Kitty and the Silver Bullet

Chapter 4

Judy Jones reserved tickets for me for the Thursday night concert. Not only that, but I had an invitation to visit Mercedes Cook afterward, with a backstage pass. I was starting to feel like some kind of big deal myself. This was all to butter me up so I'd give a flattering interview. We'd see about that.

I had two tickets, and I wanted a date. Ben didn't want to go.

"That really isn't my kind of thing," he said, working at his desk the day before the concert.

"Have you ever even been to a show like this? World-class singer, world-class concert hall, it'll knock your socks off."

He spared a brief glance over his shoulder. "I'm really not all that into music."

Oh, now he tells me. "Ben, I started my adult life as a radio DJ. You can't live with me and not be into music. Are you saying that all the times I blast The Clash while making dinner you haven't been into it?"

"To be honest, I mostly tune it out."

How the hell do you tune out The Clash? Turned all the way up? Once again I reminded myself that Ben and I were together by accident. Did we even know each other, really?

"Ben, I'd really like to go to this. Together."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Still wouldn't look at me. "Can't you get someone else to go? Maybe your sister."

Uh, no. Not the same. "You know how you keep saying that we've never been on a real date?" We were living together, sleeping together. We were practically married. We'd skipped clean over the whole dating thing and went straight into settled. I wanted to change that. "Can this be it?"

Finally, he turned, stared at me in a way that was almost a wolf challenge—asking for a fight or offering to give one. Then, he gave a sly half smile.

"Are you asking me out?" he said.

"Yeah, I am."

"Well, okay then."

I turned my gaze to the ceiling, as if that would tell me how his brain worked. "You're really obnoxious, you know that?"

He was still grinning when he turned back to his desk.

I convinced Ben to dress up—suit, tie, the works. I knew he could pull out the GQ polish for important courtroom appearances and high-level meetings. The rest of the time, not so much. But we were having a night on the town, and I wanted to go all out. Who knew when we'd ever do anything like this again?

He finished dressing while I was in the shower, and I hurried because I didn't want to be that stereotype of the woman who takes forever to get ready while the guy is in the living room glancing at his watch. Hair dried and up, makeup on, earrings, necklace, little black dress, and strappy heels. I was probably way overdressed, but I didn't care. The dress was a clingy silk number with spaghetti straps, sexy without being trampy. I'd only worn it once before—it had given me good luck then. I contorted in order to see myself in the narrow full-length mirror, making sure the skirt was all smoothed out, that a few wisps of hair were artfully arranged around my face—and rearranged, and arranged again—and that everything was in order.

"Kitty, we'd probably better—" Ben's steps approached just as I bent over to adjust a strap on my shoe one more time. "Wow."

He stopped in the doorway. He stared. I straightened and stared back. The look in his eyes—I found myself blushing in places I didn't know I could blush.

For his part, Ben was wearing his best courtroom suit, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a rust-colored tie. The lines were smooth, giving him a slim, fit appearance, an image of power and privilege. His hair was a touch too long to lay slicked back, so it flopped over his forehead, with a rakish, mischievous air. Put a pair of Ray-Bans on him, he'd be downright scary. Dreamily scary.

"Wow yourself," I said. I resisted an urge to lick my lips, but I did gulp a little.

"You, ah, clean up pretty well." His voice seemed a bit subdued, and he'd started fidgeting with his cufflinks.

"You, too." I didn't have cuff links to fidget with, so I laced my fingers together behind my back. The blushing was getting worse. My whole body was turning red, I was sure of it. Did he have any idea just how…how amazing he looked?

"Can I kiss you?" he said, kind of offhand, as if we hadn't kissed a hundred times before and the thought had just occurred to him.

In reply, I took a slow step toward him, and another. Before I knew it, he touched my face and brought our lips together. The kiss was hot, hungry. I held him and pulled myself close to him. His hands slipped down my back, one of them moving farther, cupping my bottom. Just a thin layer of silk lay between us. And still, we kissed.

