Mud Vein

by Tarryn Fisher

When he comes out, his face has been washed, too, and his hair is damp. There is a trickle of water running from his temple.

  “Now what?” I say.

  “Are you tired? We could take turns. Do you want to sleep?”

  “Hell no!”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I get ya.”

  There is a long awkward pause.

  “I’d like to take a shower,” I say. What I don’t add is, in case the sick fuck touched me…

  He nods. I climb up the ladder to get something clean to wear. It makes me sick, putting on clothes that someone chose and put here for me. I wish I had my own, but not even the pajamas I’m still wearing are mine. I study the contents of the wardrobe. Almost every article of clothing is something I would have chosen for myself—except for the color. There is too much of that. This is creepy. Who would know me well enough to buy me clothes? Clothes that I actually like? I pluck a long sleeve yoga top from a hanger and find the matching pants underneath it. In a drawer are a variety of panties and bras.

  Oh God!

  I decide to go without either. I can’t wear underwear that some sicko bought and folded into a drawer. It would feel like was touching me … there. I slam the drawer closed.

  Isaac helps me down the ladder. Since my attack on the door, my wrist has swollen to twice its size.

  “Keep it elevated and out of the hot water,” he says before I go into the bathroom.

  I find soap and shampoo under the sink. Generic stuff. The soap is white and smells like laundry. I keep the shower to five minutes even though I want to stay longer. The brownish water never gets really hot and it has a strange smell.

  I get out and dry myself with the lemon-colored towel that is hanging on the towel rack. Such a cheerful color. Such an ironic color. And so thoughtfully hung here for us. I rub at my arms and legs trying to capture all of the drops. Yellow to soften the blow of the snow and the prison and the abduction. Maybe whoever brought us here thought that the color of this towel would stave off depression. I drop it on the floor, disgusted. Then I laugh, hard and shrill.

  I hear Isaac knock lightly on the door.

  “You okay, Senna?”

  His voice is muffled. “I’m fine,” I call out. Then I laugh so hard and loud he opens the door and lets himself in.

  “I’m fine,” I say to his concerned face, trying to stifle my laughter. I catch the laughter behind my hand as tears begin to leak from my eyes. I’m laughing so hard I have to hold myself up by the sink.

  “I’m fine,” I gasp. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Like I can be fine. Are you fine?”

  I see the muscles in his cheek flicker. His eye color is metallic, like a tin can.

  He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away. I’ve stopped laughing.

  “Don’t touch me.” I say it louder and harsher than I intended.

  He tucks his lips in and nods. He gets it. I’m crazy. No new revelations there. I sit on the bed with the knife and stare at the door while he takes his turn. If someone were to walk into the room right now, I’d be useless—knife or not. I feel like my body is here, but the rest of me is down a deep hole. I can’t reconcile the two.

  Isaac takes an even shorter shower than I do. I wake up a little when he gets out. He walks out in a towel and heads to the wardrobe. I see him looking at the clothes the same way I did. He doesn’t say anything, but he rubs the cotton of a black shirt between his thumb and forefinger. I shiver. Even if this did have something to do with one of my fans, why Isaac? I stare at the knife while he gets dressed in the bathroom. It’s brand new; the blade shiny spotless. Bought just for us, I think.

  For lack of anything better to do we go back downstairs to wait. Isaac heats up two cans of soup and puts some frozen rolls in the oven. I am actually hungry when he hands me the bowl.

  “It’s still light outside. It should be dark by now.”

  He looks down at his food, purposefully avoiding my eyes.

  “Why Isaac?”

  Still, he doesn’t look at me.

  “Do you think we’re in Alaska? How they hell did they get across the Canadian border with us?”

  I get up and pace the kitchen.

  “Isaac?”

  “I don’t know, Senna.” His voice is terse. I stop pacing and look at him. He keeps his head bent toward his food, but lifts his eyes to my face. Finally, he sighs and sets his spoon down. He spins it slowly counter clockwise until it’s come full circle.

  “It’s possible we’re in Alaska,” he says. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

  I nod. I’m not tired. Or maybe I am. I lie down on the couch and curl my legs up to my chest. I am so afraid.

  No one comes. Not for two days, then three. Isaac and I barely speak. We eat, we shower, we move from room to room like restless shadows. As soon as we walk into a room, our eyes go to the spot where we’ve hidden the knives. Will we need to use them? How soon? Who will live and who will die? It’s the worst form of torture a person can imagine—the wait to die. I see the not knowing in the dark circles that have developed around Isaac’s eyes. He sleeps less than I do. I know I can’t look any different; it’s eating at us.

  Fear

  Fear

  Fear

  We quench our worry with futile trying; trying to break the windows, trying to open the front door, trying to not lose our minds. We are so exhausted from trying that we stare at things … for hours at a time: a drawing of two sparrows that hangs in the living room, the bright red toaster, the keypad at the front door which is the portal to our freedom. Isaac stares at the snow more than anything else. He stands at the sink and looks out the window where it falls slowly.

  On day four I am so tired of staring at things that I ask Isaac about his wife. I notice that his wedding ring is missing, and I wonder if he took it off, or if they did. Almost instinctively his fingers reach for the ghost of the ring. ‘They’ took it off, I think.

