Tears streamed down her face and Sara’s feet moved in the direction of the closed door. So many closed doors. What did she think she was accomplishing? Did she really think she could close away the memories and the hurt inside a room? It wasn’t working, if that’s what her subconscious was trying to do. Sara’s hand reached for the doorknob and turned.
They’d painted the walls celery green. The curtains were blue with yellow stripes. In the middle of the room sat an unused crib made out of pale wood. A cream and pale green checked comforter rested on the sheeted mattress, never to know the feel of a soft little being or be snuggled in a tiny hand. It smelled like baby powder in the room and Sara inhaled deeply. She tweaked the teddy bear mobile and watched as it gently swayed back and forth. It had been too soon to know what sex the baby was, but they’d been excited and hadn’t wanted to wait to decorate, so everything had been made neutral.
After she’d lost the baby, Sara would find herself in the room, just staring, not really seeing. He’d come and get her, wrap her in his arms, and bring her back from the brink of nothingness that had threatened to erase all she was. He wasn’t here to do it this time. He wasn’t here to do it this time because he was the one she’d lost and mourned. Sara wondered who, if anyone; would save her this time. Maybe she wasn’t savable. Maybe she was already gone, like her baby, like her parents, like her husband.
***
“Well?”
Mason gave her a pointed look Sara ignored. She poured herself a mug of coffee after handing him one. “Well what?”
“Show me your creation.”
He was irritating and bossy, but at least Mason didn’t hide anything. Sara had to respect that about him. He didn’t try to avoid the world, like her. Still, she wasn’t ready to talk, not about herself, not about her husband.
“That woman…at Spencer’s, was she the reason you found to move on? To live?” Sara fiddled with the hem of her shirt as she waited for Mason to answer.
“Nope.”
“Then who was?”
“I’ll tell you, after you show me your painting.”
Sara swallowed as her gaze went to the closed door. It was only a piece of canvas. It was only a piece of canvas that symbolized her whole world and all she’d lost; all she’d had at one time and no longer did.
“How did you and Spencer meet?” she hedged.
Half of Mason’s mouth quirked. “He arrested me.”
“I’m not really surprised to hear that,” she muttered.
“I’m not really surprised to hear you say that either.”
Her lips tried to smile at Mason’s dry tone and she bit the inside of her lower lip to halt it. He didn’t need to know she found him a little amusing. Then he’d probably never go away.
“What did he arrest you for?”
Mason sighed, rubbing his face. “I really don’t think it’s necessary for you to know.”
“That bad, huh?”
His hands dropped from his face. “It was in my, quote unquote, bad stage. I was drunk. I peed in public. On Main Street, actually. Right in front of the cop shop.”
Sara snorted. “Nice.”
“Oh yes. It was my way of sticking it to the man and all that.”
“Sounds like it was counterproductive.”
“Maybe. Slightly.” Mason grinned, then sobered. “Just so you know, Spencer feels bad about the other night. He said he called Lincoln.”
Sara hadn’t seen Lincoln since Friday night. He’d stopped by yesterday and she’d sat in the dark until he’d driven away. Not that she hadn’t already been sitting in the dark; wallowing in stifling emotions she never fully escaped. Or if she did escape them, they came back even worse. The phone had rung intermittently and she’d let it. Sara hadn’t had the strength to do much of anything. Yesterday had been a bad day, to summarize.
“That’s good,” she mumbled, picking at the jagged edge of an uneven nail on her thumb, thoughts locked on Lincoln.
She’d wanted to open the door; she’d forced herself not to pick up the phone. Sara felt awful about the way she’d avoided him, but not awful enough to call him back or go see him. She was toxic and Lincoln needed to stay away from her. He was better off by himself. He’d hate her before too long anyway. It was best to distance herself from him. Sara wondered if he’d let her.
Mason rubbed his forehead, letting out a sigh. “Look, I know you don’t want me here. I know you want to be alone so you can hate yourself in peace, but…that’s not going to happen. You have people that care about you. You have people that are worried about you. Humor them. Talk to me. Open up. Did you paint, Sara?”
Sara swallowed, giving an almost imperceptible nod.
“Did you feel better afterward?”
She thought of how the urge to create had taken over, how she’d been mindless with the need to paint and hadn’t felt or thought anything for joyous seconds or minutes. Then she remembered the letter she’d seen on the floor after dropping the paintbrush.
Sara looked up, meeting his eyes. “No. I felt crazy.”
Mason frowned. “What? Why?”