We finally pulled apart to catch our breath.

"I suppose we should do this sort of thing more often," he said.

"Yeah," I said, whispering, a little shaky. All of a sudden, I didn't want to go to the concert. I was still holding on to him.

He ducked his gaze. "I was going to say—we'd probably better get going. We'll be late."

"Yeah." We still didn't move.

Then, at almost the same moment, we started giggling. I pressed my face to his shoulder to stop myself, and he hugged me, and the intensity of whatever had just happened went away. Mostly, it went away.

I said, grinning, "Hey, wanna go on a date with me?"

"Absolutely."

We looked like a million bucks. Stalking arm in arm, we crossed the courtyard of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, a collection of theaters in the heart of downtown, to the doors of the concert hall. We turned heads, the two of as. Like we were in a commercial for diamond jewelry or a music video. Sure, we were way overdressed compared to a lot of the crowd—why did some Coloradoans think it was okay to wear jeans to a symphony concert?—and it made us stand out, but in the kind of way that the stares told me that they all wished they could be us. My grin felt silly, but I felt better when I glanced at Ben and saw the same grin on him. The alpha pair indeed.

I even almost forgot that I was supposed to be in hiding. I kept telling myself that none of the Denver wolves would be here, lycanthropes avoided crowds like this and the vampires didn't hang out here. I'd be fine, just fine. I didn't wilt in the middle of the crowd. I felt on top of the world.

We collected our tickets from Will Call, were ushered to our seats, and settled in as the orchestra was tuning up. The lights went down, the conductor appeared, and the orchestra launched into an overture.

Then she appeared, entering stage right.

Mercedes Cook had ivory skin and brick red hair, the rich color and sheen of silk, rippling past her shoulders. A midnight blue, shimmering gown clung to her slim figure. Her limbs were slender, her face aristocratic, like that of a Greek statue. I couldn't tell her height from where we sat, about halfway back in the orchestra section. She seemed to fill the stage. She seemed bigger than life.

I was close enough that the hall's air-conditioning system carried her scent to me—the cold, clean scent of a vampire. If I hadn't been warned, I'd have been shocked. She moved with such energy, such vibrancy. A consummate performer, she had a spark in her gaze.

I could guess her story: she'd always aspired to the stage. A talented performer, vampirism wasn't going to halt her ambitions. Maybe she even sought out the vampirism, or encountered the opportunity and grabbed it as a chance to hold on to that elusive advantage of youth and beauty. She'd been on stage since the sixties, when her official biography set the start of her career. Maybe she'd even been around longer, a vaudeville performer or singer in the twenties and thirties who disappeared and changed her identity to start a career on Broadway. That would take a bit of research and digging. I was hoping I could get the scoop from Mercedes herself.

Vampires didn't need to breathe. Their blood was borrowed, and their hearts didn't beat. They existed in a kind of stasis, never decaying, and never experiencing the cellular processes of life. But they used their lungs, inhaling air in order to speak. And to sing.

Mercedes's vocal cords didn't suffer at all from her being a vampire. She was a belter, yet her mezzo voice rang like a bell. She sang show tunes and torch songs. Fast, jazzy pieces and slow, bluesy pieces. Some I recognized, some I didn't. Every one of them had me at the edge of my seat. She owned that stage, and she needed the full orchestra to keep up with her. Nothing else possibly could.

She spotted me. From the stage, she looked right at me, caught my gaze, and she knew who I was, could tell what I was from forty feet away. Her smile thinned, her eyes narrowed into a sultry gaze, almost but not quite winking at me. Then she turned, and it was all part of the song, all part of the act. Every person in the audience probably imagined she was looking right at them.

Part of me didn't trust her talent. Vampires had…something. Energy, power, presence. They were seductive, they spent decades practicing being seductive. More than that, some of them could entrance you with a look. Hypnotize you. You'd follow them anywhere without knowing what was happening. They lured their prey to them.

She might have been casting that spell over the whole audience. Ben's jaw was open.

