Allison (A Kane Novel) (27 page)

Two nights later, following a tiring day at work and an even more exhausting visit with my mother at the hospital, I lay on my dorm room bed.  Glumly, I stared at the ceiling, thinking that my on-air debut as a network reporter hadn’t proved as satisfying as I’d hoped.  Covering the news was one thing;
being
the news was another.

My cell phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts.  Rolling over, I grabbed my phone.  “Hello?”

“Hi, Ali.  Mike here.  I thought I’d extend my congratulations on your breaking into the big time.”

I hadn’t talked with Mike since our date.  His voice sounded reassuring, a familiar note in a world that seemed progressively spinning out of control.  “Do you mean it?” I asked, recalling his low opinion of the news.

“Absolutely,” said Mike.  “You pulled off what no one else had been able to do—get one of the Frenches to talk on-camera.  And to think I warned you to be careful around Brent.  Knowing him, I’m sure he’s fuming.”

“There wasn’t time for him to get there,” I explained, sounding unconvincing even to myself.

“Don’t worry, I’m on your side,” Mike said lightly.  “So how’s about we get together tomorrow night for a little celebrating?”

“Friday?”

“Today’s Thursday, so that sounds about right.”

“Sorry, Mike.  I can’t.  I’m visiting my mom tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”

“Our entire family is meeting at the hospital to mark the end of her third week.  Seven more days and she’s out, at least for a while.”

“That’s great, Ali.  I’m really glad to hear that.”

“Me, too.  Listen, I’ve been swamped at work and visiting my mom, but after her release we’re having a party at the beach.  It’ll be a combo birthday bash and a homecoming celebration for Mom.  Sunday, the eleventh, beginning around noon.  Would you like to come?”

“Sure,” said Mike.  “It’s your mom’s birthday?”

“No.  Mine.”

“Well, happy birthday in advance.  How old will you be?”

“Twenty.  And no presents.”

“Whatever you say.  Who’s coming?”

“Oh, probably several hundred of our closest friends,” I sighed, trying to sound matter-of-fact and almost succeeding.  “My dad will invite all his pals at work, meaning at least half the department.  Mom and my brother Travis will call their music associates, and there’ll be at least thirty or forty neighbors—not to mention my kid brother Nate’s baseball buddies.  Plus, I invited friends from school.  Even a few from CBS.”

“Brent?”

“Actually, Brent sort of invited himself.  Not that he isn’t welcome, as far as I’m concerned, but with the French case and all, my dad . . .”

“. . . may not be overly thrilled to see him.”

“That’s an understatement you would have to know my father to appreciate.”

“I’ve met your father,” said Mike.

“You have?  When?”

“A long time ago.  Listen, I have to go, but I appreciate the party invitation.  I’ll definitely be there.  Text me the address.  And again, congratulations.”

“Thanks.  See you, Mike.”

After hanging up, I lay on my bed replaying our conversation, wondering how Mike knew my father and wishing I had asked.  Finally giving up, I padded downstairs to fix myself something to eat, again thinking that Mike Cortese was full of surprises.

19

When I arrived at the hospital the next evening, Travis and Nate were already there, along with Grandma Dorothy.  With all of us present, Mom’s small room seemed almost festive.  Adding to the party ambiance, Nate’s collection of pencil-and-watercolor sketches had grown to blanket almost one entire wall.  In addition, a tether of colored balloons rose from the foot of the bed, and a chocolate cake, its three candles still unlit, sat atop a nearby cabinet.  The IV stands, monitors, and medication pumps were still present too, their forbidding presence a depressing reminder of why Mom was there.

As I entered, Mom turned toward me and smiled.  By now having lost most of her hair, she wore a stylish white turban, and for the evening’s gathering she had applied a touch of makeup to her face and lips.  Despite all she had been through, she was still beautiful.  “Hi, Ali,” she said.  “Just in time for cake.”

“Hi, Mom,” I replied, noting with relief that although she hadn’t regained her appetite and was still being fed intravenously, her features had lost some of the skeletal gauntness that had accompanied the worst of her treatment.  “Cake time, huh?” I said, crossing the room to wash my hands.  “Want me to light the candles?”

“Let’s wait for Dad,” suggested Nate.  “He’s coming, isn’t he?”

