Long Live the Queen (23 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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Not something Meg really wanted to pursue. She looked at the television, wondering if she should turn it on, and try to catch some of the late coverage. “They talked about other things, too, right? I mean, other issues?” Christ, was
she
an issue now? What a thought.
“Oh, yeah,” Beth said. “She read a statement, and said she'd take a few questions on it, and then she talked about, you know, health care and stuff. Like everything was—normal again.”
Precisely what Meg had
hoped
she would accomplish, so that was good. And she should have probably watched—but, it would have been too weird. Creepy, even.
“You still there?” Beth asked, sounding tentative.
Meg nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Are you, um, allowed to have visitors?” Beth asked.
“I don't want to,” Meg said. Which sounded really callous.
Too
callous. “I don't want people seeing me like this.”
“Does that mean me, too?” Beth asked.
“Yeah.” Which was way too harsh. “I mean, I think so. I mean—” Meg let out her breath. “I haven't washed my hair in three weeks.”
“So what?” Beth asked.
“I
hate
it. I hate—I'm not ready. It's too much pressure,” Meg said, suddenly feeling so panicky that she was afraid she would have to hang up.
“It was just an idea,” Beth said. “You know, if you wanted me to come down.”
Meg shook her head. “I
can't
. I'm supposed to know what to say, and I don't, and—no one else does either, and—I fucking
hate
it. I hate all of it.”
Beth took her time answering. “Okay. Maybe when you get home, I can—”
“Yeah,” Meg said quickly. “Maybe then.”
There was a long silence.
“I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings,” Meg said. “I'm just—” Fucked up.
“You didn't,” Beth said. “Don't worry.”
Either way, it was too late now. “Well, I didn't mean to.” Meg slumped down into her pillows, having trouble keeping her eyes
open—yet again. “I'm sorry, I'm really tired. I shouldn't have called.”
“I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're—” Beth stopped. “I'm glad,” she said, her voice sounding strange again.
“Me, too,” Meg said quietly.
SHE SPENT MOST of the next few weeks watching movies and baseball games with still-heavy eyes. Various members of her family were almost always with her, although once Trudy had come up, her brothers had started going home and sleeping in their own beds at night again. Since they didn't have any living grandparents, she and her brothers had always thought of Trudy that way—and during the day,
she
was at the hospital a lot, crocheting by the window. Preston was usually around, too.
Mostly, she was still too exhausted to talk much, and it was a relief when no one made her try. A couple of times—more out of guilt than anything else—she called Beth and Josh, but there never seemed to be much to say, and the conversations wouldn't last long.
Investigators from various agencies showed up, more than once, and she tried to answer their questions and work on composite sketches and everything, unnerved by how often she got confused. She had also had surgery twice—putting more pins in her hand, and doing ligament grafts and a peroneal augmentation or something in her knee—and various specialists and physical therapists—and psychologists, and counselors—seemed to come in and out of her room constantly, and she did her best to cooperate with them. Or, at least, stay awake.
Which was even harder than it had been before, because her knee had been hooked up to a continuous passive motion machine, and she not only had to stay in the same, uncomfortable position on her back, but the non-stop motion really got on her nerves, and she was having a terrible time getting more than short bursts of sleep, no matter
how
much medication they gave her. And if she
did
fall asleep, someone would show up and haul her off for another arteriogram or some damn thing.
In the afternoon, she usually got pushed up and down the hall in a wheelchair for a while, although most of the time, she would lean her head against her good hand and wait for it to be over. Her ribs were getting better, though, so it was easier to sit up without needing to hunch over. Every now and then, they wheeled her into this stupid sun-room, like it was going to be a magical cure or something—although looking outside was the
last
thing she felt like doing. And riding up and down the hall was scary, because there was so much security—agents, soldiers, check-in stations, bulletproof glass.
Everyone was very nice, and would talk to her, and she was always polite, but tried to keep the Orioles cap down low on her forehead as much as possible, so they would know to leave her alone. The hat was especially good if she started crying—which would happen unexpectedly—because that way, no one could see her face.
