“Doesn’t look like cancer.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve got all your body parts—at least on the outside. Two arms, two legs, and shampoo commercial-worthy hair. If it’s cancer you haven’t done chemo yet. The only thing off about you are a few healing cuts on your face.”
“You’re right. It’s not cancer.”
“What’s your name?”
“Maia.”
“Why are you here at Stem Cell Central? What study are you enrolled in?”
“Blue,” Phil says, “You’re up. Room 304.”
She nods at him then looked back at me. “Even better? Don’t tell me. Let me figure it out.” She swivels and wheels down the hallway.
I’m back in a small hospital room. This time I don’t have to strip naked, or wear a scratchy hospital gown, or bear my ass. The tech’s a total pro at finding my skinny, deep, rolling veins. She jabs me once and collects three vials.
“You’re good,” I say.
“I know.” She secures a patch of gauze and a band-aid on top of my punctured arm. “See you in a few.”
Max driving me to my appointments is the new norm.
He drives me to Hollywood. I met Dr. Deffer, a reed thin chiropractor, who adjusts my spine with gadgets that sound like power tools. Max chauffeurs me to Mrs. Sweet Tea, an aura healer in Gardena. We venture to Tarzana where I meet with Stanislaus Vladimik, a phrenologist who studies the bumps and grooves on my head.
The power tool chiropractic gives me headache. Mrs. Tea says I have a hole in my aura and waves her hands over me as I lie on a cotton-braided rug on her living room floor. She advises me to stay out of the sun for a day then gives me peaches from her backyard. Stanislaus gives me a scalp massage and concludes I’m pre-disposed to anxiety.
I haven’t yet found a cure-all but ever since I’ve hired Max, my healing adventures have been going pretty well.
Until today.
Today we’re stuck in gridlock traffic on the 10 Freeway. Traveling anywhere in L.A. can take either half an hour or two hours. It’s a crapshoot, completely dependent on the time of day, local disasters, or streets shut down for film/TV shooting. “Do you think we’ll get there in time?” He checks the dashboard clock. “When’s your appointment?”
“Six.”
“We’ve got a few miles to go. No idea. I’m sorry.”
“But this is one of the reasons I hired you. You know L.A. like the back of your hand. You’ve got to know the navigating hacks.”
He glances at me. “All this is research for your book?”
“Yes,” I white lie, because while there is no book, you never know – one day there could be. “These interviews can help people. People who are sick or going through something painful or debilitating.”
“You’re sweet,” Max says.
I don’t feel so sweet. I feel crappy for lying to him. I stare at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on a nosebleed high ramp next to a huge building with a sign that reads “The Staples Center.” “Isn’t that the place where you all have basketball games and hockey and concerts?”
He nods. “I saw the Rolling Stones there a few years back.”
A semi-truck merges, cutting us off and Max hits his brakes.
“Ugh,” I say. “We are never going to make it in time.”
He veers onto an exit ramp. “Oh, yes we are.” He maneuvers down side streets. We pass skinny, litter-covered lots. He guns it but hits the brakes when a BMW turns in front of us with no warning. Max changes lanes, accelerating around the guy. I squeeze my eyes shut as we round a corner. He brakes abruptly. “Open your eyes and drink in the majesty that is…”
I open my eyes and gaze up at a metal overpass. Two golden snakes hiss at each other as they swoop over the road. In the center of a road is a sign that reads, “CHINATOWN.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “You got us here on time. Thank you.”
“As promised.” He parks. We’re surrounded by signs in Chinese. We walk down a street, pass restaurants, shops, emporiums. We leave behind the shopping area making our way through corridors with twisted passageways. “What’s the address?”
“Hang on.” I fumble through my purse for my notepad.
“Why don’t you enter everything in your phone?”
I pull the pad from my purse and flip it open to the page marked with a ribbon. “Because I like paper and pens, Farmer. I’m a little old-fashioned.”
