Counting Wolves

by Michael F Stewart

  I wonder if it’s the first time she’s allowed herself that thought. Sure, I bet she’d hoped for her to be okay, prayed for it, but I can tell she believes it now. Seeing her beatific face, I try to recall ever seeing my mom like that, just so happy it oozed through her pores. I can’t remember. It’s hard losing your memory of someone you loved. And I did love her. She was strict at times, but when she was proud of me, I remember feeling her smile like a ray of light. That was when she was radiant. When I did everything right. It just didn’t happen very often.

  . . . “I’m happy for you,” I say.

  “Life’s something you have to keep fighting for,” she replies. “Never stop.”

  . . . “I won’t,” I reply. At first I take what she said at face value. Someone blabbing about the beauty of life, but then I wonder if there’s more to it. A religious something. From Beauty’s perspective, she’s here because she believed in something her parents didn’t like. She might be wrong, but no one’s taken her side into account.

  I glance back at Beauty and feel compelled to fight for her. To tell her side of the story, or at least as much as I can guess at.

  . . . “Did you see it as suicide?” I ask and the woman frowns. “I mean, did you see her not taking the chemo as suicide, is that why you forced her to take it? You feared for her soul?”

  Her fingers scrunch up the sheets.

  “In a way,” she replies.

  I gather everything I need to say, because I don’t think she’ll give me another chance to count.

  . . . “So she’s here not because she’s sick in the head, but because her soul is somehow at risk? How is that any better than her thinking Jesus will save her?”

  She jerks to her feet and says, “He has. The difference is she’s not dead.” The woman strides out.

  She wouldn’t be the first person to mistake Jesus for the prince with true love’s kiss.

  Chapter 17

  “Relaxation exercises!” Tink calls. Standing in the rec room doorway, she vibrates with energy. “SO excited, come on, come on. Vanet and Wes, move the couch; Pig and Red, you move the ping-pong table. Everyone take one of the yoga mats! We’re going to RELAX!”

  She fiddles with a small stereo and on comes the sound of waves crashing against a beach. “Ah, that’s so nice.”

  It sounds to me like a tsunami disaster being endlessly repeated. This is not going to be relaxing. Red stands at the edge of her mat, doing her twitchy-shake thing. Vanet flops on the couch he moved against the wall.

  “Vanet, grab a mat,” Tink says.

  “What? Are you saying I don’t know how to relax? I’m so chill I can teach this.”

  “Chilling and mindful relaxation are very different things, come on, it’ll be fun!”

  Vanet shrugs and takes a position at the back. I know that he’s hoping to check out my ass, but I suspect we’ll be spending most of the time lying down so I don’t bother moving away from where I’ve set up my mat.

  “Yay.” Tink hops from foot to foot.

  I think she’s extra excited because it’s the first time I’ve seen everyone on the unit here. Even Peter made it, and he grins after me like I didn’t almost kill him yesterday. Only Beauty’s missing, and she doesn’t need relaxation exercises. Rottengoth stands near Vanet, head already hanging low. Peter’s jumping on one foot next to Rottengoth. Red’s beside me in the front row, then Pig is on my other side with a smirk on her face.

  “First we’re going to learn how to breathe,” Tink says.

  Vanet draws in a long noisy breath and then squeaks out, “Help, I forget how to breathe, help.”

  Only Peter laughs.

  “We are going to enter the moment,” Tink continues. “We will exist in the moment without cares or worries of the world around us. Ready to be mindfully chill, Vanet? To chill on purpose?”

  “Entering moment now,” Vanet says like a robot.

  “Good, let go of your hang-ups, let go of your fears, let go of every little thought in your minds,” Tink says.

  I frown and try to tune out her shrill little voice and stupid little ideas.

  “Usually when you breathe, you only use the top part of your chest, but there’s something called the diaphragm in the lower part. Everyone place your hand over your stomach. Good. Now breathe in and concentrate on trying to fill your stomach with air.”

  It’s not possible to tune out a voice this annoying, so I comply and hold my stomach.

