Allison (A Kane Novel) (20 page)

“And then you’ll let me get dressed?”

Sensing her resolve slipping, along with the towel, Kane drew her to him again.  “Maybe.  We’ll talk about it later.”

*        *        *

On the ride to St. John’s, I sat wedged between my brothers in the back of our family’s green Expedition.  The late-model Ford, a recent addition to the household that an auto-dealer friend of Dad’s had picked up for him at auction, was a definite improvement over our former vehicle—a battered red Suburban that had been the family car for as long as I could remember.  Still, the ancient Suburban had held fond memories for me:  riding to my First Communion, driving lessons Dad had given me in a Pepperdine University parking lot, leisurely trips our family had taken every summer up the coast to Oregon.  I missed it.

I had driven to the beach earlier that morning to accompany Mom to the hospital.  I had barely seen my father before we left the house for Santa Monica, but I’d sensed that a strain still remained between us from our conversation on Wednesday night.  Since then Dad’s recent visit to the Frenches’ estate had been televised both locally and nationally, with Brent’s on-the-scene coverage culminating in an exclusive revelation that a search warrant had been obtained by police to reenter the house.  But if my father had deduced that I was Brent’s source of information regarding the search warrant—especially now that Dad knew I was an intern at CBS—he hadn’t said anything.  At least not yet.  It was something for which I felt thankful.  With all that was happening, I couldn’t face another argument.

Nonetheless, as our family drove toward Santa Monica, a deeper tension than the one between Dad and me permeated the car—a tension eased only occasionally by forced conversation and falsely cheerful remarks about the weather, Nate’s baseball team, and a recent proposal by the New York Philharmonic to schedule another presentation of Travis’s piano concerto.  As we neared the Health Center, I felt as if I were mired in a dark and endless nightmare.  I glanced at my parents in the front seat.  At that point Dad was mostly concentrating on his driving.  Mom sat beside him going over a checklist to ensure that everything would function smoothly in her absence.

“Ali, don’t forget that Grandma Dorothy is coming down from Santa Barbara this afternoon,” said Mom, turning to me in the backseat.

“I know.  My room’s all ready for her,” I replied.  I had insisted that Grandma use my bedroom while staying at the beach—opting to use our house’s small guestroom whenever I returned home.

“Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to seeing the old broad,” Dad noted.

“She loves you, too,” said Mom.  “Although considering the way you two butt heads, I can’t imagine why.”

“She appreciates class, sugar.”

Trying to lighten things, Mom winked at us in the back seat.  “Of course she does.  I, however, don’t see the connection.”

“Unless you’re talking about low class,” offered Nate, halfheartedly making an effort to join in.

“Or
no
class,” Travis added, sensing the lines of battle being drawn in one of our family’s good-natured patriarchal challenges—a diversion on car trips usually reserved for longer journeys when Dad had been mellowed by hours of driving.

Though normally I would have been the first to join in the mutiny, I remained silent.

Playing along, Dad scowled at us in the rearview mirror.  “Last time I checked, my arm still reached to the backseat, rookies.”

“Don’t threaten the children, Dan,” laughed Mom.  “That’s my job.  Speaking of which, while I’m gone I want all three of you kids to help around the house and do whatever Grandma Dorothy says.  That goes double for you, Nate.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Allison, I want you to come home as often as possible, despite the demands of this . . . job you’ve taken.”

“Okay, Mom,” I said, stung by her tone but determined not to show it.

“I’ll help, too,” said Nate.

“I know you will,” Mom said, again referring to her list.  “In fact, as Travis and Allison will be gone a lot, you’ll have to work especially hard.  It’ll be your job to see that Callie is fed and walked every day.  And don’t forget to keep her water bowl filled.”

“I won’t,” Nate promised, reaching behind him to stroke Callie, who was curled comfortably in the rear luggage compartment.  “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her.”

“Good.  Another thing, don’t forget to—”

“Put away your list, Kate,” Dad interrupted.  “Please, sugar.  Everything is going to be fine.”

“But—”

“But nothing.  You just get better.  I’ll tend to the troops.”

