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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, thanks.”
He bent down, gave her an awkward kiss on the forehead, and walked quickly towards the door.
“I think you should go to graduation,” she said.
He shook his head, firmly. “No, I—”
“You really liked that school,” she said.
“
Liked
,” he said grimly.
He had a point there. She nodded. “Yeah, but I still think you should go.”
He looked guilty. “It wouldn't feel—”
“I wasn't even there for two years,” she said. “It's not the same for me, anyway.”
“I don't know,” he said. “I'll think about it.”
Maybe.
When he was gone, she sank down into the pillows, not worrying about letting the tears fall, crying mostly about her knee, but also just in general. She was going to press the little white button for the nurse, to see if they could bring her some stronger pain medication, but she didn't want them to come in and see her crying.
They were doing a bunch of post-game analysis—like it
mattered
, when they lost—and she fumbled for the remote control, turning the television off. Then, she cried harder, feeling both alone and surrounded. Trapped. As a precaution, she covered her eyes with her arm, then let herself
really
cry, feeling the bed shake underneath her. Oh, God, her knee hurt. Her knee hurt nightmar-ishly badly. Maybe there was something wrong. Something new. Maybe she should call—but, not while she was crying like this. Christ, how could it hurt so much? How could
anything
hurt so much?
“—just
sit
there, and watch my child—” She heard her father's low voice going past her door. That meant that any minute now, they were going to come back in and—she tried to stop crying, dragging in a slow, rib-stabbing breath, and then, another.
By the time there was a small knock on the door, and her parents and Dr. Brooks came in, she was almost under control. Almost, being the operative word, and she lowered her arm only partway.
“Do you think you can sit up enough to take this?” Dr. Brooks asked, holding a small paper cup of water and another cup with some pills in it.
She nodded, as he pushed the control to raise the bed, keeping her head down so that while they might see that she had been crying, they wouldn't be able to tell how
much
.
“Wh-what are they?” she asked, looking at the pills. Not that a tearful little
voice
wasn't a dead giveaway.
“Those should help you get some sleep,” he pointed, “and that one should take care of the pain you're having.”
She nodded, tipping the contents of the little cup into her mouth, then gulping the water, her hand trembling.
“It's your knee, mostly?” Dr. Brooks asked.
She nodded, tensing in case he was going to have to examine it.
“All right.” His hand touched her hand very gently. “I'm just going to check your pulse for a minute, okay?”
She nodded, surprised when he took it down at her left
ankle
, his fingers resting so lightly on her skin that it didn't hurt. Much.
“Dr. Steiner is on his way up,” he said, “and we're going to see what we can do to help you feel better.”
“I don't—” She swallowed. “Do I know him?”
“Your father and I have met him,” her mother said. “He's one of the orthopedic specialists.”
“Is he going to move it around?” she asked, already scared. Hurt her
more
?
“He's just going to have a look,” Dr. Brooks said, pumping up a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “Ask you a few questions, maybe.”
Meg nodded, still scared. But, the pills took effect quickly, and by the time Dr. Steiner came in—tall, with glasses and bushy brown hair—she could barely keep her eyes open. He
did
poke around a lot, but the pain seemed faraway, and the questions he asked—when the pain had started getting worse, where, and that sort of thing—took all of her concentration to answer.
They all seemed to be talking somewhere above her—to her, maybe?—and she tried to pay attention, but it was too hard.
“I'm going to—I mean, is it okay if I—” It was too much work to stay awake anymore, and she let her eyes close.
YET ANOTHER WAKENING in darkness, not sure where she was at first, then not sure what time it was. But she saw her mother, blurrily, by the bed, her father asleep in the chair by the window.
“Okay?” her mother whispered, seeing her open her eyes.
Meg nodded, relieved that her mother understood she was too tired to talk.
“I'm sorry,” her mother said softly. “I'm sorry about
everything
.”
Meg nodded, sleepily.
“How's the pain?” her mother asked.
Terrible. More awake now, Meg looked down at the bulky contraption holding her knee in the air. “Is there something bad—wrong with—?”
“Well—” Her mother was choosing her words. “Apparently, there's some pressure building up in there, and one of the nerves is—they've elected to do a surgical intervention tomorrow, and see if they can address some of that.”
Which sounded absolutely terrifying, and Meg stared at her. “It's going to be fine,” her mother said. “Your father and I are very impressed by the team Bob's been putting together.”
It still seemed really scary. “Do I have to be unconscious?” Meg asked.
Her mother shook her head. “No, right now they're planning to use an epidural.”
Meg swallowed uneasily. “Will it hurt?”
Her mother shook her head again.