She gave two encores, then the lights came up, and it was over. I shook my head, like I was trying to clear a fog from my mind. The spell was fading. I reached over to close Ben's mouth for him. He blinked, also spellbound.

"She's impressive," he said.

"Want to meet her? I've got a backstage pass."

"Are you kidding?"

"Perks of the job, baby."

"Did—was I imagining it? Is she really—"

"Yeah. That's why I'm here. Come on."

I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the aisle. Back in the lobby, I followed my nose to a side corridor that led to a plain-looking door. We slipped through it to the chaos of backstage. Cables and lighting fixtures decorated shadowy concrete walls. Velvet drapes hung from a ceiling that was lost in darkness. The whole thing was, strangely, both cozy and industrial. Musicians carried instrument cases from the brightly lit stage.

I didn't spot anyone who looked official. At most rock and pop music concerts, a whole barrage of staff and bouncer types would have stopped us from getting this far. I'd marshaled my speeches that would get me past them to see Mercedes. But no one paid attention to me here. I was almost relieved when I spotted someone dressed all in black and wearing a headset. Even then, I had to intercept her.

"Can you help me? I was invited to visit with Ms. Cook after the show, do you know where I can find her?"

Just like that, the techie showed Ben and me to a back hallway where the dressing rooms were.

"Well?" I asked Ben. "Ready for this?"

He shrugged. "It's your show."

"Remember, she's a vampire. Totally creepy. Don't let her seduce you."

"Hey," he said, indignant, and I knocked.

"Come in," said Mercedes Cook in her rich mezzo.

I opened the door inward. As I did, the stunning redhead seated at a long, brightly lit makeup table turned to me. She'd put a black silk robe over her gown. Her face was perfectly made-up, if thickly for the benefit of the stage. Cosmetics masked the usual pale vampire complexion. She looked alive, more so than any vampire I'd ever met. And her image showed in the mirror, perfectly clear.

Vases of flowers covered the table and spilled onto the floor nearby, giving the room a tropical, heady atmosphere.

"You must be Kitty Norville," she said.

I offered my hand to shake, and she did, smiling indulgently. Her grip was cool. I gestured over my shoulder. "This is my friend, Ben."

"Great show, Ms. Cook," Ben said diplomatically. He stayed a step behind me, ready to let me make my own mess.

"Thank you very much," she said, flashing a brilliant smile. "Please, come in, have a seat. I think there are a couple of extra chairs here." We found the chairs, and I scooted mine close to her, like we were a couple of old friends.

I rarely had a chance to prep for an interview like this, meeting the subject beforehand and getting a feel for how they'll respond to my questions. In moments, Mercedes put me at ease. Already I could feel that she was going to give a great interview.

"Thanks so much for the tickets. We had a great time."

"I'm glad. I had a good audience tonight, but I always wonder. Maybe they're just being polite."

Friendly, endearing—she didn't even talk like a vampire. Maybe she was young—for a vampire—and hadn't yet acquired the arrogance of centuries. I started to ask, then thought I should save it for tomorrow's interview.

"If you're up for taking calls during the interview tomorrow, you'll get to ask your fans directly."

"I'm looking forward to it. I've done lots of interviews, but never anything like this." That smile glittered. Not a hint of fang showed. She genuinely seemed happy about the interview. "I want to thank you for giving me this chance. Once I decided to tell the world what I am, I had to decide how to do it. Being on your show seemed like such a fun alternative to a stuffy press conference."

I was sought after. My show had credibility. I could have burst with pride.

I tried to stay grounded. "Going public will change everything. No one will ever look at you the same. This could end your career."

"Or raise it to an entirely new level. Going public certainly hasn't hurt your career."

"I can't argue with that. But most of the time I feel like I'm madly treading water just to keep from going under."

She laughed, a musical sound—of course. "Oh, that doesn't have anything to do with being a werewolf. That's life."

She had a point. I just smiled. "I won't be offended if you decide to back out of the interview."

