Take Care, Sara

“I think he knew. I mean, he had to have seen it, right? I’m sure he was in my bedroom at least once since you painted it. Never said anything. Maybe he thought I needed it more than he did.
    “I don’t know why I took it. I suppose I could have just asked for it. But where would the fun have been in that? You’re so talented, Sara. You could paint a nondescript ball of nothing and it would be amazing. You know that, right?” Sara closed her eyes at his kind words, not really believing them, but thankful for them just the same.
    Lincoln sighed, sounding tired when he said, “No, I suppose you don’t. You always think less of yourself than is warranted. I always hated that about you; probably the only thing. You never thought you were smart enough, pretty enough, talented enough, strong enough. But you are. You always have been. You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. I mean it, Sara.”
    How did he know her so well? She had always had an insurmountable mountain of insecurities, no matter how she wished otherwise. But Lincoln, Lincoln always seemed to know them all and denied each and every one as well. Sometimes Sara thought Lincoln knew her even better than her own husband, which was ridiculous. Warmed by his words, she had hope that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to fall asleep now after hearing his voice. Before she’d called him, it had been futile.
    “I got an early start tomorrow, so I’m signing off for the night. I’ll be seeing you soon. Good night. Take care, Sara.”
     
     
     

6
     
     
     
    As the days came and went, pulling her closer to that fated day marked on the calendar, the nightmares didn’t remain during the nighttime like they should. Sara saw the pain in his eyes at the collision. She felt his hand tighten on her in fear. The immediate loss as his touch was wrenched from her. She saw it all, whether her eyes were open or closed.
    The hollowness was growing inside her. At times she looked down, expecting to see a round circle of emptiness where her stomach should be. A gashing wound where her heart was. Time healed all wounds was the saying. That saying was a lie. Time made the wounds deepen; it made them grow. It was her enemy and it was winning the battle against her soul. Time was ruining her, dissolving her, destroying her. It was all she had and everything she hated. Time mocked her in vivid detail of that final moment.
    The time it had taken for the car to crash, time as it had slowed down and sped up; the last minutes she’d had with him, the seconds his eyes had filled with anguish and disbelief and the seconds it had taken for the light to fade from them. The hours she’d sat in the hospital, hoping and praying and hating herself. The days and months she’d had to exist without him. It was all about time. And it was killing her.
    Sara clutched the phone to her chest, her first impulse to call Lincoln and confess everything. Instead she set the phone down, grabbed keys off the hook by the door, and braced herself against the cold and snow as she walked to the short driveway. The icy wind snapped at her, his worn sweatshirt not enough to keep her warm against the frigid air. White, fluffy snow seeped through the soles of her old shoes, making her toes stiff and her feet uncomfortably wet.
    She tried not to think about what she was doing or where she was going. Sara sat in the car, shivering as she started it up. Her breath was visible in puffs of misty air as she inhaled and exhaled. She drove down the street, taking a left and heading out of town. Five miles outside of Boscobel, she parked the car and turned it off. Her eyes swept over the snow-covered scene. It looked different. Everything did now. Nothing was as beautiful. Nothing was as peaceful. The haze of pain covering her eyes had darkened the world to her. The trees were tall and spindly, their leaves gone. It saddened Sara, seeing them in their dilapidated state. It was as though they wept for him too; they cried as Sara cried; each lost leaf, a teardrop for him. She sucked in a sharp breath, her body trembling.
    Sara got out of the car and stood there, envisioning him the second time she’d seen him. He’d stood just a few steps to the right from where she now stood. Sara could feel his warmth; she could smell his scent of coffee and cherry Carmex, and man. She could feel the sunshine beat down on her as it had that day, masking the bitter cold of the present.
    She’d been walking,