After taking West Channel Road to San Vicente Boulevard, Dad jogged right on 20th Street, taking a back route to the hospital.  Minutes later, as the walls of St. John’s Health Center rose into view, a premonition of doom gripped me.  As had all the Kane children, I’d been born at St. John’s, but I had rarely visited since.  I vaguely remembered accompanying Dad and my older brothers years back when we had picked up Mom and newborn Nate.  Then, the multistoried building with its rows of windows and curving glass columns had been filled with promise.  Now, following a recent round of reconstruction that had all but obliterated any vestige of the old health center, it seemed as if a pall had settled upon the impersonal-looking new structure, threatening heartache and sorrow for any who dared to enter its walls.

Dad pulled up at the curb, dropping us off near the entrance.  Then, after snagging a rare parking spot on Santa Monica Boulevard and jamming a fistful of coins into the meter, he rejoined us.  When we arrived in the lobby, we found Dr. Kratovil already there waiting by the information desk.

“Sorry we’re late,” Mom apologized as we hurried in.

“Don’t give it a thought.”  Dr. Kratovil nodded warmly to Dad, then turned to us.  “I’m Dr. Kratovil,” she said, extending a hand to Nate.

Nate, who had insisted on carrying Mom’s bag into the hospital, set the small suitcase on the floor and shook the physician’s hand.  “I’m Nate Kane,” he replied gravely.

“And you must be Allison and Travis.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Travis.

Not trusting myself to speak, I remained silent.

“Your mom is going to spend some time getting checked in,” Dr. Kratovil continued.  “In the meantime, there’s a good cafeteria here, at least it’s pretty good.  If you want, we could go get a hot chocolate or a bite to eat, then see your mom in her room upstairs.”

“Do we have to?” asked Nate, sidling closer to Mom.

“No, of course not,” answered Dr. Kratovil.  “But I thought it might give us time to talk.”

“C’mon, Nate.  I’ve never known you to turn down food,” I said lightly.  “We’ll see Mom when she’s done.”

“You’re not getting out of here without saying good-bye, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mom added.  “Go on, Nate.  I’ll see you shortly.”

With Nate reluctantly bringing up the rear, we followed Dr. Kratovil down a broad corridor and took an elevator to a brightly lit cafeteria on the second floor.  Though no one was hungry, Travis and Dr. Kratovil got steaming mugs of strong black coffee.  Nate opted for hot chocolate.  My stomach tied in knots, I had nothing.

“So,” said Dr. Kratovil after we had seated ourselves at a table near the door.  “You must all have questions.  Who wants to begin?”

No one spoke.

“It’s all right.  You can ask anything you want.”

“Is Mom going be all right?” Nate finally ventured, cutting to the heart of the matter with childlike simplicity.

Dr. Kratovil paused before answering, three pairs of eyes upon her, awaiting her response.  Finally she spoke.  “When talking with family members about a disease such as your mother’s, I don’t believe in sugar-coating the risks,” she said.  “I don’t know for certain whether your mother will recover, but she has a good chance.  She’s young and strong.  We caught her leukemia early, and she has a type that’s amenable to treatment.”

“Mom said the chemotherapy will make her sick,” said Travis.  “How sick?”

“Very.  We’ll be giving her extremely toxic chemicals designed to kill cancerous cells, but their effect on the rest of her body will be devastating.  She’ll need all the support we can give her.  A month from now when she’s in remission, she’ll be able to go home for a while.  Then she’ll come back for another course of treatment.  After that, depending on how things go, further therapy may be required.”

“Like what?”

“Possibly a third and even a fourth round of chemo, which may or may not be combined with radiation and a bone-marrow transplant,” answered Dr. Kratovil.  “But those are decisions we’ll make later.  Which reminds me—before we rejoin your mother, I want you all to swing by the hospital laboratory with me.”

“For HLA testing to see whether any of us are a human leukocyte antigen match for Mom,” I said, recalling some research I had done on the internet.  “In case she needs an allogenic marrow graft.”

Dr. Kratovil regarded me curiously.  “How do you know those terms?”

I shrugged.  “I did some checking last night.  Am I right?”

Dr. Kratovil nodded.  “You are.  The chances are extremely slim that any of you will be an acceptable match, but as your mother has no siblings, testing you three children for HLA compatibility is worth doing.  With any luck, however, if a transplant is needed Catheryn may be able serve as her own donor by using what is known as an autologous or ‘rescue’ graft—employing her own purified cells to reestablish her immune system.  There’s a national donor registry too, if we need allogenic, or nonrelated, marrow from someone else.”

