Long Live the Queen (27 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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She glared at him. “Back off, okay, Preston?”
He nodded. “Sure. I just hate to see you going
down
hill, you know?”
“I'm just tired,” she said.
“Okay.” He tilted his chair back, looking up at her chandelier. “Given any thought to sitting down with Gary Crowell?”
The Army psychologist guy. “
No,
” she said.
He shrugged. “He knows his stuff, Meg. He's worked with a lot of the embassy people, after—”
“I don't like him,” she said.
He nodded. “Okay. What about someone who's been through the same sort of thing? A hijacking, or—”
“I don't even want to talk to people I
know,
” she said, “forget people I
don't
know.”
“Sometimes it's easier when you don't know the person,” he said. “Nothing to hide that way.”
Since she wasn't capable of responding politely to that, she didn't say anything at all.
“Okay.” He sighed. “Just can't stand seeing you turn yourself into a little time-bomb.”
Why he thought it
mattered
was beyond her. “I'm just tired.
Really
tired,” she said, hoping that he would take the hint and leave.
“I know you are.” He folded his hands behind his head, still looking up at the ceiling. “You know, at some point, you've got to let yourself start thinking about it.”
“About what?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said. “The future, primarily.”
What
future did he think she had, exactly?
“Come on, Meg, talk to me,” he said. “Give yourself a break.”
She scowled at him. “I don't
have
a future. In case you didn't notice.”
He turned his head enough to look at her. “Mention this to your parents yet?”
“No.” She managed a weak smile. “I don't want them to worry.”
He nodded. “Why spoil their tranquility.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she said. “Tell them I'm not even glad to be back?” Which sounded terrible. “I mean, I'm glad, but—” But what? “It's sort of like I didn't come back
to
anything.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Wasn't he listening? She frowned. “You don't understand?”
“I want to be
sure
I understand,” he said.
Was he being intentionally dense, or was he tired, too? “I'm not going to have a life,” she said. “Even if I was
allowed
to go anywhere, I can't—I mean, even if they
could
protect me, I wouldn't be able to—what are they going to do, come here and tutor me
college
?”
He shrugged. “It's not the best scenario, but—”
She stiffened, remembering the guy. “Don't say ‘scenario.'” “
Worst
scenario,” he'd said, “I start liking you,” and—she shivered.
“Sorry,” Preston said. “Can't help falling into press secretary talk sometimes.”
She shrugged, unable to bring herself to look at him.
“Funny word to give you bad associations,” he said, thoughtfully.
She felt herself shiver again. “I'm going to sleep now, okay?”
“Meg—” he said.
“I'm
going
to,” she said, covering her eyes with her arm. “
Okay?
”
He sighed, standing up. “Okay.”
SHE WAS CAREFUL to hide it, but over the next week, she could feel the pressure building. Even sleep wasn't working as a cure, because the nightmares were back, worse than ever. Most of them were about the guy—or even just his grin, like some deranged Cheshire Cat—but falling, seeing people she knew get killed, and being trapped in places were regular themes, too.
Her appetite was pretty much gone and every day, the therapy seemed harder and harder. She tried to keep a constant “don't worry, I'm fine” smile pasted on, but knew she wasn't really fooling people. And she still wasn't taking phone calls. From
anyone.
Preston was around a lot, but she avoided being alone with him, because she knew he could—
would
—make her talk. Upset her. Whenever Dr. Brooks came in, he would look very serious and worried, but he didn't push her. Her family was being quiet and careful, too. Thank God.
It was very late—she wasn't sure what night it was—when she had the worst nightmare so far. She was chained to the iron bed frame, the room smaller and darker than she remembered, and he was coming at her—more crazed than he had been with the gun that time—apparently planning to kill her with his bare hands. He was breathing hard, like an animal, and when she saw his eyes, she screamed, because they
weren't
eyes, they were fire. Not
even
fire—more like red light. Burning red light. She screamed again, as he started laughing, his hands around her throat.
“Who did you
think
I was?” he asked.
“Y-you don't exist,” she said, some awake, sane part of her
brain aware that this wasn't happening, that it couldn't be—“This isn't real.”