“Farmer? I’ll figure this nickname out, you know.”
“Good luck. I’m rooting for you.”
The receptionist at Dr. Tung’s Acupuncture Center hands me an iPad to fill out medical forms. I note the diplomas and framed pictures on the walls: A photo of Dr. Tung needling a famous athlete. A framed newspaper clipping of Dr. Tung shaking hands with the former Governator. I take the seat next to Max. He’s reading a Chinese newspaper. “You know Chinese?”
“No. But thanks to my mom, I can spot coupons in any language. Maybe there’s a two for one coupon in here for a session.”
“Acupuncture?” I ask.
“Why not?”
“Have you ever been to an acupuncturist?” I ask.
“No. Needles scare me.”
“So why do you want a coupon?”
“I’m curious about your book research. I might be able to help you with that, too.”
“You don’t have to help me with everything you know. Other than finding my way around L.A. I was doing pretty well before I met you.”
“Says the girl who I caught before she passed out on the bar floor.” He flips a page and taps the paper. “Just as I suspected. Dr. Tung has a two for one first patient deal.”
“Why don’t you use your detective skills to find a two for one on a Dim Sum place,” I say.
The thing is, I don’t want Max figuring out what I’m really doing. I also don’t want to lose him. He’s helpful—without pushing himself on me. He’s hot, he’s flirty, but so far he’s safe. I’d like our relationship to stay exactly like it is. It wouldn’t hurt to throw him a little bone, though. Make him a little less cocky. “Hand me the coupon, please.” I hold out my hand.
“Why?”
“I think we should redeem it.” I hand it to the receptionist. “Can I have another intake form?”
“What are you doing?” Max asks. “This two-for-one acupuncture thing was just an idea in abstract. I wasn’t seriously thinking about getting needled.”
“Come on, Farmer.” I walk back and hand him the iPad. “Man up.”
He takes the tablet from me. “Oh - I get it. You started calling me Farmer after I went to that karate place. Like Sergeant Farmer. That’s it isn’t it? If it’s him I get to kiss you, don’t forget you promised that.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I should claim my first kiss here in the office, or maybe out in the open close to the Chinatown sign. We could take a picture, put it on Instagram. I think that sounds like a great idea. Of course – if I’m wrong and it’s not the karate thing—I’ll do the two for one. I’ll get acupuncture for the first time.” He smiles. Smugly.
Chapter Nine
Posters of acupuncture dummies marked up with meridian lines and acupuncture points line the walls. Max and I lie on narrow treatment tables in a small, dimly lit room.
Dr. Tung’s an older man with thick, short silver hair, and an earnest face. He inserts needles into me, spinning them until they sizzle.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” Dr. Tung says. “Deep breath.”
I breathe.
“Better.” He twirls a few more needles.
I glance at Max who is laying on his back on a table next to me shirtless, a towel draped over his pelvis. Hot. His eyes widen. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Like I’m vibrating.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Good vibrating, Bonita, or bad vibrating?”
“You’re next. Yo
u tell me.”
“Umm,” Max says as the good doctor turns his attention to him.
“Dr. Tung,” I say, “please be gentle with my friend Max. He’s a virgin.”
“Of course.” He sticks a needle in Max’s forehead. “Yin Tang. Third eye point.”
Max winces. “Weird.”
“Your energy is shut off from an accident that happened four years ago,” Dr. Tung says.
“How’d you know that?”
“I can feel it.” He sticks a needle in Max’s chest and then—bam, bam, bam, three more in his right ankle and foot. “You need to release the energy so chi flows.”
“You were in an accident?” I ask.
“You’re not an official Angeleno until you’ve had your first fender-bender.” Max says.
Dr. Tung sticks a few needles in Max’s ear. Then one in his nose.
Max sneezes.
“Twenty minutes,” Dr. Tung says. “Relax.”
Max squirms “Dammit.”
“Stop moving,” I say. “Don’t screw up the needles.”
