Tarryn Fisher - Mud Vein

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 past 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.”

He doesn’t look convinced. I’d rather steer him toward the carousel, especially if it mean he’ll stops looking at me like I have the magical key to get out of here.

“The carousel is creepy,” I say. That’s all it takes to get his theory fuel going. I half listen to his surmisings—no, I don’t listen at all. I pretend to listen and count the knots in the wood walls instead. Eventually, I hear my name.

“Tell me how you remember it,” he urges me.

I shake my head. “No. What good will that do?”

I am not in the mood to revisit those instances of my life. They trudge up the other stuff. The stuff that landed me in the plushy couch of a therapist.

“Fine.” He stands up this time. “I’m going to make dinner. If you’re staying up here, lock the trapdoor.”

This time he doesn’t stay to check if I do. He’s all over the place. I hate him.

We eat in silence. He defrosted hamburgers and opened a can of green beans. He’s rationing our food. I can tell. I push the beans around and eat hamburger by using the side of my fork to cut it into pieces. Isaac eats with a knife and a fork, slicing with one, spearing with the other. I asked him about it once, and he said, “There are tools for everything. I am a doctor. I use the right tool for the right purpose.”

He is aggravated with me. I shoot him a look every few bites, but his eyes are on his food. When I am finished, I stand up and take my plate to the sink. I wash and dry it. Put it back in the cabinet. I stand behind him as he finishes up his meal, and watch the back of his head. I can see grey in his hair, it’s mostly at his temples. Just a little bit. The last time I saw him there had been no grey. Maybe in vitro put it there. Or his wife. Or surgery. I was born with mine, so who knows? When he pushes back from the table, I turn around quickly and busy myself with wiping the counter. Three wipes in and the chore seems foolish. I’m cleaning my captor’s house. It feels a little like betrayal: live in filth or clean your prison. I should burn it to the ground. I finish wiping, rinse the rag, fold it neatly and hang it over the faucet. Before I go back upstairs, I grab an armful of wood from the wood closet. We all but collide at the foot of the stairs.

“Let me carry it for you.”

I cling to my wood.

“Don’t you have to stay to guard the door?”

“No one is coming, Senna.” He looks almost sad. He tries to take the wood from me. I yank my arms out of reach.

“You don’t know that,” I retort. He looks at my freckles.

“Hush,” he says, softly. “They would have come by now. It’s been fourteen days.”

I shake my head. “It hasn’t been that long…” I mentally do the calculations. We’ve been here for … fourteen days. He’s right. Fourteen. My God. Where are the search parties? Where are the police? Where are we? But, most importantly, where is the person who brought us here? I yield my wood. Isaac half smiles at me. I follow him up the stairs and climb the ladder to the attic room so he can hand me the logs.

“Night, Senna.”

I look at the bright sun streaming into the window behind me.

“Morning, Isaac.”

We are nowhere.

Isaac is losing it. Most days he paces in front of the kitchen window for hours, his eyes on the snow like it’s speaking to him. It looks like he’s seeing something, but there is nothing to see—only mounds of white in the middle of white, spread out over white, covered in white. We are nowhere and snow doesn’t speak. I hide from him up in my attic bedroom, and sometimes when I’m tired of that I lie on the floor in the carousel room and stare at the horses. He doesn’t come in here, says it creeps him out. I try to hum songs, because that’s what one of my characters would do, but it makes me feel nutty.

No matter where I am, I can feel him pulsing through the walls. He’s always been intense. That’s what makes him a good doctor. He’s trying to figure out why we are here, why no one has come. I should, too, I guess, but I can’t focus. Every time I start wondering why someone would do this my head starts throbbing. If I press at my thoughts I will implode. Like a grapefruit in the microwave, I think.

When we are in the same room his eyes press on me. They press like fingers into my flesh—harder and harder until I pull away, run to my trapdoor and hide. He doesn’t come up to my room anymore. He started sleeping in the room where I found him tied up, instead of on the couch. It happened after the six-week mark. He just moved in there one night and stopped guarding the door.

“What are you doing?” I said, following him to the bed. He pulled off his shirt and I quickly averted my eyes.

“Going to bed.”