“I
do
exist,” he said, and as she watched his eyes, his face reddened and lengthened, turning into the honest-to-God devil, his laugh more and more high-pitched.
“You'll never get away from me,” he said, wrapping the rope around her neck. “You'll be with me
forever
.”
She tried to get free, but the rope was already too tight, cutting off her air.
He laughed some more, laughed wildly. “You know who I am? Do you? Do you know who I am? That's who I am!”
She screamed again, was still screaming when she realized that the room was much brighter. That she was in
her
room, and her parents were there, holding her.
“It's all right, Meg,” her mother was saying. “Wake up, Meg, it's all right.”
Maybe it wasn't her room, maybe it was a trick, maybe—
“
Wake up
, Meg,” her mother said gently.
She looked at her parents, at her room, at Steven standing near the door, his eyes huge. Normal eyes. She looked at her parents, who also had normal eyes. Normal eyes. She tried to get her breath, her heart pounding so hard that the force seemed strong enough to knock her off the bed.
“I-I think I'm having a heart attack,” she gasped.
“Shhh—” her mother was holding her close—“you're all right. It was just a dream.”
Jesus, didn't her mother understand how much danger they were in? That they were going to get
killed
? “He's coming to get me!” Meg said. “He can get in
anywhere
!”
“You're safe,” her father said. “I promise.”
Meg shook her head. “You don't know him!”
“I
promise
,” her father said.
She trusted her father. Her father never lied to her. She looked at him, wondering with a sudden terrified quiver if
his
eyes were going to change, if all of them were going to turn into—“Are you
sure
?” she asked.
“I'm sure,” he said.
She let herself relax a little, the dream beginning to fade. “You're
sure
?”
He nodded, and she sank down into the pillow, pulling in slow, deep breaths. They were all looking at her with such concern that she managed a small laugh.
“You're not going to believe this,” she said, “but I think I just had an evangelical dream.”
“A what?” her mother asked, as her father said, “I don't understand.” Steven didn't say
anything
.
Meg just shook her head, too spent to try and explain.
“Would you like—” her mother started.
“Yeah,” Meg said, gesturing weakly towards the television. “Could you put on
The Sound of Music
?”
“Of course,” her mother said. “Whatever you want.”
“Good,” Meg said, watching her father search through the pile of movies on her desk, as she tried to stop trembling. “Because I think I need to see some nuns.”
 
HER PARENTS stayed up with her for a long time. They all sat there as the movie played, not talking much, the memory of the dream slowly disappearing as Meg stared at the screen. By the time Maria was singing “My Favorite Things,” she was calm enough to let her eyes close.
“Feel better?” her father asked.
Meg grinned sheepishly. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, and clicked the television off.
It was quiet for a minute, her parents looking almost as exhausted as she felt.
“How would you feel about going home to Chestnut Hill for a while?” her mother asked. “You could see your old friends, and—”
Oh, yeah, like they'd be safe
there
. At least the White House was a god-damn
fortress
. Meg shook her head. “It was only a bad dream. I'm going to be
fine
.”
Her mother nodded. “I know. We just thought you might feel better if—”
“I don't want to go anywhere,” Meg said. “I'm not going to ruin everything.”
Her father patted her good hand. “Your mother and I just want to make things easier for you. We thought going home for a while might—”
“I'm
trying
to get better,” Meg said defensively. “I can't help—”
“We want to make it easier,” her father said. “That's all.”
They didn't seem to get that things weren't
ever
going to be easy again. Meg sighed. “I don't want everything messed up because of me. I don't want to go home, and—I mean, we live
here
now. I just—I want things to be
normal
. Anything else means they got what they wanted, you know? That they—I don't know—changed the order of things.”
Her parents nodded.
“Besides,” Meg said. “If we're not safe here, we're not going to be safe anywhere else. I mean, you
know
we're not.”
They nodded.
“I want things to be normal.” She looked at her mother. “You, especially. Work, I mean.”
Her mother frowned, but then nodded again.
“I just—I don't know.” Except that talking was too hard. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm really tired.”
Her mother started rearranging her pillows, and fixing her quilt, while her father turned the lamp off.
“Can you make sure the bathroom light stays on?” Meg asked. “So I can sleep?”