“You know we could be having a normal date.”
“Sadly we’re not actually on a date. You’re helping me research my book.”
“Whatever. We could be catching a movie. Going to a party. But no, we’re in Chinatown. And not for Dim Sum. And I’m screwing up the needles.”
I start giggling and then I can’t stop.
He follows suit and the needles in his face quiver. “Ow.”
Which makes me laugh harder.
“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Sadist.”
“Whatever, Farmer.”
Summer school continues. I learn about genotypes and genetic predispositions. I hear about the time, several semesters back, that a student taking this class discovered the man who was raising him wasn’t technically his dad.
I talk to my mom. Nana’s decided to move out of our house into Assisted living.
“Why didn’t you talk her out of it?” I ask. “She’ll miss us. If I was home I could have talked her into staying.”
“When’s the last time you talked your grandmother out of doing anything?”
I sigh. “Right.”
“I tried. She does what she wants when she wants. Besides, I think she’s tired of me mothering her. Or as she calls it, ‘smothering.’”
“What about coming out here to visit, Mom? You could smother me for a change.”
“I’d love to. But right now I’m not going anywhere without your Nana. Talk her into it and I’ll book the flights.”
I call Nana but she doesn’t pick up. I leave voicemails prattling on about the Pacific Ocean, the park where you can watch airplanes take off right over your head. I even tempt her with the promise of magical guacamole. But she doesn’t call back. I’m nothing if not persistent. I ring her between classes and she finally picks up.
“Maia, my favorite granddaughter, I would give my left foot to see you.”
“Don’t do that, Nana.”
“Okay. I’ll keep the foot. I’m unpacking the last of the boxes and settling into my new home.”
Moving is a huge transition, a shock to the system. “I’m sorry. I should have been there to help you.”
“You’ve got enough going on. Have you met new friends?”
“Yes -- I think.”
“Be nice to them. Don’t be cactus-Maia. Don’t scare everyone away.”
“I am not cactus-Maia. Have you met any new friends?”
“Yes, but they speak a foreign language. I’ve decided to immerse myself in their world and learn to converse with them in a more authentic fashion.”
“That’s great. What language are you learning? French? Italian? Where are they from?”
“Skokie, Illinois, my bubbelah.”
“You’re learning Yiddish.”
“It’s a mitzvah. Learning new things keeps one young. We’ll see each other soon. Oh, I received a couple of charges for—”
“Are you still okay with that?” I ask. “Me going to the healers?”
“Yes. I must go. Esther Rosenstein is hosting a game of cards. I asked what I could bring and she suggested I give her a holler.”
I smile. “Challah, Nana. It’s a kind of bread. Have fun. I love you.”
“Love you back.”
Max drives me to more appointments: a yoga class where we breathe and flow and at the end chant in Sanskrit. I feel amazing: no twitches. No lethargy. I want to return as soon as possible. But I can’t.
The next day I’m having another ear-splitting MRI. The study’s doctors want to ensure that the stem cells haven’t turned bad. Apparently, stem cells can be deceptive. Once in a while cells that are meant to facilitate healing form tumors that disable or even kill people.
I lie on the imaging tube, am shuttled into the MRI tunnel and try not to move while the machine clicks and whirs taking pictures of my spinal cord. My mind needs to escape from this pit and that’s when I start dreaming about him.
No – not Max.
The adorable kitten I saw two weeks ago in the pet store window. He had to have been adopted – right?
MRI over, I exit the medical building, walk along concrete paths that wind around the brick buildings and grassy landscapes, pull out my phone and call the store. “I saw your Kitten Adoption sign a few weeks ago. There was a longhaired, black kitten. I’m sure he’s already found a great home. I’m checking – just in case.”
“You’re talking about Napoleon,” she says. “The bossy one who thinks he’s the master of the universe?”
“Sounds like him.” I smile. “He’s obviously been adopted.”
“No,” she says. “Black and tuxedo cats have a tougher time finding homes.”
