Allison (A Kane Novel) (50 page)

“No.”  I lowered my eyes.  Taking a deep breath, I pushed on.  “Mom, all my life I’ve been doing what other people wanted.  That, and vying with Travis for your attention, yours and Dad’s—scrambling to find a place for myself in our family.”  I hesitated, then rushed ahead, my words flooding out now that I had begun.  “When the job at CBS came up, I think I took it to prove something to you and Dad, and maybe to myself as well.  I wanted to succeed so bad I didn’t stop to think about how I got there, or even whether it was what I really wanted.  That’s what I need to find out, Mom.  What
I
want.  I know I can’t compete with Travis and his music, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore.  I need to find my own music, so to speak.  It may not be great, but at least it will be mine.”

“Ali, your writing—”

“At this point I’m not ruling out anything,” I broke in.  “I’m going to return to college next week.  It took some explaining, but I’ve reregistered for classes at USC.  Maybe I’ll keep working at CBS too, at least part-time—assuming they still want me.  And I plan to keep writing.  But the truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.  Not yet, anyway.  But when I find it,
whatever
it is, I’m hoping you’ll support my decision.”

Mom thought a moment.  “I will,” she said.  “As long as you let me be a part.”

I squeezed her hand.  “Deal.”

Mom regarded me pensively.  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

My throat tightened.

“Ali, if we’re going to make a clean breast of things, we have to go all the way.  What is it?”

Again I lowered my gaze.  “Mom, I . . . I’m more sorry than I can say for not telling you what happened the night I was attacked,” I said.  “I wanted to.  I just couldn’t.  I know it’s been a barrier between us ever since, but I didn’t know how to change things.  I didn’t know what I wanted from you . . . or from anybody, for that matter.  All I knew was that I felt helpless and ashamed and that I couldn’t stand anyone’s pity.  I told myself I didn’t need anybody.  I realize now how wrong I was.”

“Ali, you should have let me help.”

“I know,” I said, my eyes stinging.

“Of all my children, I’ve always considered you the strongest,” Mom said sadly.  “From the beginning, you’ve been the strong one.  Even with all that has happened over the years—Tommy’s death and your rape and the night that man attacked us and our house burned and we lost everything—I’ve known you would be all right.  But Ali . . . you don’t always have to be so strong.”

“I know,” I whispered, tears that had eluded me earlier now flowing unbidden.  I tried to stop them but couldn’t, for with my mother’s words came the realization that in my determination not to be a victim, I had turned my back on the very people I most needed and loved.  “Jeez, look at me,” I said, wiping my eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mom said gently.  “If we can’t show our feelings, we might as well be men.”

“You’ve been watching too much Oprah,” I sniffed, laughing through my tears.

“Amen to that,” Mom agreed.

Neither of us said anything for a moment, content to be together with the walls down.  At last I drew in a deep, shuddering breath.  “I’d better be going,” I said.  “Dr. Miller said to keep our visits short, and I think I’ve overstayed my time.”

“You’ll come tomorrow?”

“First thing in the morning.  I promise.”

“Good.  I’ll look forward to it.”

I walked to the cabinet and retrieved the package I had brought from my dorm.  Shyly, I returned to the bed and handed it to my mother.  “Dr. Miller said it would be okay for you to have this.”

Mom took the carton, a brand-new typing-paper box, a red ribbon securing the top.  “The manuscript for your novel?” she guessed.

I nodded.  “You’ll be the first to read it.  I’ve been working on it almost every day this summer.  It still needs polishing, but it’s close to being done.  I haven’t come up with a title yet,” I added, “but I’ll think of something.  Maybe something with a music connection. 
Beach Song
, or
A Song of Summer
—something like that.  Anyway, I . . . I hope you like it.”

Without speaking, Mom cradled the box to her chest.

“It’s not completely autobiographical, but it is about a family like ours,” I continued nervously.  “We’re all in it.  You, and Dad, and Travis and Tom and Nate.  Even me.  Especially me,” I said, finding my mother’s eyes.  “It’s about the summer Tommy died and our family came apart and everything changed.  I told the good parts and the bad, including the part about my attack, relating everything as honestly as I could.  For the longest time I didn’t know why I was writing it.  I just knew it was something I had to do.  Last night I finally figured out why.  I wrote it for you.”

