The Lives Between Us, Page 2

  Niki giggled. “Nope. Chicken. Store bought.”

  Peter released a deep exaggerated breath. “Well, good. Then you’re saved. Praise Jesus, it’s a miracle.”

  Skye scowled and swatted his stomach. “I’m a fantabulous cook.”

  “So are they sending me home? Is our sleepover cancelled?”

  “Not a chance, kiddo.” Skye forced the lightness into her voice. “They can kick us out tomorrow, but tonight’s already paid for, and I’m not being gypped out of my movie. If your parents will ever leave, that is.”

  “We can take a hint.” Peter reached for Faith and pulled her to her feet. “Brush your teeth and don’t stay up too late. You can always finish watching the movie tomorrow morning.”

  “Enough already. Say goodnight and get out so we can get on with our party,” Skye ordered.

  Peter and Faith kissed Niki goodnight, promising to return first thing in the morning to bring her home. Skye set the DVD player on the tray directly in front of them, then climbed onto the bed and wrapped Niki in her arms. She resisted the urge to press Niki close, as if crushing their bodies together might somehow magically recharge her damaged heart. Or maybe, if Niki were a part of her, Skye’s heart could beat for them both.

  Skye sighed, forced her arms to relax, and turned her attention to the movie. Unfortunately, the predicament of a thirteen-year-old girl magically turning into her successful thirty-year-old self overnight couldn’t come close to competing with her niece’s real-life drama. Skye couldn’t do much about finding Niki a suitable heart for transplant, but she could—and would—find compatible stem cells.

  She would not let Niki die.

  * * *

  “What the hell.” Skye jabbed the delete key on her laptop to erase the close-up of Senator Edward Hastings. She scowled at the computer and slapped the lid closed with a loud click, then poked her head outside her cubby to see who might have overheard her outburst. Low-pitched murmuring came from Doug White’s lit cubical, and the janitor pushed his cart toward the bathrooms, but other than that, everybody else had gone home. Good.

  Skye dropped back in her chair and crossed her arms. Her hand drifted over to the three-inch research pile. She opened the manila folder and then pushed it aside. There had to be something she’d missed.

  Skye spun away from her ugly, gray metal desk and reached for her tea. Bringing the warm cup to her lips, she savored the gingerbread aroma misting her face. She took a fortifying sip, enjoying the gentle melding of honey and ginger, anticipating the familiar wake-up call to her sedentary brain cells. After another satisfying swallow, she squared her shoulders and lifted the computer lid.

  Skye started at her ringing desk phone. “Hello.”

  “What’re you doing at the newsroom at nine-thirty at night?”

  “What’re you doing calling me at nine-thirty at night?” Faith went to bed early.

  “You have work that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  Or putting in overtime researching every dang aspect of stem cell therapy until exhaustion drove worry from her mind, allowing her to get four or five of hours sleep. “Is Niki okay?”

  “She’s fine. Just checking to see if you’re coming for dinner tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there.” Skye paused and took a deep breath. “I... There’s something I need to tell you. I’m still looking, but—” She blew hair from her face. “I’m not having any luck.”

  “It’s okay, Skye—”

  “No, it’s not okay.” Skye scowled. She’d never failed at anything important before. Failing Niki made her furious, but it was the helplessness that ate at her soul.

  “What’re we going to do? The two largest organizations of stem cells in the world, the ICBS and the NMDP, don’t have a match for Niki. More than ten and a half million chances and not one match. What are the odds of that?” She’d done so much research on stem cells, she now spoke in acronyms instead of words.

  “Skye—”

  “I’ve contacted over fifty stem cell companies worldwide, but I’m coming up empty.”

  “I know—”

  “There are tons of cord blood storage companies where a person can store her child’s cord blood and placental stem cells, but hardly any of them catalogue donated stem cells,” she said with frustration.

  “We knew it was a long shot. If the doctors couldn’t find any, with all their resources, it was unlikely you’d find a match. But we love you for trying.”

  “The real kicker, that pisses me off more than anything is every blessed time I search stem cells, Senator Hastings’s name comes up—and he’s definitely not a fan.” She paused, then whispered, “I failed Nik.”

  “You didn’t fail.”

  “I did.” She rubbed her aching forehead. “I couldn’t find any matching stem cells. All I found was ridiculous politicians and righteous religious fanatics getting in the way of progress. What does it matter to him where the stem cells come from?”

  “Him who?”

  “Hastings. You know, our famous Michigan Senator they’re saying is the next JFK.”

  “I like Hastings.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. He’s done more to block the progress of stem cell research and therapy than any other person. What the hell does he know? He’s led a charmed life. The closest he’s probably come to a medical emergency is having a plantar wart—or a hang nail.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What’re we going to do?” Her voice lowered and wobbled. “We can’t just let her die.”

  It’d been years since Skye turned to her big sister for help. When Dad died, newly wed Faith and Peter took Skye in and got her through those difficult teenage years. Even when she was at her obnoxious worst, Faith had known what to do—but this was different.

  “We’re not going to let her die.” Faith’s reassurance was calmly delivered, yet there was something in her voice.

