by Jodi Picoult
"Walter?" I called out. "It's Edward. Luke's son." The door swung open at my touch, and I found myself knocked backward by a memory. Nothing had changed in this trailer. There was the sofa with foam cushions that had been ripped by the teeth of countless wolf pups, where I had read dozens of books while my father gave the daily wolf talk to the trading post visitors. There was the bathroom with a toilet flushed by a foot pump.
There was the narrow bed, where everything had gone to hell.
This was a bad idea; I never should have listened to Cara; I should just go back to the hospital . . . I slammed my way out of the trailer, and heard a whistle of bluegrass coming from the wooden shack where the fresh meat brought in for the wolves was refrigerated. I poked my head inside and found Walter in a butcher's apron, quartering a deer with a gigantic knife. Half Abenaki, Walter is six foot four and bald, with spirals of tattoos up both arms. As a kid, I'd been alternately mesmerized and terrified by him.
Walter looked up at me as if he was seeing a ghost.
"It's me," I said. "Edward."
At that, he dropped the knife and folded me into a bear hug. "Edward," he said. "If you're not the spitting image . . ." He stepped back, frowning. "Did he--?"
"No," I said quickly. "Nothing's changed."
I glanced outside the abattoir, where a trio of wolves were staring at me from behind a fence. My father used to talk about the wisdom in a wolf's eyes; even a layperson who comes in contact with the species will often feel unnerved the first time he is face-to-face with a wolf. They don't just look at you; they look into you. Maybe, I thought, Cara had a point.
I'd called Walter last night from my father's house and had explained his condition, but now I told Walter why I'd come here today--namely, what Cara felt a wolf encounter would do for my father. He listened quietly, his mouth twisting, as if he could chew on the plan and spit out the bits he didn't like. When I finished speaking, he folded his arms. "So you want to bring a wolf into the hospital."
"Yeah," I said, ducking my head. "I know it sounds ridiculous."
"The thing is, you don't know how to handle a wolf. Just cause it looks like a dog don't mean it is one. You want me to come along?"
For a moment I gave this serious consideration. "It's better if I'm alone," I said finally. That way only one of us would get in trouble.
I followed Walter out of the abattoir, down the hill to the enclosures. As we approached one fence, a pair of gray wolves bounded toward him. The smaller one only had three legs. "Morning, boys," he said and pointed to the one that was racing back and forth in front of the fence, completely unimpeded by his lack of a limb. His gaze slipped like a splinter under my skin. "That's Zazigoda," Walter told me. "His name means lazy. Your dad, he's got a sense of humor."
Walter reached into the game pouch of his jacket and tossed a frozen squirrel into the woods at the rear of the enclosure. The other wolf trotted off to claim it as Zazigoda waited for his own reward. But instead of taking another squirrel from his jacket, Walter extracted a brick of Philadelphia cream cheese. He tore off a corner, and Zazi began to lick it. "Milk products calm 'em down," he explained.
I vaguely remembered my father telling me how an alpha female who knows she's going to give birth soon might direct her pack to kill the lactating doe in a herd of deer, simply because she knows the hormones running through the prey animal's system will take the edge off the emotions of those that eat it. Then, by the time the pups are born, the rest of the pack will be more mellow and likely to accept them.
"We rescued Zazi," Walter said, moving into the enclosure without any hesitation. "A hunter found him when he was about a year old. His leg had gotten caught in a bear trap, and he chewed it off. Your dad played nursemaid. The vet said he was a goner; he was too weak; his wound was infected; he'd be gone before the end of the week. But Zazi, he blew those odds away. You know how in life, there are people, and then there are people? Well, there are wolves, and then there are wolves. Zazi's one of those. You tell him he ain't going to make it, and he'll prove you wrong."
I wondered if this was why Cara wanted me to bring Zazi, in particular. Because his story so closely mirrored what she wanted to happen to my father.
