Long May She Reign (15 page)

Her mother hesitated. “If it's not a good time, we can—”

It was very disconcerting to see such an abnormally self-confident—in fact downright
cocky
, now and then—person act so god-damned unsure of herself. A person who, apparently, found it less stressful to run the country than to have a conversation with her own daughter. “Just, you know,
talk
to me, okay?” Meg said. For once.

Her mother sighed, and lowered herself into the desk chair. “I hate even bringing this up, but—frankly, we're in a difficult position. Much as I'd prefer to do so, I don't think I can just ignore what happened. I'm certainly not going to dwell on it, but—it can't go unremarked.”

Terrific. With all of the things she found to worry about every day, the State of the Union address hadn't even made the list. Now, it was going to be somewhere near the top.

“I don't expect you to come,” her mother said, “and I'll touch on it as lightly as possible, but—” She sighed. “I don't know, Meg. Unfortunately, a great many people feel very invested in the situation, and I don't see how I can avoid it.”

Even more terrific, which could probably be raised to a “nifty.” “If I don't show up, it'll make you look—” Like a worse mother than usual. “It won't look good,” Meg said.

Her mother waved that aside. “I don't
care
how it looks. I'm trying to figure out the best way to handle things.”

Was that really true? If so, it was another huge change. Not too long ago, she
would
have cared, even if she didn't admit it. Meg frowned. “Do you want me to come?”

“That's entirely up to you,” her mother said, so swiftly that the answer was obviously yes.

Swell. So much for Presidents not passing the buck.

“Meg, you know I don't want you and your brothers
ever
to do anything you find too public, or in any way uncomfortable,” her mother said.

Meg was feeling almost testy enough to remark that
handcuffs
were uncomfortable, but she made herself resist the impulse. Besides, it would be a cheap shot. However, she'd better come up with some response or other, before her mother kicked into the shopworn “I won't let you three be used as props” riff.

Which, in all fairness, she'd always been pretty scrupulous about observing, by politician standards.

“I'll be as brief, and oblique, as possible,” her mother said. “There's going to be a short section on heroism, and—well, I can't overlook the obvious.”

Oh, for God's sakes. She must have done something really awful in her last life, to get stuck with such a bizarre one this time around. “So,” she said grimly, “the gallery's going to be seeded with carefully selected Americans, all of whom have heartwarming and courageous tales to tell?”

Her mother flushed, but nodded. “I'm sorry, but yes. Unless you have a better idea.”

So, she'd be surrounded by
real
heroes, and look like a grasping wannabe, trying to usurp their genuine achievements—on national television. Picturing that made her head—and hand—start throbbing. “I'm going to look egotistical. Because they'll all be actual brave people, and I'll just seem—” Meg shook her head. “You're going to need to come up with something else.” Or, better yet, leave her out
entirely
, as—frankly—a normal, caring parent would do.

Her mother smiled slightly, which was jarring. “Interestingly enough, I gather that some of the people we've approached have expressed the same concern.”

And she still wanted her to go, and be undeservedly feted? Talk about hubris. “See,” Meg said. “I told you.”

“They seem to feel that they would have no business sitting in the same gallery with
you
,” her mother said. “Which leads me to believe that you all are just wired a little differently from the rest of us.”

Christ, this was going to be awful. And she really had no choice
but
to go. Meg scowled. “Oh, yeah, it'll look heroic as hell if they're all up there waving modestly, and I'm back here, hiding in my room.”

“People might not even notice,” her mother said.

Was it her imagination, or had the President's nose just grown a couple of inches? Time to return to the Land of Political Reality.

“All right, they'll notice,” her mother conceded. “But, I promise I'm only going to mention it in passing.”

Great. Just fucking great. “Even if you don't bring it up, my not being there would send a pretty bad message,” Meg said. The State of the Union address being what it was. “And if I
am
there, everyone's going to be looking at me, trying to figure out how sane I am.”

Her mother's shrug was reluctant, but affirmative.

Wouldn't it be nice to be able to recuperate without millions of people watching her do it? Or, more specifically,
fail
to do it?

Truth be told, though, her mother had been—and probably still was, even though she rarely mentioned it—in a similar situation. The last State of the Union address had been less than three months after the shooting, and while her mother had looked, and sounded, powerful and optimistic, she was so weak and exhausted afterwards that she'd almost passed out the second she was safely back inside her limousine, where—secretly—a medical team had been waiting the entire time. Because she'd been afraid she might slur her words, or that her eyes would look glazed, she hadn't taken any painkillers before the speech, but she'd sure as hell slugged some down in the car on the way home.

A more discouraging memory was the degree to which her father had been quietly frantic about her mother's well-being, before, during, and especially after, the speech. In fact, he'd hovered over her to such a degree that her mother had been quite snappish to him in the holding room, right up until it was time for her to go out and address the nation about how wonderful everything was.

A speech which, as it turned out, got glowing reviews, and was described as being, among other things, “inspirational” and “fiery.” Later, when they were all in a better mood, they had been amused that part of the reason the speech had been so damned “fiery” was probably because of the vicious parental argument which had served as her mother's unofficial warm-up.

“Maybe you and your brothers should just stay home,” her mother said. “You don't need the extra pressure.”

Oh,
now
she thought that? Please. Meg gritted her teeth. “I also don't need the whole world thinking I'm too damaged to show my face in public.”

“It really only matters what
you
think,” her mother said, with almost no hesitation.

Except that there was at least one other person who lived in the White House who she assumed also had a pretty strong opinion about the prospect of all of this. Meg glanced over at her. “What's Dad think?”

Her mother's face tightened. “It's probably better if you ask him directly.”

