Sara stopped, her stomach dipping, and looked over her shoulder.
He smiled at her, a beatific transformation of the lips and face that caught her breath. That smile turned his average features into something extraordinary. It was in that instant that Sara knew she was in trouble. And not the kind of trouble she’d been prepared to sprint from moments ago. That smile, those eyes; they did something to her.
Laughter on his lips and in his eyes, he asked, “What’s your name?”
Sara dashed a hand at her leaky eyes, abruptly brought back to the present by the sounds of neighborhood children playing in the leaves. She turned her head to watch them under the blanket of twilight. They were the Niles children; George at age 6 and Ramona at age 9. Their peals of laughter were bittersweet to her; a reminder of something she had wanted, almost had, and now would never have again.
Isn’t it a little dark for them to be playing outside?
Just as she thought this, the mother; a slim, attractive lady named Tracie, opened the front door and called them inside. She paused, her eyes on Sara, and gave a little wave. Sara raised her hand in greeting. The door closed; shutting the warmth and joy of the kids inside with their parents.
Sara sighed, rubbing her face. It was time to go inside for the night.
3
Sara grew up going to Sunday school and church. She said her nightly prayers. Her family gave thanks at mealtime. She spoke to God in her mind on an almost daily basis. If she was scared at night in the dark, she asked Him to watch over her and only then could she sleep.
She’d believed so steadfastly in Him; all in His wonder and omnipotence; in her belief that He would always look out for her and keep her safe. She had been so unfailingly devoted. She’d felt sorry for people who didn’t have faith, for those who chose not to believe, for those who doubted.
Sara had always wondered how it was okay for them to tell their children to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and all those other mythical beings, but not in the one true solidarity, the one true Being. She’d known bad things happened to good people, but in the back of her mind, she’d always rationalized that if you were truly good, you would be salvaged and nothing too horrible would afflict you and yours.
She’d been wrong. Unequivocally wrong. Laughably so. Her faith hadn’t saved her husband; it hadn’t kept him with her. Her faith had done nothing to heal her pain; it had done nothing to ease her guilt. Sara had found no peace. It had been like a weight of deception on her shoulders, like she had been kidding herself her whole life, and finally, she saw the truth. He’d never helped her. He hadn’t saved the person she loved above all others. In fact, He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.
And then…she just…gave up.
Sara tightened the tie of her old blue robe and glanced at the clock in the living room. It was church time. A look out the window showed her the Niles’, her neighbors with the two kids, were on their way to worship God, as they did every Sunday. She turned away and sat on the couch, staring at a blank television screen. She no longer had satellite service. When she’d forgotten to pay the bill three consecutive months in a row, it had been canceled. It had taken her another few months to figure that out. She had her laptop and the internet; both of which she rarely used, a cordless phone in the kitchen, and a cell phone she never turned on. That was it. Even having those seemed pointless. She was all alone, but that was how she wanted to be; how she needed to be. Sara felt like poison; anyone who came too close to her died.
She turned her gaze to the closed bathroom door. A shower determined how her day was going to be. If she got enough ambition to take a shower, then she normally got enough drive to do other things. Those days were easier to get through. It was such a small, simple task and yet its act had monumental power over Sara’s state of mind. On the days she couldn’t get enough energy to shower—those were bad days. Today was going to be a bad day. Not that any day was good, but some were easier to take than others.
The knock at the door startled her. Sara froze, not wanting to answer the door. She waited for whoever it was to go away. Instead the banging turned persistent.
“Sara. Open up.” The voice was muffled, but distinctly Spencer’s. No one else’s growled like that. Funny how she’d forgotten that about him.
She didn’t want to see him. He couldn’t badger her into feeling a certain way; he couldn’t make her think something she didn’t just by being an insistent pest.
“I’m not leaving, Sara. And unless you want my impending pneumonia on your conscience, you’ll open up, ‘cause it’s colder than…cold out here.”