His name stung her heart and she lowered her head.
“I don’t know what to say,” Ramona said quietly, her throat convulsing as she swallowed. She was a smaller, more feminine version of Lincoln.
“Were you going to tell us? Or were you just going to let them pull the plug and let us think he’d died on his own?” Henry demanded; his voice harsh.
Pain swept over her, making it impossible for her to speak.
“Dad, that’s enough.” Lincoln straightened from the counter and moved to stand beside Sara. His nearness made it a little easier for her to breathe and she was grateful. “Sara didn’t have to tell you. In fact, Cole didn’t want her to.”
“Sara didn’t tell us. You did.” Those pale blue eyes drilled into hers, unwilling to let her look away. “You can’t do this, Sara. I refuse to let you do this to my son.”
“Henry,” Ramona said, reaching over to put a hand on his arm.
“It’s what he wanted, Dad.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” Henry snapped.
“Dad,” Lincoln warned.
Her throat closed. Sara had to get away. She jumped to her feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “I…” Dizziness hit her and she grabbed the edge of the table.
“You were driving that car. You weren’t paying attention. You did this,” he continued, his voice vibrating.
The room began to spin.
“That’s enough,” Lincoln shouted, slamming a hand against the tabletop.
Ramona began to cry, covering her face with her hands. Her frail shoulders shook with each sob.
Henry shot to his feet, looking at his youngest son like he was a stranger. “How can you defend her? How can you stand to look at her, knowing she’s responsible? My son is gone because of her.”
Nausea hit her and Sara’s grip fell away from the table. Each word out of his mouth was a knife wound to her soul. Sara couldn’t stand to hear them. They hurt. Her soul was ravaged by them; clawed and mutilated. She stumbled back, her equilibrium off. A ringing began in her ears.
“I’m about two seconds from throwing you out of here, Dad. I mean that.” Lincoln’s voice was low, even.
Father and son stared each other down and Sara just wanted them to stop. She wanted it all to stop. The animosity was stifling, making it hard for her to breathe. Sara didn’t want them fighting, especially over her.
“You know what I say is true.”
“No. I don’t. Sara isn’t responsible. She was driving the car, yes, but she wasn’t the one that crossed the center line. She wasn’t the one drinking. Sara didn’t do this to your son. You know that.”
Lincoln was wrong. It was her fault. He didn’t know. The room was starting to fade, their angry voices becoming background noise. Sara shook her head, but only made herself woozier.
She started to fall.
“What do you want do when we get home?” Sara asked, glancing at him with a smile on her face.
The wind swept in through the open windows of the black Grand Am, playing with his light brown hair and sending his scent she loved over to her. The sun caught his eyes just right and they glowed with blue heat. A lazy smile turned his lips up. Sara laughed.
“I think you know how the birthday celebration is supposed to continue once we get home.”
She nodded; her eyes on the road. “I do, yes.”
“Explain it to me, so I know we’re on the same page.”
“Hmm. Okay. You’re going to get naked…”
“Mmm-hmm. I’m liking this.”
“You’re going to straddle me.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And give me a full body massage.”
“Uh-uh. You had it up till then.” He reached over to play with her hair and Sara’s insides sighed. “Thanks for dinner, babe. It was good.”
“Welcome.”
“You always spoil me.”
“You need to be spoiled now and then.”
“Want to spoil me some more and go fishing with me tomorrow, feed some fishies?”
Sara smiled. “Sure.”
She liked to go fishing for the peacefulness of it, but she abhorred the worm and hook part of it and the actual catching of fish part of it. Sara liked to feed them and let him do all the rest.
“It’s a date.” His fingers moved from her hair to caress her earlobe and then down to massage her shoulder.
“That feels good,” she murmured, briefly closing her eyes.
“Sara.” His hand painfully squeezed.
Her eyes flew open to see a red truck in their lane, heading directly for them. Sara tensed, watching it like it was on a movie screen and not really before her. It swerved back and forth, making it impossible for her to guess its destination. She couldn’t think. What do I do? What do I do? It was getting closer and closer. Sara wrenched the steering wheel, fear and panic overtaking logic.
“Sara, look out! Sara!”
The car spun, its side colliding with the much larger truck once, twice; horrible crunching, shattering sounds drilling through the car, through her ears. He doesn’t have a seatbelt on, she dimly thought. Why doesn’t he have his seatbelt on? His hand was torn away from her on impact, his body slamming against her, then the side of the car the truck hit, only a layer of metal between him and the other vehicle.
Sara’s heart died as she watched his body thrown forward, then backward, and then he didn’t move at all. The airbag went off, crashing his already ruined body. Sara screamed, reaching for him. Blood trickled from his head and he still wasn’t moving, his eyes halfway open, staring, but not seeing anything.
She tried to unbuckle her seatbelt, but her fingers were shaking and slick, and the pain; the pain was everywhere. Not for her, but for him. Dying. She was dying. If he was dying, Sara was dying. She couldn’t get to him. There was this terrible pressure on her chest, so heavy with foreboding, so thick with finality. It was killing her.
Sara screamed in helpless impotence. “Cole! Cole!” she shrieked, her voice high and unnatural. Over and over she called his name, willing him to respond.
He didn’t move. Why didn’t he move? Tears burned her eyes and cheeks, blurring her vision. Sirens blared in the distance, getting louder. Still he didn’t move. Still his eyes remained in that partial place of not really closed and not really opened.
“Don’t you die on me, Cole, don’t you die on me,” she pleaded, straining against her seatbelt to touch the fingers of his hand. Hers grazed his, just barely, choking sobs leaving her lips. A crack in her heart formed, grew, became her, as she stared at her broken husband Sara knew couldn’t be repaired. She died on the inside, dimmed, as she watched him, waiting for the impossible.
Sara’s eyes slowly opened. His eyes never opened. She’d waited and waited and they’d never opened. Months, a year, over a year she’d waited for him to open his eyes and come back to her. He’d given himself that time limit to come back to her as well and he hadn’t done it. He isn’t coming back.