Long May She Reign (32 page)

When her lone napkin wasn't quite up to the task of wiping it up, Ms. Goldman pushed a couple more over to her. “How's your physical therapy going?” she asked.

Okay, this was a reporter. It wasn't as though they were going to sit here talking about how pretty the snow was, or the excitement of the Red Sox reporting to spring training, or anything. “I'm an inspiration to one and all,” Meg said—and wanted to slug herself for making the grave mistake of being candid.

“You may well be,” Ms. Goldman said, either overlooking—or missing—the sarcasm.

Oh, yeah. Totally. Meg motioned towards the cell phone resting on the table. “Don't you need to call in the fact that I'm skipping class? In case they want to use it as a Breaking News bulletin on the Web?”

Ms. Goldman blushed slightly, and tucked the cell phone into her blazer pocket, although she didn't—Meg noticed—turn it off. Not that, depending on her carrier, she was going to be able to count on getting a completely reliable signal, on a campus surrounded by mountains. God-damn
snow
-covered mountains.

“Am I really that newsworthy?” she asked. “It doesn't seem particularly worthwhile to have so many of you still showing up here all the time.”

“That's what I keep telling my editor,” Ms. Goldman said, sounding gloomy.

Meg grinned. “So, this isn't what you'd consider a plum assignment?”

Ms. Goldman was obviously too polite to agree, but she had not been blessed—or, perhaps, cursed—with a decent poker face.

“Cheer up,” Meg said. “Maybe you'll catch a break this afternoon, and someone'll—” She fired her forefinger in her direction— “take a pop at me.”

Ms. Goldman stiffened, and Meg realized—too late—that she'd sounded considerably more malicious than she'd intended.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That was just meant to be a bad joke, not an indictment of your entire profession.”

Ms. Goldman nodded.

Although it had almost certainly come across as a rather venomous insult. For lack of a better idea, Meg sipped some of her coffee. Not enough sugar, but she didn't feel like limping over to get more. “I really am sorry. It's—an innately adversarial process, that's all.”

Ms. Goldman frowned at her. “Does your whole family
always
speak that way? Even when you're by yourselves?”

Christ, the country should eavesdrop on one of their contentious private dinners sometime. It would probably set off a whole new reality-show craze. An Evening with the Fractious First Family. “Yes,” Meg said. “We do. In fact, my parents would be upset that I just slipped and used a couple of contractions.”

Ms. Goldman smiled.

“I know you guys all want to be assigned to the regular press corps,” Meg said, “but, it's really not such a great job.” Which didn't seem to stop reporters from openly lusting for the opportunity. “I mean, it's pretty much just hurry up and wait all the time, except when Linda comes grumping out to give everyone a little spin and misdirection.”

Ms. Goldman shrugged. “Maybe, but at least then you're in the thick of it. And, you're surrounded by actual
civilization
.”

There were few things as glaring as city slickers who felt utterly out of place, despite being in the midst of tremendous pastoral beauty. “You know, this just might be the prettiest little town on the entire planet,” Meg said.

Ms. Goldman nodded, glumly.

Right. “But you wish I'd picked Georgetown or Columbia or Harvard, or maybe even Stanford or Berkeley,” Meg said.

Ms. Goldman's expression brightened. “Northwestern and UCLA would have been okay, too. Or Emory.”

Cities, cities, cities. All big cities. Places where high heels and incessant ambition fit right in.

“Out of curiosity, why did you come over here?” Ms. Goldman asked.

Good question. Why the hell
had
she? It would have been easy enough to feign not seeing her, or just—if absolutely necessary—exchange unfriendly nods before going off to find someplace to drink her coffee in peace.

Let
both
of them drink their coffee in peace.

“I'm sorry, I probably disturbed you, didn't I,” Meg said, feeling pretty stupid that it had taken this long for the thought to cross her mind. It wasn't as though they were friends, and enjoyed hanging out together. She started to stand up. “Maybe I should just—”

“I was only asking,” Ms. Goldman said.