Mom held me in her gaze for a long, silent moment.  “Thank you, Ali.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I know that, Ali,” Mom replied, her eyes shining.  “I’ve always known that.”

Later I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, exhausted and emotionally drained.  Grandma Dorothy and my brothers accompanied me.  Dad stayed with Mom, saying he would call us later.  As we stepped from the elevator, Dorothy asked, “Which way?”

I headed left.  “Follow me.”

“I always feel like a rat in a maze when I’m in this place,” said Travis, trailing me down a wide hallway.

“This is supposedly one of the biggest building complexes in existence,” I remarked, having learned to navigate the interconnected structures of the Medical Center by taking shortcuts through its labyrinthine passageways to other areas of the campus.  “I’ve heard it has more continuous miles of corridors than the Pentagon,” I added absently, still preoccupied with thoughts of Mom.

Arriving at the lobby, I stopped in my tracks.  At the far end of the room, a sea of familiar faces filled the reception area.  Arnie, Lt. Long, Deluca, Banowski, and a huge contingent of other LAPD officers were present, along with McKenzie, Christy, and a host of neighbors from the beach.  Also present were Petrinski and a dozen or more musicians I recognized from the Philharmonic.  “What’s everyone doing here? I asked.

“They’re here for Mom,” Travis answered.  “They’re here for us, too.”

“But how . . . ?”

“I asked McKenzie to make some calls last night,” Travis explained.  “Guess things sort of snowballed.”

Inexplicably, I again found myself on the brink of tears.  “That’s an understatement,” I mumbled.

Within seconds, several people at the far end of the lobby saw us.  Someone said something.  Then everyone in the waiting area turned.  I could see the same question in all their eyes.

Nate bolted forward.  “Mom’s going to be all right!” he yelled, heading across the room at a run.  “She’s going to be all right!”

Smiling, Travis and Dorothy set out after him.  Travis turned back when he noticed I wasn’t following.  “Coming?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, still trying hard not to cry.  “I can’t talk to anyone right now.  Make some excuse for me, will you?”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.  I . . . I just need to be alone.”

“Okay, Ali.  See you later at the beach?”

“Maybe.  I’ll call.”  With a tired wave, I started back down the hall.

“Hey, sis?”

I turned.  “What, Trav?”

“Welcome back.”

After exiting the Medical Center via the Dental School lobby, I paused on the sidewalk outside, wondering what to do next.  I didn’t feel like seeing anyone, but I didn’t feel like returning to my dorm room, either.  More than anything, I needed to be alone.  All at once I remembered the perfect place:  my secret spot in the botanical garden.  Caught in the whirlwind of activity that had recently been my life, I hadn’t visited it all summer.  Now seemed the right time.

Strains of the song from my dream still running through my mind, I crossed the street and took a narrow path leading into the exhibit.  At that early hour the lush garden was deserted, and most of it still lay in shade.  I descended the garden’s western bank, passing empty picnic tables and cement benches along the way.  Minutes later I reached a small stream that wound through the center of the exhibit.

Moving through dappled patches of sunlight, I approached a small waterfall cascading over a jumble of sandstone boulders.  I stopped briefly to admire a chaos of red-flowering turk’s cap running riot up the opposite bank.  In the distance, the campus bell tower struck once, signaling the half hour.  Otherwise, the only sounds I heard were the gurgle of the stream and an occasional scolding from one of the garden’s resident squirrels.

Working my way deeper into the exhibit, I took a path branching to the right, proceeding a dozen yards downstream.  I crossed the creek using a random arrangement of stepping stones.  Then, picking another trail, I climbed partway up the far bank, making for a bench overlooking the stream—an intimate vantage from which only plants and trees were visible, a spot from which one could imagine that the rest of the world were a thousand miles away.

As I rounded an immense stand of bamboo, I froze.  Someone was sitting on the bench in my secluded refuge.  “Mike?” I said, an ache rising within me, a longing I had tried to forget.  “What . . . what are you doing here?”

Mike looked up.  “Waiting for you.”

“How did you know I would be here?”

Mike brushed off my question with a shrug.  “Lucky guess.”  Then, his expression turning serious, “I heard your mother took a turn for the worse.  How is she?”

