The Hunting Tree Trilogy

by Ike Hamill

  “Your mom didn’t even punish you,” said Davey. “You get away with anything because your mom’s afraid you’ll say you want to go live with your dad.”

  “But I didn’t even do anything,” complained Paul. “You get away with stuff and I get blamed. I never even do anything.”

  “Whatever,” said Davey. “Least you have a dad.”

  Paul resumed dropping rocks, trying to get one to land on a snagged leaf so it would wash downstream. “So what are we going to say?” Paul asked after a minute of silence.

  “I got it,” said Davey. “Dip your pants in the water and we’ll tell your mom that we didn’t go to the gym because you had an accident. We’ll just say we spent the whole hour in the bathroom so nobody would see.”

  “But people will see. When she picks us up,” reasoned Paul. “Besides, why don’t you get your pants wet? And I don’t want my mom to think I had an accident, either. That’s gross.”

  “We could say that Ted attacked us,” said Davey. “We ran out of the school because he said he was going to beat us up more. We have to beat each other up though, and we can’t use our fists. We’ll hit each other with sticks until it looks like Ted beat us up.”

  “Good one,” said Paul. “You’re just trying to make the accident thing sound less stupid.”

  Davey laughed and Paul eventually joined him.

  “What else you got?” said Paul.

  “Space aliens?” Davey giggled. His laughter was contagious.

  Paul snorted back a chuckle and suggested—“Let’s tell my mom we died trying to take a shit.”

  “She would shit,” said Davey, and they both doubled over with new amusement.

  “Hey,” said Paul as he checked his watch. “Whatever we’re going to say, we better go say it now. My mom’s going to be at the school in ten minutes.”

  “Okay,” said Davey, climbing to his feet from the creek-side rock. “I think…" He never finished that thought. He had planted both hands cautiously on the bank to support himself in case his feet slipped, but both his feet and hands slipped at the same time. With no limbs holding him up, Davey crashed to the ground, getting a mouthful of dirt, and catching a sharp rock in his ribs.

  “You okay?” asked Paul.

  “Ugh,” said Davey.

  Paul ran around the edge of the bridge and grabbed Davey’s armpit, hoisting him up to his knees.

  “I … can’t,” wheezed Davey, “breathe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Paul. “Is something wrong with your mouth, or what?”

  Davey pointed to his chest and shook his head. His shoulders pulsed up and down as he tried to force air into his stunned lungs. The best he could manage was a thin whistling stream of air.

  “Jeez,” said Paul. “I’ve seen you fall down like a million times, but I’ve never seen you get hurt.”

  Davey nodded slowly and pointed back in the direction they had come.

  “Yeah, come on,” said Paul. Propping his friend up under his armpit, Paul dragged Davey slowly through the woods.

  After several steps, Davey held up his hand, beckoning Paul to stop. He hunched over for a few seconds before attempting to speak—“You … go … ahead. Get … your … mom,” Davey managed.

  “You need help though,” said Paul.

  “She’ll … leave,” warned Davey.

  Paul thought about it for a minute and then saw Davey’s point. If neither boy stood at the front door when she pulled up, Paul’s mom would likely go inside looking for the boys. They often got involved in complex competitions with each other in the gym and had to be dragged to the car. Not finding the boys in the gym, his mom would ask someone and Paul couldn’t even guess what she would do when told they hadn’t shown up.

  “Okay,” said Paul. “You keep coming this way though, and I’ll bring my mom back.”

  Davey nodded insistently.

  “Don’t worry,” said Paul, and then he was off. Davey watched him run off before attempting to stand up.

  Each inhale felt like a hot knife being jabbed between his ribs. Each step felt like the skin and muscles in his abdomen were separating and tearing. Davey tried a few more steps, breathing very shallow, but he soon had to stop. He pursed his lips and sucked in air slowly, trying to sneak up on a full breath to avoid the pain penalty.

