Take Care, Sara

on Lincoln’s breathing from where he lay a short foot away. Her eyelids began to droop. The sheet gently rustled and a hand found hers in the dark. Warm, familiar. Sighing, close to content, Sara let slumber take over.
     
     
     

13
     
     
     
    The sun shone on the day he was buried. Sara didn’t understand that. It should have been gray, overcast, and cold. It was a day to mourn, not rejoice. She wanted to grab that sun out of the sky and fling it far, far away. It shone, but somehow managed to miss her. A cloud of gray hovered over her, shielding her, keeping the sun and all it stood for out of her reach. That was the way she wanted it. Lincoln stood next her, stoic and grim. His parents kept their distance and that was fine. Let them. Sara couldn’t make herself care. She was empty, numb. So many people came to pay their respects; so many people started to approach her and then backtracked. Only Lincoln didn’t stay away. Sara couldn’t have kept him away if she’d tried.
    With the canvas tarp over the burial site, it seemed circus-like, surreal. She looked at the people around her, not seeing them. None of them registered. They were just things that took up space, like her. Sara swayed and Lincoln grabbed her arm, steadying her.
    “Are you okay?” he murmured into her ear.
    Sara didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge him in any way. He knew better. Why did he ask such a stupid question? She wasn’t okay. Lincoln wasn’t okay. Neither of them was and they never would be again. His hand dropped from her, leaving her even colder than she’d thought possible.
    The ground was covered in a fine layer of snow, and though she wore black boots, gloves, and a thick gray winter coat, it did nothing to keep the chill away. She was so cold. December 2: the day she died with her husband. Sara closed her eyes, her eyelashes miniature icicles against her cheeks.
    How she’d sat through the service she had no idea. Lincoln had given a eulogy. His mother had cried. Sara had sat there, stiff-backed, frozen. His words might as well have been spoken in a different language. None of it had sunken in. It had been a closed casket wake and ceremony. Even in death he was elusive. She kept trying to tell herself it wasn’t real, that it was a bad dream, but the gouged out part of her wouldn’t let her lie to herself, not anymore. It was growing, taking over her being, turning her into a pulsating entity of anguish. That was all she was now. Sara was brittle, ready to snap from it all. Dead. Let me die too.
    “Sara?” Lincoln whispered close to her. “Talk to me.”
    The pastor droned on about God and how her husband was now with Him and it angered her. Sara’s cheeks flushed and her hands fisted at her sides. She didn’t want to talk to Lincoln. Sara couldn’t speak. If she said one single word, she’d collapse, break. But as the pastor kept talking like he’d known her husband, like he knew God on a personal level and had tea with Him and knew, one hundred percent, that her husband would also be having tea with Him for all time henceforth, she bit her tongue to keep in a scream and tasted blood.
    Lincoln put his arm around her shoulders, his scent coming with it, and said into her hair, “If you need to leave, we’ll leave.”
    Her lip began to wobble. She was cracking. Stop talking, Lincoln. The fury seeped out of her as quickly as it had appeared and the splinter deepened.
    “Everyone will understand if you need to leave and if they don’t, too bad for them. Say the word, Sara, and I’ll take you away from this. Cole would understand.”
    Why didn’t he stop talking? Dizziness hit her and Sara stumbled back, Lincoln catching her before she landed. The pastor paused as he looked at her, his lips almost immediately moving again. He was a kind-faced man with balding black hair and glasses. Sara tried to focus on him and what he was saying; anything to center her, but his voice was muffled and far away. She shook her head and another wave of lightheadedness struck her.
    “Talk to me,” Lincoln repeated in a voice low with urgency.
    Their eyes met, his glazed with concern. Sara had to stay. For him. She owed her husband that. Sara opened her mouth, trying to talk around the dryness of her throat, trying not to break in front of everyone. Lincoln’s eyebrows lowered as he waited, never taking his eyes from her face.
    “I’ll…stay. I need to,” she whispered, her face burning as eyes turned her