  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?”

  I don’t know the answers to any of this. I turn my head away. Look at the picture of the sparrows.

  “You need to take it easy. Be—”

  I cut him off.

  “I’m okay, Isaac.” I place a hand on his arm and immediately pull it away. He looks at the spot where I touched him, then stands up and walks out of the room. I press everything together—my eyes, my palms, my lips, the hole inside of me that will never be sewn back together.

  “Isaac,” I breathe. But he doesn’t hear me.

  I start sleeping in the room with the trapdoor after the first week. It’s warmer up there. Isaac makes me lock it as soon as my feet disappear up the ladder. “Just in case,” he says. “They have a key too, but it will buy you time.” Sure. Great.

  He checks it after I turn the key, to make sure no one can get in. I always wait for the rattle before I move to the bed. I sleep with a butcher knife in my hand. Dangerous, but not as dangerous as your kidnapper coming into the prison he made for you and…

  Every morning I wake up and feel fear, though I am never sure when it’s morning or night or midday. The sun shines continuously. I am always afraid that when I climb down the ladder Isaac won’t be there. He always is—ruffled and gaunt standing by the coffee machine. There is always fresh coffee in the pot when I come down. I can smell it as I descend the stairs. I always know Isaac is fine, and alive, and still there from the smell of the coffee. One morning when I climb down the ladder I don’t smell it. I run for the stairs almost breaking my neck as I jump down in twos. When I get to the kitchen I find him asleep at the table, his head resting on his arms. I make the coffee that day. My hands are steady, but my heart won’t stop racing.

  One day (evening?), Isaac climbs up the ladder and lowers himself next to where I am sitting, cross-legged in front of the fire. I have been thinking about suicide. Not my own, just suicide. There are so many ways. I don’t know why people are so uncreative when they kill themselves.

  We usually don’t leave the front door unguarded, but I can tell he wants to talk. I unfold my legs and stretch them toward the fire, wiggling my toes. We are running out of firewood, and Isaac says he’s not sure how big the generator is, but we could be running out of fuel in that too.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask, watching his face.

  “The carousel room, Senna. I think it means something.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the carousel room. It freaks me out.”

  His head snaps sharply toward me. “We’re gonna talk about it. Unless you’d like to stay locked up here forever.”

  I shake my head, twist my skunk streak around my finger. “It’s a coincidence. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  He pulls his lips back from his teeth and his head rocks from side to side. “Daphne is pregnant.”

  It’s that silent moment when you hear the rushing of water in your eyes. My eyes jerk to his face.

  “Eight weeks the last time I saw her.” He licks his lips and turns to look at me. “We did three rounds of in vitro to get pregnant, had two miscarriages.” He rubs his forehead. “Daphne is pregnant and I need to talk about the carousel room.”

  I nod dumbly.

  I feel something. I push it away. Bury it.

  “Who knows about what happened?” he asks, gently. I watch the fire eat the logs. For a minute I’m not sure which instance he’s referring to. There were so many. The carousel, I remind myself. It’s such a strange memory. Nothing fancy. But private.

  “Only you. That’s why it seems unlikely…” I look at him. “Did you—?”

  “No … no, Senna, never. That was our moment. I didn’t even want to think about it after.”

  I believe him. For a long second our eyes are locked and the p
ast seems to float between us—a frail soap bubble. I break eye contact first, looking down at my socks. Patterned socks, not white. I searched for white, but all that was stocked for me were knee length patterned socks. A deviation from my character. I wear my new, colorful socks over my tights. Today, they are purple and grey. Diagonal stripes.

  “Senna…?”

  “Yes, sorry. I was thinking about my socks.”

  He laughs through his nose, like he’d rather not laugh. I’d rather he not laugh, too.

  “Isaac, what happened on the carousel was … personal. I don’t tell people things. You know that.”

  “Okay, let’s forget how this … this … person knows. Let’s assume he does. Maybe it’s a clue.”

  “A clue?” I say in disbelief. “To what? Our freedom? Like this is a game?”

  Isaac nods. I study his face, look for a joke. But, there are no jokes in this house. There are just two stolen people, clutching knives as they sleep.

  “And they call me the fiction writer,” I say it to make him angry, because I know he’s right.

  I make to stand up, but he grabs my wrist and gently pulls me back down. His eyes travel across the span of my nose and my cheeks. He’s looking at my freckles. He always did that, like they were works of art rather than screwed up pigment. Isaac doesn’t have freckles. He has soft eyes that dip down at the outer corners and two front teeth that overlap slightly. He’s average looking and beautiful at the same time. If you look close enough, you see how intense his features are. Each one speaks to you in a different way. Or maybe I’m just a writer.

  “We are not here for ransom,” he insists. “They want something from us.”

  “Like what?” I sound like a petulant child. I lift the back of my hand to my lips and bite the skin on my knuckles. “No one wants anything from me—except more stories, maybe.”

  Isaac raises his eyebrows. I think of Annie Wilkes and her rooty-patooties. No way.

  “They didn’t leave me a typewriter,” I point out. “Or even a pen and paper. This isn’t about my writing.”