Allison (A Kane Novel) (24 page)

When the food arrived, I found it as tantalizingly delicious as it had sounded.  “Mmmm, you were right about this place,” I murmured between bites, captivated by the layering of flavors in each piquant sauce, especially the tar-black
mole negro
with its lingering hint of bitter chocolate.  “My taste buds think they’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Our conversation continued unabated during the meal, Mike and I talking easily of our lives as we shared the wonderfully unusual fare spread before us.  I learned that Mike had graduated from Lincoln High School in Santa Monica, then spent four semesters at Santa Monica College before transferring to UCLA for his last two years, graduating cum laude.  Surprisingly, his undergraduate major had been mathematics, a course of study he admitted having followed simply because he was good at it.  Instead of continuing the postgraduate highway to a career in academia, however, he had taken a left turn and applied to film school, deciding to pursue a lifelong love of movies.  Accepted at both USC and UCLA, he had chosen UCLA, supporting himself by working as a part-time photographer at KCBS.  After he graduated from film school, Mike’s temporary job at the news station had turned permanent.  It was something he seemed reluctant to discuss, although he spoke openly about everything else.

For my part, I found myself opening up as well.  I talked freely of my family, my job on the school newspaper, my writing, and my recent decision to become a journalist.  Mike raised an eyebrow at the latter but didn’t comment, instead steering the discussion back to my writing.

“You write every day, huh?” he said, sliding a tray of different
moles
across the table.  “With school and now your new job, how do you find time?”

“I get up early,” I answered.  “A perverted predilection I picked up from my dad.”

“He gets up early and writes, too?”

“Not hardly,” I laughed.  “My dad’s not exactly a lover of literature.  His idea of a good book is one with lots of colored pictures.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re his daughter.  Plus I know a bit about cops.”

“Perhaps I’m exaggerating a little,” I conceded.  “He does read the newspaper.  The sports section, mostly.  And the funnies.”

“Yeah, sure.  So you get up early . . .”

“. . . go for a run, shower, and put in a couple of hours at the keyboard.  Usually I’m out of bed by five-thirty or so.  Lately with my job at CBS, I’ve been getting up even earlier.”

“Sounds rough.”

“Writing?  Not really.  I love it.”

“Why?”

I hesitated, taken off guard by the question.  “I suppose because it gives me a chance to do something creative,” I replied, not certain myself.  “I don’t have any illusions about penning the Great American Novel or setting the literary world on its ear, but when I’m working on a story, when I’m completely
immersed
in it, I feel good.  Like you do with your camera work, I imagine.”

Mike remained silent.

“Even when I’m not at the keyboard, I’m constantly thinking about my plots and scenes and characters—especially when things are going well,” I continued, warming to the subject.  “You’d laugh if you saw my notepads.  I have them stashed everywhere—beside my bed, on the dashboard of the car, in my purse.  I’ll be walking to class or watching TV or whatever and stumble across something I can use, so I jot it down.  Sometimes I even wake up in the middle of the night with ideas that seem to percolate out of my dreams.  It’s as if my brain’s chewing on things in the background without my conscious mind even knowing it.

“Have you had anything published?”

“Yep,” I replied, unable to mask my pride.  “Two of my short stories have made it to print—one in
Asimov’s Science Fiction
, another in a mystery magazine you’ve probably never heard of.  I’ve also been writing articles for the UCLA
Daily Bruin
.”

“News and mystery and science fiction?” Mike mused.  “Interesting mix.  I would love to read some of your work.”

“If you want, I’ll give you a copy of the story that ran in
Asimov’s Science Fiction
,” I suggested.  “It’s not bad, if I do say so myself.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Daniel’s Song
.”

“I look forward to reading it.  What are you working on now?”

“A novel.”

“What’s it about?”

“A family.”

“Contemporary?”

“Yes.”

“Where does it take place?”

“Los Angeles, mostly.”

“Autobiographical?”

I glanced away.  “Not exactly.”

“At least give me a clue.  How does it begin?”

“Two brothers are rock climbing in the High Sierra.”