I took a deep breath, then let it out.  “Not completely out of the woods.  But . . . we think she’s going to make it.”

Mike’s face filled with relief.  “That’s wonderful news, Ali.  I’m happy for you and your family.”

“Thanks, Mike,” I said. “How . . . how did you hear about my mom?”

“I called CBS, trying to find you.  Liz told me that your mom’s condition had turned critical, so I rushed over.  When I saw the crowd in the lobby, I decided to wait for you someplace else.”

“Like here.”

“Uh-huh.”  Using his palm, Mike swept clean a section of bench beside him.  “Join me?”

I sat on the bench, still puzzled by his presence.

“I caught your speech on the news last night,” Mike went on.

“They ran it on the West Coast?” I said, surprised.  “I was sure they would edit me out for rebroadcast.”

Mike grinned.  “No, they left you in—including the last part.  Some suit in New York probably decided that having one of their correspondents publicly examine her conscience gave the network credibility.  They got to air a juicy scandal, grab ratings, and appear concerned with professional ethics at the same time.  Besides, by then everyone had already heard what you said.  Speaking of which, did you know that Brent is getting bumped up to the Washington Bureau?”

I nodded.  “He deserves it.  And Washington deserves him.”

“Nice way to put it,” Mike agreed.

Across the stream, rays of sunlight skittered across the hillside, moving with the swaying branches above.   Reminded of the shifting patterns I had seen on Mike’s bedroom wall, I watched this interplay of light and shadow for a moment, struck by the realization that no matter how one attempted to keep things simple, life somehow always got complicated.  “You mentioned trying to contact me at the newsroom,” I said.  “What did you want?”

Mike took a long time replying.  Then, instead of answering my question, he posed one of his own.  “Ali, do you think it’s possible for two people to start over?”

I didn’t respond.

“I don’t know either, but I want to try,” Mike pushed on.  “I’ve missed you.”

Caught in a conflicting surge of emotion, I continued to remain silent.

“I have the day off,” Mike continued.  “I know a great open-air seafood mart near County Line.  Neptune’s Net.  We could drive up for lunch, then maybe do a hike in the mountains above Point Mugu.  Or hit the beach at Zuma.  Or we could just talk.  What do you say?”

“You’re suggesting that we simply pick up where we left off?”

“No.  I want to start over.  From the beginning.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Mike, we both made mistakes—mostly me, I guess—and for that I’m truly sorry,” I replied.  “But after all that’s happened . . .”

“Please, Ali.  We can’t let things end like this.”  Mike took my shoulders and turned me to face him.  “I wasn’t being completely honest when I said that I’ve missed you.  It’s more than that.  I know we haven’t known each other long, but I liked you from the first moment we met.  It’s hard to describe, but I feel . . .
alive
when I’m with you.  I love having you in my life, Ali.  And I don’t want to lose you.”

My thoughts flashed back to a conversation I’d had with McKenzie earlier that summer.  We had been driving to the beach, and McKenzie had been probing my opinions on romance.

“Remember that story you wrote about a blind girl falling in love for the first time?  It was so romantic, I cried when I read it.  What was the title?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Sure you do.  Your main character went through all these changes, only to finally discover what she truly wanted in life was to have someone who really
knew
her—what food she liked, her taste in music, what side of the bed she slept on, how to make her laugh.”

I glanced down at the bench where I had found Mike waiting.  “You never answered my question.  How did you know I’d be here?”

“Your secret spot?  Actually, I wasn’t sure I would recognize it.”  Mike craned his neck, staring up at a giant eucalyptus towering above us.  “But when I found a bench beneath the tallest tree in the garden, I knew this had to be it.”

“But how did you know I would come?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” I replied.

Mike shrugged.  “I just knew.  I also know that we deserve another chance.  Will you give us one?”

Again my thoughts traveled back, this time transporting me to a Thanksgiving Day years earlier, a day on which Nate and I had accompanied Dad to the cemetery where Tom was buried.  Though our father had picked that particular time and place to make an announcement of his own, it was there, beside Tom’s grave, that I had finally confessed the secret of my rape.  Dad, in his rough way, had tried to reassure me.  Sounding the depths of my memory, I could still hear his words.