He makes an impatient gesture. “That’s not the point. The point is which one is dominant that day.”
I’m even more confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Out of those two wolves, one shows up more than the other.”
“Well…who picks which one?” I ask.
“We do.”
“How do we do that?”
He sits quietly and picks at his teeth for a moment, and then he turns to look me dead in the eyes. “The one that’s prominent is the one you feed that day.”
I try to absorb what he’s just said. Have I been feeding my own hatred?
“You have to feed love to keep it growing. It’s like a garden. You have to weed it and tend it and care for it. You can’t just let it sit there. It won’t show up where it isn’t wanted.” He rocks his head from side to side. “Now I can’t speak for you, but for me, back then, I’d been feeding the hatred inside me and the hatred was what showed up.”
“Hence the rat bastard?”
He shakes his head. “No, that’s just my nature.” He chuckles. “But hatred, that’s not truly in anybody’s nature unless you’re feeding the wrong wolf.”
“Well, damn,” I say. I look at him. “Would it offend you if I told you I hate you a little bit right now?”
“If I thought you were serious, it would.” He pats my hand with his. It’s rough with calluses from years of hard work, but it’s soft right where I need it to be, deep within me. With that pat, he shows me that everything is going to be all right. “Now get off my cart and go home.” He gives my shoulder a playful shove.
“You could at least give me a ride,” I say as I get off the cart.
“Your feet ain’t broke,” he says. He starts up his cart and leaves me standing there in the open field. And what I can’t figure out is whether or not he’s helped.
I walk back to the cabin slowly, carrying the blanket over my arm. When I get back, I open the door quietly in case Eli’s already asleep, but the light is on in the bedroom so I head in that direction. I find Eli sitting on the side of the bed in his boxers and a t-shirt. Eli always did sleep in his boxers and a t-shirt. His hair is damp from where he must have just gotten out of the shower. “I need to brush my teeth,” I announce as I walk through the room to the bathroom.
After I brush and change into my duck pajamas, I walk to the bed. Eli is on top of the covers reading a book. I turn down my side of the bed. “Is it okay if I sleep in here tonight?” I ask him.
“Of course.” He sets his book aside and gets under the covers.
“The couch makes my neck hurt,” I explain. “This doesn’t mean that anything has changed,” I clarify.
He freezes. “Okay, Bess,” he replies.
He turns off the bedside lamp and I lie there staring at the ceiling.
“What took you so long coming back?” Eli asks.
“I was talking to Mr. Jacobson.”
He chuckles. “I’m afraid to ask what he had to say.”
“He said I’ve been feeding the wrong fucking wolf.” I roll away and pull the covers up under my chin.
“What does that mean?” Eli asks me very quietly from his side of the bed.
“I have no idea.” I don’t know yet what it means. But it does give me something more to think about.
25
Bess
The next morning, I wake up and Eli is already gone. I reach over and find that his side of the bed is cold. He has pulled the covers up, though, and straightened the side of the bed he sleeps on. I roll over and find Kerry-Anne standing in the doorway of my bedroom. She has a stuffed bunny dangling from her fist.
“Kerry-Anne?” I scrub the sleep from my eyes with my fingertips. “Did you need something, sweetie?”
“My daddy’s sick,” she says softly.
A frisson of shock hits my nervous system. “You mean right now?” I ask carefully.
She nods. “He’s throwing up.”
“Okay,” I say and toss off the covers. I haul myself to my feet. “I’m coming.” I blink hard, trying to wake up. “Do you know where Eli is, honey?”
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she gnaws on her lower lip and her gaze dances around the cabin. I turn her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and follow her out the front door, across the grass, and I walk right into Aaron’s cabin like I live there. My bare feet are damp from the grass, so I wipe them on the mat. Immediately I hear the sound of Miles crying from his portable crib. But then I hear Aaron heaving in the bathroom. I don’t know which way to go.
“Aaron,” I call out.
The only sound I get in response is more heaving. I find him in the bathroom hunched over the toilet, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes are watering and bloodshot, and every time he moves he wretches again.
“Have you taken any meds?” I ask him.
“Can’t keep them down,” he says on a moan, his voice cracking. He lays his face on top of his hand, which rests flat on the toilet seat. At least his face isn’t directly on the porcelain. I get a washcloth from the cabinet, fold it, and place it between his hand and the seat.
“Did you try the suppository?”
He lifts his head. “The what?” But moving his head makes him sick again.
“I picked it up yesterday. It was supposed to be for emergencies.” I go to his medicine cabinet and retrieve all the bottles, looking for the ones that I picked up after chemo. “This one,” I say and show him.
“I can’t keep them down, Bess,” he croaks.
“This one goes up your butt, dummy.”
His eyebrows raise, but nothing more. He doesn’t move his head. “Up where?”
“Up your butt.” I mime sticking it up my rear end. Then I peel the wrapper off and hold it up. “Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?”
He holds out his palm. “I love you dearly, but I’m not letting you shove anything up my ass, Bess.”
I place it in his palm, usher Kerry-Anne out of the room, close the bathroom door, and then I walk toward the source of all the noise in the house. Miles is wailing his guts out. I look into his crib to find him red-faced and squalling, his little arms and legs kicking in frustration. “What does your dad do when this happens?” I ask Kerry-Anne.
“He picks him up,” she says.
“Oh.” I reach into the crib and lift his squirmy little body into my arms. The wailing doesn’t stop, though. “What next?” I ask Kerry-Anne as I gently bounce him from side to side.
She points to the dresser, where a makeshift changing station has been set up.
“Okay. We got this,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“It doesn’t look like you got this,” she replies.
That’s because I don’t. I lay Miles down and remove his sodden diaper, wipe him gently, and put on a new one. I wash my hands with an extra wipe. I don’t even bother to put his pants back on. I pick him up and look at Kerry-Anne. “Now what?”
“Feed him,” she says. I can barely hear her over his crying.