Long Live the Queen (30 page)

Read Long Live the Queen Online

Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
11.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“We'll be down to say good-night?” her mother said.
Meg nodded, crutching her way to the hall.
 
THE NEXT MORNING, bright and early—if eleven o'clock was bright and early—Edith, the physical therapist, arrived. She was
very pleasant, in her thirties, with blonde hair and glasses, but Meg sure as hell hated the sessions. Hated every single minute of them. Each time, she had to fight the urge to throw a Presidential-progeny tantrum and intimidate Edith into not ever coming back.
However, the odds of Dr. Brooks letting her skip two days in a row were slim.
Beth came upstairs to the work-out room to watch, and Meg let herself be strapped into the Cybex weight machine, which was apparently used a lot for sports rehabilitation. Oh, yeah, like
she
was going to be playing sports again.
“Okay,” Edith said, once she had set the resistance on the machine. “Can you do three sets of ten?”
No. Meg set her jaw, and forced the weight up with her right leg. Her supposedly
good
leg. Ten times. Then, ten more. Slowly, she started the final set, already perspiring, her leg shaking in protest. The weight was incredibly heavy, and even though she had seven repetitions to go, she had to stop.
“Come on,” Edith said, very kind and encouraging. “You can do it.”
Meg shook her head, breathing with some difficulty. “I'm sorry. It's too hard.”
Beth was sitting on the recumbent bicycle in the corner, her ankles propped up on the wheel, reading
Dispatches
by Michael Herr. As a concession to Meg's having to exercise, she had put on a pair of sweatpants, too. Bright red. “Come on, keep going,” she said, not even looking up. “You want to ski, or not?”
Meg forced the weight up again, scowling over at her. “Can't you at least pedal that thing?”
Beth turned a page. “
I
don't want to ski.”
Still scowling, Meg pushed the weight up again. Five more to go.
“That's it,” Beth said, as she managed another, and then another. “Keep it up.”
“Easy—” Meg forced the weight up, out of breath—“for
you
to say.”
“Three months, Meg,” Beth said. “Three months, and it'll be snowing out West.”
Meg glared at her, but finished the set of ten.
“Very good,” Edith said, smiling. “Good job.” She had a bit of a Romper Room quality, but she
was
nice.
Beth turned another page. “Do ten more.”
“
You
do ten more,” Meg said, accepting the white towel Edith gave her, and wiping her face.
“Thanksgiving,” Beth said. “Mountains all over the country will be open by Thanksgiving.”
Meg ground her teeth together, but started another set, keeping a hard, constant rhythm.
“Ski,” Beth said conversationally to Edith, who looked a little nonplussed. “‘Ski' is the magic word. Say ‘ski,' and she'll do just about anything.”
Seven, eight—Meg glared at her—nine,
ten
. Then, she let her leg fall, too out of breath to say anything.
“What does she do now?” Beth asked. “Pull the weight
down
?”
“Well—” Edith blinked a few times—“yes.”
“Good.” Beth nodded her approval, then focused on her book. “Sounds good.”
Meg watched as Edith set the machine for the opposite work-out, her glasses slipping down. “You know, that damn shuttle still leaves every hour.”
Beth nodded. “So you hear.”
The machine was ready, and Edith checked to make sure the Velcro strap was fastened tightly around Meg's ankle, then stepped back.
“Three sets of ten?” Meg said.
Edith nodded.
Fine. Meg pressed her teeth into her lip, and began.
When the first half of the session was finally over, and Edith had strapped ice packs to the arm and leg Meg had exercised—which was the regular routine—she left the room with a fluttery “I'll just see if Admiral Brooks—I'll be right back.” Meg looked over at Beth, who was still reading.
“What happened to not pressuring me?” she asked.
“That wasn't pressure,” Beth said. “That was
inspiration.”
Yeah. Right. “You made her nervous,” Meg said, gesturing towards the door with her hand splint.
Beth shrugged. “She'll get used to me.”
“You're staying that long?” Meg asked.
Beth laughed.
“Having fun?” Meg asked, tired enough from the exercises to feel good and cranky.
