Long Live the Queen (17 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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“Not bad at all,” he said quickly. “But, if you're not happy with it, cosmetic surgery is always an option later on.” He gestured towards the rest of her face. “There weren't any other fractures, but we had to put some stitches up past your eyebrow. There's evidence of a mild concussion, but you obviously came through it all right. Actually,” he looked uncomfortable, “considering the extent of the beating you sustained, your face is healing very nicely.”
“What about here?” She pointed at the tape, and what seemed to be a huge Ace bandage, around her ribcage. Tape that smelled like a veterinarian's office.
“You broke two and cracked one on the left side, and cracked two more on the right side,” he said.
Only
cracked
? She looked down. “It feels a lot worse.”
He nodded. “Ribs are bad. You have a lot of bruising in the rib area, as well as the stomach and kidneys, but there doesn't seem to have been any internal bleeding to worry about.”
Save the worst for last. “What about my hand?” she asked.
He suddenly seemed very concerned about the positioning of the stethoscope draped around his neck.
Great.
“Well, that and your knee are the most serious injuries,” he said finally. “The knee was severely dislocated.”
She had to swallow, feeling very nauseated. “I tried to fix it.”
He nodded. “That was our impression. You have some major ligament damage, and the entire meniscus was—well—”
“Will I be able to ski?” she asked.
He hesitated. “With surgery, and intensive physical therapy—” He stopped. “Right now, I'm afraid we have some serious concerns about—what I'm going to do, is have the orthopedic people come in here to discuss it with you and your parents.”
Not exactly encouraging. “What about tennis?” she asked, mentally feeling a good portion of her life come crashing down.
“I don't know,” he said. “Lateral movement is going to be—I'm not—we'll have to talk to the orthopedic people about that.”
She nodded, unhappily. “Now, my hand.”
“With microsurgery, they were able to set the bones pretty well, but—” He didn't quite look at her. “There's a fair chance you'll get fifty percent mobility and functionality back, and depending on surgery and therapy, we'll hope for—again, we'll have to spend some time talking all of this over with the surgical team.”
Fifty percent.
Maybe
. But, it was better than being dead. She put on what she hoped was a cheerful smile. “Sounds like I'm going to be spending a lot of time in hospitals, hunh?”
“Most of it will be out-patient,” he said. “And we'll work directly through WHMU”—which was the White House Medical Unit—“as much as possible.”
She nodded, the prospect of this endless—and possibly fruitless—recuperation exhausting.
“It—” He coughed. “It was a very unusual break pattern.”
“I used a rock,” she said.
He looked startled. “
You
used a rock?”
Strange to realize that she hadn't actually told anyone much of what had happened. But, then again, she hadn't been
awake
much, either. Odds were, the FBI and everyone had been pacing up and down for hours now, waiting to pounce on her. Another tiring thought. “He, uh, he left me in this—I don't know—cave or something, and the chain wouldn't break, so—” She shrugged.
“Oh, Meg,” Dr. Brooks said.
He looked so upset that she knew she had to make a joke. She shrugged. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You were extremely courageous,” he said.
She shook her head, shyly. “Not really.” In fact, barely
at all
. Then, she changed the subject. “How soon can I go home?”
“Well—it may be a few weeks,” he said.
She stared at him. “
Weeks?
”
“We'll play it by ear,” he said. “The important thing is for you to get your strength back.”
Then, she would sure as hell cooperate. “Okay,” she said. “How about some broth?”
BEEF BROTH. SALTINES. A glass of milk. Mmmm-hmmm. Her bed had been propped up and a sliding table pulled over to hold the tray. The spoon was heavier than she would have imagined, but she was too embarrassed to have anyone—even her mother—feed her, so she lifted it, her whole arm seeming to tremble with the effort.
Her mother was instantly right next to her. “Meg, let me—”
Meg shook her head. “I can do it.” She spilled more than actually stayed in the spoon, but managed to get four spoonfuls down before she had to rest.
“How about some of the milk?” her mother asked.
Too much work. Meg shook her head.
Her mother started to say something, then just nodded, stepping back with her arms nervously across her chest. Seeing her in the light—like seeing her father the night before—had been a shock. She was pale and shaky, her eyes so deeply shadowed that it looked like
she
was the one who had been getting punched. And—at least when no one else was looking—they seemed to be filled with tears most of the time, too. She was also—jumpy. Skittish, really.
Different
.
Meg sighed. “The FBI must want to talk to me.”
Her mother's expression darkened. “They can wait.”
“Yeah, but—” It would be nice to wait. “I want them to catch him,” Meg said. “I mean—catch all of them.” Him, in particular.