“Can you and Dad be in there with me?” Meg asked.
“We've made it very clear that we would prefer it that way, yes,” her mother said, although her hands tightened nervously. Her mother was almost as bad as Steven about All Things Medical. Except, in Steven's case, sports injuries. He was the only person she had ever known who actually
did
things like rotator cuff exercises.
“Will the blood and all bother you?” Meg asked.
“Of course not,” her mother said. Rather heartily.
Unh-hunh. Almost completely awake now, Meg moved her pillows—her mother helping her—so she could sit up a little. “What exactly are they going to do to me?”
“Well.” Her mother's hands clenched again. “I think primarily they're going to evaluate the ligaments, and the meniscus and, um, your neurovascular—one of the surgeons has worked extensively with the U.S. Ski Team.”
Meg felt a flash of great hope and excitement. “You mean, I
will
be able to ski again? And play tennis and all?”
“He's supposed to be the best in the country,” her mother said. The President, neatly sidestepping a direct answer.
She was beginning to get a pretty bad feeling about all of this, but decided not to think about it. Was too
afraid
to think about it.
“It was good to see Josh tonight?” her mother asked.
Not really. Meg shook her head.
“Well,” her mother said, after a pause, “maybe we can have Beth—”
Meg shook her head more firmly. “I don't
want
to see people.” Didn't want to have them see
her
. “Um, where are Steven and Neal?”
“Asleep down in the Suite,” her mother said.
Which she should have been able to remember. Christ, had something happened to her
brain?
From the concussion, maybe? She looked over at her father, who was still slouched in his chair,
asleep, his face haggard. “Thank God it wasn't Neal,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Her mother shuddered, but didn't say anything.
“I mean, Steven would have been bad, too, but—” Worrying about concussion complications had made her head start hurting, and she pressed her palm against it, her mother's hand covering hers, very warm and soothing. “Besides, with me—he
wanted
everyone to be thinking about rape.”
Her mother's hand stiffened. “Everyone was.”
“Yeah.” Seeing the genuine fear in her mother's eyes, she managed a very small smile. “I swear he didn't. I mean—” she felt the smile get tighter—“it was
discussed
, but—”
Her mother nodded, letting out her breath, her hand stroking Meg's forehead.
It seemed cold, and she wished she were strong enough to sit up for a hug. “I don't think I'm going to make it through this,” she said. “I
really
don't.”
Her mother's hand came over to squeeze her shoulder. “You will,” she said. “We all will.”
Again, just a shade too hearty. “I don't know,” Meg said, and pulled her blanket up higher.
“Would you like another?” her mother asked, tucking it around her.
Meg shook her head.
Her mother readjusted her pillows for her. “Why don't you try to get some sleep?”
Meg nodded, her eyes already feeling heavy. Her knee was throbbing, though, and she knew she wasn't going to have much luck. Strange to think about what tonight
would
have been like. Should have been. Her last night as a high school senior. She'd only been waiting for—well, since about
third
grade. Someone at school was probably having a big party, and—well, not that she'd
ever been totally into school or anything, but it
would
have been a big deal. An important step.
Which also, damn it, was true for Steven, and—she sighed.
“Your knee?” her mother asked, sounding worried.
Meg shook her head. Not primarily, anyway. This was more—general—misery. She glanced up at her mother, whose expression
looked
the way hers felt. “I wish—” She stopped. Wished
what
? Something real helpful, like that none of this had ever happened? That her mother had lost the election, that they were still in Massachusetts, that—
pointless
wishes? “I wish you were still speaking,” she said finally. “At graduation.” That everything was
normal
.
Her mother picked up her hand. “I'm sorry, I know how—”
“It's not like I
loved
school,” Meg said. “It's just—I don't know.”
Her mother nodded. “I'm sorry. I
really
am.”
“Steven didn't get to go to Kings Dominion,” Meg said.
Her mother looked unhappy. “I know. Unfortunately, it wasn't—well.”
“Is he mad at me?” Meg asked.
“Mad at
you
?” her mother said. “No. Of course not.”
Maybe. She suspected otherwise, though.
The room was so quiet that she could hear her father breathing.
“What does the country know?” she asked.
“That you're safe,” her mother said. “That you escaped.”
“They don't really know details, though,” Meg said.
Her mother shook her head.
“So, there's like,
conjecture
,” Meg said.
Her mother shrugged, but her expression looked very tense.
She was much too tired to get into all of this, but—“Do you think they think there's a cover-up?”
Her mother shrugged again. “Let them.”
