Except for the “can not, have not, and will not” negotiate speech, of course.
“Well—there have been other matters to address,” her mother said carefully. “But, insofar as you’re concerned, no, I’ve only released statements. I’d anticipated a press conference in a day or so.”
Meg frowned. “From here?”
“Downstairs, somewhere,” her mother said. “I’ll just have Linda”—who was her press secretary—“prepare something—”
“If you do it from here,” Meg said, “won’t it look—I mean, people’ll think—”
Her mother sighed. “I can’t speak at the graduation, Meg. It would be—well, ‘circus’ is putting it mildly.”
Which was true. Her mother’s being there would turn it into an epic media event, and ruin the ceremony for everyone else. Christ, this was making her head hurt. “Yeah,” Meg said, “but if you do it from the hospital, won’t it look like I’m lying around all traumatized, and—you know, that all of us are.”
Her mother’s glance around the room was more than a little ironic. “Which, Lord knows, isn’t the case.”
Meg had to grin. “Yeah, but I don’t want them thinking that.”
Her mother nodded. “Would you like me to have it back at the House? Just a standard press conference?”
“Yeah,” Meg said. “I think that would be good. Um, can you do it tomorrow night, maybe?”
“Well—” her mother glanced at Meg’s knee—“wouldn’t it be better to wait until—?”
Meg shook her head. Vehemently.
“Okay, then,” her mother said. “I’ll have Linda set it up.”
“And you won’t just talk about me, right?” Meg asked. “Or release a picture, or anything?” Not that her mother, obviously, could ignore the situation. “I mean, you’ll talk about normal stuff, too?” Little things like—foreign policy, say.
Her mother nodded, bending down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll do whatever you want, Meg. I promise.”
Meg lifted her shoulders off the bed enough so that her mother could hug her. “I just want to be safe,” she said. “I want all of us to be safe.”
THE OPERATION WAS at nine o’clock. The doctors, Dr. Steiner among them, had all introduced themselves earlier, before the anesthesiologist had given her the epidural—which was scary—and now, they were behind the green operating cloth hiding her lower body from sight. Her parents and Dr. Brooks were on her side of the cloth, her parents clasping her left hand between theirs. They were wearing full green surgical outfits, right down to the masks and booties, which under different circumstances, would have been hilarious.
She hung on to them, terrified that it was going to hurt, even though she couldn’t really feel anything below her waist. A nurse was injecting something into her IV, and she felt almost immediately calmer. Her parents were telling her not to worry, that she was safe, that everything was going to be fine, but she could hear the surgeons’ quiet voices and—sounds. Suction, and—she clutched at her parents with her good hand, trying not to panic.
“I can hear them cutting,” she whispered.
Her father moved so that he was holding her hand and her mother’s hand between both of his. “We’re going to talk to you,” he said calmly. “You won’t hear anything.”
She looked up at him, watching his face as he talked about the day she was born—night, actually; late night—and how happy he had been, how fat and wrinkled she was, and how they brought her home to her mother’s old yellow baby crib, and how they—even the dog, Trevor—would just sit and look at her, and he and her mother would talk about how lucky they were, and how beautiful she was, and how smart they knew she was going to be—sometimes, Meg would hear a scary soft sound behind the operating cloth, but she concentrated on keeping her eyes on her father’s, listening to him.
He talked about the little red cloche hat she had had, and her first lacy Easter dress, and the white-and-yellow bonnet she wore to go with that, and how she was always so good and happy, and loved to have her picture taken. And how he would sit her up on his lap, and she would eat Uneeda biscuits, and drink grape juice, and laugh and laugh.
Sometimes, she would fall asleep for a few seconds or minutes, but when she woke up, her father would still be talking. About how she used to put flour in one half of her hair and walk around singing “Cruella De Vil.” About the red plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar she wore on her first day of kindergarten. About the big dishes of mashed potatoes and creamed corn she was always eating. And root beer. She had loved root beer. About how disapproving she was when Steven was born, especially because he had too much hair. About how the Speaker of the House would let her stand up in the front, after the session was over, and bang his gavel, and how funny she thought that was. About how damned stubborn she had been, literally trying to put the square block in the round hole, and when he’d suggested that she try the round green one, she’d said—scornfully—“Babies can do that.” About how much trouble she had pronouncing Garciaparra. Presumably, Yastrzemski would have been entirely beyond her.
When the table moved, she woke up completely, afraid that the doctors’ scalpels would slip, then realized that the operation was over, and she was being wheeled back to a recovery room or something.
“Am I all right?” she asked. She couldn’t quite understand what the doctors said to her, but was pretty sure she heard the word “encouraging” in there. Which would have to be a positive sign.
A lot of people were fussing over her—taking her temperature, pumping up a blood pressure cuff, sponging off her face—and she watched from what seemed like way inside her head, too tired to do more than nod or shake her head when they asked questions.