“Don't worry, Kitty. I'm not exactly an innocent young thing in this business. It's my choice to go public, and I know what I'm doing."

These kinds of interviews involved a bit of give and take. We were both after publicity, but ideally we wouldn't sound self-serving. We wanted to be entertaining. I wanted the whole thing to sound like a pleasant conversation. And at the same time I wanted to get as much information as I possibly could.

My smile turned sly. "Just how 'not young' are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Why is that the first thing anyone wants to know about you when they find out you're a vampire?" Her gaze became hooded, her smile mysterious.

Ah well, it was worth a try. "Morbid curiosity, I think. Can I ask if you belong to a Family? Do you have a Master or someone you had to argue with about this?"

"No Family. I'm the Master of my own little world. I like it that way."

"Amen," I said. "I figure in the interview we'll get the big news out of the way, I'll ask a few questions, then open the lines for calls. Sound good?"

"Fabulous."

“Then I'll see you at the station at eleven tomorrow night. You have my number? You'll call me if you need anything?"

"I'll be fine, thank you," she said, another laugh hiding in her voice. "Thanks again for agreeing to do this."

"My pleasure."

We shook hands, she and Ben smiled at each other, and we made our way out of the theater. I was almost skipping, I felt so good.

I chatted at Ben. "This is going to be great. She's so cool, she so doesn't act like a vampire. Most of them are total snobs, and I was thinking snob and Broadway star to boot, she'll be terrible. But she was totally decent. My audience’ll love her."

An amused smile touched Ben's lips. "Maybe it's because she's been passing as human. She's like you—you spend enough time acting human, you seem more human."

"Hmm. You may have something there." I mentally wrote it down for the interview tomorrow. I could use it to launch a whole discussion. Oh, I was so looking forward to this.

"It's nice to finally see you in a good mood," Ben said.

I was in a good mood, wasn't I? Grinning, I hugged his arm. "How long do you suppose I can make it last?"

"You'll have to find a way to stay distracted, so you're not worrying about anything."

Even mentioning worries darkened the edges of my thoughts. Stay distracted. Just like he said. I pulled his arm over my shoulders and pressed myself close, so we walked body to body. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

He stopped and cupped my face to kiss me, a long, sensual caress of lips, filled with heat and longing. My scalp flushed and my toes curled.

I pulled back and smiled. "That's a start," I said.

We went straight home, and Ben made sure I stayed distracted for a good long time.

Another Friday night arrived, right on schedule.

I sent one of the interns—one who loved show tunes and would be awed by her presence—to the KNOB lobby to wait for Mercedes Cook and escort her to the studio.

Ten minutes ahead of schedule, Mercedes swept into the studio, gracious and scintillating. I was heartened that it didn't seem to be an act. Maybe she was like this all the time. She wore a black camisole, matching cardigan, and a long, sweeping skirt with sandals—comfortable and perfect for summer, while still managing to display the height of fashion and panache. Her hair was tied back in a bun, and beaded earrings dangled from her ears. I'd never possess that much flair if I lived a thousand years.

I greeted her and introduced her to Matt, then showed her to her seat. The intern scampered into the booth to watch. Even Matt seemed a little awestruck.

"Here's your headphones, your mike—" She adjusted the mike herself and threw me an amused glance—she'd done this before after all. She could take care of herself.

"Thirty seconds, Kitty," Matt called from the booth.

"You ready for this?" I said to the singer. I for one was thrilled. This was the same studio where I'd announced on the air, for the whole country to hear, that I was a werewolf. This was perfect. Kismet.

"More than ready," Mercedes said, seeming just as excited as I felt. She perched at the edge of her seat, leaning on the armrest. I couldn't tell if her poise came from her being a supernaturally self-possessed vampire, or a world-class performer. She blurred the lines.

"Then here we go." Matt counted down, and routine took over. The opening chords of CCR's "Bad Moon Rising" played, but faded quickly to be replaced by a recording of Mercedes Cook singing Cole Porter.