“Why?”
“Old-fashioned superstitions. No one wanted Napoleon. Store policy. We sent him to West L.A. Animal Shelter a few days ago.”
My palms break into a sweat. “Is that a kill shelter?”
“Technically, yes.”
I disconnect. Then hit one number.
“Bonita. What’s up?”
“Can you drive me somewhere? Like right now?”
“Oh, man I wish you had called earlier. I’ve got training with the guys this afternoon. CPR recertification. Another time?”
My heart sinks. “It can’t wait. It’s urgent.”
“How urgent?”
“Walking out my door urgent.” I grab my purse and keys.
“Shit. I—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.” I hang up. Some things can’t wait. Sometimes the only way things get done is if you do them yourself.
I try to order a ride on a share service but the wait was long. Instead I hop on the Big Blue Bus and head toward Venice. The West L.A. Shelter’s on Pico Avenue and according to the traffic app, not that far away. I check my phone. Four thirty. I need to get there before closing time—five p.m. I need to rescue that cat.
My phone buzzes and I pick up. “What?”
“I’m driving. I’ll pick you up. Where are we going?”
“No worries. I’m already on my way.”
“Okay. Where are you going?”
“West L.A. Animal Shelter.”
“Why?”
“I can’t really talk right now.” I hesitate, my index finger poised over the disconnect button.
“Talk to me. I’m like half a mile from there.”
“I’ve got to get there before five p.m. Or they’ll kill my cat.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“I didn’t, either. I have to save this cat. I’m adopting him.”
“What does it look like?”
“He’s black, fuzzy, round, about ten weeks old. His name is Napoleon. He thinks he’s the king of the universe.”
“I like him already, Bonita,” he says. “Hanging up. Must drive fast.”
Chapter Ten
The bus stutters to a st
op a few blocks from the shelter. I step off and check my phone. 4:53 p.m. I run. My heart pounds as I reach the front door, and yank on the handle, but it’s already locked.
I glare at the hours printed on the glass: “Open Monday through Friday 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Sat. 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.”
The time on my phone reads 4:55. I peer inside. No one’s behind the reception desk. Barking and howling cries pierce the air around me. I knock on the door. “Hello! You can’t be closed yet. Hello?”
A petite chick with multi-colored hair, wearing beat-up scrubs and earbuds walks out a door in the side of the building.
“Hey!” I wave to her.
She pulls the buds from her ears. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m here to adopt a kitten. Not just any old kitten but one I saw at a pet store who didn’t adopt out. I had no idea he’d go to a kill shelter.”
“Won’t it be nice when they finally change those laws,” she says. “Can you come back tomorrow? The place is closed.”
“But I got here on time. The door was locked early.”
“Ugh,” she says. “That’s Mr. Littleton’s doing. He closes up early, which I think is a control issue on his part.”
“Please?”
“I’m not supposed to.” She motions to me. “But what the hell.”
We stand in front of a small, wire cage two tiers up from the ground. A paper sign reads, “Napoleon. Feline. Mix-Breed. Longhaired. Color: Black. FIV Neg. FeLV Neg. Age: Ten weeks. Status: Relinquished. Reason: Did not sell at pet store.”
There are two little food bowls and a tiny box with a sprinkling of cat sand. But there was no black, fuzzy kitten with a badass attitude. “Where is he?” I ask.
“Probably adopted out.”
My eyes start tearing. “I hope so.”
“I bet he was,” she says.
“Thanks for your kindness,” I say as she leaves me at the side entrance.
“Come back and adopt a different kitten,” she says.
“Good idea.” Fifteen minutes later I’m back to the bus. We hit rush hour traffic and it takes an hour longer until I exit my stop and walk home. I round the lemon trees smell the rose bushes, and spot Max sitting on my front stoop. His arms are stretched in front of him while he wards off Gidget who keeps trying to butt in.
The Bodyguard Page 5