“Will she have tubes and needles stuck in her arms?” asked Nate.

“We have a better way now, Nate.  We’ll place something called a Hickman catheter into your mother’s chest, and it’ll stay there the whole time.  It’s easier than repeatedly starting new IVs, and the catheter has three separate channels for administering drugs, drawing blood, and giving IV nutrients.”

“How about hospital visiting hours?” asked Travis.  “Can we come whenever we want?”

“You can, within reason, but please don’t visit if you have a cold or the flu or anything contagious,” cautioned Dr. Kratovil.  “Along those lines, many physicians require that visitors wear latex gloves.  I think touching and hand contact are important, so we can dispense with the gloves as long as you wash your hands thoroughly with alcohol when you arrive.  Another thing.  No flowers.”

“Bacteria in the water?” I guessed.

“Correct.  Balloons are fine, as are pictures, drawings, books, and videos.  And a cot can be set up in your mother’s room, making it possible for a family member to occasionally stay overnight.”

“I’ll stay with Mom,” offered Nate.

“I think Dad will have dibs on that,” I said.  “But maybe we can take turns,” I added, noting Nate’s crestfallen expression.

Dr. Kratovil finished her coffee and set down her cup.  “Any other questions?”

All three of us shook our heads.

“In that case, it’s time for me to get to work.  I think your parents should be done registering by now, so let’s stop at the lab and then see how they’re doing.”

After having blood drawn at the hospital laboratory, Travis, Nate, and I returned with Dr. Kratovil to the main lobby.  The doctor stopped briefly at the registration desk, then accompanied us to the oncology unit on the fourth floor.  There we rejoined Mom and Dad in a hospital room overlooking the city of Santa Monica and the Pacific Ocean beyond.  To the right of the door into Mom’s room lay a large bathroom; straight ahead, facing a television mounted on the opposite wall, was a hospital bed attended by several chairs, a bedside stand, and a brace of complicated-looking monitoring machines.

When we arrived Mom was still unpacking, laying out toiletries and a few articles of clothing on the bed.  Dad stood to one side, hands sunk deep in his pockets.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.  “Getting settled?”

“Hi, Ali,” she replied.  “Yes, I’m making myself at home.  It’s a wonderful room, don’t you think?  It has a much better view than the ones in the old maternity ward.”

“It’s great,” I agreed, the room suddenly seeming too small.  “What’s next?” I asked, wishing our entire family, including mom, could simply get up and leave and never come back.

“Your mother has a number of preliminary tests scheduled,” Dr. Kratovil answered, checking her watch.  “As they’ll take several hours, this might be as good a time as any for you all to say good-bye.”

“Already?” asked Nate.

Mom smiled reassuringly.  “You can visit tomorrow when I have more time, honey.  Come here and give me a hug.”

His chin trembling, Nate crossed the room and threw his arms around Mom’s neck.  “’Bye, Mom.”

“We’ll visit first thing tomorrow,” said Travis, bending to kiss Mom on the cheek.

“You’d better,” she warned with a mock frown.  “Ali?”

“What, Mom?”

“Come here and say good-bye.”

Slowly, I walked to the bed.  Once more feeling as if I were trapped in some unspeakable nightmare, I placed my arms around my mother and gave her a hug.  “See you tomorrow,” I said softly.

14

Our entire family visited Mom at the hospital on Saturday and again on Sunday.  Both times my father, preoccupied with my mother’s worsening reaction to her chemotherapy, had little to say to any of us, including me.  As he still hadn’t mentioned my role in a CBS news crew being present at the Frenches’ house on Tuesday, I was beginning to believe he hadn’t made the connection.

Monday morning, following a mostly sleepless weekend, I left for CBS before 6 AM to avoid rush-hour traffic.  When I arrived at the newsroom, Lauren Van Owen was already present.  “Quite the early bird, aren’t you?” the bureau chief remarked as I entered.

I shrugged.  “Couldn’t sleep.  Figured I might as well get something done.”

“A compulsive worker,” Lauren noted approvingly.  “I like that in an employee.  Speaking of which, I want to compliment you again on that tip you gave Brent.  Your hunch about the police search really paid off.  Our share numbers were up dramatically on that story.”