Jodi Picoult - Lone Wolf

My jaw drops. “You took out some of his brain ?”

“We relieved the pressure on the brain that would have otherwise killed him,” the doctor corrects. “The temporal lobectomy will affect some of his memories, but not all. It doesn’t affect the areas of speech or motor or personality.”

They had taken away some of my father’s memories. Ones of his beloved wolves? Or ones of us? Which would he miss?

“So did it work? The surgery?”

“Your father’s pupil is reactive again, and the clot’s removed. However, the swelling and the hematoma produced an incipient herniation-basically, a shift of structures from one compartment of the brain to another, which put pressure on the brain stem and created little hemorrhages there.”

“I don’t understand-”

“The pressure in his skull is down,” the doctor says, “but he still hasn’t awakened, there’s no response to stimulation, and he isn’t breathing on his own. We repeated a CT scan and can see that those hemorrhages in the medulla and the pons are a little larger than they were on the initial scan-and that’s why he hasn’t regained consciousness, and is still on a ventilator.”

I feel like I am swimming in corn syrup, like the words I want to use are rolling off my tongue in an indecipherable language. “But is he going to be okay?” I ask, which is really the only question necessary.

The surgeon clasps his hands together. “We’re still letting the dust settle right now…”

But. There’s a but, I can hear it.

“Those lesions we’re seeing affect the part of the brain stem that controls breathing and consciousness. He may never get off that ventilator,” Dr. Saint-Clare says flatly. “He may never wake up.”

When I was sixteen and had just gotten my driver’s license, I went to a party and stayed out past my curfew. I parked down the block and tiptoed across the grass, easing the door open in the hope that I could get away with this infraction. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw my father sleeping in the recliner in the living room, and I knew I was doomed. My father always said that when he was out in the wild with the wolves, he never really slept. You had to stay semiconscious, one proverbial eye always open, to know if you were going to be attacked.

Sure enough, the minute I crossed the threshold he was out of that chair and in my face. He didn’t say a word, just waited for me to speak for myself.

I know, I said. I’m grounded.

My father folded his arms. A couple of hundred years ago, parents never let kids out of their sight, he said. If a pup disturbs his wolf father at two in the morning, he doesn’t growl so the pup will leave him alone and let him go back to sleep. He sits up, alert, as if he’s saying: What do you want to know? Where do you want to go?

I was still a little drunk, and at the time I figured this was a lecture, his way of telling me he was mad at me. Now I wonder if he was just mad at himself -for giving in to his human side, so that he forgot to keep one eye open.

“Can I see him?” I ask Dr. Saint-Clare.

I’m led down the hall to an ICU room. A nurse is bent over the bed, suctioning something. “You must be Mr. Warren’s son,” she says. “Spitting image.”

But I barely hear her. I’m staring at the patient in the hospital bed.

My first thought is: There’s been a terrible mistake. This isn’t my father.

Because this broken man, with the partially shaved head and the white bandage wrapped around his skull, with the tube going down his throat and the IV running into the crook of his arm…

This man with the Frankenstein’s monster stitches on his temple and the black-and-blue mask of bruises around his eyes…

This man looks nothing like the one who ruined my life.

Red Riding Hood should be flogged.

Single-handedly, that little girl and her grandmother have managed to spread enough lies about wolves to get them poisoned, trapped, and shot into near extinction. Many of the myths about wolves originated in the Middle Ages, in Paris-where children were dragged off by wolves. Now it’s believed that the animals in question were hybrid wolf-dogs. A purebred wolf, on the other hand, is more afraid of you than you are of him. He won’t attack, unless something makes him feel that his safety has been threatened.

Some people believe that wolves kill everything they encounter.

In reality, they only kill to eat. Even when they attack a herd, they don’t slaughter every animal. The alpha wolf very specifically directs which member of the herd should be brought down.

Some people believe that wolves will decimate the deer population.

In reality, for every ten times they hunt, they’ll make a single kill.

Some people believe they infiltrate farms and kill livestock.

In reality, this happens so infrequently, biologists don’t even count them as a category of predatorial risk.

Some people believe wolves are harmful to humans.

In reality, of the twenty or so recorded cases, the encounter between wolf and man was brought on by the person. And there’s not a single documented case of a healthy, wild wolf killing a human.

You can imagine that I’m not too fond of the three little pigs, either.

I’m sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the trading post, wrapped up in my down jacket and a woolly blanket. There’s no one here because it’s February and the park is officially closed, but the signature attraction-the animatronic dinosaurs that you can’t miss the minute you walk through the gates-runs year-round. It’s some weird computerized wiring glitch-you can’t turn off the T. rex without cutting power to the whole facility, and that of course would affect the skeleton crew that manages the animal habitats on the off-season. So every now and then, when I need to get away, I come to the part of the park that’s a ghost town and watch the triceratops shake his plastic head every hour on the hour, dislodging last night’s snowfall. I watch the raptor get into a mock fight with the T. rex, both of them thigh-high in drifts. It’s creepy. It feels like I’m watching the end of the world. Sometimes, because it’s so quiet, their canned roars get the gibbons all riled up, and they start hollering, too.

It’s because of the gibbons, actually, that I don’t hear my father calling my name until he’s nearly standing right in front of me. “Cara? Cara!” He is wearing his winter coveralls-the ones that hang outside the trailer on a tree branch and never get washed because the wolves recognize him by scent. I can tell he’s been in with the pack sharing a meal, because there’s a little bit of blood on the ends of the long hair framing his face. He usually plays the diffuser, which means he gets right between the beta and the alpha rank on the carcass. It’s crazy to watch, actually. Feeding time, for the pack, is like a gladiator sport. Everyone’s got a set position around the carcass and feeds at a specific time on a specific part of the animal. There’s growling and snarling and gnashing as each wolf-my dad included-protects his piece of the kill. He used to eat the raw meat, like the wolves, but when it started messing too much with his digestive system, he began to cook up bits of kidney and liver and hide it inside his coveralls, in a little plastic bag. He somehow manages to transfer this into the slit belly of the calf and eat like the wolves without them noticing anything’s been doctored.

My father’s face collapses with relief. “Cara,” he says again. “I thought I’d lost you.”