Allison (A Kane Novel) (49 page)

The scrolling words on the TelePrompTer ended.  At this point I was supposed to sign off and turn things back over to the anchor.  Suddenly I knew I needed to say more.  “On a personal note, I would like to add a few brief words.”

I felt a current of panic sweep through the newsroom.  Ignoring it, I continued.  “We in the media called Jordan French’s death a
story
, and that’s the way we treated it—as if covering the young girl’s murder were simply something to boost ratings.  In our rush to report every lurid detail, we forgot that Jordan’s death was a heartrending loss for those who loved her.  We as journalists should be better than that, me included.  This is Allison Kane, CBS News, Los Angeles.”

The New York anchor came back on, moving smoothly to the next story as though nothing were amiss.  My broadcast finished, I turned to a roomful of disbelieving stares.

Brent was first to recover.  He strode forward, thrusting his chin within inches of my face.  “You conniving little bitch!” he snarled, spittle spraying my face.  “You’re not fooling anyone with your holier-than-thou bullshit.”

Though I flinched, I stood my ground.  “Mike was right about you, Brent,” I said.  “For you, this job is about money and celebrity and getting to the top.  Anything for a story.  And if people get hurt and lives are destroyed in the process—tough.”

“And you’re different, I suppose.”

“I plan to change.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Brent spat.  “As for the Jordan French case, I won’t apologize to you or anyone else for how I cover a crime piece.  That girl’s death was a national story, and people wanted to know what happened.  We’re a hard-news station and we told them.  That’s our job.”

“Maybe it’s
your
job.  I want something more.”

“And what would that be?”

“I want to do something I can be proud of,” I replied.  “Not like what we just did.”

Brent’s eyes turned cold.  “Screw you, Allison.”

“Same to you, Brent.”

Lauren, who after the broadcast had rushed to her office to answer a flood of phone calls, signaled to me through her office door.  “Allison, please come in here.”

I turned, leaving Brent fuming.  Upon entering the bureau chief’s office, I stood in front of her desk, not bothering to close the door.  “If you want to chew me out, go ahead,” I said.  “I know that I—”

“I don’t intend to chew you out,” Lauren replied, hanging up the phone.  “Not right now, anyway.  But don’t get me wrong.  I don’t condone what you just did.  I know you were probably following your conscience, but everyone here at the bureau is going to pay for it—especially me.  Given the circumstance, however, I think I understand.  You really are your father’s daughter.”

“Am I fired?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned,” Lauren sighed.  “Management may feel differently.  We’ll see.  Even if they do want you out, I suspect that there will be a position waiting for you at another network.  Maybe several.”

I remained silent.

“But your unauthorized speech isn’t why I called you in,” Lauren added quietly, her expression turning to one of concern.  “I’m sorry, Ali.  I just got a call from your dad.  He’s at the hospital.  He wants you over there right away.”

34

Upon arriving at UCLA Medical Center, I found my father in the Transplant Unit waiting room.  Travis, Nate, and Grandma Dorothy were there, too—Travis standing by the window, Dorothy sitting erect in an armchair nearby, Nate slumped beside Dad on a couch by the door.  Overcome with foreboding, I stepped inside.  Travis looked at me somberly.  The others turned toward me as well.  No one smiled.  “What . . . what’s wrong?” I stammered, afraid to hear the answer.

“Your mom’s fever is back,” my father replied, his words dropping like stones.  “It’s higher than ever.  I got a call from Dr. Miller.  He doesn’t think . . .”  Dad’s voice broke.  He looked away.  “He said it was time to gather the family.”

I clapped a hand to my mouth, feeling as if I’d been struck.

“I phoned Father Donovan,” Dad went on quietly.  “He’s on his way.”

Speechless, I felt my knees begin to buckle.  The room started to spin.  I couldn’t breathe.

Dad rose and crossed the room, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me.  “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, trying to clear my vision.  “I . . . I can’t believe . . .”

Dad’s strong arms encircled me.  I buried my face in his chest, wanting to cry.  I found I could not.

Wordlessly, my father led me to the couch and sat beside me, his arm still around my shoulders.  Nate shifted closer on the other side, his cheeks streaked with tears.

“Can I see her?” I finally managed.