  After a few more steps, Davey tried to breathe exclusively through his nose. He winced at the pain and continued moving foot after foot to return to the school, establishing a rhythm of inhaling, stepping, and exhaling. Near the end of each inhale, he focused on trying to breathe a tiny bit deeper than the last time. With his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, he looked up every few steps to keep track of the stand of black-barked pines in the distance. Those trees marked the edge of the woods between him and the school’s parking lot.

  The pain came back in waves, cresting with each inhale, but Davey kept moving. In his attempt to get back as quickly as possible, Davey hadn’t veered around the marshy area. He sloshed across the wet soil and realized that he had made a classic mistake. The survivalist guy on TV always stressed that if you got lost or injured in the woods you should signal for help and then stay put. Davey grabbed a small tree and thought about his situation—should he stay put? He decided no, he should keep moving, because Paul might not even think to look for him in the marsh, they always made a wide loop around it.

  A cough started deep in his chest and he was unable to choke it back. Davey bent at the waist and held himself up with one hand on the small tree, and the other propped against his knee. The coughing lasted until his vision began to fade out and his head throbbed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and found a crimson streak of blood from his knuckle to his wrist.

  His self-sympathy began to fade. Until that moment, Davey had viewed his injury through his mom’s eyes—how she would fuss over him and take care of his pain. Now, when he saw the blood, his predicament became real and personal. It hit Davey with the force of revelation—he could die. He straightened against the pain and sucked in a deep breath through his mouth.

  The corners of his eyes tightened with the new jab of fire in his ribs, but he clenched his jaw and moved his feet. He moved with determination, feet rising and falling mechanically as he sublimated his urge to feel sorry for himself.

  Davey crashed through the underbrush near the side of the school standing tall and determined—holding his breath while his vision swam. Paul and his mother, Sophie, charged up the hill towards Davey as he crumpled to the ground, sucking in tortured sips of air. Sophie thrust her purse to her son and collected the muddy boy from the ground, lifting him with a deep grunt. His feet and jeans were soaked to the knee, and the front of Davey’s shirt was spotted with red dots of blood.

  “Unlock the car, honey,” Sophie ordered Paul.

  Paul ran ahead with his mom’s purse bouncing at his side. He turned as he ran—“Shouldn’t we call nine-one-one?”

  Sophie panted as she covered the ground with long, confident strides. “No,” she responded, “the hospital is right down the street. We can get there faster. But call Ms. Hunter as soon as you unlock the car.”

  Paul reached the car and opened both the front and back doors. He dialed his friend’s mom and then turned to his own mother. “What do I say to her?”

  Sophie arranged Davey across the back seat and pulled one of the seat belts awkwardly across his body. “Tell her to meet as at the hospital. Wait, no. Just give me the phone when she answers,” she amended and then turned back to Davey, “How are you doing, kiddo?” she asked.

  “Okay,” Davey croaked.

  “Good boy,” Sophie said as she patted Davey on the cheek.

  “Hi Ms. Hunter,” Paul said into the phone. “Hold on. Mom wants to talk to you.”

  He handed the phone to Sophie.

  “Hi Susan,” she said, taking the phone. “Yes, a little one,” she continued. “I’m going to run him up to KC Emergency. Want to just meet us there? Great.” Sophie h
ung up her phone.

  She closed the back door.

  “You have to sit up front, Paul,” she said.

  “Okay,” yelled Paul, as he ran around to the passenger door.

  Sophie started the car and moved the gear-shift into neutral. She leaned over and gathered up her papers from the passenger’s seat and stuffed them into her purse while Paul slid into the vacated seat.

  “Look out,” Davey said from his recumbent position across the back seat.

  “What’s that, honey?” asked Sophie.

  “Look … out,” he pronounced carefully.

  Sophie looked up from her purse, confused, and saw the alarmed figure of Jack Vincent just beyond her hood. She jammed her feet into the brake pedal to stop the rolling car from knocking him over. Mr. Vincent ran around to her window.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Sophie. “I didn’t know we were moving.”

  “The boys haven’t checked out, Ms. Murphy,” said the Vice Principal.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s been an accident, and I have to get Davey to hospital,” she put the car into reverse as she talked and started to pull away from the man.