When she woke up again, the first thing she felt was pain. Her leg was propped up, in some kind of strap-on surgical brace, and she groaned before she could stop herself. There was a flurry of activity around the bed, people trying to make her more comfortable, and she put on the best smile she could come up with, wanting to be a good sport. A good scout. A good soldier.
Her mother was holding out a glass of water with a bent straw, and Meg gratefully sipped some.
“What time is it?” she asked, her tongue less than responsive.
More than one person answered, and she gathered that it was after five. The press conference was at eight, and she looked at her mother. “You’re still going,” she said, “right?”
Her mother nodded.
“Good.” She drank some more water, trying to wake up, then recognized one of the surgeons and moved her head to get his attention. “Is it going to be okay?” she asked, indicating her leg.
“Well, I’m afraid we’re looking at a multifaceted and protracted process, but we’re encouraged by the degree to which you’re maintaining vascular sufficiency and the fact that the peroneal was not fully transected,” he said.
Maybe that was her cue to go back to sleep for a while.
“Perhaps you could clarify that,” her mother said, frowning.
The surgeon looked uncomfortable. “Yes. Of course, Madam President.” He focused on Meg. “I guess what I meant to say is that, if the current situation holds, and the surgical grafts we do later are successful, there’s a chance that, down the road, you’ll be able to walk unaided.”
Meg blinked. “Walk unaided?” She shot a look at Dr. Brooks, who didn’t quite meet her eyes. Okay, he was a nice primary care doctor; of course he wouldn’t have wanted to tell her anything that grim. But, still—it was her god-damn leg. They bloody well could have—Jesus, the whole thing was such a nightmare that it was almost starting to be funny. She looked back at the surgeon. “My leg won’t have—unsightly scars, now will it?”
“Well,” he said, hesitantly.
“I believe my daughter’s kidding,” her father said, and Meg laughed. A little.
Except that she was going to be a whole god-damned bundle of scars. Scars, and crippled things, and general unsightliness. She covered her eyes with he
r arm, her fist clenched, wishing that everyone would go away and leave her the hell alone. They did back off a little, although there was a big production about moving her down to her room to rest still more comfortably.
She kept her arm over her eyes, afraid that she might be going to cry—or yell at someone—or both. Once she was in bed, and everyone but her parents had cleared out, she lowered her arm, just to make sure that they were alone.
“Meg,” her father said, looking unhappy.
“I’m really tired,” she said. “I need to sleep for a while.” She covered her eyes again, her teeth pressed together almost as tightly as her fist.
Walk unaided. Christ.
21
BY THE TIME she heard her mother moving around, getting ready to leave, she felt under enough control to lower her arm.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said. “I didn’t meant to wake you up.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” She rubbed her hand across her eyes. “Can you say hi to Vanessa for me? I mean, you know, pat her and all?”
Her mother nodded. “Of course. Is there anything you’d like me to bring back?”
Vanessa. Meg shook her head.
“Maybe some books,” her mother said, “or—?”
“No, thank you,” Meg said. Like she would ever be awake long enough to read them? “I mean—good luck.”
“I’ll be back soon.” Her mother bent down to kiss her good-bye, then straightened up, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“We’ll look for you,” her father said, gesturing towards the television and sounding so vague that Meg almost smiled.
“Okay,” her mother said, smiling briefly, too.
After she had left, Meg glanced at her father. “She looks nervous.”
“She’s worried about you,” her father said. “We both—”
Meg interrupted, before he could go on. “I might be getting hungry soon. Where are Steven and Neal?”
He studied her for a second, then nodded. “They’re down in the guest rooms. I’ll check about getting you some dinner, too. Is there something special you’d like?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and put her arm over her eyes.
He had only been gone for a minute when there was a light knock on the door, and she glanced up long enough to see Preston. Preston. The one person who’d promised to be straight with her.
“Okay if I come in?” he asked, holding a large cardboard box.
She folded her good arm across her chest, not looking at him.
“Okay, no problem.” He put the box down on the floor, out of the way. “Unless you need anything, I can give you a hello later.”
“You said you’d be straight with me,” she said, as he turned to go.
He stopped, turning back. “I’m not sure what you—”
“Walk unaided?” she said.
He sighed.
God-damn it. “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You did know.”
He sighed again. “If you could see what your eyes looked like, you wouldn’t tell you unnecessarily upsetting things, either.”
“Not tell me that I’m going to be crippled?” Saying the word made her so angry that she clenched her fist to try and keep from losing control.
“I don’t know, Meg.” He sat down in one of the many chairs, running his hand over his hair. “I guess the logic was, if you didn’t know, you’d be up and walking around that much faster.”
Yeah, right. “The logic was, “Let’s play God.’” She gritted her teeth—the ones she had left—wanting to smash her fist through something. Anything.
“Meg—” he started.
“I mean, it’s my god-damn leg,” she said. “What’s the deal with my hand—they going to cut it off or something? Maybe tell me a week later? Maybe?”