"Good evening, faithful listeners, this is Kitty Norville here with The Midnight Hour, the show that isn't afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there. Tonight I have a very special guest with me, someone who in her own way is well acquainted with the night, Broadway legend Mercedes Cook. She's been a leading lady on the Great White Way for forty years now and shows no signs of slowing down. Mercedes, welcome."

"Thank you, Kitty. I'm happy to be here." We'd agreed beforehand not to mess around, just get straight to the purpose of her being here, then deal with the fallout. Away we went.

"Mercedes, I've had a lot of people asking me why I invited you onto the show. Of course I have a huge respect for Broadway theater, but musicals aren't my usual topic of discussion. Would you like to tell our listeners why you're here?"

"Well, it's because I'm a vampire. I thought it was time people knew that."

Straight to the point, calm and collected—of course she was, she was a professional actress. I had goose bumps. Through the booth window, Matt was shaking his head, with an expression like he was whistling low. The intern's jaw had dropped.

"All right," I said. "Remember, folks, you heard it here first. I might as well ask the two questions everyone wants to know about vampires: First, how old are you?"

"Oh, don't you know it isn't polite to ask a girl her age?"

"That never stops me. Not even a little hint?"

"What if I said I got my start in vaudeville?" Ha! I'd guessed right!

"Oh, that would be cool. Now that you're out of the vampire closet, any chance you'll release some photos? Let us know what acts you were part of? Any secret recordings folks can dig out of their attics?"

"I don't know, I never really thought about it. I ought to see what I can come up with. Now, you said there were two questions. What's the other?"

"How did you become a vampire?"

She got this sly look, and the expression carried into the tone of her voice. She knew how to be cagey and charming at the same time. "That's almost as bad as the first."

"Did you choose to become a vampire?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you do it for your career? Did you want to stay young for the sake of your career?"

"Not precisely. It was more complicated than that—these things always are, aren't they? I wouldn't want any young actress listening to think that vampirism is a viable way to boost her career. In the end, there are a lot of drawbacks. I remember when I was asked to sing in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and I couldn't explain why I had to say no. I've made vampirism work for me because I wanted it to."

"Along those lines, you have what I'm sure lots of actresses wish they could have—eternal youth. But do you ever regret that you won't get to play some of the great roles for older women, like in Hello, Dolly! or Arsenic and Old Lace?"

"That's exactly one of the drawbacks. I do regret it sometimes. It would be ironic if I ever decided to try for a part like that and had to wear a ton of makeup to look old."

A vampire with a sense of humor. I loved it.

"What do you think will happen to your career now? Now that you've said you're a vampire, how will things change?"

Mercedes said, "I'm taking a risk. I'm gambling that my reputation as an actress and singer will outweigh my identity as a vampire. It's a test, really."

"Are you also maybe betting that audiences will want to come see you because you're a vampire?"

"Maybe," she said.

"Has being a vampire helped you in other ways? You'll stay young-looking, but what about stage presence? Your ability to connect with an audience? I saw your show, and I have to say it was almost supernatural."

"Thank you, I think. But you're talking about the powers vampires are reported to have. The mind control, that sort of thing." She said it wryly, like it was a joke, an urban legend that had no basis in reality.

"That's right."

"I was an actress and singer before I became a vampire. I really hope my talent is my own."

That didn't really answer the question, which shouldn't have surprised me. "Well, Mercedes, are you ready to talk to a few listeners?"

"Sure, that sounds like fun."

The board was all lit up—like the lights of Broadway. Ha.

"Hello, Frankie, you're on the air. What would you like to ask Ms. Cook?"

"Oh, my God, I knew it! I just knew it! You had to be a vampire, you haven't changed a bit in forty years."

"You've been a fan for a long time, then?" Mercedes said, a laugh behind her voice.

"No—I mean, I haven't even been alive that long!"

I butted in. "Wow, Frankie, you really know how to make a girl feel special."