  “Have his mother call please,” he called after the moving vehicle.

  She waved and backed her vehicle away.

  # # #

  “HOW ARE YOU DOING, CHAMP?” the doctor asked as he smiled.

  “Oh-oh-okay,” Davey coughed.

  “You’ve had a busy few months,” commented Dr. Stuart. He smiled again and looked between Davey’s folder and Melanie

  “Yeah,” said Davey.

  “Looks like you were doing some work with Dr. Chisholm? I’m not sure I have all the records here; it looks like there was supposed to be some follow-on work?”

  Melanie crossed her arms, wiped her mouth, and then cupped her chin in her hand. With her head tilted down, she looked up at Dr. Stuart from a veil of hair. “Yes—we did a lot of tests. Nothing ever came of it. He didn’t figure out anything. It’s not in his file?”

  “Okay, Champ,” said Dr. Stuart. “We’re going to leave you alone for a minute. I’ve got some papers I need Mom to look at down the hall.”

  “I’ll send Paul in,” Melanie said to her son and then kissed him on the forehead.

  Dr. Stuart held the door open for her and ushered her through.

  “Thanks again,” Melanie said to Sophie, who waited with Paul in the hall. “I’ve got to talk to Dr. Stuart for a few minutes, would you two go keep Davey company for me?”

  “Sure, Melanie,” said Sophie, “anything. But would you like me to come with you? I know it can be hard to process everything the doctor says. Not to say you won’t be easy to understand,” she quickly amended, placing a hand on Dr. Stuart’s forearm.

  “Thank you,” said Melanie, “I’ll be fine though. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” Sophie flashed a big sympathetic smile and then herded Paul into Davey’s room. When the door shut, Dr. Stuart walked Melanie down the hall.

  “I think you’ve got a fan,” said Melanie.

  “I won’t let it go to my head,” replied Dr. Stuart. He pointed Melanie towards a small, empty waiting room.

  “So,” he began once the door shut, “I’ve read the file, but why don’t you tell me what’s been going on.”

  “Well,” Melanie brushed her hair back from her face, “things started a few months ago. I was worried about Davey’s clumsiness, so I took him to Dr. Chisholm.”

  “Clumsiness?” asked Dr. Stuart.

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “They call it ‘situational clumsiness,’ and they ruled out that developmental thing.”

  “Dyspraxia?” Dr. Stuart offered.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she continued. “The thing is, it only seems to happen sometimes. He’s great at sports and things, but sometimes you wonder how he makes it across the room. His body is always covered in bruises, as you can see. And today—this is the first time he’s ever been in the hospital because of it.”

  “Well,” said Dr. Stuart, “I’m not entirely sure that his pneumothorax, the lung problem he’s having, was entirely caused by the fall he described.”

  “Oh no,” Melanie’s shoulders slumped. “What is it?”

  “I can’t be sure yet,” said the doctor, holding up the palm of his hand, “but there is a congenital disorder we need to rule out. It’s called Marfan syndrome, and it can sometimes cause pneumothorax.”

  Melanie bent her head and cradled her forehead in her hand.

  “But this brings me back to his history. Tell me about the tests Chisholm ran.”

  Melanie looked up at Dr. Stuart and blinked tears back from the corners of her eyes. She shook her head and sighed. “He was very odd about it all. I don’t know what he was trying to prove or figure out. Poor Davey couldn’t take all those examinations.”

  “We need to do everything we can to diagnose him, Ms. Hunter. The sooner we find problems, the easier they are to deal with,” prompted Dr. Stuart.

  “I know, I know,” said Melanie. A tear leaked from her eye and she wiped it away as she tilted her head to the side. “It’s just that he was so creepy,” she said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dr. Chisholm,” she admitted. “He seemed so interested in Davey’s early puberty. It was so uncomfortable—I was so uncomfortable and Davey was too, I could see it in his eyes when Dr. Chisholm was examining him.” She used her fingers to make air quotes while she said “examining.”

  Dr. Stuart pinched his mouth into a thin horizontal line and looked down at the chart.