Yeah. God forbid they all be open and honest with one another. Act like a real, live family. “Completely against it,” Meg said, “right?”

Her mother's jaw was rigid, which served as a more than sufficient answer.

“I know you're not asking me to do it for political gain,” Meg said, since she was quite sure that that was going to be one of her father's main objections.

Her mother looked at her sharply. “No, I'm not. But, by the same token, I don't guess we can pretend that your sitting there, appearing calm and healthy and dignified, isn't going to be to my benefit.”

Well—yeah. If she were less tired, she'd probably be angry about being put in such a difficult position, but mostly, she just felt resigned. Trapped, but resigned.

And her mother had to feel even
more
trapped. By ambition. By circumstance. By plain old bad luck. By the damning, crushing weight of hindsight.

By can not, have not, and
will
not.

“I'm never going to be able to tell you how sorry I am, Meg,” her mother said, looking at her with great intensity. “About everything. If I'd ever dreamed that anyone would—”

Meg shook her head. “I—I can't do this tonight. I really can't.” Didn't ever want to do it, frankly. “I said I'd go to the damn speech. Okay? Just—take it and be happy.”

For a second, her mother looked as though she'd been punched in the stomach, but then she recovered herself and nodded. “Yes. Of course.” She got up abruptly. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—” She stopped. “Anyway, I'm sorry. Please let me know if you need anything.”

The albatross of other people's guilt was just—then, it occurred to her that maybe she had gone too far, and should apologize, but her mother was already gone.

So, she sat on her bed and stared at the blank television screen.

The State of the Union Address.

Great. Just
great
.

10

SHE HAD SUCH
terrible dreams that night that whatever yelling she had done woke Steven up, and he came into her room to see if she was okay.

“You want me to get Mom or Dad?” he asked, once she was awake enough to have some idea of where she was, and what was going on.

Meg shook her head, fumbling for her glass of water and drinking some. “No, thanks, I'm fine. I'm sorry I was, you know,
loud
again.”

He shrugged. “You, uh, you want like, more to drink?”

What she wanted was for her brother, never once in his life, to feel as though he needed to wait on her. Meg put the glass down unfinished, to prove that she wasn't thirsty. “No, I'm—”

“—fine,” he said.

Yeah. Something like that.

Once she'd talked him into going back to bed, she watched C-Span until she fell back to sleep—which took about three hours, by which point she felt quite capable of going down to the press room and giving an extensive briefing about the state of economic development in emerging third-world nations.

By the time she made it to breakfast in the morning, everyone except her father was long gone. She found him on the couch in the West Sitting Hall, reading the morning newspapers, even though it was past ten o'clock. He certainly didn't go rushing joyously down to the East Wing lately, ready to Embrace His Day.

He stood up when he saw her. “Hi. Sleep all right?”

As ever. She nodded.

“Well, let's see about some breakfast for you, then,” he said.

She had no appetite at all, but she had a double-session of physical therapy scheduled at eleven, and should probably have the good sense to get something into her stomach. If nothing else, it might help wake her up a little.

They sat quietly at the table in the West Sitting Hall, trading sections of the newspapers, while Meg did her best to eat an English muffin. The political coverage was less diverting than usual, and even the editorial cartoons were dull—although, granted, on any given day, they never had much hope of measuring up to her all-time favorite, which showed a group of stone-faced men in suits standing in a clump in the Oval Office, presumably just having shared some very grave news, while a—quite good—caricature of her mother, complete with one hand delicately extended as she examined her fingernails, was saying, “Yes, yes, that's all very interesting, but more importantly, do you think this dress makes me look fat?” Her father had liked it so much that he had had a copy blown up, signed by the cartoonist, and framed, and then given it to her mother for her birthday—and she had laughed and promptly had it hung in her private study.

And, for a few seconds, she wondered what, if anything, her father was going to get her mother for her birthday
this
year.

“I'm going to the State of the Union,” she said.

Her father nodded. “So I hear.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But she really wasn't up for another stressful conversation, and since he was staring down at his coffee, he probably wasn't, either.

“Will you sit next to me?” she asked.

Now, he looked up and smiled gently at her. “Of course,” he said.

Good.

*   *   *

SHE SPENT MOST
of the next couple of weeks gutting her way through intense physical therapy sessions—trying to wean herself off the cane, which wasn't going very well, doing a certain amount of packing, and sleeping as much as possible. She also managed to make it to another one of Steven's games with her father and Neal—and with their father sitting there in the stands, this time, Steven
didn't
get into any fights.

One afternoon, while she was stretched out on the couch in the West Sitting Hall after physical therapy, trying to decide whether to try and summon the necessary initiative to take a sip from the glass of Coke which was sitting only about two feet away, her mother's very polished—and high-strung—press secretary, Linda, and the deputy assistant to the President for communications, Caryn, came up to talk to her about what she was planning to wear to the speech. Meg said, “Sweatpants,” but after exchanging frowns, Linda and her cohort discussed the compendium of possibilities in far too much detail. They felt that black would be too funereal, but that pastels would send the wrong message, and downplay the gravity of what had happened.

Meg just sat on the couch, smiling stiffly, and trying to visualize herself in a pastel ensemble. A pantsuit, maybe. She was going to suggest bright, flaming red, just to be difficult, but that would inevitably lead to them worrying about whether that might convey a certain sexual licentiousness, or—possibly, even worse—a tendency towards bedrock conservatism.

Since she wasn't really participating, Linda and Caryn decided, of their own volition, that it would be best for her to select something which would subtly compliment her mother's choice, without reflecting it too closely, or upstaging her in any way—and on and on, it went.