stood up and nudged her calf forward, until it settled, skin and bones, in my lap.
I sat there for an hour with the calf until the most majestic moose I’d ever seen entered the clearing. His rack was colossal, and he stood like a statue until the cow moose got to her feet, too, and the calf. Then the three of them disappeared silently into the woods behind me.
Amazed, I ran back home to tell my parents what had happened—certain they wouldn’t believe me—and found them sitting in the kitchen at the table with a woman I didn’t recognize. But when she turned around, I could see myself written all over her features.
“Luke,” my dad said. “This is Kiera. Your real mother.”
He was not my dad but my grandfather. The woman I’d called Mom my whole life was my grandmother. My biological mother was their child—who, at seventeen, had been thrown in jail for selling heroin with her then-boyfriend. She found out two months later that she was pregnant.
When she gave birth to me at the local hospital, she’d been shackled to the bed.
It was decided that my grandparents would raise me. And that, rather than my having to grow up with the stigma of having an incarcerated mother, they’d move from Minnesota to New Hampshire, where nobody knew them. They’d start fresh, saying I was their miracle baby.
When the prison term ended, Kiera postponed reuniting with her family, deciding instead to get herself employed and settled. Now, four years later, she was the front desk manager at a hotel in Cleveland. She was ready to pick up the pieces of her life that she had left behind. Including me.
I don’t remember much of that day, except that I didn’t want to hug her, and that when she started talking about Cleveland I stood up and ran out the kitchen door into the woods again. The moose were gone, but I had learned from animals how to make myself scarce when necessary, how to blend in with the surroundings. So when my grandfather came looking for me, calling my name, he walked right past the copse of brush where I was hiding, where I stayed until I fell asleep.
The next morning, when I went back home, stiff and damp with cold, Kiera the impostor was gone. My parents, who were now my grandparents, were sitting at the table eating fried eggs. My grandmother offered me a plate with two eggs sunny-side up and a slice of toast. We did not talk about my mother’s visit, or where she’d gone. My grandfather said that, for now, I’d be staying put, and that was that.
I began to wonder if I’d dreamed that encounter, or the one with the moose calf, or both.
After that, I had sporadic contact with my mother. She’d send me a pair of slippers every Christmas that were always too small. She came to my grandfather’s funeral and my college graduation and two years after that died of ovarian cancer.
Years later when I went to live with the wolves, I would feel different about my mother. I would realize that what she did was no different from what any wolf mother does: put her child into the protective care of the elders, who can use their vast knowledge to teach the next generation everything it needs to know. But at that moment, sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in an uncomfortable silence, all I knew was that no animal in my life had ever lied to me; whereas the humans, I could no longer trust.
EDWARD
There are stages of shock.
The first one comes when you walk into the hospital room and you see your father, still as a corpse, hooked up to a bunch of machines and monitors. There’s the total disconnect when you try to reconcile that picture with the one in your head: the same man playing tag with a bunch of wolf pups; the same man who stood eye to eye with you and dared you to challenge him.
Then there’s hope. Every flicker of sunlight over the sheets, every hiccup in the ventilator’s even sigh, every trick of your tired eyes has you jumping out of your seat, certain that you’ve just witnessed a
I sat there for an hour with the calf until the most majestic moose I’d ever seen entered the clearing. His rack was colossal, and he stood like a statue until the cow moose got to her feet, too, and the calf. Then the three of them disappeared silently into the woods behind me.
Amazed, I ran back home to tell my parents what had happened—certain they wouldn’t believe me—and found them sitting in the kitchen at the table with a woman I didn’t recognize. But when she turned around, I could see myself written all over her features.
“Luke,” my dad said. “This is Kiera. Your real mother.”
He was not my dad but my grandfather. The woman I’d called Mom my whole life was my grandmother. My biological mother was their child—who, at seventeen, had been thrown in jail for selling heroin with her then-boyfriend. She found out two months later that she was pregnant.
When she gave birth to me at the local hospital, she’d been shackled to the bed.
It was decided that my grandparents would raise me. And that, rather than my having to grow up with the stigma of having an incarcerated mother, they’d move from Minnesota to New Hampshire, where nobody knew them. They’d start fresh, saying I was their miracle baby.
When the prison term ended, Kiera postponed reuniting with her family, deciding instead to get herself employed and settled. Now, four years later, she was the front desk manager at a hotel in Cleveland. She was ready to pick up the pieces of her life that she had left behind. Including me.
I don’t remember much of that day, except that I didn’t want to hug her, and that when she started talking about Cleveland I stood up and ran out the kitchen door into the woods again. The moose were gone, but I had learned from animals how to make myself scarce when necessary, how to blend in with the surroundings. So when my grandfather came looking for me, calling my name, he walked right past the copse of brush where I was hiding, where I stayed until I fell asleep.
The next morning, when I went back home, stiff and damp with cold, Kiera the impostor was gone. My parents, who were now my grandparents, were sitting at the table eating fried eggs. My grandmother offered me a plate with two eggs sunny-side up and a slice of toast. We did not talk about my mother’s visit, or where she’d gone. My grandfather said that, for now, I’d be staying put, and that was that.
I began to wonder if I’d dreamed that encounter, or the one with the moose calf, or both.
After that, I had sporadic contact with my mother. She’d send me a pair of slippers every Christmas that were always too small. She came to my grandfather’s funeral and my college graduation and two years after that died of ovarian cancer.
Years later when I went to live with the wolves, I would feel different about my mother. I would realize that what she did was no different from what any wolf mother does: put her child into the protective care of the elders, who can use their vast knowledge to teach the next generation everything it needs to know. But at that moment, sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in an uncomfortable silence, all I knew was that no animal in my life had ever lied to me; whereas the humans, I could no longer trust.
EDWARD
There are stages of shock.
The first one comes when you walk into the hospital room and you see your father, still as a corpse, hooked up to a bunch of machines and monitors. There’s the total disconnect when you try to reconcile that picture with the one in your head: the same man playing tag with a bunch of wolf pups; the same man who stood eye to eye with you and dared you to challenge him.
Then there’s hope. Every flicker of sunlight over the sheets, every hiccup in the ventilator’s even sigh, every trick of your tired eyes has you jumping out of your seat, certain that you’ve just witnessed a
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