Counting Wolves

by Michael F Stewart

  My shuffling steps echo as I move as far from the nursing station as the cord allows. It’s bad enough that the nurses and doctors are trying to get into our heads and tell us what we must be feeling. It’s like we’re on the set of some bad reality TV show where the doctors are the producers and nurses are feeding us the script.

  With the dial tone at my ear, I glance down the hall to the door. If there had been any scratches, someone has cleared the debris and replaced the tile. Could someone here be helping the wolf?

  I count and then dial Bill. He picks up. I know he has tennis after school, but that’s in half an hour.

  “Bill,” he says and of course, he doesn’t know it’s me. It’s just some blocked number he’s seeing. I’m counting, but he understands the system where I knock three times, so he’ll realize I’m there.

  “Milly?” he asks. “Milly, is that you?”

  . . . “Yeah, it’s me.” I sigh relief. I feel as though I’m in a foreign country and making contact is a dose of home.

  “Why are you whispering, Milly? You okay? Teachers are saying you’re in the hospital, what happened?”

  . . . “I fainted at gym,” I say. “Right after you saw me.” So much for alien abductions and fairy tales. Those are beginning to seem too close to the truth. I want to say more, a whole lot more, especially so he doesn’t grow frustrated by the long pauses, but I can’t. I want to tell him where I am. So that he can say it’s okay, that it doesn’t matter. Why do I need him to say it for me?

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I fight tears. . . . “Yeah, still in the hospital, though. I miss you so much.”

  “When are you coming home? What’s wrong? I saw them collect homework for you.”

  So he knows I’m here for a while. Maybe he knows everything.

  . . . “The dance, I’ll be back for the dance. I hope.”

  There’s a pause and I know he’s expecting an answer to the question of, What’s wrong? But I’m not ready to share that, even if it isn’t my fault, even if it’s common and no one should care. I know they do. I do.

  “Maybe I can come see you?” he asks. It’s sweet, but I can’t imagine what Vanet would say to Bill. I laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  . . . “Nothing, I just miss you, but I don’t want you to see me in here.”

  “It’s good to hear you laugh. I haven’t heard you laugh for a while.” Funny, but it’s true. I haven’t been really happy lately, and today I laughed not just once but a whole bunch of times. “So, you’re like that girl in the tower, what was her name?”

  Rapunzel.

  “I forget,” he continues. “But you’re stuck there with a witch or something and all I can do is listen to you.”

  . . . “I could let down my hair.”

  “That’s the one, yeah, you could let down your hair and I could climb it.”

  I press the receiver tighter to my ear, as if that will bring us closer. . . . “That would hurt, but thanks for offering to be my knight in shining armor.”

  “No other knights there, huh?” He doesn’t wait for a response, saying, “Listen, tennis, I gotta run.”

  . . . “Talk later,” I say.

  “For sure.” He hangs up. I keep the phone to my ear. Once we sat in silence for an hour listening to the other’s breathing, nothing needing to be said. I’ve never felt so close to anyone.

  An automated voice tells me to please hang up.

  I sigh and then squint. I can see the nursing station phone. Nurse Abby’s on it. I end the call and the nurse hangs up too. At the same time. Was she listening in on my call?

  I take a few steps toward the station. Nurse Abby winks at me from her chair before taking back the handset and returning to the charts.

  Chapter 14

  I can’t help but think I’ve caught Nurse Abby at something. She leaves her nursing station to stand in gray Mary Janes and her black raven shirt.

  “Peter?” she shouts down the hall.

  I hear the smash of the remaining interview room mirror.

  When I peer around the corner of the nursing station, Peter is being dragged into his dorm room by two red-faced orderlies. Only one orderly returns.

  What I said to Doctor Balder is true. I like Peter, because he’s not trying to manipulate me in any way. He doesn’t care why I’m here or what my illness is. He’s also been left out of pretty much every situation I’ve seen and deserves a friend. It’s funny, because Peter’s embraced his fairyness and everyone’s trying to convince him otherwise.

