Long May She Reign (64 page)

After Garth left, her father leaned over to look at the card.

“I'm hoping that's not your philosophy professor,” he said.

Meg just grinned.

*   *   *

SHE ADMIRED HER
flowers for a while, and then let herself doze off again. When she woke up, the room was dark, except for a very small light on the desk, where her father was reading. Her knee was hurting even more than her hand now, and she looked at her pain-pump, but decided that she would rather not drug herself right back to sleep. Not yet, anyway.

Seeing that she was awake, her father closed his book, got up to pour her a cup of ice water, and then helped her drink it.

“Would you like some more?” he asked.

When she hesitated, he promptly fixed her another, and she finished it in a few gulps. Then, she looked around, feeling slightly more cogent.

“Mom hasn't come back yet?” she asked.

“She was in here before,” he said, “but she didn't want to wake you up.”

Meg nodded. “So, she's in the conference room?”

“She's downstairs,” her father said. “She'll be up in a little while.”

What would she be doing downstairs at this time of night? That didn't make any sense. Meg frowned. “Why? Are they having a ceremony, or a press conference or something?”

“Her stomach's been bothering her,” her father said, “and since it's so quiet right now, they managed to talk her into having some tests.”

Jesus. Solely within the privacy of the family, her mother was overwhelmingly medically phobic, and tended to get very queasy even thinking about the
possibility
of encountering doctors on her own behalf. “So, why are you sitting here?” Meg asked. “If she's having tests, you know how scared she must be.”

Her father shook his head. “She's fine, Meg. Don't worry about it.”

Was he trying to be nice—or was he being dismissive? “Or maybe you think her stomach
should
hurt, so you're not too concerned,” Meg said, stiffly.

Her father looked so irritated that she was pretty sure that she'd guessed right. “Or maybe, your mother and I decided that the fact that our daughter had surgery today and is in terrible pain, had a higher priority.”

Maybe. “So, she's down there because she's been
literally
eating herself up with guilt for months,” Meg said.

Her father sighed.

Great. Just great. Meg scowled at him. “She didn't shoot herself, and she didn't kidnap me.”

Her father's jaw clenched. “I'm aware of that, Meg.”

Maybe her mother wasn't the sole genetic source for her dispassion, after all. Hell, maybe she wasn't even the main source. And, just possibly, she and her mother
weren't
the ones who were dragging the rest of the family down. “You going to let her off the hook someday, Dad?” she asked.

His jaw, if possible, tightened more. “I really don't think this is a good time to talk about it. Okay?”

Was there ever going to be a good time? Not bloody likely.

Someone knocked on the door, and then, a nurse came in to check on her. She wasn't happy about the interruption, but since she no longer had her catheter, she let the nurse help her into a wheelchair, so that she could use the bathroom. When she came out, her bed had been freshly made, someone had delivered a plate of cookies and graham crackers, along with some juice and a small carton of milk, and her father was back in the bedside chair, reading his book.

After the nurse left, neither of them spoke for a while. Her father stared at his book, without turning pages, and she looked at her snack, without eating or drinking anything.

“Do you want to watch television?” he asked finally.

She shook her head.

“Is there anything else I can have them bring you?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It's getting late,” he said. “Would you like me to turn the light out?”

She shook her head.

Given that sort of uncommunicative feedback, her mother would already have made some kind of excuse and left the room by now, but her father stayed where he was, still staring down at his book.

It would be very much easier to tell him that yes, she was tired, and maybe she should try to sleep some more—and not bring any of this up again. Easier on
both
of them.

“I would have done exactly what she did,” Meg said.

Her father slapped the book shut. “Oh, the hell you would have,” he said, sounding so angry that she couldn't help drawing back. “You don't have it in you.”

Was that a compliment, or an insult? Or maybe he just didn't know her as well as she would have thought he did. Hoped he did. She let out her breath. “You would have, too.”

He looked away from her, clearly so furious that he was afraid to answer right away.

“I've never known anyone more responsible, Dad,” Meg said, “and the god-damn country
matters
. It would have killed you inside, but you would have done it.”

He just shook his head.

“You going to let it kill her?” she asked.

“She's fine,” he said tightly.

Yeah. She was super. And so was Steven. And Neal probably wasn't as god-damned well-adjusted as he seemed.

He reached up to rub his temples for a minute. “Let's not worry about any of this tonight, okay? Why don't you try to rest?”

In other words, it was an incendiary topic, and she was supposed to drop it.

As usual.

“How's the pain?” he asked.

It
sucked
, just the way it always did.

“Meg, I'm sorry, I just really don't want to talk about this right now,” he said.

No kidding.

But, it had been a tough day, and he had been up for hours, and maybe she shouldn't push him anymore. “All right,” she said. “But, will you please go check on her?”

He sighed.

“Please?”
she said.

He looked at her, and then sighed again. “Okay,” he said, and got up.

*   *   *

SHE HAD BEEN
lying there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, when there was another knock on the door. Since she wasn't in the mood to see anyone, or force herself to be polite, she decided to ignore it.

“Okay if I come in?” Preston asked, from the hallway.

Preston was one of the few people she could probably tolerate right now. And if she felt lousy and asked him to leave, he wouldn't take it personally. “Sure,” she said.

He opened the door, balancing two large Starbucks cups, as well as his briefcase.

“Oooh,” she said, in a better mood immediately.

He nodded. “Thought you might have a little latte jones going by now.”

Major
jones, actually.

He handed her one of the cups. “Before you get too excited, it's decaf.”

She frowned.

