Mud Vein
Page 7
We are sitting at the kitchen table, our breakfast of oatmeal recently consumed. My nails—bitten down to the quick—are stinging. He’s just commented on how large and awkward the table is: a big, round block of wood supported by a circular base thicker than two tree trunks.
Initially he looks alarmed that I’ve asked. Then something breaks open in his eyes. He doesn’t have time to hide it. I see every last speck of emotion, and it hurts me.
“She’s an oncologist,” he says. I nod, my mouth dry. That’s a good fit for him.
“What’s her name?”
I already know her name.
“Daphne” he says. Daphne Akela. “We’ve been married for two years. You met her once.”
Yes, I remember.
He scratches his head, right above his ear, then smooths what he’s disturbed with the heel of his hand.
“What would Daphne be doing right now … with you missing?” I ask, folding my legs underneath me.
He clears his throat. “She’s a mess, Senna.”
It’s a matter-of-fact statement with an obvious answer. I don’t know why I asked, except to be cruel. No one is looking for me, except maybe the media. Bestselling Author Vanishes. Isaac has people. People who love him.
“What about you?” he says, turning it on me. “Are you married?”
I tug on my grey, wind it around my finger, slide it behind my ear.
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
He laughs coldly. “No, I suppose not. Were you seeing anyone?”
“Nope.”
He folds in his lips, nods. He knows me, too … sort of. “What happened to—”
I cut him off. “I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.”
“Even after you wrote the book?”
I put my crusty oatmeal spoon in my mouth and suck off the hardened oats. “Even after the book,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I want to ask if he read it, but I’m too chicken.
“He probably has a Daphne, too, by now. You’re not human unless you pair off with someone, right? Find your soulmate or the love of your life—or whatever.” I wave it away like I don’t care.
“People have a need to feel connected to someone else,” Isaac says. “There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with being too burned to stay away from it.”
My head jerks up. What? Does he think he’s the soul whisperer?
“I don’t need anyone,” I assure him.
“I know.”
“No you don’t,” I insist.
I feel bad for snapping at him, especially since I initiated the conversation. But I don’t like what he’s insinuating—that he knows me or something.
Isaac looks down at his empty bowl. “You’re so self-assured, sometimes I forget to check on you. Are you okay, Senna? Have you been—”
I cut him off. “I’ve been fine, Isaac. Let’s not go there.” I stand up. “I’m going to mess with the keypad.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I leave. I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats.
We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife, I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. Anyone. Grab … it…
My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live.
Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me.
“Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath…
He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.”
I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better.
I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa. He’s good at taking care of people. He takes care of you without you having to ask. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a glass of water.
I take it from him. “He knew to buy the exact clothes sizes that we wear, but he didn’t know I have asthma?”
Isaac frowns. “Have you checked in all of the cabinets for an inhaler?”
“Yes. The first day.”
He looks at the floor between his feet.
“Maybe he didn’t want you to have an inhaler.”
I grunt. “So, this sicko kidnaps me and brings me out here to die of an asthma attack? Anti-climactic.”
“I don’t know,” he says. It’s hard for a doctor to say those words. He told me that once. Doctors were supposed to have the answers. “None of this makes sense,” he says. “Why someone would take me … put me here with you. How did they even make the connection between us?”
Initially he looks alarmed that I’ve asked. Then something breaks open in his eyes. He doesn’t have time to hide it. I see every last speck of emotion, and it hurts me.
“She’s an oncologist,” he says. I nod, my mouth dry. That’s a good fit for him.
“What’s her name?”
I already know her name.
“Daphne” he says. Daphne Akela. “We’ve been married for two years. You met her once.”
Yes, I remember.
He scratches his head, right above his ear, then smooths what he’s disturbed with the heel of his hand.
“What would Daphne be doing right now … with you missing?” I ask, folding my legs underneath me.
He clears his throat. “She’s a mess, Senna.”
It’s a matter-of-fact statement with an obvious answer. I don’t know why I asked, except to be cruel. No one is looking for me, except maybe the media. Bestselling Author Vanishes. Isaac has people. People who love him.
“What about you?” he says, turning it on me. “Are you married?”
I tug on my grey, wind it around my finger, slide it behind my ear.
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
He laughs coldly. “No, I suppose not. Were you seeing anyone?”
“Nope.”
He folds in his lips, nods. He knows me, too … sort of. “What happened to—”
I cut him off. “I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.”
“Even after you wrote the book?”
I put my crusty oatmeal spoon in my mouth and suck off the hardened oats. “Even after the book,” I say, not meeting his eyes. I want to ask if he read it, but I’m too chicken.
“He probably has a Daphne, too, by now. You’re not human unless you pair off with someone, right? Find your soulmate or the love of your life—or whatever.” I wave it away like I don’t care.
“People have a need to feel connected to someone else,” Isaac says. “There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with being too burned to stay away from it.”
My head jerks up. What? Does he think he’s the soul whisperer?
“I don’t need anyone,” I assure him.
“I know.”
“No you don’t,” I insist.
I feel bad for snapping at him, especially since I initiated the conversation. But I don’t like what he’s insinuating—that he knows me or something.
Isaac looks down at his empty bowl. “You’re so self-assured, sometimes I forget to check on you. Are you okay, Senna? Have you been—”
I cut him off. “I’ve been fine, Isaac. Let’s not go there.” I stand up. “I’m going to mess with the keypad.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I leave. I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats.
We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife, I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. Anyone. Grab … it…
My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live.
Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me.
“Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath…
He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.”
I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better.
I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa. He’s good at taking care of people. He takes care of you without you having to ask. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a glass of water.
I take it from him. “He knew to buy the exact clothes sizes that we wear, but he didn’t know I have asthma?”
Isaac frowns. “Have you checked in all of the cabinets for an inhaler?”
“Yes. The first day.”
He looks at the floor between his feet.
“Maybe he didn’t want you to have an inhaler.”
I grunt. “So, this sicko kidnaps me and brings me out here to die of an asthma attack? Anti-climactic.”
“I don’t know,” he says. It’s hard for a doctor to say those words. He told me that once. Doctors were supposed to have the answers. “None of this makes sense,” he says. “Why someone would take me … put me here with you. How did they even make the connection between us?”