Beth took a bookmark out of her red terry-cloth headband, and closed the book. “It looked pretty hard.”
That was because it
was
. “We haven't even done the part where I exercise the things I
hurt
yet,” Meg said. None of which involved weights, because her bad hand and knee still weren't strong enough to handle anything more than
very
thin elastic bands—and so far, even that seemed to be pushing it.
Beth nodded.
“And I'm not ever going to
walk
right,” Meg said, “forget ski.”
“You're
already
walking,” Beth said.
Meg gestured towards the crutch. “You call that walking?”
“Better than nothing,” Beth said.
Yeah. But, still. Meg slouched down, pressing the towel against her face, feeling heavy with fatigue. “You really don't understand how hard it is.”
“It's going to be a long time before you do
anything
that isn't hard,” Beth said.
Meg lowered the towel. “That's cheering.”
“Want me to humor you?” Beth asked.
Christ, no. Meg shook her head.
“So,” Beth said. “What happens next?”
“I try to move my fingers for like,
half an hour straight
, and cry part of the time, then try to flex and extend my leg,” Meg said. During which, she also sometimes had to cry. “And
then,
she shoots electricity into me.”
“Where?” Beth asked uneasily.
Meg sighed, very tired. “I put one hand in water, and the other in the socket.”
Beth laughed. “Sounds exciting.”
Hair-raising, even. “They shoot it into my knee, mostly,” she said, gesturing towards a little machine with wires and suction cups, “and my hand a little, too. It's supposed to stimulate healing.”
“Oh.” Beth looked at the machine dubiously. “Does it hurt?”
Yes. “Stings, sort of,” Meg said.
“Oh.” Now, she looked at Meg. “This really isn't much fun, is it?”
“Not much fun at all,” Meg said.
THAT NIGHT, PURSUING the list of things Meg could and could not do, they went up to the solarium and watched
Mean Girls
—which Meg had always loved—and ate popcorn, upon which Steven put altogether too much Parmesan cheese. Neal went a little heavy with the seasoned salt, too.
After the movie, Meg crutched her way to the third floor elevator, then switched to the wheelchair for the ride downstairs, holding her crutch.
“So,” Beth said, pushing her in the wheelchair once they were on the second floor. “You tired?”
“I don't know.” She'd had a
very
long nap that afternoon. “A little.”
“You want to go downstairs?” Beth asked. “Look at the East Room and all?”
Meg tensed in her chair. “If I go down there, I have to have agents.” Since they were only free of said albatrosses up in the Family Quarters.
“Oh.” Beth considered that. “Well, you want to go outside?”
Was there a comprehension problem? Meg frowned at her. “I told you, if I—”
“I meant, the balcony,” Beth said, indicating the Yellow Oval Room.
Meg shook her head.
Beth sat down on one of the settees in the Center Hall—obviously a girl with nothing
but
time. “It's okay if you can't. I'm just wondering why.”
Christ, was she stupid? “They can
see
me,” Meg said.
“What, from the street?” Beth asked.
Meg nodded, the thought so terrifying that, even in the windowless Center Hall, she felt exposed. Afraid.
“We always sit out there when I come,” Beth said. “And we
never
see anyone.”
Meg hunched a little in the wheelchair. “We see people walking.”
“We see little tiny shapes far away,” Beth said. “Besides, I thought that's why your parents have the lights kept low out there.”
Meg shook her head. “That's to save energy.”
“And here
I
was, thinking it was for privacy,” Beth said.
Which was, of course, exactly what it was for. Meg sighed.
Beth got up from the settee. “If you don't like it, we can come right back in.”
“This is pressure,” Meg said.
“Yeah, but just barely.” Beth guided her wheelchair into the Yellow Oval Room and over to the combination window-and-door which led to the balcony. As she opened the door, fresh summer air blew into the room, feeling warm and clean. “Hey, it's nice out.”
Less humidity than usual, for Washington. Meg nodded, hoisting herself onto her crutch, concentrating on not being afraid. Or, at least, not letting Beth
see
that she was afraid.
“Need help?” Beth asked.
Meg shook her head, tremblingly making her way outside.
