Not that she thought Lincoln would think more into it than there was, but still, would it be right? She was hurting, she was destroyed. So was he. Sara wanted a night of peaceful sleep and she was so alone; so alone she thought if she disappeared she wouldn’t even notice it. She thought maybe Lincoln would understand. He always seemed to know her, even when she didn’t know herself. Her bare feet silently moved along the wood floor, the bottoms of them chilled by the coolness of it. Sara didn’t understand how the air could be so hot and the floor still so cold.
He was waiting for her, sitting up in his bed. A lamp was on next to the bed, turning Lincoln’s features into shadows and light. His eyes didn’t need the lamp to be seen; even in the semi-dark they were bright, intent on her. A closed book rested on the bed next to his blanketed legs. She tried not to stare at his unclothed chest, but it was well-muscled and deserved to be admired, even if only clinically.
“Can’t sleep?” his voice rumbled, low and quiet. Lincoln’s eyes were dark; his features carefully blank as he gazed at her.
Sara tore her eyes from his chest, face heating up, and met his eyes. “I—no. I mean, I was sleeping, but then I woke up. Bad dream,” she ended lamely.
Lincoln set the book on the nightstand. “Me either.” He ran a hand through his already rumpled hair and sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I tried to read. That didn’t happen. I’ve been sitting here, for hours, just…thinking.”
Sara tentatively walked closer to the bed, hugging herself with her arms. “I want to sleep.”
His eyes were red, sad. Lincoln nodded. “Me too.”
They stared at each other, neither speaking. Sara took a shaky breath, seeing all the suffering she felt mirrored in Lincoln. “Can I—? I mean, it wouldn’t…” She blushed, not knowing how to continue.
Lincoln wordless scooted over, making room for her. He waited, eyes downcast, his body held stiffly. Sara slowly got in beside him, not looking at him. The bed was warm, imprinted with his body and smell. Almost immediately, she relaxed a miniscule amount, but not enough to be completely at ease. Neither moved, neither spoke. A clock ticked off two minutes.
“It doesn’t—“
“I know, Sara,” he cut in. “It doesn’t for me either. You don’t have to say anything or explain anything, not to yourself or to me. Let’s just try to sleep, okay?”
She wanted that peacefulness only Lincoln was able to provide; almost greedy for it. Sara tried not to feel guilty about that. Reaching over, Sara turned off the lamp. Darkness blanketed them. She reclined on the bed, her body straight and rigid. Sara focused 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 2nd: 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.