That was her husband; honorable, gruff, and to the point. It was unbearable how much she missed him. Sara set the mug down on the coffee table, the taste in her mouth going from good to bad.
“This doesn’t seem real.”
Sara stiffened at the quietly spoken words. She looked up and saw Lincoln gazing into the crackling fire, his mind somewhere else.
“None of it. This past year or so, it all seems like a bad dream. Some days I wake up and forget, but then reality always slams me over the head and tells me what a fool I am to try to pretend, even for a second, that my brother is going to show up at the work site and hand me a gas station coffee.”
“I know. I keep thinking he’s going to come home from work or from a fishing trip. I know he’s not, but…” She took a shuddering breath, clasping her chilled hands together in her lap. “It’s not easy to accept. Seeing him like that, wondering…” Sara swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.
Lincoln jumped to his feet, startling her. “I’m going to the hospital. I don’t know what else to do. This…this is…” His voice trailed off and Lincoln’s throat bobbed as he repeatedly tried to swallow. “I feel like bawling my fucking eyes out,” he confessed roughly.
Sara stared up at him, tears filling her eyes. She wordlessly nodded, her grief trickling down her cheeks.
“Will you…” Lincoln paused and tried again. “Will you go with me?”
Her lips trembled as she whispered, “Of course.”
He offered his hand and Sara slowly placed hers in his, the connection of their hands locking them together. On their own, they were weak, but together, they seemed to be able to cope. Lincoln pulled her to her feet and into his arms, and this time, he was the one that needed to be comforted, this time, he was the one whose heart was breaking. Lincoln’s head dipped forward as his arms held her to him and she pressed her cheek to his soft hair, closing her eyes as she felt his body shake. He was so much stronger than she, so much larger, and so much more fragile right now.
“I don’t want this to be real,” he said against her neck, his breath causing her skin to pebble.
She tightened her hold on him, trying to heal his inner pain with her embrace. As if Sara could take it away with her touch; as if she had that power. She knew she was deluding herself, but maybe she eased it a little, like Lincoln was able to do for her.
Lincoln pulled away, grim-faced and red-eyed. Their eyes locked. So much pain in his eyes, she thought. Sara wanted to make it fade away.
His eyes darkened, something shifted in his expression, and Lincoln moved away, running his fingers through his wavy hair. “Let’s go.”
***
The cold prickled her skin as hot tears burned her eyes. She stared down at the place he rested, not seeing her husband. It was hard for Sara to come to this place, to see what he’d become. It was turning into an obligation and that made her nauseous. She tried to tell herself it was because it wasn’t really him, that he was in some other place and what she was staring down at was not her husband. It wasn’t him, but it was him. Sara was holding on to what he used to be, not what he was now.
It had been too long, she knew that, logically. Her heart couldn’t accept it. Over a year she’d been coming to this place, looking at what remained of the man she loved, and it killed her, and she hated it. She hated herself. Sara loathed feeling the way she did. Because, in the deepest part of her mind and heart, the place she tried to ignore and pretended didn’t exist, something was telling her he wasn’t coming back, not ever.
Guilt consumed her, telling her what a horrible person she was. Sara didn’t need guilt to tell her that. She already knew. It was her fault he was here. She wasn’t allowed to feel guilty. Sara would forever be to blame and she had to bear that burden. It was hers alone. With each day that passed and she didn’t come, with each memory she tried to escape because it hurt too much, with each breath she breathed that was hers and his he didn’t breathe, she was to blame.
She sucked in a sharp breath, trailing a hand over his cool forehead. Words never came to her at these visits, not anymore. There was nothing more to say. Sara had said it all. She’d pleaded, wept, begged, and none of it had changed a thing. Sara even hated him a little for not waking up, for not coming back to her, for not fighting to be with her. She hated herself for what she’d done to him. She hated herself for hating him.
Everything about this place made her skin crawl; the smell, the beeping of the monitor, the whooshing sound of oxygen being forced into his lungs, the tubes running to and from him. It wasn’t any way to live. It wasn’t living; it was existing.
“How long?”
They stood on either side of him, Sara wanting to look way from the wrecked being that had once been whole and resilient, and unable to. Her eyes hurt to see him and for once she was grateful for the tears that blurred her vision, made his image altered from what it truly was. She hated feeling like she did; hated the relief she felt when she turned her gaze away from him. What Sara hated the most was wondering if she would feel a tiny sliver of reprieve when it was all finally over as well. It was destroying her; seeing him, not seeing him, wanting him to live, and wanting it done.
“Less than two weeks,” she choked out.
Lincoln’s features tightened and the slump to his broad shoulders deepened. He softly swore, slamming fingers through already mussed hair. He turned so his back faced the bed where his brother laid, every muscle in his body tense, to deal with his grief away from Sara’s eyes.
The room had that chalky medicinal smell that made her stomach roil. The lights were dimmed in the white-walled room. It was cooler than Sara thought comfortable, but of course it didn’t matter to him. In fact, he’d always liked it colder in the house than Sara did. So maybe it wouldn’t matter even if he was awake. He’d liked his snow in the winter and snowmobiling and all things outdoors; no matter what time of year it was. He’d found a way to adapt to it all; found a way to make it desirable.
Sara looked down at his gray, sunken face. He’d always had sculpted cheekbones, but now they stood out as sharp blades of bone. His body was dying, his brain didn’t want to or couldn’t wake up, and he was stealing breaths that weren’t his. There was no way to make this situation acceptable. That’s why you gave us the time limit, isn’t it? She hated him for doing that, giving them a figurative clock on the days he had left. But she was also grateful and she hated herself for that. What kind of wife dreaded and longed for something at the same time? This wasn’t a way to live, Sara knew that. He’d known that. But to not have him live at all…it was unfathomable.
It was too much, seeing him as he was. Did he sleep? Did he hear things? Was his mind completely shut off or did he know she was near? The not knowing was the hardest; that was what was tearing Sara up. Was her husband in there somewhere or was he simply gone? Had he left a long time ago, at the wreck? If Sara only knew, maybe then she could cope.
She didn’t realize she was crying until a broken sob left her. “I never got to say goodbye,” she wept as Lincoln strode across the room and scooped her into his arms. Tears flowed like miniature waterfalls from her eyes and down her face. “I can’t say goodbye. How do I say goodbye, Lincoln?”
“You don’t have to say goodbye.”
Sara stiffened in his arms, slowly lifting her eyes to his. That hadn’t been his voice. “What did you say?” she asked, breathless, her heart pounding.
Lincoln’s eyebrows lowered. “I said you don’t have to say goodbye.”
She moved away, putting a shaking hand to her forehead. “But that wasn’t…you…” Sara couldn’t voice her thoughts. She would sound crazy if she did. Was she crazy? Sara had wondered that a lot since the accident.
“What?”
“Nothing. I…” Her face crumpled as she turned her gaze to the bed. He was unmoving, his chest lifting and lowering with artificial life. It couldn’t have been him. Why had it sounded like his voice and not Lincoln’s?