“In a while,” Dad answered numbly.  “The doctors are in there now.  She’s been delirious.  They have her heavily sedated,” he went on quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.  “I talked with her earlier.  She said she hated feeling weak.  She said she hated the thought of not being around to see you kids grow up, of not being there to help you over the rough spots and share in your lives and see you get married and have kids of your own.  Can you believe that?  Even with all that’s happening to her, she’s thinking of us.”  Dad stared at his hands.  “Weak?  She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

“Dad, I’m so sorry about everything that . . . that’s been going on,” I said miserably, knowing my words were coming too late.  “Between Mom and me, and between you and me, and . . . everything.  I’m so sorry about the way I’ve been acting—”

“Now’s not the time, Ali.”

I glanced at the others in the room, then back at Dad.  “I just want you to know it won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t,” said Dad, tightening his arm around me.  “The subject’s closed.”

The room drifted into silence, each family member taking consolation from the other’s presence, yet each lost in his or her own thoughts.  Solitary, interminable minutes passed, turning into hours.  At 6:30 PM Father Donovan, our parish priest, visited Mom and administered Last Rites.  After he left, we all took turns sitting with Mom, whose condition swung from transitory moments of awareness to progressively longer spells of delirium and unconsciousness.  Around 8 PM Dad insisted that Dorothy and the rest of us get something to eat in the hospital cafeteria.  He kept watch on the tenth floor, saying he wasn’t hungry.

Despite the antibiotics and other drugs being administered, Mom’s condition steadily deteriorated.  Later that evening, when I questioned an intern leaving Mom’s room, the doctor answered evasively—saying that everything possible was being done and now it was in God’s hands.  In desperation, I attempted to pray.  No matter how hard I tried, the words wouldn’t come.

At a little before midnight, after taking my turn sitting with Mom, I returned to the waiting room, feeling like I was going to explode.  I suddenly realized that I had to get away, if only for a few minutes.  Plus there was something I wanted to bring back for Mom.  I had cleared it with Mom’s doctor earlier that week, and now I wished I had given it to her sooner.  Fearing I was too late, I told Dad that I was going to get some air and that I wouldn’t be gone long.  He nodded without seeming to hear me. 

Feeling guilty for leaving, I rushed to my UCLA dorm room across the street, changed clothes, and hurried back to the hospital, having been gone no more than fifteen minutes.  Nothing had changed.  Everyone was still gathered in the waiting room except Dorothy, who was taking her turn keeping vigil at Mom’s side.  Dad was pacing the floor like a caged animal, his long strides measuring the confines of the claustrophobic chamber.  Travis sat slumped in a chair, staring at the wall.  Nate had fallen asleep on the couch.

Numbly, I joined my younger brother on the couch.  Though I tried to stay awake, I gradually found myself dozing, floating between the hateful reality of consciousness and the forgetful oblivion of slumber.  Nod by nod, I drifted off.  And as I slept, I dreamed.

I’m younger, having just turned thirteen.  Summer vacation is nearly over.  Mom and I are driving down the coast highway, heading to the Santa Monica Mall to shop for new clothes and school supplies for the coming year.  Mom is sitting behind the wheel of her old Volvo; I’m beside her in the front seat.  It’s a gorgeous afternoon, the sun strong and bright, a faint hint of approaching autumn in the air.

Mom is in a buoyant mood.  Our entire family recently attended one of Travis’s piano recitals, and she’s humming a passage from a Chopin polonaise that Trav performed for his opening piece.  Then, in a musical non sequitur, my mother switches to a different melody.  It’s a song she used to sing to me when she tucked me in bed.  It’s one of my earliest memories: 
Summertime
, from the Gershwin musical
Porgy and Bess.
  Listening, I think that even my mother’s singing is perfect, hearing in her voice the beauty and grace and everything I’m not and never will be.

After the first verse, Mom glances over.  “Remember this, Ali?  Singing it used to be the only way I could get you to go to sleep.”

“I remember.”

“You should.  God knows, you heard it enough.”  Mom embarks on the second verse, her voice heartbreakingly clear and true.

One of these mornings, you’re going to rise up singing,

Then you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky.

But until that morning, there’s nothing can harm you,

With your daddy and mammy standing by.

