposed to be her husband and hated herself more than she’d ever thought possible. That was the day she’d wanted to end it all, the day she’d yearned for a way to stop the pain and regret and longing. It was a bitter toxin; her existence. Too weak to live; too weak to die.
“How can you stay away?” he demanded, breaking Sara from her bleary reverie.
Her eyes flew to his face. She saw the anger in it, the hurt, and she looked away. That’s what Sara did. She looked away from things that hurt, she pretended they didn’t exist, she avoided. It was agony going to that place, seeing what he was, knowing what he would never be again. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sometimes Sara could almost convince herself he was on a trip, a really long trip, and someday soon he’d return. Sometimes she almost believed it. But then the pain came back, the memories, the profound sense of loss, the emptiness and the guilt, and she couldn’t pretend any longer.
“Don’t you think you at least owe it to him to visit?”
Sara lurched back in her chair, her breath catching. Pain wracked her as she stared at Lincoln.
He pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing. “Shit. That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sara couldn’t speak.
Lincoln rubbed his face, sighing. “That wasn’t what I meant, Sara. I only meant…he’s your husband. You should go there, be with him, see him.”