"You know what I mean. What I really want to say—it was only a matter of time, with so many actors and actresses these days who seem ageless. It can't all be plastic surgery. I want to ask Mercedes if she knows any other celebrities who might be vampires."

"It's not my place to reveal such information. I'd certainly have hated it if anyone else revealed my nature before I was ready."

"Not even any guesses?"

I interrupted. "I do have to wonder if coming out as a vampire will be the next cool thing. I'll let you know if I hear anything. Next caller, hello."

"Ms. Cook, I've been a fan of yours for ages. You must have such a unique perspective. How has musical theater changed over the course of your career? You've seen the whole history of it. You could probably write a book."

"What an interesting idea, maybe I will."

I had a lot more musical theater fans among my audience than I would have expected, and I was thrilled to no end that they asked intelligent questions. Mercedes never seemed bored. A few numbskulls called in demanding to know how to become vampires. Mercedes politely used my line—that this wasn't a lifestyle she advocated. We were here to talk about problems and issues, not to advertise. The whole thing managed to stay pretty light—right up until the end.

"All right, I think we've got time for one or two more. Next caller, hello."

The caller had a low male voice, like he was speaking close to the phone and didn't want to be overheard. "Mercedes. I can't help but wonder what you get out of this revelation. I know vampires, and I know you—at least by reputation. And everything you do has a purpose."

It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that her reputation among vampires might be as something other than a great Broadway actress.

I said, "You seem to be talking about a different Mercedes Cook from the one sitting with me in the studio."

"Perhaps I am. Remember, she didn't start out as the person with you now. She's probably reinvented herself a dozen times over the decades."

"And you know this how?"

The line clicked off.

Mercedes and I exchanged a glance—she artfully arched her brow, shrugged a little, as if to say she didn't have any idea what that was all about.

"We're back to the age question," I said. "You're still not going to tell me, are you?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"To that mystery caller, I'd like to say, I can see exactly what Mercedes gets out of revealing her nature. It's the same thing I got. A lot of crazy publicity."

Putting a purr in her voice she added, "And maybe I thought it was time vampirism had as pretty a public face as the one Kitty's given lycanthropy."

I blushed. That kind of compliment could keep me going for weeks. "It looks like that's all the time we have tonight, folks. Thank you to everyone who called in with your great questions, and a very big thanks to you, Mercedes."

"You're very welcome, Kitty."

"Good luck with the new direction in your career. Until next week, I'm Kitty Norville, voice of the night."

After the interview, Mercedes signed a CD for the intern and shook hands with Matt. I walked her down to the lobby myself. I hated for the evening to end. I wasn't an actress or musician like Mercedes, but I knew about the rush of being "on" for a couple of hours and trying to come down from that high of giving a good show. I felt like running around the block a few times.

Instead, I gushed at her. "Thanks so much. I think that was one of my best interviews ever."

"Mine, too," she said. "It's hard to believe it's over. Cat's out of the bag, as they say. I hardly know what to do with myself."

"I know exactly what you mean."

She graced me with that brilliant smile. "I'm staying on in Denver a few more days. Come have a drink with me tomorrow evening at the Brown Palace. Bring that nice gentleman of yours."

"Are you talking a drink at the bar, or something else?" Always double-check what a drink meant when vampires were involved.

She laughed. "Figure of speech. The drinking will be conventional."

The Brown Palace—fanciest digs in Denver. When else was I going to have an excuse to hang out there for an evening? Not to mention, I wanted to learn as much as I could from Mercedes while I had the chance. The interview had been good, but there was always more. Like that age thing, for starters.

"Great. We'll be there," I said.

"Wonderful. Ask at the desk, they'll send you up to my suite. I'll tell them you're coming."

"Cool. Thanks."

We went outside into the quiet dark of a late, late night. Mercedes paused and took in a breath of the chill air. This was her element, and she smiled, seeming to revel in it. A career as a Broadway star was perfect for her; I imagined her leaving through the stage door and taking a breath like that after every show. Not for the oxygen, but for the atmosphere—the smells, the sharpness of it.