  Skye frowned, perking up. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re taking care of it.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and Skye straightened in her seat. “What? How?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you. Just trust—”

  “Geeze, Faith. You’re not doing anything illegal, are you? No scratch that, I’m in. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

  “You’re already helping. Tempting Niki to eat, entertaining her, and keeping her spirits up— it’s all very important. But you’ve got to trust me. Niki just needs to hang on a few more months and everything will be fine.”

  Chapter 2

  Six months later

  Skye hated technology in general, computers in particular. Like animals that harassed people who feared them, she was convinced computers could smell her ignorance and capitalized on it.

  She wanted to pick up the notebook computer and slam it into the floor but feared that instead of shattering into a million satisfying pieces, it would only taunt her with its structural fortitude. It still wouldn’t cough up the info instructing her on which magic commands she should use to get the printer to clean its print heads so that she could print out her copy before she missed deadline.

  Skye propped her chin on her hands and scowled at the monitor, wondering what to try next. Why had she taken Drama instead of Computers 101 her freshman year?

  “Skye, I need to talk to you.”

  Skye looked up as her boss breezed past. She stood, glanced at her watch, and headed for the office. She had five minutes before deadline. “I’m having trouble with my printer, but was about to email—”

  “Shut the door, please.”

  Skye turned her back and shut the door, then took a seat on a cold, hard chair in front of the desk. She rested her hand on her crossed knees, stifling the nervous urge to bounce her leg up and down.

  “So. How’s it going?” Karen asked.

  “Going?”

  “You’ve been here a little over sev
en months, I was just wondering how you’re adjusting.”

  “Fiiine.”

  “You’re happy working here?”

  I was until you asked. She slowly nodded. “Yes.”

  “You like what you’re writing?”

  “It’s fine,” she hedged. “I mean, I get that I need to pay my dues and prove myself before I’m assigned articles with a little more meat.”

  “So you’d like to write more meaningful pieces?”

  Gosh, what was the right answer to that? If she said yes, would she be seen as a malcontent? If she said no, she’d be stuck writing fluff articles for the rest of her life. After years of job-hopping, Skye finally found something she loved and was good at. She didn’t want to blow it. “Is there a problem?”

  “That depends upon you. You’re assigned to write human interest articles, yet over the months, your pieces progressively trend toward editorials.” She paused, almost as if embarrassed, as she chose her words. “I allowed you a bit—a lot—of latitude, because, personally, I agree with you, and frankly, I’ve been distracted with a family crisis, but Stanley wants it stopped.”

  Skye grimaced. “Stanley—”

  “Is my boss, and therefore, your boss, too. Stop the editorials.”

  “Editorials? Well, I don’t th—”

  The pen between Karen’s finger and thumb wagged back and forth at the speed of hummingbird wings. “Skye, you’re butchering these simple pieces. Just stick to the story.”

  “Butchering?” She frowned. “That’s a little harsh.”

  “David writes the editorials. We don’t need, or want, your opinions. Am I clear?”

  “I...” Temper, Skye. She clamped her mouth shut. “I don’t editorialize.”

  “You were sent out to cover the opening of the butterfly pavilion at the zoo, yet you ended up lambasting Republicans for their lack of environmental foresight—over a butterfly.”

  “Not just any butterfly. The Fender’s blue butterfly was the most-hyped butterfly at the exhibit, and—”

  “It’s a butterfly, Skye,” Karen broke in. She moved her reading glasses down her nose to stare at her. “An insect in Oregon—not even Michigan. And the piece about the new laser treatment for the woman with the birth defect—”

  “Andy Sullivan.” She had a huge hemangioma disfiguring her face, causing visual problems and decades of curious stares. Poor Andy endured multiple surgeries throughout her thirty years until Dr. Anderson came up with a revolutionary treatment to permanently erase the stubborn tissue. It’d been a good human-interest story. “What about it?”

  “You made it about gay rights.”

  “I did not. I wrote about the amazing surgery and how it changed her life for the better.”

  “And then you slammed Republicans for not extending medical benefits to cover gay partners.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I just thought it was important to point out that though her life was drastically improved by this amazing new laser technique, it wasn’t fair that she’s now saddled with fifty-thousand dollars of medical bills she would not have had to pay had she been the significant other of a heterosexual partner. The public has a right to know.”

  “Not from you, they don’t. Your work is becoming more brazen with each piece—and it was my lapse in judgment to have allowed it, but it stops now. Lay off Senator Hastings before we get slapped with a slander suit.”

  “It’s on record that he supported House Bill 4770,” Skye muttered.

  Karen’s steady glare over her reading glasses indicated she wasn’t interested in the facts.

  Geesh. Surely a politician had a tougher skin than to complain about her mild criticisms of him. Skye raised her eyebrows. “Has he complained?”

  “Not yet—and you’d better not give him any further reason to. Nothing like the air-conditioning for the elderly article.”

  She sat up straight in her seat. “Now that was a good piece.”