And it had been a legitimate question. Which meant that it probably deserved an answer. “To tell you the truth, I'm not sure why,” Meg said. “I just did, for some reason.”

Ms. Goldman nodded.

“I miss adults,” Meg said. Except for her brothers, she usually pretty much spent all of her time around adults, and—she liked adults. Felt comfortable around them.

Ms. Goldman looked up alertly. A
reporter
look. “So, you find your fellow students immature?”

Oh, Christ,
that
was going to make a god-awful headline. “No,” Meg said quickly. “Not at all.” Damn. She'd better find her way the hell out of this, and fast. “I'm, uh—I'm making no pejorative implications about them whatsoever.”

Luckily, Ms. Goldman's cell phone went off, so she was probably going to be able to escape from this one without creating too much more trouble for herself.

But Ms. Goldman just glanced at the number, shook her head, and turned it off. “I was only asking a question, Miss Powers. I'm not out to skewer you.”

Which, if it were true, would probably be a first in the history of modern journalism. Of course, she'd walked right into this—okay,
limped
—and so, had no one to blame but herself.

And, it was rather telling that they weren't even on a first-name basis.

“I know it must seem that way, sometimes,” Ms. Goldman went on, “but—”

Probably because it
was
that way. “Isn't that what you guys do?” Meg asked. “Wait for one of us to get tired, or distracted, and then try to make us say something as idiotic as possible?” The bigger the gaffe, the better the story.

“That's what
some
of us do,” Ms. Goldman said. “But, the rest of us—” She stopped, and shook her head. “I'm sorry. You were trying to have a normal conversation with me, and I really blew it, didn't I?”

“We both did. Don't worry about it.” Meg pulled on her jacket. “But, hey, I'd better go start getting ready for my next class. Take it easy, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ms. Goldman said, visibly disappointed. “You, too.”

19

SOMEHOW, PHYSICAL THERAPY
felt even more grueling than usual that afternoon. Although by now, she probably should have figured out that she really didn't do very well when she tried to make it through a whole day on nothing but coffee. Going to the hospital tended to be stressful, anyway, because, inevitably, people would recognize her, and want to say hello, or have her stop so they could take her picture or something. And she couldn't exactly say no, when they were either injured or ill themselves, or visiting someone else who was. Her agents weren't thrilled about it, but she was pretty much damned if she did, and damned if she didn't, since everyone always seemed to get hurt or offended if she just nodded and kept going. So, most of the time, it was easier to be nice and pause for a few seconds.

There was a certain amount of schedule rotation, and usually a doctor or two somewhere in the general vicinity, but she mostly spent her sessions alone with the same two physical therapists—Vicky, who was a no-nonsense, but fairly jovial, older African-American woman, and Cheryl, who was a skinny, skittish Caucasian woman in her early thirties. Both of them were friendly, although Vicky was more inclined to chat. Meg was always very polite, and—well—
aloof
.

“Are you taking care of yourself?” Vicky asked, as they worked on her range-of-motion—which hurt like hell.

Meg opened her eyes, which, for some reason, made the pain feel much more intense. “How do you mean?”

Vicky shrugged. “Eating, sleeping, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Meg said, and nodded to punctuate that. “You bet.”

“Unh-hunh,” Vicky said. “So, it's my imagination that you've lost about ten pounds since you've been coming here?”

No way. Meg looked down at herself. “
Two
pounds, maybe.” Although, since she was wearing an oversized blue turtleneck and heavy black sweatpants, it was hard to tell, one way or the other.

“After we finish, I'd like to get a weight on you,” Vicky said, blandly. “Keep your chart up-to-date.”

Meg glanced at the water bottle resting nearby, wondering how much she would have to drink, before she got weighed, to make it seem as though—and Christ almighty, was that an anorectic thought, or what?

And Vicky was frowning at her. Damn. Caught in the act.

“What have you eaten today?” Vicky asked.