  Maybe I don’t need to fight my wolf, but to embrace it. Give myself over to it. Am I not a feral creature at heart? Didn’t my ancestors feel their blood pump as they hunted? Haven’t I felt that as I clutched the back of Billy’s skull and kissed him? Didn’t I once know that feeling when I scored a goal or hoop? My book has another tale about a girl who embraced her wolf. It went like this:

  There once was a girl who had run away from home because she did not like the man her father had ordered her to marry. Penniless and starving, she sheltered in the dark wood, where she met a man who told her that he would give her gold and a home if she would only prove her innocence to him. Without noticing the man’s cloven hooves that marked him as the devil, she agreed and in doing so proved her innocence. But the man had one further condition, that she wear a wolf skin for eight years and not wash, comb her hair, or cut her nails. If she died during that time, her soul would be his, but if she survived, then he would give her all that she asked.

  Not having any money or other prospects, the girl agreed, and for eight years the girl wandered the world growing ever filthier, her nails growing into claws, and the grime coating her so thick that those who passed her ran in fear that she was a real wolf. Thrice the huntsman tracked her, and thrice she sang a sweet song to convince him she was no wolf, but a girl. But on the very last day of her trial, her singing couldn’t be heard over the baying of dogs and a band of four huntsmen shot her until she neared death. Seeing their crime, they killed themselves in shame.

  As she lay dying, the day turned and with the dawn, so did the devil come again as promised. The girl demanded that he save her life, and he did, plucking the arrows from her and closing the wounds. And then she demanded he make her rich and he did. Cleaned and now beautiful, she asked if he was angry that she had won. He replied: “I may have lost one soul, but I have gained four more.”

  I think it has something to do with the law of unintended consequences. Embrace your wolf—everyone dies. But embracing your inner fairy is different from the wolf. I want to ask Peter why he’s afraid of his wolf.

  I move a little closer to Peter’s room. Nurse Abby has returned to her station, and she clinks around in cupboards until finally clacking past me holding a pill in a cup. This time when the door opens, I see Peter strapped to the bed with the orderly pressing down with one hand on a buckle.

  Five minutes later they both come out, and I wait until the nurse and the orderly start chatting. Counting, I head for Peter’s door. We’re not allowed in patient rooms other than our own, but I don’t care. What can they do that’s worse than being in here in the first place?

  When I enter, Peter’s bawling. He turns to me. His head lifts off the mattress, but there’s a dull sheen to his stare, even for him. Thick leather straps hang from the bed. He’s no longer in restraints.

  . . . “Shh . . . Peter . . . it’s okay. Shh . . .” And he tries to quiet himself, lower lip quivering as great tears squeeze from his eyes. Finally, he looks up at me expectantly.

  . . . “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I ask. “Anyone that comes to see you?”

  He swallows and nods. “Two old brothers. Real old. They take me on holidays. Sometimes Charlie’s turn and sometimes Nico’s turn. I like Nico best, but I have to wait his turn.”

  They trade him. He’s a burden to them. He’s sweet, but perpetually a child. I don’t ask after parents; they’re not around.

  “In the rec room, y
ou said you’ve seen a wolf.”

  He pales. “The wolf,” he says. “Pig told me. It wants to eat me. They keep him in alone, all tied up, but the wolf knows a way.”

  I’m a bit disappointed. It’s another rumor spread by Pig.

  . . . “Did the wolf tell you to jump out that window?”

  His expression says that I must be crazy.

  “No, the witch, the witch tells me to jump.”

  . . . “Who is the witch? Where is she?”

  He glances around the room as if the witch might be here listening and then whispers, “She’s in the mirrors.”

  That explains it. If a witch could watch and speak through any mirror, that would mess a guy like Peter up.

  He sits forward and I stumble back. He’s just so big and strong, the restraints dangle loose, and here I am, alone with the guy.

  His face squinches. “Fairies don’t hurt people. I’m a good fairy.”

  In my book of tales, fairies are pretty darn nasty. . . . “Sorry, Peter, I’m jumpy.”