“Well,” her mother sounded very reluctant, “if you're feeling stronger later, maybe—”
“If I put it off, I have to worry about it,” Meg said.
Her mother nodded. “All right, I'll take care of it.”
Good. “Thanks.” Meg closed her eyes, amazed by how exhausted
she was—even though she'd slept so much. She heard people coming into the room, and forced her eyes back open.
Her brothers, with her father behind them.
“Hi, guys,” she said, trying to make her voice sound normal. Like it always did.
Had
.
Neal hung back against their father. “Hi, Meggie,” he said, almost whispering.
Steven was scowling, which—if she hadn't known that he did that when he was trying not to cry, especially in hospitals—would have hurt her feelings. “Hi,” he said briefly, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Meg glanced at her mother for help.
“Neal,” her mother said, “come give your sister a hug.”
Meg winced. “Oh, please—I
already
feel sick.”
That won her a little snicker from Neal, and something like a smile from Steven.
“How do you feel?” her father asked.
“Well,” Meg indicated her tray, “I get to have this delicious soup.” She had always hated clear soup. In fact, she hated most soups, but at least minestrone was interesting to look at.
Her family was standing there with the same uncomfortable expressions she remembered from when her mother had come home from the hospital after being shot, no one seeming to know what to do, or say—and, in retrospect, she realized that it wasn't fair that the one who was actually
hurt
had to do all the work. Set the tone.
“So,” she said aloud. “How'd those crazy Red Sox do while I was gone?”
They all looked at each other, either not knowing, or not wanting to
admit
that they knew.
“What do you think we did,” Steven said, sounding hostile, “sit around and watch games?”
“You didn't even check any damn
scores
?” she asked, irritated
by his tone, even if she
did
understand it. Her head hurt, and she rubbed at it with her good hand.
“As far as I know, they're holding their own,” her father said smoothly. “Would you like some ice cream, maybe? Instead of the soup?”
She wanted to sleep, that's what she wanted. She shook her head. Neal's staring was also getting annoying, and she frowned at him. “You're not at the damn zoo, okay, Neal?”
He looked very hurt, like he might cry even, and she saw her parents exchange quick glances. Then, her father put his hand on Neal's shoulder, steering him towards the door.
“We're going to let you get some rest, kiddo,” he said to her. “Come visit you later.”
Oh, Christ, now everyone was all offended. “Look, I didn't mean—” The three of them were gone, and she let out an angry breath. Great, now she was in trouble. She looked down at her bowl of broth, fighting the urge to slam it to the floor. “I didn't mean to hurt his feelings.”
“He knows that,” her mother said, sounding very soothing.
Now,
she was being humored. “Yeah, well, I didn't mean to.” Christ, her hand hurt. Her hand hurt worse than ever. She clenched her good hand, wishing that she could, at least, smash one of the stupid packets of crackers. “Steven could have said he was happy to see me.”
Her mother sighed, reaching over to brush some hair out of her eyes. “You know how he is.”
Yeah, she knew how he was. She didn't have to
like
it. Her knee was throbbing horribly, and she rubbed her eyes, not wanting to cry.
Her mother moved closer. “Meg—”
“Are they
ever
going to untie my god-damn leg?” she asked.
“After the next operation,” her mother said, visibly uncomfortable. “They want to—”
“Great, the next fucking operation.” Terrific. Now she'd gone
and said “fuck” in front of her mother. She covered her eyes with her arm, tenting her elbow over her heavily-bandaged nose, feeling very close to exploding. If she could only get, Christ, even ten
seconds
of privacy, maybe—she raised her arm slightly. “Do you think you could get me a Coke?”
Her mother turned to motion to the nurse, stopped, looked at Meg, then moved to get it herself.
“Thank you.” Meg re-covered her eyes, taking the deepest breaths she could manage without making her ribs worse. She'd slept like that more than once in the forest, her arm over her eyes to make day seem like night. As opposed to
actual
nights, with the noises, and darkness, and—feeling scared, she wanted to move her arm, but decided in favor of preserving the illusion of privacy. Pretending she was home, maybe. Wherever the hell
that
was.
When she smelled perfume, she knew her mother was back, and took a last few seconds alone before lowering her arm.
Her mother set a glass of iced Coke on the bedside table. “Is there anything else you want?”
To be
alone
. Meg shook her head.
Her mother studied her for a minute. “Maybe some time by yourself?”
Meg opened her eyes all the way. “Am I allowed?”
“You're allowed,” her mother said, and guided her left hand over to a little hanging box with a white button on it. “If you want anything, or need anyone, just press that.”
Meg nodded, eager for the privacy to start. “It can be for a while? I mean, as long as I want?”