  It takes a few tries, but eventually I can feel what she’s talking about. It’s weird to think I never knew of the bottom lung in my stomach.

  “Take three deep breaths, you count the breath going in, being in, and going out,” she says.

  “Careful, Milly,” Pig says. “Don’t count to a hundred.”

  I can see by the smile on her face that she’s not being mean and I nod back. Truth is, I feel a bit lightheaded, as if I’m not used to quite this much oxygen. Can you die breathing too much?

  Tink motions for us all to lie on our mats. I collapse gratefully and stare at the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed how stained the ceiling tiles were. Waves crash over me. Wow, for a second there I didn’t even think about counting.

  “This next part is called progressive muscle relaxation and you can do it sitting in a big chair or lying down like this. We’re going to flex different muscle groups and then relax them. With each breath, feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper into the floor.” Her voice has changed, hypnotic and low. “Draw in those stomach breaths.

  “First, clench your hands into fists and hold them for three breaths . . . relax,” Tink says. “Next, squeeze your biceps and flex your forearms.”

  She works her way up to our shoulders, telling us to squeeze, encouraging us to relax.

  “Allow yourself to forget about your worries. Nothing will happen, nothing for the next twenty minutes.”

  Rottengoth begins to snore and we all giggle, but Tink ignores him.

  “Wes wins,” Vanet says. “He’s the best relaxer.”

  “Be mindful of your breathing. If you have deep, even breaths that are easy, then you’re doing it right,” Tink says, and directs us to squeeze our eyes shut, to relax the lids, the eyeballs themselves, to let our jaws hang. It’s weird, but every time I concentrate on something, I realize how tense it is. I close my eyes, pressing the eyelids together as hard as I can, and then I let go. My face smooths. I can’t remember the last time it’s ever felt this comfortable. Then I picture the folds of my brain and I shake them out, letting thoughts go, letting fears subside. I breathe.

  I’m drifting off. I’m sinking into the floor.

  “Go someplace safe. Let go. Let go. Let go.”

  I am bobbing on a raft on a lake. The sun bakes my back. The water laps against the dock and the boat’s bumpers squeal every time a bigger wave shifts the hull. It’s so warm; I can smell the sunlight. It’s streaked my hair gold. I’m at my grandparents’ cottage. My parents are both alive, but they’re at home, and my grandparents are caring for me. I’m only eight, but they let me roam. To do as I please. To eat when I’m hungry, to sleep when I need to, just to be.

  Tink wakes me with a nudge to my shoulder. “Next time try not to sleep. Mindful relaxation is a skill and you need to pay sharp attention. You need to . . . be . . . on . . . guard for SLEEP!”

  I blink at her energy, and she flits away. The world rushes back, the walls of the Dark Wood menace, and with it the musty carpet smell.

  For the rest of the day, I steer clear of activities, hoping to finish my homework and to catch Vanet alone. After dinner I finally corner him.

  . . . “Ping-pong?” I ask.

  “Seriously? I won the intergalactic championships at age twelve.”

  . . . “So school me.”

  “The last guy I schooled dislocated his shoulder,” he says, but picks up a paddle.

  . . . “I promise not to try so hard.” After the first few serves, which neither of us can return, I ask, “Why did you
say it was you who decorated Peter?”

  He shrugs. “It was.”

  . . . “Yeah, but—” I glance to the door. It’s empty. “Not only you.”

  The ball dances over the table and I manage to hit it back. We rally three hits. Although, I’m not sure we can call three a rally.

  “You do want to go to the dance, right?” he asks. “With this . . . guy.”

  I hate private calls in public places.

  . . . “Bill, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  He palms the ball and holds it out. “Billy and Milly, right. The staff here has more power over you than you think. If you believe you can talk to your mom and they’ll let you pop out of here whenever you like, then you do need to be schooled.” His fingers curl around the ball. “Troublemakers don’t get rewards.”

  . . . “Stepmom,” I say.

  “Whatever.”

  . . . “You took the blame, because you don’t think I’ll make it to the dance otherwise?”

  He serves again. “That and the prospect of sexual favors.”