Walter looked up at me. "Since your dad nursed him, he's always been more comfortable around humans than a wolf ought to be. Great with kids, great with film crews. That's why we've always used him for community outreach." He dragged a crate into the pen and easily loaded the wolf inside. "One day we were at a school with Zazi. Your dad, he likes to pick a couple of kids from a class to come up and touch the fur of a wolf, hands on, if you get what I mean. To make them curious but not terrified about wolves. But he eyeballs the kids to make sure he's not picking the class clowns, and before he does this, he lays down the rules--mostly to keep the wolf safe from the kids. If a kid moves a certain way, or comes up too fast, or just doesn't pay attention, all hell can break loose."
Walter leaned down to the mesh wire at the front of the crate and let Zazigoda lick his knuckles. "One day an aide brought a kid with special needs up to the front of the room. Kid was maybe ten years old and had never spoken a word; he was in a wheelchair and had profound disabilities. The aide asked if the boy could touch the wolf. Now, your dad, he didn't know what to say. On the one hand, he didn't want to turn the kid away; on the other hand, he knew that Zazi could easily read anxiety and could turn on the boy quickly, thinking he had to defend himself. Zazi's not a hybrid; he's a wild animal. So your dad asked the aide if the boy could communicate any signs of fear or distress, and the aide said no, he couldn't communicate at all. Against his better judgment, your father lifted Zazi up to the table, where he could be eye level with the boy's wheelchair. Zazi looked at the boy, then leaned forward and started licking around his lips. Your dad leaned forward to intervene, figuring Zazi had smelled food, and that the boy was going to freak out and push Zazi away. But before your dad could pull Zazi back, the boy's mouth started working. It was garbled, and it was hard to hear, but that boy said his first word right in front of us: wolf."
I leaned down and grabbed the handle of the crate with Walter, beginning the long climb uphill. "If you're telling me this to make me feel any better about taking a wild animal to a hospital, it's not helping."
Walter glanced at me. "I'm telling you this," he said, "because Zazi's no stranger to miracles."
It's actually something Walter has said that gives me the idea: Just cause it looks like a dog don't mean it is one. Since no one would ever be stupid enough to bring a wild animal into a hospital, folks who see me with Zazi will assume he is a domestic animal instead. That means all I have to do is come up with a valid reason to have a dog there in the first place.
The way I see it, I have two options. The first is a therapy dog. I have no idea if they use them at this particular hospital, but I know there are trained volunteers who bring Labs and springers and poodles into pediatric wards to boost the spirits of the sick kids. From what I understand, these dogs are usually older, calmer, unruffled--which pretty much leaves Zazi out of the running.
The only other kind of dog I've ever seen in a hospital is a Seeing Eye dog.
At a gas station, I buy a pair of hideous, oversize black sunglasses for $2.99. I call my mother's cell, to tell her that I am on my way and that she should meet me in my dad's room, with Cara. Then I park in the hospital lot, as far away from other cars as I can get.
The front seat has been moved back on its runners to accommodate Zazi's crate, which takes up every inch of available space. I get out of the car and open the passenger door, eyeballing the wolf through the metal door of the crate. "Look," I say out loud, "I don't like this any more than you do."
Zazi stares at me.
I try to convince myself that when I open this crate the wolf isn't going to sink his teeth into my hand. Walter's already put a harness on him; all I have to do is attach the leash.
Well. If he does bite me, at least I'm already at the hospital.
The wolf takes a piss on every lamppost lining the walkway into the hospital. When I yank on his leash once to get him moving, he turns around and snarls at me.
If the volunteers sitting at the welcome desk of the hospital think it's strange to see a blind man who's dragging his dog, instead of the other way around, they don't say anything. I am blissfully thankful that we are the only ones in the elevator that takes us up to the third-floor ICU. "Good boy," I say when Zazi lies down, paws crossed.
But when the bell dings just prior to the door opening, he leaps to his feet, turns around, and nips my knee.
"Shit!" I yelp. "What was that for?"
I lean down to see if he's drawn blood, but by then the doors have opened and a candy striper is waiting with a stack of files. "Hi," I say, hoping to distract her from the fact that I have a wolf on a leash.
"Oh!" she says, surprised. "Hello."