A pause.  Mom starts again.

Summertime, and the living is easy,

Fish are jumping—

She glances over.  “C’mon, Ali.  Sing with me.”

I shake my head.  “I don’t feel like it, Mom.”

Mom continues, still encouraging me to sing.

—and the cotton is high.

Oh, your daddy’s rich, and your mamma’s good lookin’,

So hush, little Ali, don’t you cry.

“C’mon, honey.  You know the words.  Sing with me.”

Perversely, I refuse to join in—wanting to, but knowing I can’t . . . and not knowing why.  Unable to meet my mother’s gaze, I stare out the window all the way to the mall.

Travis nudged me awake.  I sat up and rubbed my eyes.  Shafts of sunlight streamed into the room through venetian blinds, splashing against the opposite wall.  Dad was standing in the doorway, conferring with Dr. Miller.  From my father’s bleary eyes, I knew he had been awake all night.  I straightened my shoulders, feeling guilty for having slept.

Dad and the doctor entered the room.  Dorothy was the first to speak.  “Has there been a change?”

Dr. Miller hesitated.

“What is it?  What’s happened?” Dorothy demanded.

“Catheryn’s temperature has stabilized,” the doctor replied.  “Her white blood cell count is up, too.”

“What does that mean?” asked Nate.

“It means that your mother is a strong woman.  She’s a fighter.”

“Will she be all right?”

Again, Dr. Miller hesitated.  “She has a long way to go, but she’s turned a corner,” he said cautiously.  “Graft-versus-host disease may still be a problem, but the marrow transplant appears to be taking.  I think the worst may be over.”

“Is she awake?” asked Travis.  “Can we see her?”

“Yes, you can.  I don’t want her overstrained, so go in separately and please keep your visits short.”  Dr. Miller turned to Dad.  “She asked to see you first.”

When Dad returned, he seemed changed.  Though he still looked exhausted, a deeper strain that had been present in his face was gone.  For the first time in weeks, he seemed at peace.  “You’re up, kid,” he said with a tired smile, glancing at me.

“Me?”  I looked at Travis and Dorothy and Nate, then back at my father.  “But I thought she . . .”

“She wants to see you next.  Keep it short.”

“I will,” I promised, grabbing a package I had brought with me from the dorm.  Filled with apprehension, I stopped at the nurses station, donned a hospital mask and gown, and hurried down the hallway.  Upon reaching Mom’s room, I entered and closed the door behind me.

My mother gazed up at me from her bed.  “Hello, Allison,” she said weakly.

“Hi, Mom.”  I crossed to a cabinet near the bathroom, carefully set my package on top, and washed my hands with alcohol.  Then, self-consciously, I moved to Mom’s side.

Mom reached out, taking my hand.  “Thank you again for being my marrow donor.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I said, feeling more guilty than ever.

“Yes, I do,” said Mom.  “You know, I’ve always thought of you as being a part of me.  Now you really are.”

I recalled our last conversation on the subject.  “You may regret that.  Dr. Miller said you’re likely to get my allergies, remember?”

“Like your aversion to being told what to do?” Mom asked, playing along.

I smiled.  “According to Dad, you’ve always had your own aversion to that.”  Then, my smile fading, “Mom, I’m so sorry for . . . for everything.”

“I know, Ali.  You don’t have to say anything.”

“I want to,” I insisted.  “I’ve been afraid that I wouldn’t get to tell you this, and I need to get it off my chest.  I only wish I had done it sooner.”  I paused, then continued softly.  “I’m sorry about what I said to you on the plane.  And I’m sorry about all the blowups we’ve had lately.  Most of all, I’m sorry for shutting you out all these years.  I didn’t mean to.  I just couldn’t stop.”

“But why?  Is it something I did?” Mom asked.  “Was it what you said on our trip to Washington?  You accused me of putting our family second—implying that I regretted having a family because it interfered with my career.  Was that it?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Ali, I’ve done things in my life that I regret, but having you and Travis and Nate and Tom is definitely not one of them.  When you have kids of your own, you’ll understand.”

I shook my head.  “As I told you before, I don’t think that particular scenario is in the cards for me.”

Mom smiled.  “And as I told
you
before, we’ll see.  But my career isn’t the real issue between us, is it?”