She could lie, but it wasn't going to be convincing. Meg sighed. “Today was unusual. It was—hectic.” So terribly hectic, that after leaving the coffeehouse, she'd randomly skipped her Shakespeare class, too, and spent lunchtime in the library, reading a paperback mystery in the quietest enclosed carrel she could find down on the lower level.

Vicky nodded. “So, what, you had a couple of cups of coffee, and called that a meal?”

Yeah, so? “You have no way of knowing that,” Meg said stiffly.

“You walked in here with a very large latte,” Vicky said, “and your hands are shaking. It doesn't really take a rocket scientist to figure it out.”

Suddenly very tired of physical therapy—and of being criticized—Meg yanked her leg free, which hurt so much that she had to fight off a gasp. “My hands are shaking, because every time I come here, it's
extremely
god-damn painful.”

Vicky nodded. “I know. You want to take a break?”

Meg shook her head, aware that her good hand was tightly clenched. “No, I want to finish up already, so I can get the hell
out
of here.”

That much of a growl would have been enough to scare Cheryl off for the rest of the afternoon, but Vicky just nodded and helped her resume the extension and flexion exercises. They worked in complete silence for a few minutes.

“I think it's to your credit that you don't throw your weight around,” Vicky said.

Mostly because her father would hit the roof, if any of them behaved that way. Although there wasn't much he could do about ordinary crankiness, and general character flaws. Meg shrugged, not looking at her. “I'm probably too
thin
to throw it around.”

Vicky's mouth moved as though she might be about to laugh, but she nodded again, and they kept working.

When they were finally finished—Meg's leg now quivering even more than her hands were—Vicky carefully packed her knee with ice.

“I think it would be a good idea if you started drinking some nutritional supplements,” she said, “okay? At least two a day.”

The very thought made Meg feel sick—sick
er
—to her stomach. When she was in the hospital, they constantly brought her what they cheerfully called “milkshakes” to choke down, to help her try and regain the weight she'd lost as the result of two full weeks of complete starvation and near-fatal dehydration. “You mean that gross stuff in the cans?” she asked.

“If you keep it in the refrigerator, it isn't that bad,” Vicky said. “I assume you have one in your dorm room?”

Meg nodded.

Vicky looked pleased. “Okay, then. You should also keep yoghurt and fruit juice and things like that around. Bread, cheese, peanut butter. Skipping meals really isn't a good strategy, especially when your body's trying so hard to heal. You desperately need the protein and calories.”

Except that stocking the refrigerator would involve planning, and shopping, and other tasks for which she had no energy. There were times, even when she knew she had several Cokes right there waiting for her, that she was too exhausted to bother getting up and taking one out. Too exhausted to pop the can
open
.

And, as far as she was concerned, her body wasn't healing at all.

Apparently deciding that she had bullied her enough for one day, Vicky gave her good knee a light pat. “All right, why don't you rest, and then I'll send Cheryl in.”

Since she was only halfway through today's particular PT nightmare. Meg nodded, covering her eyes with one arm, in an attempt to get a little bit of privacy. She was probably alone for about twenty minutes, but it felt more like twenty
seconds
when she sensed Cheryl standing nearby, shifting her weight nervously from one practical plain white sneaker to the other. She lowered her arm—and saw that, indeed, that was exactly what her hand therapist was doing.

They exchanged pleasantries, and then Meg just followed instructions, without asking questions or commenting in any way.

Except that, she could feel tears in her eyes, and she swiftly wiped her good hand across them.

“No more with the thumb today, okay?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I don't think I can stand it.”

Cheryl hesitated, then nodded, and started working with the scarring and the fascia on her two slightly functional fingers, instead.

When the session was finally—
thank God
—over, Cheryl stayed around, looking more jittery than usual. All Meg wanted to do was go back to the dorm and sleep for the next ten or twelve hours, but she forced herself to smile.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” she said.

“Well, um—” Cheryl shifted her weight. “I have a friend.”

Oh, swell. Some kind of god-damned White House–related favor. What was it going to be, an autographed photo of the President, or something? But, Meg confined herself to a relatively receptive nod.