Take Care, Sara

run from that stricken look she’d glimpsed on Lincoln’s face, trying to run from the past, from Lincoln, even from him.
    ***
    The past lived in the closed doors of the house, in the house itself. She knew that. She knew what she had to do, though the thought of it made her palms sweaty and her heart race. Sara stared at the door to the nursery, just looking at it making the air thick, stifling; making it hard for her to draw air into her lungs.
    Sara opened the door, sorrow hitting her immediately at the lingering scent of a little life taken too soon. Baby powder and lotion. She trailed a hand along the dresser, touching a pale green stuffed horse. At first she’d thought it was a mistake. It had been impossible to go from one minute of joy with a soul blossoming inside her to unbelievable emptiness when it was taken away. It hadn’t made sense. She’d forget at times, touching her slightly rounded stomach that hadn’t yet returned to its normal flatness.
    He’d watched her, hurting for her, for him, for their child. The pain in his eyes mirrored Sara’s. It had been a dark time in their marriage; a time when if they hadn’t fought to keep it, their marriage could have been lost. Sara gathered the toy in her arms and pressed her cheek to its softness. She’d wondered if God hated her. She’d wondered what she’d done to upset Him so much to take her baby’s life. The sight of babies and children had caused grief so strong she couldn’t function. Pregnant women repelled her; Sara had loathed the sight of them. She’d thought of all the children with parents that were cruel and abusive to them and wondered why they were allowed lives they didn’t want, didn’t appreciate, and she, who wanted nothing but to love a little piece of her and her husband, was denied.
    They’d gotten through it. Eventually it didn’t hurt so much; eventually she could operate without the horrible ache. She’d never gotten over it, not completely, but she’d had to accept it. Sara didn’t think a mother ever did get over it. As soon as that life had been inside her, it had been a part of her and always would be. The hollowness never really went away; even now it was with her, reminding her of the life not given a chance to live.
    Sara inhaled slowly, setting the toy down. She blinked her burning eyes and picked up the stack of boxes, crying as she boxed up all that was left of her baby she’d never been able to hold. Clothes, toys, knickknacks; those were what she had left of her baby and Sara had to part with them .
    “People you love aren’t defined by objects, Sara, but by the place they hold in your heart.”
    She absently nodded, a surge of courage pulsating through her, making her task a little more bearable. The voice sporadically popped up whenever Sara needed to hear it the most. She almost didn’t notice it anymore. It was ingrained in her; an unknown embodiment of strength, or maybe it was simply her conscience. Didn’t matter.
    The next room was the bedroom. It hurt to open the doors and let it all escape; all the emotions she’d wanted to keep bottled up to never forget, but she had to do it. She knew she did. If Sara didn’t, she’d be stuck for the rest of her life; living in a past that would remain evasive. If she didn’t, she would die on the inside, like she’d feared she already was. She couldn’t. Lincoln had shown her she wasn’t. A small part of her hated him for that, while the other rejoiced in it. She closed her eyes at the thought of him; her emotions a torrent of confusion and guilt and longing where Lincoln was concerned. Sara tried not to think of him, but even when she shoved him away, she still felt him; in her heart, on her skin, everywhere.
    Sara grabbed the pillow and blanket from the couch and put them on a shelf in the bedroom closet. It was cleansing, cathartic, and sad all at the same time. She stared at the bed, dismayed to find herself thinking of Lincoln and him both. They both couldn’t be in her heart, could they? Sara covered her face, remembering the smell and feel of Lincoln against her, yearning for him. When she thought of her husband, it was with overwhelming grief and guilt. How could she let another man touch her, his brother , when she was supposed to love him ?
    She hesitantly sat on the bed, running a hand over the cool fabric of the blanket, despondency dragging her down. Sara didn’t know what was right and wrong to feel; it felt like a betrayal to