Mud Vein
Page 11
When we are finished, Isaac clears the table and washes our plates. I stay where I am, stretching my arm across the wood and resting my head on the table to watch him. My head is spinning from the whiskey and my eyes are watering. Not watering. Crying. You’re not crying, Senna. You don’t know how.
“Senna?” Isaac dries his hands on a dishtowel and straddles the bench to face me. “You’re leaking fluid otherwise known as tears. Are you aware of this?”
I sniff pathetically. “I just hate croutons so much…”
He clears his throat and squashes a smile.
“As your doctor I’d advise you to sit up.”
I sniff and straighten myself until I am in a sort of upright slump.
We are both straddling the bench, now, facing each other. Isaac reaches out both thumbs and uses them to clear my cheeks of tears. He stops when he is cupping my face between his hands.
“It hurts me when you cry.” His voice is so earnest, so open. I can’t speak like this. Everything I say sounds sterile and robotic.
I try to look away, but he holds my face so that I can’t move. I don’t like being this close to him. He starts seeping into my pores. It tingles.
“I’m crying, but I don’t feel anything,” I assure him.
He pulls his lips into a tight line and nods.
“Yes, I know. That’s what hurts me the most.”
Chapter Eight
After the deal with the F. Cayley print, I take inventory of everything in the house. We could be missing something. I wish I had a pen, some paper, but our single Bic ran out of ink a long time ago… so I have to use my good ol’ memory for this one.
There are sixty-three books scattered throughout the house. I’ve picked up each one, flipped through the pages, touched the numbers at the top right corners. I started reading two of them—both classics that I’ve already read—but I can’t get my mind to focus. I have twenty-three light, colorful sweaters, six pairs of jeans, six pairs of sweatpants, twelve pairs of socks, eighteen shirts, twelve pairs of yoga pants. One pair of rain boots—in Isaac’s size. There are six additional pieces of artwork on the walls, other than the F. Cayley; each of the others is by the Ukranian illusionist, Oleg Shuplyak. In the living room is “Sparrows” one of his milder pieces. But scattered across the rest of the house are the blurred faces of famous historical figures, blended almost indecipherably with landscapes. The one in the attic room disturbs me the most. I’ve tried to pry it from the wall with a butter knife, but it’s cemented so firmly I can’t get it to budge. It depicts a hooded man, his outstretched arms wielding two scythes. His mouth gapes and his eyes are two dark, empty holes. At first all you see is the eerie emptiness—the impending violence. Then your eyes adjust and the skull comes into view: the dark sockets of eyes between the scythes, the teeth, which seconds ago were simply a pattern on a garment. My kidnapper hung death in my bedroom. The sentiment makes me sick. The rest of the prints scattered throughout the house include: Hitler and the dragon, Freud and the lake, Darwin under the bridge with the mysterious cloaked figure. My least favorite is “Winter” in which a man is riding a yak over a snow-covered village while two eyes peer coldly at me. That one feels like a message.
When I have counted everything in my closet and Isaac’s, I start counting things in the kitchen. I note the colors of the furniture and the walls. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to do something with my brain. When I run out of things to count, I talk to Isaac. He makes us coffee like he used to, and we sit at the table.
“Why did you want to fly away on your red bike?”
He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to questions from me.
“I don’t know anything about you,” I say.
“You never seemed to want to.”
That stings. It’s not entirely untrue. I have that whole stay the hell away from me thing going on.
“I didn’t.”
I count the kitchen cabinets. I forgot to do that.
“Why not?” He spins his coffee cup in a circle, and lifts it to his mouth. Before he can take a sip he sets it down again.
I have to take a moment to think about that one.
“It’s just who I am.”
“Because you choose to be?”
“This conversation was supposed to be about you.”
He finally takes a sip of his coffee. Then he pushes his mug across the table to me. I’ve already finished mine. It’s a peace offering.
“My dad was a drinker. He used to rough up my mom. Not so much a unique story,” he shrugs. “What about you?”
I consider pulling my usual stunts of avoid and retreat, but I decide to surprise him instead. It gets boring always being the same.
“My mom left before I hit puberty. She was a writer. She said my dad sucked all of the life out of her, but I think suburban life did. After she left, my dad went a little crazy.”
I take a sip of Isaac’s coffee and avoid his eyes.
“What kind of crazy?”
I purse my lips. “Rules. Lots of rules. He became emotionally volatile.” I finish off his coffee and he stands up to get the whiskey. He pours us each a shot.
“You trying to keep me talking, Doctor?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tequila works better.”
He smiles. “I’ll just run down to the liquor store and grab a bottle.”
I take my shot and spill my guts. I’m not even drunk. Saphira would be so proud of me. I crinkle my nose when I think of her. What does she think about all of this? She probably thinks I dipped out of town. She was always accusing me of … what was the word she used? Running?
“Tell me something about your life with him,” Isaac urges. I purse my lips. “Hmmm … so much f**kedupness. Where should I start?”
He blinks at me.
“A week before I graduated from high school he found a chip in one of our drinking glasses. He came storming into my room, demanding to know how it got there. When I couldn’t give him an answer he refused to talk to me. For three weeks. He didn’t even come to my graduation. My dad. He can make a drinking glass feel like a teen pregnancy.”
I hold out my mug and Isaac refills me.