“He’s coming,” said Grandma Dorothy.  “He called from work to say he might be a little late.  I told him to get here on time, but of course he never listens to me,” she added tartly, a look of fondness in her eyes belying her tone.  “Irritating man.  It would serve him right if we just went ahead without him.”

I smiled at Grandma, not for the first time noticing her resemblance to my mother.  Though in her early sixties, Grandma Dorothy was still a strikingly attractive woman.

“Let’s give Dan a couple more minutes,” suggested Mom.  Then, turning to Travis, “Tell me about your Seattle recitals, Trav.  How did they go?”

“Great,” answered Travis.  “Speaking of which, I talked with the Van Cliburn committee about canceling the last of my engagements.  You’ll be back at St. John’s by then, and I—”

“No,” Mom broke in firmly.  “We’ve discussed this before.  Grandma is taking care of things at home, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t honor your commitments.”

“But—”

“No buts, Travis.”

Travis sighed.  “Yes, ma’am.”

Sliding into a chair beside Travis, I shot my brother a sympathetic grin.  Then, to my mother, “You’re looking better, Mom.”

Mom reached out and gave my hand a squeeze.  “Thanks.”

“Hey, guess what?” said Nate from the other side of the bed.  “I’m gonna get to play in the AAU finals.”

“AAU?”  Mom looked puzzled.  “I swear, I can’t keep track of your baseball schedule these days.  The last I heard, you were in a Pony League all-star tournament.”

“Yep,” Nate replied proudly.  “We lost the last round of the sectionals, though.  Anyway, the AAU finals are coming up.  The team that won the regionals is missing a player.  They want me to fill in.”

“That’s wonderful, Nate.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?  I won’t if you—”

“I want you to play,” Mom insisted.  “I’m just sorry that I’m missing so much of your season by being in here.”  Then, still holding my hand, she turned back to me.  “At least one of my children isn’t hesitant about getting on with her life.”

“We all saw your news piece, Ali,” said Travis.  “Impressive, sis.”

“Yeah,” Nate chimed in.  “That was really cool.  Did you get paid a lot?”

“I wish,” I said.  “Although there is talk of letting me do other on-air spots.  If that happens, I might get a raise.  Maybe my press credentials, too.”

“This
is
just a summer job, isn’t it?” asked Grandma.  “You still plan to transfer to USC in the fall?”

Faced with a question that had increasingly occupied my thoughts, I squirmed uncomfortably.

“Of course she’ll be continuing her college education in the fall,” Mom answered for me.  “Dropping out of summer session was one thing; not completing her education isn’t even up for discussion.”

The mood in the room suddenly chilled.  I withdrew my hand from my mother’s grasp.  “I haven’t made up my mind one way or the other on that, Mom,” I said slowly.  “But what would be so wrong with my taking off a semester and getting some job experience?  After all, if I want to be a journalist, why not—”

“Allison, hounding some poor woman in a parking lot is
not
journalism.  You’re a blossoming writer.  It would be a terrible mistake for you to drop out of school.”

“Dad thinks the poor woman you say I
hounded
may be involved in her daughter’s death,” I countered.

“Is that what
you
think?”

“What I think is not the point.  Reporters aren’t supposed to take sides.”

“So what
is
the point?”

“The point is that Mrs. French is news.  And people want to hear what she has to say.”

“Even if she doesn’t want to say it.”

“Right,” I retorted.

“How about if we cut the cake now?” interjected Nate.

“In a minute, honey,” said Mom.  “This is important.”  Paled from exertion, she started to add something but was overcome by fit a coughing.  Scowling at me, Nate picked up a box of tissues and handed it to Mom.

Though regretting my quarrel with my mother, I pushed ahead anyway.  “I appreciate your concern, Mom, but I’m old enough to make my own decision on this.  And if I want to take time off from college, I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

“What’s wrong is that you should be focusing on your studies,” Mom finally managed over her coughing.  “Especially your writing.  Journalism may prove to be a satisfactory outlet for your talents, Ali.  But not like this.”

“Nothing I do is ever good enough for you, is it?” I snapped, stung once more by her tone.  “Mom, everyone can’t be a concert cellist like you, or a prodigy like Travis.  The rest of us have to make do with what we’ve got.”

“You have a lot more going for you than you think, and I would hate to see you waste it,” Mom said, struck by another fit of coughing.  “Please trust me.  I know I’m right about this.”