Her limo was waiting. I didn't think a limo had ever been on this street before. Seeing it here was surreal. The chauffeur opened the door, and she waved at me as she climbed inside.

Basking in the glow of sweet success, I watched her drive away.

The next day, Ben went to Canon City to check on Cormac. The trip would take most of the day, but he assured me he'd be back in time for drinks at the Brown Palace. He might get down with this whole dating thing yet.

I called Hardin. Now that the news had broken, I could explain that yes, vampires did show up on film: Mercedes had appeared in thousands of publicity photos over the course of her career, as well as a dozen video recordings of her performances in various musicals. And she'd certainly appeared in her dressing-room mirror. Hardin didn't sound particularly pleased when I told her. Apparently, she'd been looking forward to pinning this on one of the undead. "I have a dream," she told me, "of someday watching someone be given a hundred-plus-year prison sentence and actually being able to serve out the whole damn thing." Her passion on the subject was almost admirable. Frightening, but admirable.

After that, I fielded calls and answered messages. Mercedes wasn't giving any interviews today, so I was the next best thing, and lots of reporters from most of the major papers and news magazines wanted to talk to me about last night's show: How had I learned about the actress's vampirism, what impact did I think the revelation was going to have on her career, and so on. I was happy my show could still generate some buzz. I even managed to work in some plugs for my own forthcoming book. Publicity was a wonderful thing.

Then I went to Cheryl's for lunch with her and Mom. Girls day in, Cheryl called it.

I was late. She'd moved right before I left Denver and I hadn't been to the new place yet. I made a couple of wrong turns. The place was in Highlands Ranch, pretty swank to my eyes. Then again, I'd spent most of my adult life in one-room apartments and wasn't really one to judge. Cute tract housing, a bit too pastel a shade of blue. The trees were all new, thin, and tied down with wires.

All smiles, Cheryl, Jeffy propped on her hip, let me in. She'd locked her golden retriever in the backyard, but I could hear it barking. I couldn't get within twenty feet of the dog without it freaking out. It could tell what I was and didn't like me at all.

She said, "Sorry, I'm still getting ready, come on to the kitchen." She led me through the spacious front room to a sunny kitchen.

"Mom's not here yet?"

When she looked back at me, she winced slightly, her smile turning apologetic. "I told her to come an hour later. I thought maybe we should talk, you know—alone. About her."

My first thought, aside from the gut-stabbing reminder that Mom might be seriously ill, was, Oh God, it's started. The late-night talks where we figured out what to do with old Mom and Dad, now that they're getting on in years. We used to joke about it, how they'd better treat us right because we'd be picking their nursing home. I didn't think I'd have to face this for real for another twenty years. No, thirty years.

Stubborn, I said, "Oh yeah, and she isn't going to guess that we're up to something when she gets here on time and sees that I'm actually early."

Cheryl set Jeffy down in a playpen, where he immediately found something plastic and colorful to bang against the bottom. She straightened and ran her hands through her hair, pulling strands out of the pony tail. All at once, she looked ten years older. She looked tired. Of course she looked tired, she was a mother.

"I know, I know," she said. "I just thought it would be better if we could plan—"

"Scheme behind Mom's back, you mean?"

"Okay. Yeah. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

I leaned on the counter. Couldn't help but smile. "When we were kids I always thought I'd be the one to settle down, house in the suburbs, two point five kids, and that you'd do something crazy like sing in a rock band or something. Now look at us."

Cheryl had almost been a punk in high school. She'd missed the height of the old school real deal by a few years, but she listened to the music and wore the surplus army jacket and combat boots. Lost more safety pins than most people see in a lifetime. Four years younger, I'd worshipped the ground she walked on and borrowed all her tapes, locking in my musical tastes forever. Halfway through college, she'd grown out of it. Finished a degree in computer science and did the IT management thing. Met Mark and became a suburban statistic. Mostly she'd grown out of it. I occasionally caught her wearing a Ramones T-shirt, as if to say, I wasn't always like this.

