I was halfway down the trail to Jakobskill stream when I heard what I thought was a blue jay squawking, so it wasn’t until I actually made out the word help that I realized Hannah was alive.
At this point I should probably describe the huge sense of relief I felt and how it had been like I was carrying a great weight, only now the burden was lifted. But exactly what that twelve-year-old boy was thinking and feeling is often a mystery to me. I’m not sure I know who he was beyond a bunch of things that happened to him.
You might as well know a calendar. A grocery list.
What I do remember is trying to run. But running was difficult, what with me holding a blood-soaked bandana clamped to the hole in my head. Plus, the trail was steep and strewn with sharp rocks and now the world was overlapping itself, like when you see a 3-D comic book without the glasses, so I went as fast as I could, stumbling down the scree, stones scraping and slipping under my sneakers.
As I crossed Jakobskill stream and scrambled uphill, the sounds she was making became clearer. Sometimes the word help or sometimes a strained scream, halfway between effort and pain. Other times just a horrible, feeble sound.
I pushed the bandana into my back pocket as I darted off the trail. When Hannah heard me crashing through the last of the branches, she turned her head as best she could. Her face was twisted with a wild and desperate look. And seeing me, she screamed again and started fighting the ropes.
I can still picture the perfect angles of her face as she strained at those knots, the neat curve of her chin, a soft arc of jawbone rising up to her ear. Writing this now makes me think of turning over in bed Sunday mornings to see if she is awake, hoping she stays asleep so that I can wake her with coffee, bagels and newspapers in bed.
How am I supposed to reconcile any of these things?
I tried to say something comforting but Hannah was still crying and writhing and I don’t think she heard. So I didn’t move close right away but circled around to where she was facing, keeping my knees bent and hands raised.
Hannah, I promise I won’t hurt you, I said, getting down into a kneel, still showing my hands.
Her head carried on twisting like she couldn’t stand the sight of me. And then, slow to catch on as usual, I realized what she was doing—Hannah was trying desperately to see if Matthew was with me—and I yelled, He’s gone, Hannah, Matthew’s gone. I promise, he’s not coming back.
Her body began to fight less and less.
When finally she faced me, I dropped my fists to the ground and started to cry. I’m sorry, Hannah, I didn’t know he would … I’m sorry, I should never …
Hannah sniffed hard, her head shivering in disbelief. Oh my God, she said. Oh my God, Patch. What will my mom say? Patch, my mom’s really gonna kill me.
I just stared at her. How was I supposed to respond to something like that?
Hannah clenched her teeth and cried out in pain, Uuurgh, my eye, he shot my eye and it hurts so much. And now I can’t see from my eye, I can’t see from it, Patch. I can’t see from my eye, she said, her breathing starting to stutter. Patch, what does it look like? What’s happened to my eye? Is it bad? I can’t see from it. Is it really bad?
Hannah tilted her face, having no clue that I couldn’t make out her mashed eye for all the blood-matted hair that was over her face.
I gulped. It doesn’t look so bad, I said, still on my knees, which made the lie seem that much worse. I started to get to my feet.
But what’s it like? Will my mom be able to tell?
No, it’s kinda bloodshot, I said. There were dried leaves stuck to my hands. I wiped them away.
Why can’t I see anything from it?
I started to kick lightly at the ground with my toe. Maybe it’s kinda … shocked, I told her, like unconscious. And the next thing I said was something I actually believed. But if there’s anything wrong, I’m sure the doctors will fix it.
Hannah’s good eye just blinked.
I stood there uneasily, as if there existed a zone between us through which I wasn’t allowed to pass, and said to her, Is it OK if…? Can I come over and help you, Hannah?
She nodded at me, so I walked forward gingerly and then leaned around the tree to eye up the knots. Hannah’s breathing was loud. I have to go get a knife, I said.
The ropes creaked. Nooo, she pleaded. Don’t leave me here, Patch.
It’s not far, I said. We keep supplies over there, it’ll take less than a minute, I promise. Don’t worry, I’ll whistle a tune so you’ll know I’m still here, I said.
Heading deeper into the woods, I started to whistle. The only tune I could think of was Whistle While You Work. And I could whistle the singing bit pretty well but I wasn’t so good at whistling the whistling bit.
We had this place where we kept all the stuff we’d take up there, everything hidden beneath a tarp kicked over with leaves. Weapons-wise, there was a slingshot, our spear and a load of BBs in tins and plastic bottles. We had soda cans for playing the game we called Rifle Range and sets of paper targets. We had a bunch of food in cans and a can opener, obviously. There were some bones and antlers we’d picked up here and there, although we never really found a good use for them. A compass we didn’t need, a pair of weak plastic binoculars, a hip flask that we’d fill up from the stream and take sips from like we were real men drinking liquor. There were pickle jars for frogs, a couple of cigarette lighters, a pair of toy handcuffs. And we had two knives, a little Swiss Army knife that was nine-tenths blunt and also a scrimshaw hunting knife, its bone handle etched with a grizzly bear marauding down a piney bluff. Matthew loved that hunting knife so much we hardly ever used it, which is why the Swiss Army knife was nine-tenths blunt.
When I got to the place, I saw the tarp pulled all the way back. And right away I could tell he’d used every single rope we had.
We used the thinnest ones for tripwires and the thicker ones to play Tarzan—which mostly involved swinging over streams—or to make lassos. Oh and also for an escape game we called Houdini. And I was definitely the best at Houdini. Not because I was the best at knots but because I had thinner hands and was the best at wriggling free.
Anyway, I knew exactly where the two knives were kept, so right away I could tell Matthew had taken the hunting knife. I wondered if he’d thought about cutting my throat when he had me pinned down thirty minutes earlier.
That’s when I heard Hannah screaming my name and realized I’d stopped whistling. So I started to run back, not pulling the tarp back over our supplies, calling out that everything was OK.
Sorry, I said, getting back to the tree, using my least-chewed-upon fingernail to ease the blade from the Swiss Army knife.
Patch, hurry up, said Hannah, shivering now in the near-hundred heat.
That blade was so blunt it probably would’ve been just as quick had I gnawed through those ropes with my teeth.