Her chest ached and she unconsciously rubbed a hand to it. Tears dropped to her lap as Sara cried for that little soul that hadn’t been given a chance at life. Sara cried for her parents, Sara cried for him. She cried for herself. It was too much. There was too much hurt in her life. Sara longed for it all to stop.
2
Every room in the house was spotless. It had a perpetual lemon and bleach smell to it Sara didn’t think would ever go away. The scent had seeped into the walls and carpet and floor of every room, a blaring testimony to Sara’s obsessive housework.
It was amazing how such menial work could distract one’s thoughts. Sara spent most of every day cleaning and when it was nice out, she did yard work. A look outside told her there would soon be snow on the ground and then the shoveling would begin. But for now, she occupied herself with a complete scrub down of the bathroom.
She was on her hands and knees, inhaling chemicals and sweating.
“That’s not good for you, ya know.”
Sara blinked and looked behind her. He stood in the doorway; one broad shoulder propped against it, grinning. She could have cried at the sight of his tall and lanky form, the rugged tan of his skin. His ice blue eyes were full of love and mischief, his lips turned up at the corners.
She frowned, confused. He couldn’t be here, could he? Not really.
“Did you hear me?”
Sara sat back on her heels and stared. “What?”
He took a step into the bathroom, his shoes almost touching her. She looked at his shoes, reached out to touch him, any part of him. “All those chemicals going into your pretty little head. It’s not good for you.”
“How?” she whispered.
He laughed; a wonderful sound Sara hadn’t heard in over a year. Her ears stung from the sweet sound of it. “Come on, babe, don’t you think the house is clean enough already? Let’s go have some fun. It’s a beautiful day out. You and me. The beach. And your sexy bikini.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down.
Sara inhaled sharply, blinked, and came back to reality. It wasn’t beautiful out. It was cold and dark. She looked to the place he’d been standing. He wasn’t there. A memory or something her mind unconsciously manifested was all it had been. She swiped an arm across her face and went back to cleaning the bathroom, drops of sweat and tears mingling on the floor.
The phone rang. Sara ignored it. She scrubbed the inside of the toilet with a toilet brush, kept scrubbing even after it sparkled. Her hands shook and toilet water and cleaner splashed up on her. Sobs wracked her body so hard she jerked from them. So pathetic. Can’t even clean a toilet without crying. Weak. I’m weak. He was the strong one. He should be here. Not me. Something hot and ugly formed inside of her. Why wasn’t it me? Why him? Why? Sara let out a scream of anguish and whipped the toilet brush across the room. It hit the shower curtain with a wet smack and dropped to the floor.
The phone still rang; the shrill sound making her teeth clench together and a headache form. She slapped her hands on the tiled floor, welcoming the sting to her flesh. It brought her back to the brink of lucidity, if only minutely. She stayed there, on her knees, until control came back. Sara got to her feet, swiped a hand across her sweaty, tear-stained face, and answered the phone. No one was there. She slammed the phone back in place. Sara stood there, shaking. Had the phone even actually rung, or had that been in her head as well?
On the verge of losing it completely, Sara picked the phone up and dialed a number.
“Hello?” The voice was deep, familiar. It reminded her of him, and though it hurt to hear it, it helped a little too.
She sank against the wall, slid down it, and cradled the phone to her ear. Sara closed her eyes and waited for the respite to come.
When she remained silent, the person on the other end of the line began to talk softly. “Bad day, huh?” He made a sound of derision. “Not that any day is spectacular. I had one a couple days ago. It didn’t make any sense, not really. I was at work, fixing a leak in a roof, when I remembered a time we went fishing. Nothing significant happened that day we went fishing, nothing to make me remember it, or to think of it at that moment. We were ten and twelve.
“We grabbed our fishing poles and headed to the creek. I carried the bucket of worms. Because I was younger, he said. We sat in the grass at that creek all day. We didn’t catch a single thing and it was so hot out. The sun burned our skin. Bugs had a meal out of us. It smelled like sweat and grass and fish.”
Sara felt herself begin to relax. She took a deep, calming breath.
“But it was just us, there wasn’t another soul out when we first got there. Probably because it was six in the morning on a Saturday. And later, because it was too hot out for any smart person to roast away under the sun.” He laughed.
Sara closed her eyes at the sound and let the sad, but musical notes wash over her.
“Only thing we heard was the sound of rushing water from the stream and my voice whenever I tried to talk, which wasn’t much, since he kept telling me to shut up. We stayed there all day. We ditched the poles in the late afternoon and jumped in the water. Needless to say, we forgot to mention to our parents where we were going or what we were doing that day.
“So when we showed up at home, wet and sunburned, it was to find police cars and frantic adults in the yard. They grounded us. For the rest of the summer. And it was only the beginning of June. That summer sucked.” He laughed softly. A long pause. “I hope that helped.” Then a sigh. “Take care, Sara.”
She turned the phone off and sat there, her back flush against the hard wall and beginning to twinge from her position. Sara didn’t care, thoughts on the phone call. He always ended their one-sided conversation the same: Take care, Sara.
The longer she sat the more that sense of tranquility fell away from her and sorrow once more cocooned her. But for one small period of time she’d been at peace. Sara clung to that as long as she could and when it finally left her, her heart ached at the absence of it.
***
There were friends, or rather, there used to be friends, but Sara had alienated them. Friends of his, mostly. Sara had always kept to herself; most comfortable in small social groups and with her family. She’d had a few friends growing up, but none close. Any friends she’d acquired since her marriage had been his first and remained his before hers. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, but she was easily flustered around strangers and wasn’t very outgoing; she preferred her own company to others. He’d been the friendly one.
They came by at first; his friends, after it happened, and offered their support. Some would cry, others would stumble through awkward conversations, and some even took it upon themselves to try to get a smile or a laugh out of her; all failing, of course. They would give her advice she didn’t want to hear, they would say they’d been in a similar situation, they would say they knew how she felt. They told her it would get better. It wasn’t long before only an infrequent straggler would stop by out of a feeling of obligation.
Sara had enough sense to realize that her gloomy demeanor chased them all away. She couldn’t pretend things were okay when they weren’t. She couldn’t laugh when she wanted to cry. She couldn’t talk about it, and everyone wanted to talk about nothing but it. Her soul had been ripped out; what was the point in pretending it hadn’t been?
So she was shocked when there was a knock on the door and she came face to face with Spencer Johnson. He’d been a good friend of her husband’s, one of the last to give up on her. It had been at least a month, maybe two, since she’d last seen him. Time had no meaning for Sara, other than to mock her with its endless sorrow. Spencer looked the same; big and dark-haired and dark-eyed.
He shifted his feet and shoved his hands in his brown leather coat pockets. “Hey, Sara,” he said, shoulders hunched.
“Uh, hi.” Sara pushed hair out of her face and waited.