She goes on to talk about her husband’s various habits and quirks, including his love for cheese sandwiches drizzled with honey, then moves on to his achievements and good deeds, detailing his unwavering support for the veterans and the homeless. As she speaks, I notice that everything she says has to do with him, rather than the two of them. Other than the initial mention of how they first met, Sara’s speech could’ve been made by a roommate or a friend—anyone who knew Cobakis, really. Even her voice is steady and calm, with no hint of the pain I glimpsed in her eyes that night.
It’s only when she gets to the accident that I see some real emotion on her face. “George was many wonderful things,” she says, gazing out over the crowd. “But all those things ended eighteen months ago, when his car hit that guardrail and went over. Everything he was died that day. What remained was not George. It was a shell of him, a body without a mind. When death came for him early Saturday morning, it didn’t get my husband. It got only that shell. George himself was long gone by then, and nothing could make him suffer.”
Her chin lifts as she says this last part, and I stare at her intently. She doesn’t know I’m here—the FBI would be all over me if she did—but I feel like she’s speaking directly to me, telling me that I failed. Does she sense me on some level? Feel me watching her?
Does she know that when I stood over her husband’s bedside two nights ago, for a brief moment I considered not pulling the trigger?
She finishes her speech with the traditional words about how much George will be missed, and then she steps off the podium, letting the priest have his final say. I watch her walk back to the elderly couple, and when the crowd starts to disperse, I quietly follow the other mourners out of the cemetery.
The funeral is over, and my fascination with Sara must be too.
There are more people on my list, and fortunately for her, Sara is not one of them.
Part II
6
Sara
* * *
“Darling, are you not eating again?” Mom asks with a worried frown. Though she was vacuuming when I dropped by, her makeup is as perfect as always, her short white hair is prettily curled, and her earrings match her stylish necklace. “You’ve been looking so thin lately.”
“Most people would consider that a good thing,” I say dryly, but to appease her, I reach for a second serving of her homemade apple pie.
“Not when you look like a chihuahua could drag you away,” Mom says and pushes more pie toward me. “You have to take care of yourself; otherwise, you won’t be able to help those patients of yours.”
“I know that, Mom,” I say between bites of the pie. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s been a busy winter, but things should slow down soon.”
“Sara, darling…” The worry lines on her face deepen. “It’s been six months since George—” She stops and takes a breath. “Look, what I’m saying is you can’t keep working yourself to death. It’s too much for you, your regular workload, plus all this new volunteering. Are you sleeping at all?”
“Of course, Mom. I sleep like the dead.” It’s not a lie; I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow and don’t wake up until my alarm goes off. Or at least that’s what happens if I’m completely worn out. On the days when I have something approaching a normal schedule, I wake up shaking and sweating from nightmares, so I do my best to exhaust myself every day.
“How’s the house sale going? Any offers yet?” Dad asks, shuffling into the dining room. He’s using a walker again, so his arthritis must be acting up, but I’m pleased to see that his posture is a bit straighter. He’s actually following his physical therapist’s orders this time and swimming in the gym every day.
“The realtor is having an Open House next week,” I answer, suppressing the urge to praise Dad for doing the right thing. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, so anything having to do with his or my mom’s health is off limits as far as dinnertime conversation. It drives me crazy, but at the same time, I can’t help but admire his resolve.
At almost eighty-seven years of age, my dad is as tough as ever.
“Oh, good,” Mom says. “I hope you’ll get some offers from that. Be sure to bake cookies that morning; they make the house smell nice.”
“I might ask my realtor to buy some and microwave them before the first visitors arrive,” I say, smiling at her. “I don’t think I’ll have time to bake.”
“Of course she won’t, Lorna.” Dad takes a seat next to Mom and reaches for a slice of pie. Glancing up at me, he says gruffly, “You probably won’t be home at all, right?”