  I consider Peter. It’s not that I feel sorry for him, that’s not fair to Peter. In his own way, he’s doing pretty well, and maybe it’s because no one’s giving him any credit that I’m feeling bothered. No one wants him in their circle. If he wants to be a fairy, why not make him the best fairy ever? Why not help him to embrace it?

  . . . “Of course you are a good fairy,” I say and add quickly before I need to count again, “Do you want to look even more like a fairy? A great fairy?” His eyes light and he nods frantically. “You stay here and wait for me to come back. I’m going to make you the best fairy ever, but first I need a few things.”

  He nods.

  . . . “Wait, okay?” I say. “You’re safe from the wolf here.”

  I’m not convinced he’ll stay put, but I sneak out of the room and hover by the door to the rec room counting.

  No one’s at the craft table when I dart inside to collect everything I could possibly need. Sparkles, glue, felt, cardboard, the most useless scissors I’ve ever seen, markers, anything and everything. Rottengoth’s buried in a book; Pig must still be working on her homework, and Red probably joined her. Which leaves . . . .

  “I want in,” Vanet says, coming up from behind and tapping me on the shoulder.

  . . . “In on what?” I ask.

  “As a professional up-to-something person myself, I know you’re up to something.”

  I stare at him, and I swear his eyes dance. . . . “We’re going to dress Peter up like a proper fairy,” I say.

  “Makes sense,” Vanet replies. “What do you want me to do?”

  I glance again back through the door, but no one seems to care we have a craft project. . . . “We need to get this stuff into your room and make fairy things.”

  “You don’t think they’d like us dressing Peter up like a fairy in here?”

  . . . “Do they like anything you do?”

  “Good point,” he replies, “but we can’t do it in the bedroom. The nurses check on us every fifteen minutes.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. . . . “Okay, we’ll have to do as much as we can here, and time it so we put on his makeup before they check again.”

  We set to it.

  Vanet starts on a fairy crown while I make wings out of tape and newspaper.

  “Told you I was a fairy godmother,” Vanet says, holding up a golden cardboard circlet, which he somehow managed to trim neatly with the dull plastic scissors. “Let me know if you need any wishes granted.”

  The cost of help from Vanet is too high and too obvious.

  . . . “I’d rather have shock therapy,” I say.

  “Wes swears by it, and I bet Wolfgang practically glows they’ve lit him up so many times,” Vanet replies.

  . . . “Do you know Wolfgang?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve seen them take him down to ECT a bunch of times.”

  ECT. Electroconvulsive Therapy. It may work, but I’d rather pass.

  I roll up a final piece of paper and fill it with sparkles before taping the larger end closed, leaving a tiny gap at the point—a fairy wand.

  . . . “Bring the markers and paints,” I say. “We go when we see the nurse do her next check.”

  I count to leave and indicate with my head for him to carry everything. It’s his room so he can enter whenever he wants.

  Three minutes later, Nurse Abby does her check and then moves on to 3A. I can only pass through the first door, so Vanet ducks into his room ahead of me.

  Finally I’m through without being seen.

  Vanet sits on a bed mounded with clothes. Peter has his fist up and shakes it at Vanet.

  . . . “It’s okay, Peter,” I say. “He’s helping dress you up like a proper fairy.”

  We’re wasting valuable time.

  “So you’ll really fly,” Vanet says.

  Peter gives a little hoot of joy and lowers his arm.

  . . . “Okay, I think this will go better if you hold still.” Peter freezes, eyes wide. “Good, good, just like that. So, a fairy needs a crown for his hair.” I place on his cropped head the crown Vanet made. “And sparkles on his skin and some makeup.”

  “While you’re doing that, I can maybe do some cool tattoos,” Vanet says.

  “Wings, don’t forget my wings,” Peter adds.

  The corners of his mouth have shot up in a wild grin. I paint on makeup while Vanet draws ropey vines over Peter’s arms with markers.

  . . . “When you’re done with the tats, see if he’s got anything fairyish to wear,” I say.