“And . . . ?”

“And they have an accident.  Listen, I’d rather not talk about my novel.”

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Can I read it when you’re done?”

Again, I looked away.  “I don’t think so, Mike.  I’m not planning on showing it to anyone, assuming I ever get it finished.”

“Then why are you writing it?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, failing to answer a question I had pondered more than once.

Twenty minutes later, as I finished the last of my
nicuatole
, a tasty gelatin dessert that had capped off the meal, I looked up to find Mike studying me pensively.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.  Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About why someone who’s obviously a budding writer would want to go into television journalism.”

I frowned.  “You’re the one who got me the job.”

Mike raised his hands.  “I know, I know.”

“Sorry.  It’s a sore subject,” I backtracked, aware I had been on the verge of overreacting.  “My mom’s been riding me about it.”

“And what do you say to her?”

“I try not to talk about it,” I replied, recalling my argument with Mom on our flight to Washington.  “She thinks that because my older brother Travis is a musical prodigy, I should be gifted, too.  She won’t accept something I learned a long time ago:  No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be in Trav’s league in the creativity department.  Not in a million years.”

“How do you know if you don’t give it a shot?”

“You sound like her.”

“Sorry,” Mike apologized.  “So instead of writing fiction, you’ve decided to set your sights on a career in which hard work, guts, and determination can pay off.  I understand that.  But why TV news?”

“To tell you the truth, that wasn’t my goal—at least not at first,” I admitted.  “Originally I pictured myself in print journalism.  Now I’m not so sure.  The problem is, nobody reads much anymore.  The average American adult spends four hours a day in front of a TV.  Can you guess how much time gets spent reading a book?”

“No idea.”

“Four minutes,” I said.  “Which begs the question:  Why bother writing?  TV is what the public wants—short sound-bites combined with the raw power of pictures—and television gives it to them.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking with Brent.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.  He’s been more than helpful, and he thinks I have a chance of making it in television news.  Of course, right now I’m at the bottom of the heap, but I’ve already made some progress.”

Mike nodded.  “So I’ve heard.  Brent told me that your tip about your dad’s search warrant put CBS on top of the ratings again last week.”

I detected a note of reservation in Mike’s voice.  “You don’t approve?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what?  If I can use my father’s position to get an inside track and nobody gets hurt in the process, why shouldn’t I?”

Mike leaned forward.  “Look, I’m not making value judgments here.  What goes on between you and your father is your business.  I’m just saying that I know how things are at CBS, or at any news station, and with your dad being the—”

I cut him off, again sensing his disapproval.  “I’m a big girl,” I snapped.  “I can take care of myself.”

“In other words, mind my own business?”

“Not in other words,” I shot back, my anger getting the better of me.  “Those words are fine.”

The atmosphere abruptly frosting, Mike paid the bill and escorted me to the parking lot in silence.  When we reached his pickup, he fumbled with his keys, inserted one in the passenger-side door, and unlocked the truck.  But instead of opening the door, he turned to me.  “Listen, I’m sorry about what happened inside,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you can’t handle yourself at CBS, or that the reason you were hired was because of your dad.”

At the mention again of my father, I fought back another surge of resentment.  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” I said.  “I didn’t mean to blow up like that.  I have somewhat of a temper, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“
Somewhat
of a temper?” Mike chuckled.  “If we’re going to keep going out, I’ll have to remember that.”

“Who says we’re going to keep going out?”

“I do.”

“In that case, I’ll attempt to keep my temper under control.”

Mike moved closer, still holding my eyes with his.  “Good.”

Awash in a rush of nervous anticipation, I tried to speak but couldn’t.  It was a moment I had expected, unsure whether I wanted it to come or not.  But when Mike gently lifted my chin and brought his lips to mine, I closed my eyes and kissed him back, a shiver of excitement coursing up my spine.

Mike touched my hair, then let his hand drop to his side.  “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he said.  He held me in his gaze a moment longer, then opened the Toyota’s passenger door.  “I suppose I should get you back.  Tomorrow’s a work day.”