Waking up from yet another nightmare, so terrified that she couldn't catch her breath, she saw Trudy hurrying over from her chair.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asked, helping her back down onto the pillows.
Meg stared at her—at the familiar blue knit dress, the pearls, and the pair of half-glasses swinging from a chain around her neck—then realized where she was. “I—” She tried to calm down. “I thought he was in here. Dressed like a doctor.” She shuddered, picturing it again—her, lying alone in the dark room, not afraid when she saw a doctor come over, until he looked up and she saw the crooked grin.
Trudy was moistening and squeezing out a small washcloth, then sponging Meg's face. “It was just a dream, everything's all right.”
Meg was going to tell her the rest—about how he kept grinning
at her, then pulled out the gun, pressing it into her forehead, getting ready to—she shivered. “Do you think there are more blankets somewhere?”
“Of course.” Trudy bent down, opening a little cabinet below the bedside table and taking out a smooth pale green one, spreading it over her.
The blanket smelled of antiseptic, but Meg yanked it closer. “Where is everyone?”
“I'm not sure where your mother is,” Trudy said, “but your father took the boys home for a while. They'll be back later this afternoon.”
Meg nodded. It would probably be good for her brothers not to come back at all today, and just
relax
, for once.
“Are you hungry?” Trudy asked. “Would you like anything?”
Meg shook her head, still trying to get rid of the dream. She stiffened, seeing a man with short dark hair at the door, then recognized the Army psychologist guy.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Meg shrugged, not at all interested in the idea.
So
uninterested, in fact, that she had never bothered getting his name straight.
He came in, nodding at Trudy, stopping near the bottom of the bed. “Just thought I'd see how you're feeling today.”
She nodded. Politely. “Fine. Thank you.”
“I hear you may be going home by the weekend,” he said.
That was the rumor. She nodded.
“You must be looking forward to that,” he said.
She nodded.
He looked at her thoughtfully. “I'm from New Hampshire, you know. Durham.”
So, what, they were going to bond over New England? “It's very nice up there,” she said.
Trudy looked as though she was going to leave the room, and Meg shook her head, as subtly as she could.
“We used to drive down to the city all the time,” he said. “Go to Celtics games.”
She had never liked basketball much, but she nodded. “That must have been nice.”
He examined one of her many—still-arriving—baskets of flowers. “Have you been sleeping well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Except, maybe that was a way to make him leave. She pretended to cover up a yawn. “I'm still very tired, though.”
He took the hint. “Well, I'll let you get some rest, then. Maybe I'll look in on you tomorrow.”
She nodded.
When he was gone, Trudy spoke first.
“He seems like a nice man,” she said.
Meg shrugged. “I don't like his looks.” Not that men in their thirties with dark hair and strong cheekbones were
ever
likely to appeal to her again.
“Would you like a brownie?” Trudy held out the tin she'd brought from the White House the day before.
Meg took one, even though she wasn't hungry. “Thank you.” If the psychologist guy had come, that meant the room was going to turn into Union Station soon, with physical therapists and nurses and everyone.
The worst, was when they touched her. And almost all of them did. Giving her sponge baths, changing the bed, taking her temperature, helping with the bedpan, moving the two fingers on her right hand that still worked, carefully flexing and extending her left leg and foot, hooking her other arm and leg onto little pulleys and weights and things, so she could exercise them without having to get out of bed. They even did these sorts of massages, which she hated more than anything else. All of the ones who actually touched her were women, thank God—but, they were still strangers.
She saw that Trudy was watching her with a worried expression. “Um, this looks good,” she said, and took a bite of the brownie. It
was
good, but her stomach was so tight that she had to force it down.
“If you don't like him, they could send someone else by,” Trudy said.
“Yeah, they had a woman psychologist in here yesterday.” Meg put what was left of the brownie neatly onto her bedside table. “Guess they really think I've gone around the bend.”
“They just want to help you,” Trudy said.
“Yeah, well—” Meg picked up the remote control. “Think there's anything good on?”
“If not, we can watch one of your movies,” Trudy said.