That's when I realize that if I'm blind, I shouldn't have known she was there.
Suddenly Zazi starts loping down the hall. I struggle to keep up, forgetting about the candy striper. An Amazon of a nurse follows. She is taller than me, with biceps that suggest she could probably beat me in arm wrestling. I saw her the first day I came to the hospital, but she hasn't been at work again until today--so she doesn't recognize me, or question my sudden new disability. "Excuse me, sir? Sir?"
This time I remember not to turn around until she calls me.
"Are you talking to me?" I ask.
"Yes. Can you tell me which patient you're here to see?"
"Warren. Lucas Warren. I'm his son, and this is my guide dog."
She folds her arms. "With three legs."
"Are you kidding me?" I say, grinning with my dimples. "I paid for four."
The nurse doesn't crack a smile. "We'll have to get clearance from Mr. Warren's doctors before the dog can go inside--"
"A guide dog can go in all places where members of the public are allowed and where it doesn't pose a direct threat," I recite, information gleaned from Google on my phone after my sunglasses purchase at the gas station. "I find it hard to believe a hospital would violate the Americans with Disabilities Act."
"Service dogs are allowed into the ICU on a case-by-case basis. If you'll just wait here for a second I can--"
"You can take it up with the Department of Justice," I say as Zazi starts pulling hard on the leash.
I figure I have five minutes max before security gets here to remove me. The nurse is still shouting as Zazi drags me down the hall. Without any direction from me, he leads me through the doorway of my father's room.
Cara is cradled against the canvas sling of a wheelchair; my mother stands behind her. My father is still immobile on the bed, tubes down his throat and snaking out from beneath the waffle-weave blanket. "Zazi!" Cara cries, and the wolf bounds over to her. He puts his front paws on her lap and licks her face.
"He bit me," I say.
My mother has backed into a corner, not too thrilled to be in the same room as a wolf. "Is he safe?" she asks.
I look at her. "Isn't it a little late to be asking that?"
But Zazi has turned away from Cara and is whimpering beside my father's bed. In a single, light leap, he jumps onto the narrow mattress, his legs bracketing my father's body. He delicately steps over the tubes and noses around beneath the covers.
"We don't have a lot of time," I say.
"Just watch," Cara replies.
Zazigoda sniffs at my father's hair, his neck. His tongue swipes my father's cheek.
My father doesn't move.
The wolf whines, and licks my father's face again. He drags his teeth across the blanket and paws at it.
Something beeps, and we all look at the machines behind the bed. It's the IV drip, needing to be changed.
"Now do you believe me?" I say to Cara.
Her jaw is set, her face determined. "You just have to give it a minute," she begs. "Zazi knows he's in there."
I take off the sunglasses and step in front of her, so that she has to meet my gaze. "But Dad doesn't know Zazi's here."
Before she can respond, the door bursts open and the desk nurse enters with a security guard. I shove the sunglasses onto my face again. "It was my sister's idea," I say immediately.
"Way to throw me under the bus," Cara mutters.
The nurse is practically having a seizure. "There. Is. A dog. On the bed," she gasps. "Get. The dog. Off. The. Bed!"
The security guard holds me by the arm. "Sir, remove the dog immediately."
"I don't see a dog in here," I say.
The nurse narrows her eyes. "You can drop the blind act, buster."
I take off my sunglasses. "Oh, you mean this ?" I say, pointing to Zazi, who jumps down and presses himself against my leg. "This isn't a dog. This is a wolf."
Then I grab the leash and we run like hell.
The hospital decides not to press charges when Trina the social worker intervenes. She is the only member of the staff who understands why I had to bring the wolf to the hospital. Without it, Cara wouldn't broach a conversation about my father's condition and his lack of improvement. Now that my sister has seen with her own eyes how even his wolves can't elicit a reaction, Cara can't help but understand that we're running out of options, out of hope.