The President, indifferent to public opinion? Kind of funny. Especially since she and Steven had occasionally mumbled the word
“cover-up”—even out of context—
just
to watch her mother's blood pressure go up. The word “corruption” was a good one, too. However. “Have you spoken to the press at
all
?” she asked.
Except for the “can not, have not, and
will
not” negotiate speech, of course.
“Well—there have been other matters to address,” her mother said carefully. “But, insofar as you're concerned, no, I've only released statements. I'd anticipated a press conference in a day or so.”
Meg frowned. “From
here
?”
“Downstairs, somewhere,” her mother said. “I'll just have Linda”—who was her press secretary—“prepare something—”
“If you do it from here,” Meg said, “won't it look—I mean, people'll think—”
Her mother sighed. “I
can't
speak at the graduation, Meg. It would be—well, ‘circus' is putting it mildly.”
Which was true. Her mother's being there would turn it into an epic media event, and ruin the ceremony for everyone else. Christ, this was making her head hurt. “Yeah,” Meg said, “but if you do it from the hospital, won't it look like I'm lying around all traumatized, and—you know, that
all
of us are.”
Her mother's glance around the room was more than a little ironic. “Which, Lord knows, isn't the case.”
Meg had to grin. “Yeah, but I don't want them
thinking
that.”
Her mother nodded. “Would you like me to have it back at the House? Just a standard press conference?”
“Yeah,” Meg said. “I think that would be good. Um, can you do it tomorrow night, maybe?”
“Well—” her mother glanced at Meg's knee—“wouldn't it be better to wait until—?”
Meg shook her head. Vehemently.
“Okay, then,” her mother said. “I'll have Linda set it up.”
“And you won't just talk about me, right?” Meg asked. “Or release a picture, or anything?” Not that her mother, obviously, could
ignore
the situation. “I mean, you'll talk about normal stuff, too?” Little things like—foreign policy, say.
Her mother nodded, bending down to kiss her cheek. “I'll do whatever you want, Meg. I promise.”
Meg lifted her shoulders off the bed enough so that her mother could hug her. “I just want to be safe,” she said. “I want
all
of us to be safe.”
 
THE OPERATION WAS at nine o'clock. The doctors, Dr. Steiner among them, had all introduced themselves earlier, before the anesthesiologist had given her the epidural—which
was
scary—and now, they were behind the green operating cloth hiding her lower body from sight. Her parents and Dr. Brooks were on her side of the cloth, her parents clasping her left hand between theirs. They were wearing full green surgical outfits, right down to the masks and booties, which under different circumstances, would have been hilarious.
She hung on to them, terrified that it was going to hurt, even though she couldn't really feel
anything
below her waist. A nurse was injecting something into her IV, and she felt almost immediately calmer. Her parents were telling her not to worry, that she was safe, that everything was going to be fine, but she could hear the surgeons' quiet voices and—sounds. Suction, and—she clutched at her parents with her good hand, trying not to panic.
“I can hear them
cutting
,” she whispered.
Her father moved so that he was holding her hand and her mother's hand between both of his. “We're going to talk to you,” he said calmly. “You won't hear anything.”
She looked up at him, watching his face as he talked about the day she was born—night, actually;
late
night—and how happy he had been, how fat and wrinkled she was, and how they brought her home to her mother's old yellow baby crib, and how they—even the dog, Trevor—would just sit and look at her, and he and her mother
would talk about how lucky they were, and how beautiful she was, and how smart they
knew
she was going to be—sometimes, Meg would hear a scary soft sound behind the operating cloth, but she concentrated on keeping her eyes on her father's, listening to him.
He talked about the little red cloche hat she had had, and her first lacy Easter dress, and the white-and-yellow bonnet she wore to go with
that
, and how she was always so good and happy, and
loved
to have her picture taken. And how he would sit her up on his lap, and she would eat Uneeda biscuits, and drink grape juice, and laugh and laugh.
Sometimes, she would fall asleep for a few seconds or minutes, but when she woke up, her father would still be talking. About how she used to put flour in one half of her hair and walk around singing “Cruella De Vil.” About the red plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar she wore on her first day of kindergarten. About the big dishes of mashed potatoes and creamed corn she was always eating. And root beer. She had loved root beer. About how disapproving she was when Steven was born, especially because he had too much hair. About how the Speaker of the House would let her stand up in the front, after the session was over, and bang his gavel, and how funny she thought that was. About how damned stubborn she had been,
literally
trying to put the square block in the round hole, and when he'd suggested that she try the round green one, she'd said—scornfully—“
Babies
can do that.” About how much trouble she had pronouncing Garciaparra. Presumably, Yastrzemski would have been entirely beyond her.

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