  . . . “As if.” His return bounces high, and I slam it down, scoring. The ball lands on the couch. “Winner and new intergalactic champion!” I lift my arms.

  “Your desire to play ping-pong is clearly a mischanneling of sexual frustration.” He turns to dig around in the couch cushions for the ball. When he finds it, it’s dented. And he flicks it over to me. Game over. I don’t know why, but I pocket the wrecked ball. Vanet shrugs and starts to walk out. I still haven’t thanked him.

  . . . “Vanet?” I ask and continue right along so I don’t have to count. He keeps on walking. His pockets bulge with what look like tennis balls. “Thanks, I feel bad about Peter. And about you taking the hit for it.”

  He gives me the thumbs-up as he passes through the door.

  Vanet seems to have cooled a little. He’s not as upbeat, not always on like he was when I first met him. Sometimes it was hard to understand where he was headed with a train of thought. But he’s also less happy seeming, or maybe just less flirtatious.

  I actually feel better too. It’s the food and the lack of wandering around. Maybe even Tink’s mindfulness session. At school, I have to count every other minute. Leashing the wolf like that is tiring. Here, I hang out in one of three rooms. Before coming here, I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud. I hope Peter’s okay. I guess our illnesses don’t really need much encouragement to go off the rails.

  My illness.

  Alone, in a rare moment in the rec room, I find a marker and draw a happy face on the ping-pong ball, using the dent for the mouth. Then I search out a book to read, curl up against the armrest of the couch and read until lights out. It almost feels normal.

  In bed, I count to fall asleep. I tell myself it’s not a new part of my ritual, but it’s the second night in a row I’ve done it. It sort of makes sense, protecting the world one hundred percent before I shut down for the night, wrapping the world in it. And it works, so there’s that. While I count I flex and relax each of my muscles like Tink talked about, and I don’t remember finishing my count before drifting off.

  Claws, fangs, yellow eyes fractured with veins greet me. But around the wolf’s neck loops a collar of leather. While the wolf growls down, paws pressing into my hips, my mother looms above it, wrapping the leash about her hand and then wrist. Anger twists her face. Anger at what, I don’t know, but she struggles. The wolf kicks backward and my mother’s arms windmill as she tries for balance. The wolf breaks free. Jaws snap, and the snout tunnels into my armpit to haul out my book of tales. Loose pages drip from the binding.

  “No!” my mother screeches.

  No! I call and lunge after the relic. The wolf wants to destroy my magic. I begin to count, but the wolf only hunkers on the bed, placing the book between its paws and tearing at the pages. With each shake of its head, the spells are tatters.

  My mother shoots at me the blackest of looks. Accusing me.

  I wake. The threads of the dream unravel. My skin is wet, and I touch my face. Sweat runs in rivulets from my temples. I lean forward and pat the sheets until I feel the firm comfort of the solid hardback cover. But I can’t shake my mother’s glare. I said I was sorry, Mom.

  Enough light from the park slips around the edges of the curtains for me to see. Sleeping Beauty’s chest rises and falls. Red thrashes and moans from her bed. She is probably what woke me. Not that I mind. It’s better than my dreams. I can see Pig’s bed. It’s empty.

  I lie down and shut my eyes, starting to count to help myself fall back to sleep, but something draws me back. Pig’s bed. Still empty. Something prickles along my spine. I don’t know how long Pig’s been gone, but it’s already been too long for a bathroom trip. The last person who went missing tried to jump off the roof. I don’t ever want to feel the sort of shame I do with Peter and, if Pig’s leaving soon, maybe she’s willing to do something drastic in order to stay. I swing my legs to the side of the bed and slide my feet into slippers.

  The night nurse, I don’t even know her name, looks up when I pad through the door, and I wave at her, pressing my legs together in the universal I-gotta-pee dance. She looks back down. The door off the unit is locked. The interview rooms are dark and empty. I count and peek into the rec room, which is deepest black and empty. That leaves the second patient room, 3B, the washroom and shower. I pad along the hall heading for the bathroom.

  The shower’s marked “In Use,” but it’s not on. I hear scuffling inside.