“I hate whiskey,” I say.
“Me too as well.”
I c**k my head.
“Hush,” he says. “You don’t get to judge my turn of phrase.”
“Senna?” Isaac dries his hands on a dishtowel and straddles the bench to face me. “You’re leaking fluid otherwise known as tears. Are you aware of this?”
I sniff pathetically. “I just hate croutons so much…”
He clears his throat and squashes a smile.
“As your doctor I’d advise you to sit up.”
I sniff and straighten myself until I am in a sort of upright slump.
We are both straddling the bench, now, facing each other. Isaac reaches out both thumbs and uses them to clear my cheeks of tears. He stops when he is cupping my face between his hands.
“It hurts me when you cry.” His voice is so earnest, so open. I can’t speak like this. Everything I say sounds sterile and robotic.
I try to look away, but he holds my face so that I can’t move. I don’t like being this close to him. He starts seeping into my pores. It tingles.
“I’m crying, but I don’t feel anything,” I assure him.
He pulls his lips into a tight line and nods.
“Yes, I know. That’s what hurts me the most.”
Chapter Eight
After the deal with the F. Cayley print, I take inventory of everything in the house. We could be missing something. I wish I had a pen, some paper, but our single Bic ran out of ink a long time ago… so I have to use my good ol’ memory for this one.
There are sixty-three books scattered throughout the house. I’ve picked up each one, flipped through the pages, touched the numbers at the top right corners. I started reading two of them—both classics that I’ve already read—but I can’t get my mind to focus. I have twenty-three light, colorful sweaters, six pairs of jeans, six pairs of sweatpants, twelve pairs of socks, eighteen shirts, twelve pairs of yoga pants. One pair of rain boots—in Isaac’s size. There are six additional pieces of artwork on the walls, other than the F. Cayley; each of the others is by the Ukranian illusionist, Oleg Shuplyak. In the living room is “Sparrows” one of his milder pieces. But scattered across the rest of the house are the blurred faces of famous historical figures, blended almost indecipherably with landscapes. The one in the attic room disturbs me the most. I’ve tried to pry it from the wall with a butter knife, but it’s cemented so firmly I can’t get it to budge. It depicts a hooded man, his outstretched arms wielding two scythes. His mouth gapes and his eyes are two dark, empty holes. At first all you see is the eerie emptiness—the impending violence. Then your eyes adjust and the skull comes into view: the dark sockets of eyes between the scythes, the teeth, which seconds ago were simply a pattern on a garment. My kidnapper hung death in my bedroom. The sentiment makes me sick. The rest of the prints scattered throughout the house include: Hitler and the dragon, Freud and the lake, Darwin under the bridge with the mysterious cloaked figure. My least favorite is “Winter” in which a man is riding a yak over a snow-covered village while two eyes peer coldly at me. That one feels like a message.
When I have counted everything in my closet and Isaac’s, I start counting things in the kitchen. I note the colors of the furniture and the walls. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to do something with my brain. When I run out of things to count, I talk to Isaac. He makes us coffee like he used to, and we sit at the table.
“Why did you want to fly away on your red bike?”
He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to questions from me.
“I don’t know anything about you,” I say.
“You never seemed to want to.”
That stings. It’s not entirely untrue. I have that whole stay the hell away from me thing going on.
“I didn’t.”
I count the kitchen cabinets. I forgot to do that.
“Why not?” He spins his coffee cup in a circle, and lifts it to his mouth. Before he can take a sip he sets it down again.
I have to take a moment to think about that one.
“It’s just who I am.”
“Because you choose to be?”
“This conversation was supposed to be about you.”
He finally takes a sip of his coffee. Then he pushes his mug across the table to me. I’ve already finished mine. It’s a peace offering.
“My dad was a drinker. He used to rough up my mom. Not so much a unique story,” he shrugs. “What about you?”
I consider pulling my usual stunts of avoid and retreat, but I decide to surprise him instead. It gets boring always being the same.
“My mom left before I hit puberty. She was a writer. She said my dad sucked all of the life out of her, but I think suburban life did. After she left, my dad went a little crazy.”
I take a sip of Isaac’s coffee and avoid his eyes.
“What kind of crazy?”
I purse my lips. “Rules. Lots of rules. He became emotionally volatile.” I finish off his coffee and he stands up to get the whiskey. He pours us each a shot.
“You trying to keep me talking, Doctor?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tequila works better.”
He smiles. “I’ll just run down to the liquor store and grab a bottle.”
I take my shot and spill my guts. I’m not even drunk. Saphira would be so proud of me. I crinkle my nose when I think of her. What does she think about all of this? She probably thinks I dipped out of town. She was always accusing me of … what was the word she used? Running?
“Tell me something about your life with him,” Isaac urges. I purse my lips. “Hmmm … so much f**kedupness. Where should I start?”
He blinks at me.
“A week before I graduated from high school he found a chip in one of our drinking glasses. He came storming into my room, demanding to know how it got there. When I couldn’t give him an answer he refused to talk to me. For three weeks. He didn’t even come to my graduation. My dad. He can make a drinking glass feel like a teen pregnancy.”
I hold out my mug and Isaac refills me.
“I hate whiskey,” I say.
“Me too as well.”
I c**k my head.
“Hush,” he says. “You don’t get to judge my turn of phrase.”