Today, her T-shirt was plain blue, faded from many washings, like her jeans.

"It's funny how meeting Mr. Right can change your perspective."

"I guess so."

"This Ben guy—is he Mr. Right?"

I wished I knew the answer to that. I shrugged. "Who knows."

She said, a sly and knowing lilt to her voice, "There's still time. You may still get sucked into that suburban two point five kids thing."

My expression froze into a polite smile. I didn't want to tell her. I wasn't ready to tell her about the kids thing. We had more important things to talk about.

"So what about Mom?" I said.

"What are we going to do?"

"It's not really up to us, is it? She's a big girl."

Cheryl started pacing. "I know, but she's going to need help, we're going to have to help her, if she has to have more surgery and chemotherapy we're going to have to look after her, aren't we?"

"I think you're jumping the gun here. Why don't we wait until we know how serious it is before we start freaking out."

"So we can make important decisions while we're freaking out?"

"Bridges, Cheryl. We'll cross them when we get to them."

"We have to be ready for the worst, we have to be ready to help."

"We will be," I said. "We totally will be, whatever it takes."

"Then you're staying? That means you'll be around, you won't go zipping off across the country at the drop of a hat, without telling anyone." She didn't ask this casually; she leaned in, glaring with a kind of desperation, almost but not quite jabbing her finger at me.

This wasn't about Mom at all, I realized.

"Cheryl, what are you asking? You want to make sure that if Mom needs help it won't all be you? Is that it?"

We stayed like that, staring at each other. It was almost wolfish.

The door opened, and Mom's voice called, "Hello, Cheryl? Kitty? Is that your car out there?"

How could she sound so damned cheerful? She ought to be mentally curled up and quivering like the rest of us.

All smiles, Cheryl went out to meet her, our conversation forgotten. "Hi, Mom! We're in here!"

Jeffy was on his feet, leaning on the rail of the playpen, talking at me, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I regarded him a moment and said, "She's still crazy after all these years, isn't she?"

Nicky had stopped Mom—Grandma—in the living room, and the two of them were gushing at each other about toys when Cheryl and I arrived. Now the whole house was filled with hugs and greetings. It was all very girly and domestic. Mom seemed to have recovered from the surgery. And why wouldn't she? Perfectly routine, everyone kept saying. As if the words "perfect" and "surgery" belonged in the same sentence. She was sore, though she tried to hide it. She managed to hug us without using her right arm. If she was nervous about waiting for the results, she hid that as well.

Cheryl had sandwiches waiting in the kitchen, and we settled down to eat. Nicky peeled the crusts off hers. Mom helped her.

The whole time, Mom talked about nothing in particular, filling the silence so the unspoken worry couldn't be mentioned. Cheryl kept glancing at me, her expression prompting me, like she wanted me to say something. Wanted me to ask Mom if she needed help. But I wasn't going to bring up anything. She was the oldest, that was her job. I didn't care if I was the self-help guru in the family.

When she got the test results, Mom wouldn't even have to tell us. I didn't know why Cheryl was so worried about helping her—the more I thought about it, the more I thought Mom wouldn't want our help. She'd get through as much of this as she could all by herself.

That was what I'd have done. At least, I'd have tried.

For this afternoon, at least, I pretended that nothing was wrong and enjoyed the day with my mom and sister. The last time we'd done a girls' day like this, Nicky had been a squirming baby.

I was the one who broke up the party, since I had to get home and get ready for this evening. I said good-bye to the kids—Nicky seemed to remember me from the hospital—and hugged Cheryl while trying to transmit don't worry vibes. I couldn't tell if it worked. Then Mom and I hugged, careful of her right side.

"You'll let me know if you need anything, right? If there's anything I can do to help?"

She pulled back and gave me a wry look. "You never let me help you, why should I be any different?"

Called that one, didn't I? "Because…I don't know. I just wanted you to know you could call me."

"I know. Thank you, dear." Smiling, she kissed my cheek, and that was that.