  Vanet chuckles. “Oh, he’s got fairyish.” He continues marking off hooked thorns and slender curls of offshoots.

  I’m working blue, purple, and green into a kaleidoscope of heavy eye shadow. Peter’s lips will be a pale blue. But I’m working too fast and the result is garish, so I color in all of his cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose a sunshine yellow. With some blending . . . there. Rainbow fairy.

  . . . “Vanet, that’s so amazing,” I say. Vanet’s tattoos are a wilderness of thorny vines, carefully inked and with the hint of menace in their shadows. The cast he transformed into the leg and talons of an eagle. Maybe he is the fairy godmother. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually seems to believe anything is possible.

  He peers at my work. “Bright,” he says. “Very bright.”

  “I’m a fairy,” Peter replies.

  . . . “I’ll get the wings,” I say.

  “I see?” Peter asks.

  “Not yet, brother fairy,” Vanet says. “Are you a king or a queen?”

  “King,” Peter says. “Fairies are hard to tell, girl or boy.”

  Vanet holds up a yellow tank top for approval and some Bermuda shorts.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Peter says.

  He helps Peter dress, and after, I slip great loops of tape over the newspaper and then over his shoulders, attaching the wings.

  The wings suck in comparison to Vanet’s crown and tattoos, but it’s close to room check, and I’ll be caught in here if I take any more time to decorate the paper with feathers.

  “What if I fall?” Peter asks.

  “But what if you fly,” Vanet replies.

  . . . “Magic wand.” I hand Peter the wand I made.

  He flicks it and sparkle dust shoots from its tip. Peter gasps.

  “Careful with that, fairy dust is hard to come by,” Vanet says.

  But Peter’s head is scanning for something. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall. I’m a fairy, I’m a fairy,” he says and dances out of the room on his cast’s talons; fairy dust spritzes everywhere.

  Vanet’s eyes shine with fun. “That was a nice thing to do,” he says.

  . . . “Who says he’s not a fairy?” I ask. And I feel a little wild. A little free.

  “You better get out of here,” he says.

  That’s what I’m counting for.

  Chapter 15

  When we leave the room, I expect to hear sounds of shouting, ma
ybe laughter, but there’s nothing.

  Vanet pops into the shower, pretty sure it’s to hide, but it’s not like we did anything really wrong. The washroom’s marked “In Use” already. So to hide I’d have to join Vanet, but he’d get the wrong idea.

  It’s then that I turn and see—the door leaving the ward is propped open. I peer out. A huge newsprint-winged fairy thumps down the hall on his eagle-talon cast. The lunch lady walks out of the cafeteria pushing her big trolley of trays and kicks the doorstop away as she passes into the hallway. It begins to shut.

  Peter’s loose.

  I’m counting to race after him. But this is bigger than me. Fear burns through my stomach.

  It’s my OCD.

  It doesn’t help!

  I run for it, but I only make it to sixty before the door closes. At the end of the hall, Peter has disappeared through a fire exit.

  Peter escaped. I check the nursing station, but no one’s there. I can’t decide what to do.

  . . . “Nurse?” I call, but cackles of laughter erupt from the rec room and cover the sound. There is no one at the nursing station.

  Why would Peter go? The mirror. He needed a mirror to see himself. And what else did he say about the mirror? The witch tells me to jump. The wicked witch. What if I fall?

  I race to the rec room door. All the staff is inside except Nurse Abby. Tink and Doctor Balder’s paddles are a blur as the ping-pong ball whizzes back and forth. Staff and patients cheer another point for Tink. She’s really good.

  I’m through the door and rush over to knock the ball away. A calm smile spreads across Doctor Balder’s face.

  . . . “Peter’s escaped,” I shout. “He went through the fire exit at the end of the hall. I’m sorry.”

  The doctor swivels to Stenson. “Call the code.” Then he sprints out the door. We all follow.

  Nurse Abby comes out of the washroom to a crowd of patients clustered in the hall, all watching the door close behind Doctor Balder.

  “What’s happened?” she asks.

  “Code gray,” blares the overhead PA. “Code gray.”