“Well, I—” He flushed slightly. “I guess I kind of just dozed off.”
“But, my God, son,” she indicated the television, “the night is young.” Surprisingly, she heard Steven laugh, and winked at him before looking back at Josh.
“I don’t—” He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other—“should I—?”
“Pull a chair over,” she said.
“Oh.” He looked around. “Yeah.”
As he carried one over, she watched her mother jittering around with the milkshakes and handing the one she’d no doubt ordered for herself to Josh, who held it uncertainly. Then, very obviously ill-at-ease, she found a chair for herself, Neal immediately moving over to sit on her lap.
Meg couldn’t think of anything to say, and Josh couldn’t seem to, either, so she looked up at the baseball game. The Red Sox were losing, 5–1, in the third. Christ. Last week at this time, she’d been dragging herself through mud and thorns and pine needles, dizzy and confused, and—Jesus. Last week, the thought of being in a room with her family and Josh would have seemed—it was unbelievable.
It was hard to follow the game, and she let the sounds drift in and out of her ears as she sipped a little of her milkshake. Vanilla, pretty thick. Then, she pulled on Josh’s arm.
“What?” he asked, instantly attentive.
“When’s graduation?” she asked. “Did it already happen?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s tomorrow night.”
Which meant that today must be—she had to think—Thursday. “You’re going, right?” she asked.
“Probably not,” he said.
Oh. She glanced in her mother’s direction, then lowered her voice. “Who’s speaking?”
Josh shrugged. “I don’t know. Jon’s father, I guess.”
Which made sense. Her knee was really hurting, and she tried to slide into a more comfortable position, only finding worse ones. She must have groaned because, suddenly, they were all looking at her.
“Are you all right?” her father asked, already on his feet.
“I’m fine,” she said.
They were still looking at her.
“I’m fine,” she said, and saw her parents exchange glances. “I’m sorry,” she said, more calmly. “Can we please just watch the game?”
Slowly, they all refocused on the television.
Jesus, it was unnerving to be the focus of attention. And to think that there had been times in her life—many times, in all honesty—when she’d felt that her parents—well, one parent in particular—didn’t pay enough attention to her. Now, she’d give just about anything to be back to those days. Back to when everything hadn’t hurt so much, too. But, she had pretty much just taken a pain pill, so whining about it wasn’t going to accomplish a whole lot. Only, why the hell, now that she supposed to be safe and everything in the hospital, did her knee seem to hurting more?
“Meg,” Josh said, looking as though he might be about to leave the room.
“I’m fine,” she said, again. “Let’s just watch the Red Sox.”
WHO—IT WAS only fitting, probably—lost by a final score of 9 to 8. Her mother took Neal off to get ready for bed, Steven—atypically—trailing after them.
Meg’s father got up, too. “I’m going to go find Brooks, see what he can do for you.”
Her knee was throbbing so much that Meg didn’t protest—at all.
Hesitantly, Josh stood up. “I should probably—”
“You don’t have to leave,” Meg said. Her knee wasn’t his fault—she could try being polite to him. “I mean—please don’t.”
He sat back down, avoiding her eyes.
Christ, did she look that bad? “I, uh—” She touched her hair self-consciously. “I must look pretty awful.”
“You look hurt,” he said.
“Well—” She couldn’t think of a response to that. “Well, you know.”
It was quiet. Silent, really.
“I, um, I hope you weren’t here too long,” she said. “I mean, no one told me.”
He shook his head. “Just during visiting hours.”
Which was pretty long. She moved, trying to find a better angle for her leg, biting her lip against the instant flash of pain. She glanced over, hoping that he hadn’t noticed, but, of course, he had.
He started to stand up again. “Should I get—?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you.”
The room got quiet again.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “It’s—I’m really glad.”
“I can’t believe you’re here. He kept telling me that you were—I thought—” She stopped, not wanting to think about it. About any of it.
“I ducked,” Josh said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him. “When you said to.”
Which she still had no memory whatsoever of doing. She frowned, not sure why he looked so upset. “Well—that’s good, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I should have done something. I should have—”
Yeah, right. “Against machine guns?” she said. “They just would have killed you.”
He shivered, instead of answering, and remembering the whole scene, she did, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I almost got you—it’s all my fault.”
“It’s my fault,” Josh said. “I knew you didn’t like him, and I knew you weren’t going to—”
“I knew I had Secret Service for a reason—I never should have—” She sighed. “I’m sorry.” Like, big deal. Her mother was probably sorry, too. For all the good it was going to do any of them.
“You’re the last person whose fault it was,” he said. “You’re the brave one who had to go through all of it.”
Oh, yeah, real brave. Like, just for example, when she’d offered to sleep with the guy, so he wouldn’t—“I wasn’t all that brave,” she said stiffly.
“Yeah, you were.” He shivered again. “They’re shooting, and grabbing you up off the ground, and you’re yelling for me to get down.”