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Maybe she’s shy, having a late-night shower when no one’s around to barge in. No one like me, right now. But maybe she’s thrashing in a pool of blood. Maybe she is in there with wolves of her own making. I should get the nurse, and jog to the station.

  . . . “Nurse,” I whisper. “Pig’s been in the shower a really long time.”

  She frowns. Her nametag reads: Jackie, and beside the name is a skeleton sticker. With a last look at a celebrity article, in which some A-list star probably got pregnant, or married, or divorced, or abducted by aliens, she swivels in her chair and meets me on my side of the hallway.

  With a sharp rap of her knuckles on the door, Nurse Jackie says, “You okay in there?”

  Someone swears and the scuffling intensifies. “Let me finish.”

  It’s Vanet. I want to run. The nurse doesn’t ask again; she throws open the door to reveal Vanet and Pig, both naked. Pig’s flushed pink and has moved to the back of the room, but Vanet’s standing there and turned toward the door, hanging free to the wind with his finger pointing at me.

  “Really, Milly? Really?” he says and shakes his head.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Nurse Jackie says. “Vanet—get your clothes and change in the hall. Eleanor, you need a swab before you get dressed. I’m phoning the on-call manager. Get yourselves back to bed, and I’ll be filing a report.”

  “I don’t want a swab,” Pig says.

  Nurse Jackie pauses as Pig pulls on her top. “That’s fine, it’s standard procedure, but instead Doctor Balder will be informed and you can have blood tests in the morning.”

  Vanet rolls his eyes, but Pig rushes past, bumping my shoulder as she does and enters 3A. Vanet doesn’t bother putting anything on, bounces to his room, and slaps his ass as he crosses into it.

  “You, too,” Nurse Jackie says to me. “There will be extra security.”

  “Bitch,” Pig says as I enter.

  . . . “Sorry,” I say. “I was worried about you.”

  “Don’t. Ever. Worry. About. Me.”

  How could I be such an idiot? I must not have finished my count before falling asleep. Look what happened.

  Chapter 18

  “Group,” Nurse Stenson calls after breakfast. Pig didn’t even show to eat, but she is sitting in the rec room.

  News of Pig and Vanet hooking up has spread to the other patients. I doubt it was Pig who told and it wasn’t me, so I have to assume Vanet ta
lked himself up. I’m not looking forward to this session.

  Soon we’re all seated in a haggard triangle with Pig as far away from Vanet as possible, and Vanet sitting as far as possible from me. Stenson ignores the geometrically challenged circle.

  “Can anyone tell me the rules of group?” she asks.

  Red rolls her eyes.

  “Vanet, do you know the rules of group?” Stenson asks.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Is there one regarding relationships?”

  “Report them.” He snaps a salute.

  “That’s right, we have to understand the relationships of those within the unit. Is there a relationship you’d like to report?” He stares dumbly. “Anyone?”

  “Why don’t you ask Milly?” Pig says.

  I try to shrink, but only manage to slip lower in my chair.

  “Relationships like those of best friends and lovers are wonderful,” Stenson says. “They change the way we see one another and that affects the group, so it is important that they be brought forward.” Again, more silence. “No relationship? Nurse Jackie reports evidence of one last night. A relationship between Vanet and Eleanor.”

  “That?” Vanet laughs. “That wasn’t a relationship. That was Pig unable to keep her hands off of me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pig says to him. “You—” Then she clenches her hands into fists and shakes until her face pinks.

  “Do you plan on continuing this relationship?” Stenson asks.

  Pig looks to Vanet.

  “If she wants to meet me in the shower every once in a while, I’m in,” he says with a shrug.

  “I will remind everyone that sexual activities are not permitted on the ward,” Stenson says to us all.

  “So, no then, contraindicated,” Vanet says. “What’s the point, right?”

  Pig shakes her dome. “Good.”

  Nurse Stenson clasps her hands as if that finishes the conversation. “Relationships are least of all about sex. Why do we need relationships? Wesley, why don’t you start us off today?”

  He sits staring at his hands for a minute until finally he says, “Supposed to help you, I guess.”