Outside
. She lowered herself onto the white wrought-iron couch—which had thick green cushions to make it more comfortable.
Beth dragged over one of the smaller white chairs and set it in front of her. “Here.”
Meg lifted her leg onto it. “Thanks.” Also, if there was trouble, she could take—slight—cover behind it, which might have been Beth's strategy.
Or not.
“No problem,” Beth said. “You want me to go get some soda or something?”
And leave her
alone
out here? “No,” Meg said quickly.
Beth paused, halfway to the door. “I'd only be gone a minute.”
“
Please
don't,” Meg said, ready to panic.
“Okay.” Beth sat down in a heavy wicker chair. “No problem.”
Meg took a few deep breaths, trying to relax. To get the courage to look
up
.
“Maybe it's a little chilly out here,” Beth said, very casual. “You want to go back inside?”
“I'm
fine
,” Meg said, gripping the iron arm of the couch with her good hand. This was the White House; they were safe. No one could see them. They couldn't be much
safer
than where they were, even if—she opened her eyes. “I-I am kind of thirsty. Would you mind getting us something?”
Beth looked at her, then nodded. “Sure thing. Be right back.”
Alone on the balcony—maybe safe, maybe not—Meg could feel herself shaking. Feel her heart beating.
Nothing
was going to happen. Not here, anyway. She forced herself to look up and out at the view: the West Wing and the OEOB to her right, and then, straight ahead, the bright fountain near the end of the South Lawn, the iron fence, where there were
still
piles of flowers and cards strangers kept leaving, the Ellipse, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson Memorial beyond that. She couldn't see them, of course, but the Capitol was down the Mall to the left; the Lincoln and Vietnam Memorials, to the right. And off in the distance, obscured by the night sky, was the Tidal Basin, the Potomac beyond.
She took some deep breaths.
No one
could see her. Maybe no one was even
looking
. And if they tried, she had the chair back in front of her, and the big white columns, and some
huge
pots of geraniums. And there were security devices—most of which, she barely even
knew
about. Sensors and cameras and detectors and stuff. So, if anyone tried to—
“Hi,” Beth said, her voice muffled by the bag of tortilla chips between her teeth. She put two glasses of lemonade and some napkins down on the glass end table. “Look good?”
Meg nodded, letting out her breath.
Beth moved her chair, so that they were perpendicular to each other—and could both reach the drinks and chips. “Nice out here.”
Realizing that her hand was cramped from gripping the arm of the couch, Meg let go. “Yeah.” She picked up her glass, and they sat there for a minute.
“You can talk or not,” Beth said. “Whatever the hell you want.”
“Not,” Meg said.
Beth shrugged, opening the bag of chips. “Whatever you want.”
They sat there for a long time, long enough to finish the lemonade and half of the chips.
“Neal's room is right there,” Meg said, gesturing towards the window to their right.
“You know he can't hear us,” Beth said. “Besides, he sleeps like a rock.”
Which he did. Sometimes, even when Steven did obnoxious stuff like dump water on him, Neal didn't wake up.
“I can't talk to
anyone
,” Meg said. “I mean, I told the FBI stuff, but—” But, nothing
personal
. “I mean, I didn't
lie
to them, but—I don't know.”
“‘Just the facts ma'am,'” Beth said.
Meg nodded.
“What about your parents?” Beth asked.
Meg shook her head. “They're so upset that I don't want—I mean, my mother, especially.”
“She must feel pretty guilty,” Beth said.
Meg nodded.
Beth started to say something, then stopped.
“No,” Meg said, anticipating the unspoken question. “I'm not all that mad at her. Just sometimes.”
Beth nodded.
It was quiet, but she stiffened when she heard movement down in the grass, not relaxing until she saw that it was an agent patrolling the top of the South Lawn with a K-9 dog.
“I can't seem to talk to Josh, either,” Meg said. “I mean, about
anything
.”
Beth shrugged. “You guys were having trouble talking before this even happened.”
True. Meg nodded.
“It's probably better that you'd already broken up,” Beth said. “This would have
really
messed things up.”
Meg nodded. “I still want to try and be friends with him, though. I mean, you know.”
