Lone Wolf A Novel by Jodi Picoult Page B

one wants you here.”
    “Mom wants me here.” I take a deep breath. “And I want to be here.”
    “Did you find Jesus or Buddha or something in Thailand? Are you atoning for your past so you can move on to the next step in your karmic life? Well, guess what, Edward. I don’t forgive you. So there.”
    I almost expect her to stick her tongue out at me. She’s hurt, I tell myself. She’s angry. “Look. If you want to hate me, fine. If you want me to spend the next six years saying I’m sorry, I’ll do that, too. But right now, this isn’t about you and me. We have all the time in the world to figure things out between us again. But Dad doesn’t have all the time in the world. We need to focus on him.”
    When she ducks her head, I take it as agreement.
    “The doctors are saying . . . that his injuries aren’t the kind that can heal—”
    “They don’t know him,” Cara says.
    “They’re doctors, Cara.”
    “You don’t know him, either—”
    “What if he never wakes up?” I interrupt. “Then what?”
    I can tell, from the way her face pales, that she has not let herself go there, mentally. That she hasn’t even let that hint of doubt creep into her head, for fear it will take root like the fireweed that grows along the road in summertime, rampant as cancer. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.
    “Cara, he can’t stay hooked up to life support forever.”
    Her jaw drops. “Jesus. You hate him so much that you’d kill him?”
    “I don’t hate him. I know you don’t believe it, but I love him enough that I’m willing to think about what he’d want, instead of what we’d want.”
    “You have a truly fucked-up way of showing your love, then,” Cara says.
    Hearing a curse word on my little sister’s lips is like hearing nails on a blackboard. “You can’t tell me that Dad would want machines breathing for him. That he’d want to live with someone having to bathe him and change his diaper. That he wouldn’t miss working with his wolves.”
    “He’s a fighter. He won’t give up.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this. I can’t believe you think you have the right to tell me what Dad would or wouldn’t want.”
    “I’m being realistic, that’s all,” I reply. “You have to be ready to make some hard choices.”
    “Choices?” she says, choking on the word. “I know all about hard choices. Should I have a total breakdown, or hold it together while my parents are splitting up? Even though the one person who’d understand what I’m feeling has totally abandoned me? Do I live with my mother or do I live with my father, because no matter what I decide, I know my answer’s going to hurt the other person. I’ve made hard choices, and I picked Dad. So how dare you tell me I’m supposed to just give him up, now?”
    “I know you love him. I know you don’t want to lose him—”
    “Before you left, you told Mom you wanted to kill him,” Cara snaps. “So I guess now you have your chance.”
    I can’t blame my mother for telling her that. It’s true.
    “That was a long time ago. Things change.”
    “Exactly. And in two weeks or two months or maybe longer, Dad just might walk out of this hospital.”
    That is not what I’ve been led to believe by the neurologists. That is not what I’m seeing with my own eyes. I realize, though, that she is right. How can I make a family decision with my sister when I haven’t been part of this family?
    “For what it’s worth,” I say, “I’m sorry I left. But I’m here now. I know you’re hurting, and this time, you don’t have to go through it alone.”
    “If you want to make it up to me,” Cara says, “then tell the hospital I should be in charge of what happens to Dad.”
    “You’re not old enough. They won’t listen to you.”
    She stares at me. “But you could,” she says.
    The truth is, I want my father to wake up and get better, but not because he deserves it.
    Because I