“You’re
always
right,” I shot back, recalling that I had said the same thing to her on the plane.

“Ali, shut up!” Nate shouted.  “Don’t say another word to Mom.  Just shut up.”

I stared at my younger brother, startled by his outburst.

Nate glowered back.  “Why do you always have to be so mean?” he demanded, close to tears.

“Nate . . .”

“Get out.  We don’t want you here.”

I glanced at Travis, then at Grandma Dorothy.  Neither met my gaze.  With an angry shrug, I stood.  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom.”

“Please don’t go,” Mom begged, her voice filled with hurt.  “We . . . we haven’t even cut the cake yet.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said.  “I’m sorry I lost my temper,” I added, regretting my earlier words but knowing I couldn’t take them back.  Feeling everyone’s eyes upon me, I hurried out the door.

Seconds later, as I made my way down the hall, I noticed my father exiting one of the elevators on Mom’s floor.  Dad looked tired, the strain he was under clearly having taken its toll.  “Party over?” he asked as I approached.

I avoided his gaze.  “Not yet.  They’re holding off cutting the cake till you arrive.”

“Why aren’t you in there?”

“I have things to do at work.”

“Is that right?”  Dad looked at me sternly.  “Well, speaking of that, I caught your interview with Mrs. French.  Damn it, Allison, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?”

I looked away, exasperated at walking out of one argument and into another.  “What is this, pick on Allison night?”

“If the shoe fits, Allison.  In case you don’t know, everyone on the French investigation is taking heat about leaks to the media.  Now that the word is out you’re working for CBS, can you guess who the brass are looking at whenever the subject of leaks comes up?  Me.”  Dad hesitated, then added, “And I’m not so sure they don’t have good cause.”

“What do you mean?” I asked guiltily.

“Well, for one thing, I told you that Mr. and Mrs. French being under investigation was off the record, and you agreed to keep your yap shut.  Next thing I know, it’s headline news.  What’d you do, blab to someone at CBS?  Lauren, maybe?”

I looked away.  “I . . . I mentioned it to Brent,” I admitted.  “But I told him it was off the record.  I didn’t realize he could use it anyway if he got independent confirmation from someplace else.  Which he did.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed.  “Where?”

“The DA’s office.”

“That’s what I thought.”  Glaring, Dad began cracking his knuckles.  He glanced toward Mom’s door down the hall, then back at me.  “Do you understand the position you’re putting me in?” he demanded, lowering his voice.  “Have you seen the tabloids?  ‘Detective’s Daughter Scoops Network Reporters!’  You’re making it look like I’m running some kind of Chinese fire drill.”

“I can’t help that,” I said.

“Bull,” Dad said, his temper now barely in check.  “For one thing, you could quit that so-called job of yours.”

“And what good would that do?  The damage is already done.  I’m not quitting my job.  But in the future I’ll do my best to stay out of your way on the French case.”

“Like you have so far?”  Fuming, Dad strode down the corridor without looking back.

I watched as my father entered Mom’s room.  Then, with a despondent sigh, I turned toward the elevators, again recalling my resolution never to do anything to make my family’s problems worse.

Well, that promise is certainly shot to hell, I thought glumly.

Arriving at the elevators, I thumbed the call button, wondering whether I should simply quit my job at CBS, move home, and make everyone happy.

No, a stubborn part of my mind replied.

Why not?

Because it’s not what
I
want.

And what is it that I want?
I asked myself.  What is it I want so bad that I’m willing to fight everyone to get it?  Being a hotshot news correspondent like Brent?  Seeing myself on television?  Proving I can do something on my own?  What?

No answer came.

With a chime, an elevator door opened.  I stepped inside and placed a finger on the lobby button.  Then, instead of pushing the button for the ground floor, I exited.  On the day Mom had begun her treatment, my brothers and I had visited a small chapel on the fourth floor, not far from Mom’s room.  On impulse, I decided to visit it again.

With a final glance over my shoulder at Mom’s room, I made my way down the hallway.  After navigating several corridors and passing a nurses station, I found the chapel.  Glumly, I pushed through a heavy door into the deserted chamber beyond.  Before me, several banks of wooden pews sat in front of a white-clothed altar.  Smelling a cloying vestige of incense, I walked past a confessional in the rear, not quite sure why I was there.