  “It was very touching reporting on a good Samaritan who donated two hundred air-conditioners to the poor elderly in Detroit, until—” Karen picked up the newspaper and slid her red reading glasses onto her pointy nose, “—we get to the part where, ‘such generosity wouldn’t have been necessary if lawmakers such as our own esteemed Senator Hastings, had seen the value of passing a law that would have granted tax credits on utilities for elderly.’”

  Skye inwardly winced.

  Karen laid down the paper, pulled her reading glasses down the bridge of her nose, and stared at Skye. “Lay off Hastings.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I assume your next work is in my inbox?”

  “As soon as I return to my desk.” And delete a few sentences.

  “Great.”

  Dismissed, Skye slipped out of the room, muttering, “Damn Hastings. How can the man get me in so much trouble without even trying?”

  “Hey, what’s up?” Jenny Grant followed her into her cubby and dropped into the chair beside Skye’s desk.

  Jenny was the newspaper's golden child. She’d won the Pulitzer for distinguished feature writing and a few local awards, bringing prestige to their paper. Skye was lucky that for some reason, Jenny had decided to take her under her wing.

  Skye pushed the send key. “Nothin’ much, just fighting with my printer and getting chewed out by Karen.”

  “Why’d Karen chew you out?”

  “Apparently my work’s been leaning a bit too close to editorializing.” She spun around to face Jenny.

  “Spotlight pieces are supposed to be simple ‘feel good’ reporting.”

  Feel good pieces were not going to get her noticed. “Bo-ring. I figured that finding the twist that gave it a little more substance would be seen as taking initiative—but apparently not.”

  Jenny smiled. “I read your ‘twists.’ The one on gay couple rights was clever—inappropriate, but clever. The air conditioner article was a definitely over-the-top. I couldn’t believe Karen didn’t strike your slam on the senator before it went to press. She undoubtedly heard about that from the brass.”

  “Maybe it was slightly indiscreet.”

  Jenny’s eyebrows shot up. “Ya think? If you’ve got such an interest in politics, why don’t you ask to cover the legislative beat?”

  “Me? Politics?” Fear quickly replaced the initial surge of excitement and hope. “I hate politics. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “Seriously. I don’t think I even took a government class. Never had the patience to wade through all the BS.”

  “So? Learn.”

  “I didn’t even vote in the last election.” Apparently I’ll need to vote next month to keep moralistic bullies like Hastings out of power.

  Jenny’s eyes popped wide. “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’d make a fool of myself.” But at least she’d be writing something that might make a difference.

  “Why didn’t you vote?”

  Could she learn politics? Would she even like it? Not likely, but at least she’d have a chance at making a difference. Maybe then she’d be taken seriously.

  “Not even for president?” Jenny asked.

  Would Karen even consider her? She wasn’t exactly her editor’s favorite person right now. Skye’s mind whirled with the myriad of details. “It’s crazy. I need to start with something smaller. Simpler.”

  “You’d be a natural.”

  “I’d humiliate myself. I don’t know the first thing about politics.”

  “So learn. I don’t know the first thing about most of what I write, but by the time I finish my article, I’m pretty well-versed about the subject.”

  “But you’ve been at this a lot longer than I have.”

  “Well then, keep to the status quo, gopher girl.” Jenny slapped her legs and heaved to her feet. “I better get going.” She paused in the doorway. “Hey, how’s your niece?”

  Skye’s face lightened. At least that area of her life was doing
better. “Holding her own. She seems to be adapting to home schooling. Niki misses having friends her own age, but there’s not much we can do about that. Her closest friends stop by once in a while to play cards and do puzzles with her. Maybe it’s a good thing she sleeps so much.”

  “Must be tough. But kids are resilient. Once she’s got a new heart, she’ll jump back into the pack like nothing’s ever happened.” She headed for the door. “Don’t work too hard.”

  Skye waved her away. Cover the legislative beat? Crazy. She reached in the drawer for her purse when the phone rang. “Skylar Kendall.”

  “Skye?”

  Skye’s heart jump-started at her sister’s choked voice. Her purse hit the desk with a loud thud. “Faith, what’s wrong?”

  “I...” Her voice broke up.

  “Where are you?” She swiveled in the chair and stood. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Skylar?” Pete’s deep voice rumbled into her ear.

  “Is Niki sick?” She patted her pockets for her car keys. Damn. She tugged at the cord connecting her to the phone. If Faith had called on her cell, she could continue this conversation as she drove.

  “Skye, Niki’s gone.”

  Skye froze. Gone? She frowned and tilted her head, feeling strangely threatened. “Gone where?”

  Part of her knew what Peter had said—the part that slowed her heartbeat, making it hard to breath—but her brain refused to process the words. If she didn’t give the words meaning, it wouldn’t be true.

  “Niki died.” He cleared his throat. “She had a massive heart attack. They couldn’t bring her back.”

  Skye backed away from her desk, stretching the phone cord until it pulled on the base, inching it across her desk, sending a pencil rolling to the floor. Her ears filled with cotton, and the room faded away. “Um. What?” She swallowed hard. “What did you say?”

  A heavy breath brushed over the phone. His voice thickened. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. We should’ve waited to tell you in person. Meet us at home in a half an hour.”