Lone Wolf

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.

“Mrs. Ng,” Trina says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

My mother just blinks. “What about Cara?”

“Unfortunately, this meeting is for Mr. Warren’s next of kin,” the social worker explains.

Before my mother can go, Cara grabs her sleeve. “Don’t leave,” she whispers. “I don’t want to be alone for this.”

“Oh, baby,” my mother says. She smooths Cara’s hair back from her face.

I step into the room and maneuver around everyone until I am standing beside my mother. “You won’t be,” I tell Cara, and I reach for her hand.

I have a sudden jolt of memory: I am crossing the street so that I can walk my little sister into school. I don’t let go of her hand until I know both her feet are firmly planted on the opposite sidewalk. You have your lunch? I ask, and she nods. I can tell she wants me to hang around because it’s cool to be the only fifth grader talking to a senior, but I hurry back to my car. She never knows it, but I don’t drive off until I see her walk through the double doors of the school, just to be safe.

“Well,” Dr. Saint-Clare says. “Let’s get started. We’re here today to update you on your father’s medical condition.” He nods to the resident, who sets a laptop on Cara’s bed so we can all see the scanned images. “As you know, he was brought into the hospital six days ago with a diffuse traumatic brain injury. These are the CT scans we took when he was first brought into the ICU.” He points to one side of the image, which looks muddy, swirled, an abstract painting. “Imagine that the nose would be here, and the ear here. We’re looking up from the bottom. All this white area? That’s blood, around the brain and in the ventricles of the brain. This large mass is the temporal lobe hematoma.”

He clicks the mouse pad so that a second scan appears beside the first. “This is a normal brain,” he says, and he really doesn’t have to say anything else. There are clear, wide black expanses in this brain. There are strong lines and edges. It looks tidy, organized, recognizable.

It looks completely different from the scan of my father’s brain.

It’s hard for me to understand that this fuzzy snapshot is the sum total of my father’s personality and thoughts and movements. I squint at it, wondering which compartment houses the animal instincts he developed in the wild. I wonder where language is stored-the nonverbal movements he used to communicate with his wolves, and the words he forgot to say to us when we were younger: that he loved us, that he missed us.

Dr. Saint-Clare clicks again so a third scan appears on the screen. There is less white around the edges of the brain, but a new gray patch has appeared. The surgeon points to it. “This is the spot where the anterior temporal lobe used to be. Removing it and the hematoma, we were able to reduce some of the swelling in the brain.”

Dr. Saint-Clare had said that taking out this piece of my father’s brain would not affect personality but would probably mean the loss of some memories.

Which ones?

His year with the wolves in the wild?

The first time he saw my mother?

The moment he knew I hated him?

The neurosurgeon was wrong. Because losing any one of those memories would have changed who my father was, and who he’d become.

Cara tugs my arm. “That’s good, right?” she whispers.

Dr. Saint-Clare pushes another button, and the image on the laptop refreshes. This is a different angle, and I tilt my head, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. “This is the brain stem,” he explains. “The hemorrhages reach into the medulla and extend into the pons.” He points to one spot. “This is the area of the brain that controls breathing. And this is the area that affects consciousness.” He faces us. “There’s been no distinguishable change since your father’s arrival.”

“Can’t you do another operation?” Cara asks.

“The first one was done to alleviate high pressure in the skull-but that’s not what we’re seeing anymore. A hemicraniectomy or a pentobarb coma isn’t going to help. I’m afraid your father’s brain injury… is unrecoverable.”

“Unrecoverable?” Cara repeats. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Saint-Clare clears his throat. “Since the prognosis for a decent recovery is so poor, a decision needs to be made whether to continue life-sustaining treatment.”

“Poor isn’t the same as impossible,” Cara says tightly. “He’s still alive.”

“Technically, yes,” Dr. Zhao replies. “But you have to ask yourself what constitutes a meaningful existence. Even if he were to recover-which I’ve never seen happen to a patient with injuries this severe-he wouldn’t have the same quality of life that he had before.”

“You don’t know what will happen a month from now. A year from now. Maybe there will be some breakthrough procedure that could fix him,” Cara argues.

I hate myself for doing this, but I want her to hear it. “When you say the quality of life would be different, what do you mean exactly?”

The neurosurgeon looks at me. “He won’t be able to breathe by himself, feed himself, go to the bathroom by himself. At best, he’d be a nursing home patient.”

Trina steps forward. “I know how difficult this is for you, Cara. But if he were here, listening to everything Dr. Saint-Clare just said, what would he want?”

“He’d want to get better!” By now Cara is crying hard, working to catch her breath. “It hasn’t even been a full week!”

“That’s true,” Dr. Saint-Clare says. “But the injuries your father has sustained aren’t the kind that will improve with time. There’s less than a one percent chance that he’ll recover from this.”

“See?” she accuses. “You just admitted it. There’s a chance.”

“Just because there’s a chance doesn’t mean there’s a good probability. Do you think Dad would want to be kept alive for a year, or two, or ten based on a one percent probability of maybe waking up and being paralyzed for the rest of his life?” I ask.

She faces me, desperate. “Doctors aren’t always right. Zazi, that wolf you brought here yesterday? He chewed off his own leg when it got caught in a trap. All the vets said he wouldn’t make it.”

“The difference is that Dad can’t compensate for his injuries, the way Zazi did,” I point out.

“The difference is that you’re trying to kill him,” Cara says.

Trina puts her hand on Cara’s good shoulder, but she jerks her body away in a twist that makes her cry out in pain. “Just leave!” Cara cries. “All of you!”