Lone Wolf

to ask why he was awake at 3:00 A.M. I didn’t ask because, after all, so was I. Edward was propped against his pillows, reading a book. When I didn’t speak, he held it up. “The Divine Comedy,” he said. “By Dante. I’m reading all about Hell.”

“I’m living it,” I said.

“I’m only at the first circle,” Edward told me. “Limbo. It’s not Heaven, and it’s not Hell. It’s the in- between.”

This was, I realized, my new address.

I couldn’t be charming. I couldn’t be smart. I could barely remember how to speak, much less how to put into sentences everything I had learned with the wolves. So I did what a wolf does when it finds itself in danger: I got away.

I ran to Redmond’s. It was five miles in the dark, but that meant nothing to me after Quebec, and it felt good to get my adrenaline pumping. I went up to the trailer at the top of the hill and slammed inside. I locked the door, and then went into the bedroom, and locked that door, too. I was breathing hard, sweating. I could hear the wolves howling for me.

There’s no point in being able to know everything about wolves if you can’t teach it to the people who need to learn.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that dark, cramped room, curled in the far corner with my eyes on the door so that I’d know the minute someone was coming. But eventually, I heard muffled voices. And movement. The twitch of a key in a lock.

The scent of Georgie’s shampoo, her soap.

She locked the door behind her and knelt down in front of me, moving slowly. She put her hand on the crown of my head. “Luke,” she whispered.

Her fingers stroked my hair, and I found myself leaning into her, against her. Georgie’s arms came around me. I didn’t realize that I was crying until I tasted my tears on her lips. She kissed my brow, my cheeks, my neck.

It was meant as comfort but spread, the way a match intended for light might become a fire. My arms came around her and reached for the collar of her shirt. I ripped it open, rucked up her skirt. I felt her legs wrap around me, and I fumbled with my jeans. I bit her shoulder and swallowed her cry; I stood with her in my arms and pressed her back to the wall, driving into her so desperately that her spine arched, that her nails scratched into my skin. I wanted to mark her. I wanted her to be mine.

Afterward, I cradled her in my lap, tracing the line of her vertebrae. There were bruises on her, unintentional ones. I wondered if I had lost the capacity to be gentle, along with my ability to be human. I looked down to find Georgie staring up at me. “Luke,” she said, “let me help.”

CARA

You don’t ever want to imagine your father having an affair.

In the first place, it means you have to picture him having sex, which is just disgusting. In the second place, it means that you are forced to side with your mother, who is the wronged party. And in the third place, you can’t help but wonder what it was about you that wasn’t compelling enough to make him think twice before driving a stake into the heart of your family.

It feels like I have a splinter in my throat after I hear this news, but it’s not for the reason you’d think. I am-and I know how crazy this sounds-relieved. Now I’m not the only one who has screwed up royally.

My mother said I’m perfect in my father’s eyes, but that’s a lie. So maybe we can be imperfect for each other.

As soon as I sit down on the witness stand, I have a clear view of Edward. I keep thinking about what my mother said-how he was trying to protect me by leaving. If you ask me, he ought to rethink some of his altruism. Saying he was saving our family by removing himself from my life is like saying he only wants to kill my father because it’s the humane thing to do.

Everyone makes mistakes, my mother had said.

I used to have a friend in elementary school whose family was so picture-perfect that they could practically be the advertisement in a photo frame. They always remembered each other’s birthdays, and I swear the siblings never fought and the parents acted like they’d just fallen in love that morning. It was weird. It felt so plastic-smooth that I couldn’t help but question what happened when there wasn’t an audience like me for them to put on their show.

My family, on the other hand, included a father who preferred the company of wild animals, a mother who sometimes had to go to bed with a headache although we all really knew she was crying, a fifteen-year-old boy paying the bills, and me, a kid who made herself throw up the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance at school where the girls all brought their dads, just so she could stay home sick and no one would have to feel bad for her.

I wonder if what makes a family a family isn’t doing everything right all the time but, instead, giving a second chance to the people you love who do things wrong.

Once again when they try to swear me in I can’t really do it because my right arm is tied up tight against my body. But I still promise to tell the truth.

Zirconia begins by walking toward me. It’s funny how at home she looks in a courtroom, even with her crazy fluorescent tights and yellow heels. “Cara,” Zirconia begins, “how old are you?”

“I’m seventeen,” I say, “and three-quarters.”

“When is your birthday?”

“In three months.”

“At the time of your father’s injury,” she asks, “where were you living?”

“With him. I’ve been living with him for the past four years.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your father, Cara?”

“We do everything together,” I say, feeling my throat narrow around the words. “I spend a lot of time with him at Redmond’s, helping him with the wolves. I also took over running the household, pretty much, because he’s so busy with his research. We’ve gone camping in the White Mountains, and he taught me orienteering. Sometimes we just hang out at home, too. We’ll cook pasta-he gave me his special recipe for Bolognese sauce-and watch a DVD. But he’s also the first person I want to talk to if I get a great grade on a test, or if a kid is being a jerk to me at school, or if I don’t know the answer to something. Almost everything I know, I know because of him.”

I feel guilty saying this, with my mother in the courtroom, even if it’s true and I can blame it on being sworn in. I think that kids are always closer to one parent than to the other. We may love both, but there’s one who’s your default. When I look at the spot where my mom has been sitting, though, she’s gone. I wonder if she is still in the bathroom; if she’s sick, if I should be worried-and then Zirconia’s voice pulls me back.

“What about your father’s relationship with Edward?”

“He didn’t have a relationship with Edward,” I say. “Edward left us.” But when I say this, I look at my brother. Can you really be mad at someone for doing something stupid if they truly, one hundred percent, thought they were doing what was right?

“How about your relationship with Edward?” Zirconia asks.

My whole life, people have said that I look like my mother and Edward is a clone of my father. But now I realize this isn’t exactly true. Edward and I, we have the same color eyes. A strange, unearthly hazel that neither my mother nor my father has. “I hardly remember him,” I murmur.

“What were your injuries in the accident?”

“I had a dislocated, fractured shoulder-the doctor says the humeral head was shattered. I also had bruised ribs and a concussion.”

“What was the treatment?”

“I had surgery,” I answer. “I had a metal rod placed in my arm, and the shoulder is held in place with a rubber band and something like chicken wire.” I glance at the judge’s white face. “I’m not kidding.”

“Were you on any medication?”

“Painkillers. Morphine, mostly.”