The nurses told me that normally a double mastectomy patient went home after three days, but Isaac pulled strings to keep me there longer. I folded the page over and over until it was the size of my thumbnail, square upon square upon square. Stone faced, he left, the soles of his shoes sucking on the hospital floor. I handed the book back to Isaac, with the jagged page clutched in my fist. Opening the cover I flipped to the dedication, touching it softly, running my fingers over the words … then I ripped it out. I held out my hand for the book and he walked it back to me. He stared at me for a long minute, then picked up the book, tucked it under his arm and walked for the door. Some things should be buried and left to rot. It made me sick that Nick told the story. The fine line that squiggled between fiction and truth. There was also no mistaking the actual story itself.
There was no mistaking the similarities in name-Senna/Brenna.
His eyes were dark, like he had too many thoughts and they were filling him up. He put each one of his hands over mine to steady them. I handed the cup back to Isaac, who set it aside without taking his eyes off my face. Some of the water spilled down the front of my hospital gown, plastering it to my skin. It grossed me out, but I took it and sipped. The cup was one of those heavy plastic things, the color of too many colors of Play-Doh mixed together. He set the book on the nightstand and poured me a glass of water. I could barely … I didn’t know how to … My thoughts were trembling out of my hands. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I knew what I was thinking: Damn Nick and his book.
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