Her father nodded, flipping on the switch and leaving the door ajar about a foot.
“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes.
 
SHE DID HER best to feel better. To eat normal meals. To smile. To
function
. She had to go back to the hospital that week—in a helicopter this time—to have a bunch of MRIs and another arteriogram and other things done, and they sent her home with a tall metal crutch, which her physical therapists would be teaching her how to use. The doctors still seemed to be divided about whether “walking unaided” was even a remote possibility, and she found it demoralizing when a couple of them debated the dim prospect right in front of her. Well, okay, they were down the hall, but she could hear the entire depressing conversation.
She was also taken to a dentist, who did the preliminary work for the implants they were going to try and put in to replace her teeth on the left side, although if that didn't work, she was going to be stuck with a permanent bridge. Either way, it sucked
.
The whole trip was very grueling—and scary—and she resorted to the sunglasses-on/slight-friendly-wave strategy when she and her father finally got back to the White House that evening.
“Long day,” he said, once she was in her room, with a small dinner tray that she was too worn out to eat.
And then some. Meg nodded. Most of the time that they had been outside, transferring to and from the helicopter, she had been so afraid that she had had to keep her eyes closed behind the sunglasses, her good hand clamped tightly around the arm of the wheelchair.
“Anything else you want?” her father asked.
Mostly, she just wanted this day to be
over.
Meg shook her head, and very slowly picked up her fork.
 
ALTHOUGH SHE WAS utterly exhausted from having Edith teach her how to try and use the crutch, she went up to the solarium the
next afternoon for her “change of scene.” The Red Sox were playing the national game of the week, and since they won, handily, Steven was very cheerful.
“You want some chow?” he asked, happily watching the recap of the game—a solid shut-out victory.
Meg shook her head. “No, thanks. I mean, go ahead.”
“Should I like—” he looked at her wheelchair—“take you downstairs?”
“No, I'm too tired,” she said. “I'm just going to hang out here for a while.” Once the game had seemed to be pretty well in hand—or, at any rate, with the closer on his way in from the bullpen, her father had taken Kirby, and Neal, out for a walk on the lawn. Her mother was in a meeting or something.
“Well—okay. You can like, call—” he motioned towards the phone—“if you, you know, want anything or anything.”
“And you think
I
talk excellent?” she said.
He laughed, did a pretend pitcher's warm-up toss at her, then headed for the door.
When he was gone, the silence made her nervous, and she picked up the remote control, turning channels until she found another baseball game. This one was National League and therefore, inherently not as interesting, but she left it on, anyway.
Slouching down to watch, she felt the usual wave of depression starting. She was
never
going to feel better, or be able to do anything normal.
Weeks
were passing, and she still—hearing someone at the door, she prepared a game little “don't worry about
me
” smile, then looked up to see Beth. A somewhat tentative Beth, holding a small blue gift box.
No
wonder
her parents had kind of been making themselves scarce all afternoon.
Feeling even more tired, she sighed. “They went behind my back, didn't they?”
Beth grinned and came into the room, wearing jeans, pink
Chuck Taylors, and a very pink bowling shirt. “Is that anything like ‘Hello, how nice to see you, what a pretty outfit!'”
God, she was tired. “I
told
you I didn't feel well enough to see people,” Meg said.
Beth shrugged, gave her a shy hug, then sat down in an easy chair. “Hey, the President calls and tells you to do something, you
do
it.”
“Beth to the Rescue,” Meg said grimly.
“
There's
a hell of a chapter title.” Beth leaned across the coffee table to hand her the present. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Meg turned the box over in her hand, but didn't open it. “She shouldn't have gone behind my back like that.”
“Who knows,” Beth said, “maybe she was trying to help you.”
“Maybe.” Then, Meg frowned at her. “You don't wear a
hat
to come see me, even?”
Beth looked grave. “It's with all of my luggage, of course.”
“What, are you moving in?” Meg asked.
“Yes,” Beth said. “I'm taking over the Department of Housing and Urban Development.”
Well, stranger things had happened.
“
Now,
you have to ask me something nice,” Beth said.
Meg sighed, trying to think. “How was your flight?”
“Just the swellest,” Beth said cheerfully. “How are
you
?”
Meg shrugged.

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