I watched in bewilderment as he tossed his shirt aside.

“What if … what about…?”

“No one is coming,” he said, ripping the sheets aside and climbing in. He wouldn’t look at me. I wondered what he didn’t want me to see in his eyes.

I hadn’t argued with him. I’d carried my blankets and my knife downstairs and sat on the sofa, my eyes on the door. Isaac may be letting his guard down, but I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t going to trust my prison. I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept this as permanent. I brewed a pot of coffee, grabbed some beef jerky and took watch. When he’d come downstairs the next morning, and found me still awake, he’d acted surprised. He brought me a fresh cup of coffee and some oatmeal, then sent me off to bed.

“Good morning, Isaac.”

“Good night, Senna.”

I hadn’t slept. I could go ungodly amounts of time without sleep. Instead, I’d pulled a chair to the window that sat directly above the kitchen and watched the snow with him.

Now, a week later, I wake up with clarity as sharp and cold as the snow outside my window. Sometimes, when I am writing a book, I’ll go to sleep with a plot hole in my story that I don’t know how to fix. When I wake up, I know. It’s as if it were there all along and I just needed the right sleep to access the answer.

I am on my feet in an instant, running to the trapdoor barefoot and dropping from the ladder before I reach the last rung. I take the stairs two at a time and come to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen. Isaac is sitting at the table, his head in his hands. His hair is spiked up like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. I eye his knee bouncing beneath the table at jackrabbit speed. He’s going through a kidnapped version of the seven stages of grief. By the look of his bloodshot eyes, I’d say he was well into Acceptance.

“Isaac.”

He looks up. Despite my need to know what he is feeling, I avert my eyes. I lost my privilege to his thoughts long ago. My feet are freezing, I wish I’d put on socks. I walk to the window, and point at the snow.

“The windows in this house,” I say, “they all face the same direction.”

The fog in his eyes seems to clear a little. He pushes back from the table and comes to stand beside me.

“Yeah…” he says. Of course he knew that too. Just because I was in a haze didn’t mean that he was.

He has more hair on his face than I have ever seen on him. I direct my eyes away from him, and we look at the snow together. We are so close I could extend a pinkie and touch his hand.

“What’s behind the house?” he asks.

There is some silence between us before I say, “The generator…”

“Do you think…?”

“Yeah, I do.”

We look at each other. I have goose pimples along my arms.

“He can refuel it,” I say. “I think that as long as we stay put, he will refill the generator. If we figure out the code and get out, we will lose power and freeze.”

He thinks long and hard about this. It sounds right. To me, at least.

“Why?” asks Isaac. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s in the Bible,” I say, and then automatically flinch.

“You’re going to have to break this one down for me, Senna,” he says, frowning. His voice is terse. He’s losing patience with me, which isn’t really fair since we are both sinking in the same ship.

“Have you seen the picture hanging next to the door?” He nods. Of course. How could he miss it? There are seven prints hanging on the walls of this house. When you spend six weeks locked up somewhere, you spend a lot of time examining the art on the walls.

“It’s a painting by F. Cayley. It’s supposed to be of Adam and Eve when they find out they have to leave Eden.”

He shakes his head. “I thought it was just of two very depressed people on the beach.”

I smile.

“We are like the first two people,” I say.

“Adam and Eve?” He’s already so full of disbelief I don’t even want to tell him the rest.

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Go on,” he says.

“God put them in the garden and told them not to eat the forbidden fruit, remember?”

Now it’s Isaac’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Sunday school one-o- one.”

“Once they were tempted and ate the fruit they were on their own, exiled from God’s provision and his protection in the place he created for them.” When Isaac doesn’t say anything, I go on. “They leave perfection and have to fend for themselves—hunt, garden, experience cold and death and childbirth.”

I flush after the last word leaves my mouth. It was dumb of me to mention childbirth considering Daphne and their unborn baby. But Isaac doesn’t skip a beat.

“So you’re saying,” he says, crinkling his eyebrows together, “that so long as we stay here—in the place our kidnapper provided for us—we will be safe and he will keep the heat and food coming?”

“It’s just a wild guess, Isaac. I don’t really know.”

“So what’s the forbidden fruit?”