Preston looked very tired.
“I shouldn’t ask you, anyway,” she said. “It’s not like you’re going to tell me the truth.” What was going to happen, was that she was going to cry. Cry, and swear, and—she held her hand against her eyes, fighting not to fall apart.
“Meg,” he said, “I—”
She shook her head. “Don’t say anything. I don’t trust you.”
“Meg.” He let out his breath. “I would never do anything to hurt you. I mean, you know that, right?”
She moved her hand enough to look at him. “Omission can be just as much of a lie.”
He nodded.
“It’s just like being a prisoner,” she said. “People telling you what they want, when they want.”
He nodded.
“I—” She swallowed, having to look away from him. “I don’t want you to remind me of him.” The thought made her shiver, and she looked at him again. “I mean, you, particularly.”
He sat back, looking almost—stricken. An expression she had never seen on his face. “I would never want to,” he said quietly.
Jesus Christ, this was Preston. One of the very few people in the world who she absolutely, one hundred percent trusted and loved. Being angry at him was too—if he got angry at her, it would be—
“Meg, I would die before I let anyone hurt you,” he said.
She nodded, the thought too scary to imagine. But, she could tell that he meant it. “I’m not mad at you,” she said—almost whispered. “I’m just—mad.”
He nodded. “You have every right to be, Meg.”
“About everything, not just—” She looked down at her leg, exhausted now that the energy of being furious was gone. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding worn out, too. “Until they reconstruct the ligaments, and get you into physical therapy, I don’t think they really know. From what I gather, right now, they’re mainly relieved that your popliteal artery didn’t rupture.”
If her leg hadn’t been all strapped up, she might have grabbed at it, protectively. “That could have happened?” she said.
He nodded.
Jesus. If it had, maybe she would have—“When are they going to do the ligaments?” she asked.
“Within a week or so,” he said. “They’re waiting for as much of the swelling to subside as possible.”
Well, at least that was pretty specific. She slumped back into her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Will I be completely crippled? In a wheelchair and all?”
He shook his head. “A brace and a cane, probably.”
Great. “Permanently?” she asked, her stomach hurting.
“I don’t know, Meg,” he said. “I honestly don’t.”
Honestly. She smiled a little. “Honestly?”
He nodded, very serious.
“What about my hand?” she asked. “The same basic deal?”
He nodded again.
Swell. Just swell. The only good thing was that she was too drained to think about it very much.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said. “About this whole damn thing.”
She nodded.
“I’ll do anything I can to help you,” he said.
Odds were, she was going to need it.
They sat without speaking for a few minutes, Preston looking almost as lost and sad as she felt.
Finally, she rubbed her hand across her eyes, then looked over at the cardboard box on the floor. “What’s that?”
“Well, I don’t know. It must be a gift.” He got up, whipping off the cover with some theatricality, revealing a fancy DVD/DVR recorder and two stacks of movies. “Thought you might be too tired for reading,” he said, and handed her a remote control.
He was definitely right about that. “Thanks,” she said.
“And,” he said, “we have some lovely films for you.”
She grinned wryly. “POW dramas?”
“Well, let’s see.” He lifted each small case in turn, pretending to examine it at length. “The Sound of Music. The Music Man. Oklahoma. And—what’s this?—Mary Poppins!” He widened his eyes at her, and she smiled back.
“Are they all musicals?” she a
sked.
He nodded. “Many lovely things,” he said, and held up a thick pile of unmarked disks. “Know what we have here?”
Hmmm. “It’s a Wonderful Life,” she said.
“No, but that’s a good idea—I’ll have them bring it over.” He winked at her. “Uncolorized.”
She flushed, since he had been forced—more than once—to listen to her speech about the evils of colorization.
“Anyway,” he said, “these are all the Red Sox games you missed.”
Whoa. She sat up partway. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?” he asked, looking a little sheepish.
“So, wait,” she said, missing that, “in the middle of everything, you were like, recording the Red Sox every night?”
“Except for that first night,” he said, not smiling anymore.
“But—like, what if I hadn’t—” She stopped, not wanting to get into that, but still curious. “What would you have done with all of them?”
“I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “It was a sort of good-luck charm, sort of—I don’t know.”
Which was really—sweet. Feeling tears in her eyes, she blinked so he wouldn’t see them. “My father always likes to sit in the same chair when he watches them,” she said. And drink from the same beer glass, and—almost always—wear his lucky hat.
“I know. And this was probably equally effective.” Then, he actually looked embarrassed. “Burned you a few E! specials, too.”
Meg laughed, feeling out of practice. “Particularly scandalous ones?” Especially when they involved child stars who had come to unsavory ends.
He nodded. “Yeah. I know they’re your favorites.”
Meg laughed again, aiming the remote control around the room, pretending to be surprised when nothing came on or off. “Do my parents know about this?”
“Well—good-luck charms should be private,” he said.
Pretty funny.
Long Live the Queen Page 18