They had run through just about every musical or Disney movie ever produced, so now she was watching things like dumb teenage high school movies and
Mary Tyler Moore
episodes. She was sick of looking at the television, but at least it made the time pass a little faster.
Not that she
needed
time to zip along, since it wasn't like she had anything to look forward to.
“Meg?” Trudy asked.
“Um, yeah.” Meg handed her the remote control. “Let's watch a movie.”
 
THE DOCTORS ESTABLISHED that, indeed, Saturday would be a good day for her to go home. Her mother had arranged to have Camp David set up as a recuperation site, but—despite its privacy—the idea of being in, or near, the woods was so terrifying that Meg had asked her to do
anything
else. Even the hospital would be better than
that
.
So, they were just going to go back to the White House. And Meg had asked to be put in her room, not upstairs in the solarium, or
something. Sadly enough, her mother's own convalescence was recent enough so that the staff probably wouldn't have much trouble getting everything ready.
The therapists were letting—making?—her do more, and with the motorized wheelchair, she was starting to be able to deal with the bathroom by herself. The—at her request—mirrorless bathroom. Things like brushing her teeth were so demanding that she would have to rest afterwards—sometimes for several hours—but, it was a relief to finally be able to have a
little
privacy. She wasn't allowed to do anything weight-bearing yet, so they wouldn't let her even
try
to walk, but sometimes, they had her stand up and lean on a railing or something, to try and get her equilibrium back. Her right hand wasn't going to work anytime soon—if ever—but once her knee was stronger, the therapists seemed confident that she would be able to get around, for very short distances, on one crutch. Around a
room,
at least. Meg figured they were being overly optimistic, but she just did whatever they told her to do, even when she felt so weak and unsteady that she practically had to bite through her lip to keep from crying.
Everyone was very happy and excited the night before she was supposed to go home, and Meg manufactured as much enthusiasm as she could, eating takeout Chinese food and watching
Tootsie.
Then, Trudy left with Steven and Neal, and Preston grinned and said, “Catch you in the morning,” and the room was quiet again.
Alone with her parents, Meg let herself stop smiling. Stop faking it. Her parents had moved to chairs on either side of the bed, and none of them spoke right away.
“I think that cat of yours is going to be pretty happy to see you,” her father said.
Meg nodded—although she'd had a dream a couple of nights earlier where Vanessa didn't recognize her—and was hostile about it. “I'm going to be pretty happy to see
her
.”
It was quiet again.
“Are we really going to be able to get out of here without—well, you know. Being surrounded?” Meg asked.
Her mother nodded. “We've indicated that you'll be leaving mid-afternoon.”
Meg couldn't help grinning. “You like, outright lied?”
“Well—yes,” her mother said, and blinked a couple of times.
Originally, they had been going to take Marine One back, but it would have been cumbersome to get her on and off safely, with the surgical brace and all, and she
really
didn't like the idea of being carried up and down the steps in front of what would inevitably be countless cameras. She was pretty sure Dr. Brooks would have preferred that she ride back in an ambulance—but, she was damned if she was willing to look
that
injured. So, they were going to go in a standard motorcade, and a wheelchair would be waiting for her on the South Drive, to help her get inside the White House.
Of course, motorcades weren't exactly
stealthy
.
“Word'll get out though, right?” she said. “Before we get home, I mean.”
Her parents nodded reluctantly.
Meaning that there was probably no way of avoiding a crowd of media—and maybe even an
actual
crowd. Apparently, there had been a huge one when she came to the hospital, but she couldn't remember any of that. This time, she wasn't going to have the luxury of sleeping through the whole thing.
“We're going to get you right inside,” her father said. “You don't have anything to worry about.”
The Szechuan shredded beef and Yu-Hsiang chicken were suddenly feeling pretty lousy inside her stomach. “Do I have to say anything?” she asked. “Like, a statement?”
Her father frowned at her mother, who immediately shook her head.
“Of course not,” she said. “Linda or Preston, or maybe Natalie”—who was the Deputy Press Secretary—“will brief them after we're inside.”
“What if there are signs?” Meg asked, getting more and more nervous. “Or, if they clap or something?” Which they had done when her
mother
came home from the hospital.

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