“I was afraid they—” This conversation was upsetting, and her knee was hurting so badly that it was hard not to cry. Impossible, in fact. She turned her head, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to tell. “Did you, um, drive here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I—”
“It’s kind of a long way back, at night,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Maybe you should—”
He was already standing. “Is it okay if I come to see you tomorrow?”
The thought of spending time with anyone—even him; maybe even especially him—was too hard. “I think I—” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “I need some time alone, I think.”
“Okay,” he said, looking unhappy.
“I’ll call you,” she said. “When I’m ready.”
He nodded.
“Can you make sure no one from school calls me or anything?” she asked. “I mean, you know, if they were going to?” If they could get through, even.
He nodded.
“Thanks.” There seemed to be tears all over her face, and she wiped at them clumsily with her good hand. “I will call you. I just—maybe not right away.”
She could tell he was upset, but he just nodded. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready. Um, feel better.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, thanks.”
He bent down, gave her an awkward kiss on the forehead, and walked quickly towards the door.
“I think you should go to graduation,” she said.
He shook his head, firmly. “No, I—”
“You really liked that school,” she said.
“Liked,” he said grimly.
He had a point there. She nodded. “Yeah, but I still think you should go.”
He looked guilty. “It wouldn’t feel—”
“I wasn’t even there for two years,” she said. “It’s not the same for me, anyway.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
>
Maybe.
When he was gone, she sank down into the pillows, not worrying about letting the tears fall, crying mostly about her knee, but also just in general. She was going to press the little white button for the nurse, to see if they could bring her some stronger pain medication, but she didn’t want them to come in and see her crying.
They were doing a bunch of post-game analysis—like it mattered, when they lost—and she fumbled for the remote control, turning the television off. Then, she cried harder, feeling both alone and surrounded. Trapped. As a precaution, she covered her eyes with her arm, then let herself really cry, feeling the bed shake underneath her. Oh, God, her knee hurt. Her knee hurt nightmar-ishly badly. Maybe there was something wrong. Something new. Maybe she should call—but, not while she was crying like this. Christ, how could it hurt so much? How could anything hurt so much?
“—just sit there, and watch my child—” She heard her father’s low voice going past her door. That meant that any minute now, they were going to come back in and—she tried to stop crying, dragging in a slow, rib-stabbing breath, and then, another.
By the time there was a small knock on the door, and her parents and Dr. Brooks came in, she was almost under control. Almost, being the operative word, and she lowered her arm only partway.
“Do you think you can sit up enough to take this?” Dr. Brooks asked, holding a small paper cup of water and another cup with some pills in it.
She nodded, as he pushed the control to raise the bed, keeping her head down so that while they might see that she had been crying, they wouldn’t be able to tell how much.
“Wh-what are they?” she asked, looking at the pills. Not that a tearful little voice wasn’t a dead giveaway.
“Those should help you get some sleep,” he pointed, “and that one should take care of the pain you’re having.”
She nodded, tipping the contents of the little cup into her mouth, then gulping the water, her hand trembling.
“It’s your knee, mostly?” Dr. Brooks asked.
She nodded, tensing in case he was going to have to examine it.
“All right.” His hand touched her hand very gently. “I’m just going to check your pulse for a minute, okay?”
She nodded, surprised when he took it down at her left ankle, his fingers resting so lightly on her skin that it didn’t hurt. Much.
“Dr. Steiner is on his way up,” he said, “and we’re going to see what we can do to help you feel better.”
“I don’t—” She swallowed. “Do I know him?”
“Your father and I have met him,” her mother said. “He’s one of the orthopedic specialists.”
“Is he going to move it around?” she asked, already scared. Hurt her more?
“He’s just going to have a look,” Dr. Brooks said, pumping up a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “Ask you a few questions, maybe.”
Meg nodded, still scared. But, the pills took effect quickly, and by the time Dr. Steiner came in—tall, with glasses and bushy brown hair—she could barely keep her eyes open. He did poke around a lot, but the pain seemed faraway, and the questions he asked—when the pain had started getting worse, where, and that sort of thing—took all of her concentration to answer.
They all seemed to be talking somewhere above her—to her, maybe?—and she tried to pay attention, but it was too hard.
“I’m going to—I mean, is it okay if I—” It was too much work to stay awake anymore, and she let her eyes close.
20
YET ANOTHER WAKENING in darkness, not sure where she was at first, then not sure what time it was. But she saw her mother, blurrily, by the bed, her father asleep in the chair by the window.
“Okay?” her mother whispered, seeing her open her eyes.
Meg nodded, relieved that her mother understood she was too tired to talk.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said softly. “I’m sorry about everything .”
Meg nodded, sleepily.
“How’s the pain?” her mother asked.
Terrible. More awake now, Meg looked down at the bulky contraption holding her knee in the air. “Is there something bad—wrong with—?”
“Well—” Her mother was choosing her words. “Apparently, there’s some pressure building up in there, and one of the nerves is—they’ve elected to do a surgical intervention tomorrow, and see if they can address some of that.”