“So, we'll have him come over while I'm here,” Beth said. “Maybe that'll make things easier.”
Maybe. Meg nodded, looking up at the underside of the balcony ceiling—the edges of which kind of needed a fresh coat of white paint, frankly, and out at the dark night and the bright monuments. Then, she looked at Beth, who shrugged. Receptively.
“How much do you know?” she asked. “About what happened?”
“I don't know,” Beth said, uncertainly. “I mean, you know, everything that was in the papers and
Newsweek
and on the Internet and all.”
Meg frowned. “I haven't seen any of that.” Although she was pretty sure that the White House would have released the simplest version possible. Just enough to be plausible. “Did my mother tell you stuff?”
“A little,” Beth said, nodding. “Preston did, too.”
She didn't like to think of people talking behind her back. “When was
that
?” she asked stiffly.
“He was with the car that picked me up at the airport,” Beth said.
Oh. Well, okay, that made a certain amount of sense. But still. Meg frowned. “So, basically, you know what happened?”
Beth nodded.
Of course, she hadn't even told her
parents
everything. None of the more—personal—things. She checked to make sure that Neal's room was still dark—which it was—and then looked over at Beth, who shrugged again.
Oh, hell. “I got drunk with him,” she said. Something
no one
knew.
“One of—them?” Beth asked.
“Just this one guy,” Meg said. “He was the only one I ever really saw.” Except for the faceless gunmen.
Beth nodded.
“It was after he ripped my knee up—I don't know how long.” Meg stopped. Getting into this was a mistake. Maybe she should just go inside to bed, and—
“What happened then?” Beth asked.
Meg shook her head, looking out at the South Lawn.
“Come on, Meg,” Beth said. “You have to tell
someone
.”
The Truman Balcony—probably—wasn't bugged. She hoped. She took a deep breath, then released it. “I got drunk with him. He had this bottle of Laphroaig, and he wanted me to have some, too.”
Beth nodded.
“My
parents
drink that,” Meg said. Which had made it that much more disturbing. “I don't know what his motive was. I mean, maybe he thought I'd get sick, and he could laugh, or—I don't know.”
“Pretty weird,” Beth said.
Yeah. “I got
literally
drunk. I mean, I never have before.” She looked over uneasily. “You think there's something wrong with me?”
“For not getting
drunk
before?” Beth asked.
Meg shook her head. “No, for—talking to him.”
“Doesn't sound like you had much choice,” Beth said.
“No, but—” Meg shivered. Thinking about this was—“I was
so sure
he was going to rape me.”
Beth didn't say anything, but Meg saw her shoulders hunch up.
“Every time he came in, I thought—only then, I—” Meg stopped. “Don't tell anyone this.”
“I won't,” Beth said.
Not strong enough. “Don't tell
anyone,
” Meg said. “Not about
any
of this.”
Beth reached out and started to touch her arm, pulled back—probably because of the splint, and patted her right knee reassuringly, instead. “You know I won't, Meg.”
Which she
did
know. She and Beth never broke each other's secrets. Never had. “I kind of—” This was going to be humiliating, and Meg couldn't look at her. “I offered to—I asked him if my, you know, would keep him from—well—”
“Sounds
smart
to me,” Beth said.
Meg shook her head, ashamed all over again.
“He was going to
kill
you,” Beth said.
Which might have been preferable.
“What happened then?” Beth asked, after a pause.
Meg swallowed. “He, uh, said it wouldn't make any difference.”
“That was honest of him,” Beth said.
Meg looked up. “He
was
honest.” Like about Josh? “I mean—I can't explain it.” Beth didn't say anything, and she took a deep breath. “I
would
have done it. I mean, if I thought—” She met Beth's eyes. “Don't
ever
tell anyone. They'd think I—”

Other books

The Buccaneers by Iain Lawrence
The Grey Man by John Curtis
Survival Run by Franklin W. Dixon
Charlotte Louise Dolan by The Substitute Bridegroom
The Prisoner of Cell 25 by Richard Paul Evans
Joe's Black T-Shirt by Joe Schwartz