“But, it
is
mocha,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He was wearing one of his West Wing conservative suits, and from the way he sat down, she could tell how tired he was, although he didn't loosen his tie, or even take his jacket off. Mr. Fielding, at hyperalert leisure.

“Are you just heading home from work now?” she asked.

He nodded wryly. “My predecessor did not see the need to leave the office shipshape.”

Particularly since his departure had not been voluntary, in the wake of a minor ethics scandal, due to what had turned out to be his unfortunate propensity to do things like accept free golf vacations from lobbyists. To describe her mother as having been displeased by this turn of events would be putting it very, very mildly. But, the fallout hadn't been too bad, so far, because luckily, someone had tipped Glen off
before
it broke in the press, and the guy had already been fired by the time the story went public.

Which didn't change the fact that Preston looked tired as hell.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The important question is, are
you
okay?”

She wasn't, but there was no good reason to dwell on it, so she shrugged.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She shrugged again.

They focused on their cups of coffee, Preston slouching in his chair, in a way that managed to evoke the sixteen-year-old version of himself after Thanksgiving dinner.

“Did you run into Hurricane Russell on your way in here?” Meg asked.

“No,” he said. “But they were still cleaning up debris out in the hall.”

Not that her father ever raised his voice—but, he could most assuredly make an oppressive black cloud swirl in his wake, when he was out of sorts. “Mom's having a bunch of tests,” she said. “They think there's something wrong with her stomach.”

Preston glanced over. “Maybe she encounters stress in her workplace.”

Just maybe. “Yeah, that must be it,” Meg said. “Because we all know she has a happy home life.”

Preston grinned, and helped himself to a graham cracker from her plate of snacks.

She wanted to complain about how lousy she felt, and the degree to which the morphine
wasn't
helping, and the fact that Dr. Steiner had indicated that she was almost definitely going to need to have more work done on her knee after the semester was over—and her wrist and thumb and forefinger, too, in all likelihood—but, he presumably had his own problems, and might be sick of hearing about hers.

“I'm sure she's fine, Meg,” Preston said. “They're just going to remind her that she needs to take better care of herself.”

Maybe. But, she nodded.

He looked sharply at her. “They may remind you, too.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. “Does that mean you want me to have some of the graham crackers?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But, you would never, ever tell me what to do,” Meg said.

“Never in a million years,” he said, and moved the plate closer so that she could reach it.

Subtle. She wasn't in the mood for crackers, but the cookies looked halfway decent, and she took one of the oatmeal ones. “Happy now?” she asked, eating it.

“Overjoyed,” he said.

37

THEY HAD FINISHED
their coffee—as well as most of the cookies, when her parents came in. Preston stood up right away, and after he'd said good-night to them, her father did the same, heading across the hall for some long-overdue sleep.

With the President back upstairs, there was a certain amount of traffic in and out of the room—a number of her aides and advisors showing up with thick folders and papers, and holding swift whispered conversations, and a steady stream of medical personnel, magically appearing to recheck every conceivable tube, chart, and medication, and also to bring in trays of fresh fruit, yoghurt, cottage cheese, chicken soup, and various other things that the Leader of the Free World was known to eat. Throughout all of this, her mother kept a close eye on her, and finally made a polite request for them to be left alone, if possible, for the next few hours, so that her daughter could get some rest.

“How was your barium?” Meg asked, when they were finally by themselves.

Her mother looked embarrassed. “I've had better.”

“Are you okay?” Meg asked.

Her mother shrugged. “They're going to give me some medication to take. I'll be fine.”

That didn't sound too good. Meg looked at her nervously. “So, you're
not
okay?”

“A little gastritis, maybe,” her mother said. “Nothing to worry about.”

And she might, or might not, be telling the truth.

“I'm sorry about last night,” her mother said. “I should have—it won't happen again.”

As far as she knew, it was the first time it had ever happened in the last eighteen years, so, odds were, that it had, indeed, been an aberration. “It wasn't your fault. I was stupid to overreact like that,” Meg said.

Which probably
would
happen again, and not infrequently.

Her mother sighed. “Meg—”

Oh, Christ, she wasn't in the mood for this. “Could you help me get into my wheelchair, so I can go to the bathroom?” Meg asked.

“Of course,” her mother said, and then waited by the door to assist her again on her way out.

Once she was back in bed, she let her mother turn her pillow, fix her blankets, and pour her some ice water.

“I need to do some work,” her mother said. “Would you like me to stay in here, or go down to the conference room?”

Much as she wanted some privacy, she
really
didn't want to be alone. “In here is good,” Meg said.

So, she lay in bed, dozing, the room dark except for the desk lamp. Her mother sat there, going through papers and making, or receiving, the occasional phone call. She tended to be a very quiet and serene worker, and it was soothing to listen to a page turning, a pen writing, a low voice on the telephone.

Meg was almost asleep when she heard her saying softly, “No, don't worry, it's not perforated. They gave me this gastric cocktail, and—really, I'm fine.” Then, her mother listening, nodding in response to whatever the person on the other end was saying. “I know, I've been worried about that, but nothing's shown up in her tests. Apparently, she just isn't eating.” She listened again. “I think about ten pounds, but it's hard to be sure.”

Well, that certainly wasn't the President having a brisk, purely professional conversation. It would be interesting to listen, and get some idea of what her mother was thinking lately—but, it would also be sneaky, which had never been her style. So, she moved restlessly, coughed as though she was just waking up, and then lifted herself onto her good elbow, blinking.

Her mother's voice immediately became much more guarded. “Could I call you back tomorrow night?” She listened. “How late is really okay?” She listened some more. “All right. And, honestly, if there's
anything
—I know, I know. But, I can't not say it.” She laughed, and then hung up.