Which sounded absolutely terrifying, and Meg stared at her. “It’s going to be fine,” her mother said. “Your father and I are very impressed by the team Bob’s been putting together.”
It still seemed really scary. “Do I have to be unconscious?” Meg asked.
Her mother shook her head. “No, right now they’re planning to use an epidural.”
Meg swallowed uneasily. “Will it hurt?”
Her mother shook her head again.
“Can you and Dad be in there with me?” Meg asked.
“We’ve made it very clear that we would prefer it that way, yes,” her mother said, although her hands tightened nervously. Her mother was almost as bad as Steven about All Things Medical. Except, in Steven’s case, sports injuries. He was the only person she had ever known who actually did things like rotator cuff exercises.
“Will the blood and all bother you?” Meg asked.
“Of course not,” her mother said. Rather heartily.
Unh-hunh. Almost completely awake now, Meg moved her pillows—her mother helping her—so she could sit up a little. “What exactly are they going to do to me?”
“Well.” Her mother’s hands clenched again. “I think primarily they’re going to evaluate the ligaments, and the meniscus and, um, your neurovascular—one of the surgeons has worked extensively with the U.S. Ski Team.”
Meg felt a flash of great hope and excitement. “You mean, I will be able to ski again? And play tennis and all?”
“He’s supposed to be the best in the country,” her mother said. The President, neatly sidestepping a direct answer.
She was beginning to get a pretty bad feeling about all of this, but decided not to think about it. Was too afraid to think about it.
“It was good to see Josh tonight?” her mother asked.
Not really. Meg shook her head.
“Well,” her mother said, after a pause, “maybe we can have Beth—”
Meg shook her head more firmly. “I don’t want to see people.” Didn’t want to have them see her. “Um, where are Steven and Neal?”
“Asleep down in the Suite,” her mother said.
Which she should have been able to remember. Christ, had something happened to her brain? From the concussion, maybe? She looked over at her father, who was still slouched in his chair, asleep, his face haggard. “Thank God it wasn’t Neal,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Her mother shuddered, but didn’t say anything.
“I mean, Steven would have been bad, too, but—” Worrying about concussion complications had made her head start hurting, and she pressed her palm against it, her mother’s hand covering hers, very warm and soothing. “Besides, with me—he wanted everyone to be thinking about rape.”
Her mother’s hand stiffened. “Everyone was.”
“Yeah.” Seeing the genuine fear in her mother’s eyes, she managed a very small smile. “I swear he didn’t. I mean—” she felt the smile get tighter—“it was discussed, but—”
Her mother nodded, letting out her breath, her hand stroking Meg’s forehead.
It seemed cold, and she wished she were strong enough to sit up for a hug. “I don’t think I’m going to make it through this,” she said. “I really don’t.”
Her mother’s hand came over to squeeze her shoulder. “You will,” she said. “We all will.”
Again, just a shade too hearty. “I don’t know,” Meg said, and pulled her blanket up higher.
“Would you like another?” her mother asked, tucking it around her.
Meg shook her head.
He
r mother readjusted her pillows for her. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Meg nodded, her eyes already feeling heavy. Her knee was throbbing, though, and she knew she wasn’t going to have much luck. Strange to think about what tonight would have been like. Should have been. Her last night as a high school senior. She’d only been waiting for—well, since about third grade. Someone at school was probably having a big party, and—well, not that she’d ever been totally into school or anything, but it would have been a big deal. An important step.
Which also, damn it, was true for Steven, and—she sighed.
“Your knee?” her mother asked, sounding worried.
Meg shook her head. Not primarily, anyway. This was more—general—misery. She glanced up at her mother, whose expression looked the way hers felt. “I wish—” She stopped. Wished what? Something real helpful, like that none of this had ever happened? That her mother had lost the election, that they were still in Massachusetts, that—pointless wishes? “I wish you were still speaking,” she said finally. “At graduation.” That everything was normal.
Her mother picked up her hand. “I’m sorry, I know how—”
“It’s not like I loved school,” Meg said. “It’s just—I don’t know.”
Her mother nodded. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Steven didn’t get to go to Kings Dominion,” Meg said.
Her mother looked unhappy. “I know. Unfortunately, it wasn’t—well.”
“Is he mad at me?” Meg asked.
“Mad at you?” her mother said. “No. Of course not.”
Maybe. She suspected otherwise, though.
The room was so quiet that she could hear her father breathing.
“What does the country know?” she asked.
“That you’re safe,” her mother said. “That you escaped.”
“They don’t really know details, though,” Meg said.
Her mother shook her head.
“So, there’s like, conjecture,” Meg said.
Her mother shrugged, but her expression looked very tense.
She was much too tired to get into all of this, but—“Do you think they think there’s a cover-up?”
Her mother shrugged again. “Let them.”
The President, indifferent to public opinion? Kind of funny. Especially since she and Steven had occasionally mumbled the word “cover-up”—even out of context—just to watch her mother’s blood pressure go up. The word “corruption” was a good one, too. However. “Have you spoken to the press at all?” she asked.
Long Live the Queen Page 17
