Grist Mill Road by Christopher J. Yates Read Free Book Online Page A

waits thirty minutes before talking to work it will probably all be too late, whatever it is, the news will have broken, and Hannah will be into her first glass of champagne, Patch always buys them the same one they drank in a restaurant, before that first night she had spent in his apartment, so very sweet, Patrick is so very good to her.
    But she answers.

 
    PATCH
    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 thetrail. 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