  “I should tell you,” said Dr. Stuart, “that I consider Dr. Chisholm to be a brilliant doctor, and an unparalleled diagnostician.”

  “Yeah,” Melanie said as she squeezed her eyes shut. “That’s what everyone says." She shook her head with resignation.

  “Hold on,” Dr. Stuart jumped in, “I should also tell you—he was my doctor when I was a kid, and if I had a son, I would never take him to Dr. Chisholm.”

  Melanie looked up and studied the doctor’s moist eyes.

  Dr. Stuart looked away first and took his gaze out the window. “Actually,” he said, “I shouldn’t have told you that at all.” He smiled. “I mean, I have no evidence, and he never really did anything out of the ordinary. Nothing that any doctor wouldn’t do when examining a child. It’s just that he somehow made the whole thing seem wrong.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “How about we not talk about unsupportable allegations that will get me fired and ruin my not-so-young and mostly promising career?”

  Melanie chuckled at first and then broke into a sincere laugh in spite of the reason for their conversation. Dr. Stuart smiled while she laughed. By the time her laughter had died away, her eyes resumed leaking. She dabbed at them with a tissue, pulled from her pocket.

  “Okay,” she said. “So what is it?”

  “Short answer: don’t know,” he admitted. “But we’ve fixed the pneumothorax. He had air outside of his lung, and that was causing his trouble breathing. The blood was from the pressure in his chest cavity; it forced some blood through the vessels in his right lung. I’d like to see him stay overnight for observation, and then a week at home to minimize his activity.”

  “Okay,” Melanie sighed.

  “And I really want to get these follow-up tests done,” he tapped the clipboard. “I’m not big on poaching patients, but if you’d like, I’ll supervise the process going forward.”

  “Oh would you?” Melanie exhaled, relieved. “That would be wonderful.”

  “No problem,” said Dr. Stuart. “I’ll check in with Davey at noon tomorrow, and we’ll talk about getting him home. In the meantime, you should be able to get these filled anywhere, but this one I will call ahead to wherever you prefer.” He handed her two prescriptions, and then the third.

  # # #

  WHILE MELANIE MET WITH THE DOCTOR, Sophie read a book from her purse while Davey and Paul watched TV.

  “Ex
cuse me, Ms. Murphy?” Davey muted the TV during a commercial.

  Sophie closed her paperback on her finger and looked up. “What’s up?”

  “Do you think you could call the nurse for me?” asked Davey. “I have to go.”

  “Go? Oh!” she said, standing. “Come on Paul, let’s give Davey some privacy for a second.”

  “Can we go to the snack room?” asked Paul.

  “Sure,” said Sophie. “Can we get you anything?”

  “No thanks,” said Davey, crossing his legs under his sheet.

  “Okay, we’re going. Come on Paul.”

  They shut the door behind themselves and Davey watched the muted TV and tried not to think about how much he had to go. When the nurse pushed through the door he thought he was going to burst.

  “Which is it hon? Number one or number two?” she asked, crossing to the bathroom.

  “One,” said Davey.

  “Super,” she said. She grabbed the plastic pitcher from next to the sink, and returned to Davey’s bedside. The pitcher had a large bent opening on top; she pointed it at Davey and asked, “Can you handle this?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Davey. He took the container and waited for the nurse to turn around before pulling down his sheet and hitching up his gown.

  “All done,” he announced.

  The nurse, Beth, took the half-full pitcher and smiled at Davey. Beth liked Davey’s smile; he seemed like a very nice boy. Making brief contact with his relieved eyes, she thought that even though she had never wanted children, if she had, should would have wanted to raise a nice polite boy like this one.

  “You just ring that buzzer if you need anything else,” she said, pointing to the cord looped around his bed’s handrail.

  “Okay,” said Davey. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem,” said Beth. She took the pitcher over to the bathroom and flipped on the light. She raised the seat—better safe than sorry—noted the volume of fluid, and dumped it into the toilet. Beth transferred the plastic jug to her left hand so she could mark the number of CCs on Davey’s bathroom chart.