“If
hours
pass,” her mother said, “we may begin to worry about you.”
A joke. About
time
someone made one. Meg grinned. “How many hours?”
“Six,” her mother said. “Eight.”
Ten. Twelve. “What time is it now?” Meg asked.
Her mother glanced at her watch. “Just past noon.”
All right, then. “Can you get the FBI to come at like, one-thirty?” Meg asked.
Her mother looked worried. “If you're sure—”
“I'm sure,” Meg said.
When she was finally alone—even the nurse left, she lay there, looking up at the ceiling. It was very clean. The whole room was, which was probably a good idea, seeing as it was a hospital and all. For the first time, she noticed that there were a lot of flowers around. Very pretty flowers. There were also a few stacks of envelopes, as well as some stuffed animals which had to be from political leaders and people like that who didn't know her. Kind of funny. She looked at everything for a while, especially all of the roses, then closed her eyes. Except that it would be a shame to waste her privacy on sleep, so she opened them again and picked up her Coke, sipping some. Pretty great to know that she could have something to drink whenever she wanted, as
much
as she wanted.
Before stepping out, the nurse had given her some pills, and even the pain in her hand was better. Fuzzier. She sipped more Coke, absolutely loving the taste. Nice and sweet, with so much crushed ice that it was almost like a slush. She drank the whole thing, taking her time, enjoying every second of it. Enjoying the
ice
. Enjoying the silence in the room. If her cat were here, on the bed, this moment would be damn near perfect.
 
IT WAS HARD to tell the story in order. It was hard to remember details. It was hard to stay
awake
. Her parents had insisted upon staying in the room, although the agents seemed uncomfortable about the idea, either self-conscious about asking difficult questions in front of them—or afraid that she would hedge away from the answers. A psychologist had come along, too, which would have worried her, if she hadn't known that that was fairly standard in
debriefings like this. He hadn't actually introduced himself as such, but she had picked him out right away—agency people, whether they were from three-letter agencies, or Secret Service, or whatever, were always very distinctive. The same haircut or something. Kind of like—astronauts.
“And then what happened?” one of the agents was asking.
She woke herself up. “I'm sorry, I don't—when?”
“After you came to the conclusion that you had been abandoned in there,” he said.
There. The mine shaft? Christ, if that's where they were, she had a long way to go yet. She sighed, picking up the fresh Coke one of the nurses had brought in.
“Do you remember?” he asked.
What did he think, that she was stupid? Of
course
she bloody remembered. Her hand was shaking, and she had to be very careful setting the Coke down so she wouldn't spill it. “I—” Was she going to be tired like this for the rest of her damn life? She sighed. “I mean, I—”
“I think we ought to finish the rest of this later,” her father said, frowning at the agents.
Who promptly glanced at her mother for confirmation.
“I think that would be an excellent idea,” her mother said, her voice very even, and calm—and
ice
cold.
One of the agents, the leader guy, reached out to shake Meg's hand, and she vaguely remembered him having introduced himself as Special Agent Morehouse. Morgan? Something like that. “Thank you, Meg,” he said. “You did very well.”
She shrugged, not sure if he meant it, or was just being patronizing. “You think you're going to catch them?”
Him?
The agent nodded. “Maybe not right away, but—it's only a matter of time.”
Maybe. She nodded back, to be cooperative, hearing her father
mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “Keystone Kops” as they left the room.
Her mother must have heard, too, because she touched his back. “They will
certainly
come up with something,” she said, in the “
heads
will roll” voice Meg rarely heard her use.
Her father didn't exactly shake her hand off—but, in either case, he moved away from her. “Well.” He picked up his coffee cup from the sliding table. “Would you like something to eat, Meg? Or, to rest? Or—”
Decisions. “I don't know,” she said. She was tired, but—she was getting
tired
of being tired. “Who sent all the flowers?”
Her parents looked at each other.
“We just thought we'd have a few small arrangements put in here,” her mother said. “Because—well, there's been quite an outpouring.”
She wasn't quite sure why such a bland question had made her parents look so strained, but it definitely had. She frowned. “Are you worried that it isn't, you know,
secure
to have stuff like that around?”
Judging from her father's expression, he hadn't been terribly anxious about that before—but he was
now
.
Her mother shook her head. “No, of course not. It's just—well, the response has been overwhelming.”
Oh, whoa, now she got it. “You mean, they're leaving stuff at the House, like when you got”—since none of them ever said the actual word “shot,” she wasn't going to, either—“um, hurt?” When it had happened, though, hundreds—and maybe even
thousands
—of people had come and left flowers and cards and all in front of the White House fence. It had been sweet, and thoughtful—and sort of unsettling.

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