“Mike?” I said, at last finding my voice.  “I . . . I’m really sorry about what happened inside.  It was my fault for being too sensitive.  Aside from that, I had a good time tonight.”

“Just good?”

I grinned.  “Good’s a start,” I replied.  “Let’s leave room for improvement.”

“It’s a deal.”

Again, I hesitated.  “Mike, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.  What?”

“On our way back, could you drop me by Saint John’s Health Center?”

Mike looked puzzled.  “Is something wrong?”

“My mom’s there.  She . . . she’s being treated for leukemia.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry, Ali, I didn’t know.  Of course I’ll take you.  I’ll wait outside and drive you home afterward.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said.  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.  Anyway, my dad’s staying with Mom till she’s over the worst, so I can get a ride from him or take a cab.”

“I’ll be glad to wait.”

“I appreciate your offer, but just drop me off.  And Mike?”

“What?”

“I meant what I said about having a good time tonight.  Thanks.”

16

Still thinking of Mike’s kiss, I pushed through the doors of the Santa Monica Boulevard entrance into St. John’s, signing in at the visitors’ desk inside.  After riding an elevator to the fourth floor, I walked down a wide hallway leading to my mother’s room.  I hesitated when I arrived.  When I had asked Mike to drop me at the Health Center, visiting my mother had made perfect sense, even at that late hour.  Now, as I stood outside my mother’s room, I began to have doubts.  Maybe Mom was already asleep.  My dad was staying over, too.  Knock? I wondered.

I tapped gently.

No response.

I turned the doorknob and stepped inside.  A glow from the lights of Santa Monica lit the small room, the dim illumination from the window augmented by a number of red and green LED readouts on the monitoring machines and IMED medication pumps stationed by Mom’s bed.  Accompanying the medical machines, several IV stands with fluid-filled bags stood guard beside her as well.  Framed pictures of our family sat atop a mobile cabinet nearby; balloons and an assortment of Nate’s drawings adorned the walls.  Still fully dressed from work, Dad was slumped on a cot near the window.  He glanced up as I entered.  “Ali.  What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

“I was in the area and thought I’d stop by,” I replied, struck by the bone-weary exhaustion in his voice.  “How’s Mom?”

Dad sat up.  “Today was a rough one.  She’s sleeping now.  Don’t wake her.”

I moved closer to Mom’s bed, my heart dropping at her appearance.  Over the past days her features had steadily taken on a skeletal gauntness, as though her flesh were melting away.

“Dr. Kratovil said everything is going as planned,” Dad went on numbly, his voice barely a whisper.  “She also told me that the HLA blood tests came back today.  Grandma, Travis, and Nate aren’t even close, but it seems you would make an acceptable marrow donor.”

“Me?” I said, surprised at the news—recalling from my computer research that typically only siblings stood a chance of being human-leukocyte-antigen compatible, with children of the marrow recipient rarely so.

Dad nodded.  “The doc said something about your being a better match than the haploid-identical three-locus match they expected, whatever that means, along with also being ABO compatible.  You’re not perfect, but if we need a donor and the registry doesn’t come up with somebody better, it looks like you’ll do.”

I also recalled from my internet inquiry that a six-locus match was considered ideal for an allogenic graft, but even that wasn’t perfect unless the transfer took place between identical twins.  Worse, allogenic bone-marrow transplants were dangerous, with grave side effects and a significant mortality rate.  “It won’t come to that,” I said.  “Mom will be fine.”

“I know,” Dad said.

“You’re tired, Dad.  Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?  I’ll stay here tonight.”

“Thanks, but no.”

Not knowing what to say, I eased down beside my father on the cot.  We sat in silence, staring at the bed.  Minutes passed.  Just as I had decided it was time to go, Dad’s cell phone buzzed.  He pulled it from his jacket pocket.  “Kane,” he said quietly.  A pause, then, “Thanks, Lieutenant.  She’s doing okay.  Hold on a sec.”  Covering the phone with his hand, he glanced at me.  “Stick around.  I want a word with you before you leave.”