I think Zazi knows what's up, too. He goes into his crate without any fight and curls up and sleeps for the entire ride back to Redmond's Trading Post. This time when I drive up to the trailer, Walter comes out to greet me. His face is as open as a landscape; he's waiting for the good news, for the story of how my father suddenly returned to the world of the living. But I can't speak around the truth that's jammed like a cork in my throat, so instead I help him haul the crate out of my car, and carry it down to the enclosure where Zazi's companion is keeping watch along the perimeter of the fence. When Walter releases Zazi, the two wolves slip between the army of trees standing at attention at the back of the pen. I watch Walter lock the first gate to the enclosure, and then walk to the second gate. He's holding the leash and harness in his hands. "So," he prompts.
"Walter," I say finally, testing the size and shape of these words in my mouth, "whatever happens, you'll still have a job. I'll make sure of it. My dad would want to know someone he trusts will still take care of the animals."
"He'll be back here in no time, telling me what I'm doing wrong," Walter says.
"Yeah," I say. "No doubt."
We both know we're lying.
I tell him I have to get back to the hospital, but instead of leaving Redmond's right away, I stop to watch the animatronic dinosaurs. I dust snow off a cast-iron bench and wait the twelve minutes to the hour, so that I can hear the T. rex come to life. Just like earlier, he cannot thrash his tail the way he should, because of the snowdrifts.
In my sneakers and my jeans, I jump the fence so that I am knee-deep in the snow. I start clearing it out with my bare hands. It only takes a few seconds before my fingers are red and numb, before the snow melts into my socks. I smack the green plastic tail of the T. rex, trying to dislodge the ice, but it stays stuck. "Come on," I yell, striking it a second time. "Move!"
My voice echoes, bouncing off the empty buildings. But I manage to do something, because the tail begins to sweep back and forth as the fake T. rex goes after the same fake raptor once again. I stand for a second, watching, with my hands tucked under my armpits to warm them up. I let myself pretend that the T. rex might actually reach the fraction of an inch that's necessary to finally get his prey, that instead of his going through the motions there will be progress. I let myself pretend that I have, successfully, turned back time.
A lot can happen in six days. As the Israelis will tell you, you can fight a war. Y
ou can drive across the United States. Some people believe six days is all it took for God to create a universe.
I'm here to tell you that a lot might not happen in six days, too.
For example, a man who's suffered a severe head trauma might not get any worse, or any better.
For four nights now, I've left behind the hospital room to go to my father's home, where I pour a bowl of stale cereal and watch Nick at Nite. I don't sleep in his bed; I don't really sleep at all. I sit on the couch and listen to endless episodes of That '70s Show.
It's weird, walking out of the hospital every night during a vigil. The whole day has somehow passed me by, and the stars reflect on the snow that's fallen while I was unaware. My life is moving forward in a weird empty narrative, missing one key character, whose current life is a continuous loop. I bring back things I think my father would want to find at the hospital if he were to awaken: a hairbrush, a book, a piece of mail--but this only makes the house feel even emptier when I'm in it, as if I'm slowly liquidating its contents.
After the wolf debacle, when I got back to the hospital, I went to Cara's room. I wanted to show her the letter I'd found in Dad's file drawer. But this time there was a team of physical therapists in there talking about shoulder rehab and testing her range of motion, which had her in tears. Whatever I had to say to her, I decided, could still wait.
Now, the next morning, as I am headed to her room, I am ambushed by Trina the social worker. "Oh good," she says. "You heard?"
"Heard what?" There are a hundred red flags waving in my mind.
"I was just headed downstairs to get you. We're having a family meeting in your sister's room."
"Family meeting?" I say. "Did she put you up to this?"
"She didn't put me up to anything, Edward," Trina says. "It's a meeting to share medical information about your father with both of you at the same time. I suggested we do it in Cara's room because it would be more comfortable for her than being transported to a conference room."
I follow Trina into the room and find a handful of nurses I've seen going in and out of my father's room and some I haven't; Dr. Saint-Clare; a neurology resident; and Dr. Zhao from the ICU. There's also a chaplain, or that's who I am assuming he is, since he's wearing a white collar. For a moment I think this is a setup, that my father has already died and this is the way they thought best to tell us.
