Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

No, she wasn’t going to get off that easily. “How often have you talked to them?” Meg asked.

  “Twice, Lieutenant,” Beth said. “Your father called from the hospital to let me know you were all right, and your mother called me yesterday.” She paused. “You want transcripts?”

  “Do you talk to Josh, too?” Meg asked. “And Preston?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a nightmare, having people care about you.” Beth indicated the television. “Big Padres fan now?”

  “It’s something to do,” Meg said.

  Beth looked at her for a minute. “If you really don’t want me here, the shuttle leaves every hour.”

  The truth was, she had no idea what she wanted anymore. “I’m not much fun to be around,” Meg said.

  Beth shrugged. “Were you ever?”

  To her horror, Meg felt her eyes filling with tears, and had to look away.

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said quickly. “I was just kidding.”

  Meg nodded, mortified to feel the tears start coming out.

  “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry.” Beth moved over to sit next to her on the couch. “Meg, I really—” She touched her shoulder hesitantly. “I thought if I—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m terminally upset,” Meg said.

  Beth nodded, leaving her hand on Meg’s shoulder.

  “So, I feel better being alone,” Meg said. “Okay?”

  “Can I hang out and be upset with you?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, yeah, sounds fun,” Meg said.

  “This—” Beth pointed to herself—“is a girl who knows how to have fun.”

  Meg had to grin. “Right.”

  They looked at each other.

  “So, what do you want to do?” Beth asked.

  “I want to watch the game,” Meg said.

  Beth leaned back, swinging her feet onto the coffee table. “Then, let’s watch the game.”

  28

  HER FAMILY AND Trudy were in and out during the next couple of hours. Her father and brothers to watch some of the game—National League, or not; Trudy, to bring them fudge-marshmallow bars and milk—and some pain medication; her mother, “just to say hello.” When she came in, Meg didn’t look at her, answering questions in monosyllables, and her mother left the room relatively quickly.

  “For Christ’s sakes,” Beth said, frowning over at her. “She was trying to make you happy.”

  “She just likes to call all the shots,” Meg said, and gritted her remaining teeth. “She always has.”

  Beth shook her head. “Oh, come on, Meg.”

  “You wouldn’t be mad at your mother?” Meg asked.

  Beth smiled sheepishly. “I’m generally mad at my mother.”

  Which was true—Beth and her mother had started clashing around the time Beth was ten, and had never really slacked off since. Meg shrugged. “At least your mother has never almost gotten you killed.”

  Beth looked tired. “Meg, come on. It’s not like she—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Meg said. “Okay? Please just stay out of it.”

  “At the moment, I seem to be in the middle of it,” Beth said.

  “I didn’t put you there.” The silence was deadly enough so that Meg felt guilty. “I told you I shouldn’t be around people,” she said.

  Beth nodded. “You weren’t kidding.”

  They both stared at the television.

  “Seems like you keep feeling worse, instead of better,” Beth said.

  Meg sighed. “Yeah. Looks that way.”

  “Well,” Beth said, “is there anything—?”

  Meg shook her head. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”

  “You can’t just quit,” Beth said.

  It wasn’t the worst option, among her very limited choices. Meg shrugged. “I don’t have any better ideas.”

  Beth considered that, then looked down at her watch. “When’s dinner?”

  “Is that supposed to be a better idea?” Meg asked.

  “It’s a start,” Beth said. “Come on, let’s head downstairs, see if it’s ready yet.”

  Meg shook her head. “I have trays.”

  Beth looked suspicious. “Always?”

  Meg nodded, picking up the remote control to switch to ESPN.

  “Wait a minute,” Beth said. “You always have trays?”

  Meg flipped past ESPN to see what might be on E!. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m having a hard time.”

  “So, let’s try eating at the table,” Beth said. “You might feel better.”

  She probably meant well, but Christ, this was annoying. Meg shook her head. “I’m too tired.”

  “Do you eat your trays?” Beth asked.

  Meg sighed, and dropped the remote. “They’re made of metal, usually.”

  “My God.” Beth clapped her hands to her chest. “She made a joke.”

  Meg reached for the phone. “Look, if you’re hungry, I’ll just—”

  Beth took the receiver away from her, then stood up. “Let’s go downstairs. I haven’t seen your family for a long time.”

  Christ. Meg sighed again. “Are you going to pressure me the whole time you’re here?”

  “Is this pressure?” Beth asked.

  Meg nodded.

  “Then, yeah,” Beth said. “I probably am.” She handed Meg her crutch. “Come on.”

  She’d already done physical therapy today; she didn’t need to do any more. “You don’t understand how tired I am,” Meg said.

  “You’re right, I probably don’t.” Beth put her hand out to help her up. “Come on.”

  Since she knew Beth wouldn’t stop bugging her until she gave in, Meg let Beth pull her up to her feet. For a few seconds, she was dizzy, and had to hang on to her friend’s arm for support. Then, she shifted her weight to the crutch, the thought of making her way to the door too awesome to face right away.

  “You all right?” Beth asked.

  “I’m not faking,” Meg said defensively.

  “I know you’re not, buddy.” Beth rested her hand on her back. “Think you can get to the elevator?”

  No. Meg scowled at her. “You’re not going to make me do the stairs?”

  “That would be sadistic,” Beth said.

  Meg nodded, taking it one slow step at a time, resting every so often—which felt too god-damn much like being in the woods with her stick and her ragged splint. Her wheelchair was right by the door, and she paused to look at it.

  “Don’t want to get used to the damned thing,” Beth said.

  “I need the damned thing,” Meg said.

  Beth just shook her head.

  The little hall leaving the solarium sloped down to the Third Floor Central Sitting Hall—very convenient for wheelchairs—and rather hard going with one crutch. “You’re an M.D. now?” Meg said, out of breath.

  Beth nodded. “Yes. My stepfather was very pleased.”

  Meg didn’t have enough energy to respond to that, leaning against the wall, the elevator seeming very far away.

  “You want to sit down?” Beth asked.

  Meg shook her head, pulling in a deep breath and grimly crutching her way across the hall and down to the alcove where the First Family private elevator and staircase were.

  Beth pushed the elevator button. “You’re tougher than you look.”

  Meg glanced up, breathing hard from what had felt like monumental exertion. “If I had a free hand, I’d slug you.”

  “Then, I’m lucky you don’t have a free hand.” Beth stepped aside, as the elevator door opened. “After you.”

  Meg limped in, then sank against the wall, carefully not looking at any of the mirrors hanging inside.

  Beth pressed the button for the second floor, which was good, because normally she would have goofed around and pressed the Basement Mezzanine or something. “Home-stretch, now.”

  Meg didn’t answer her, resting.

  When they got off the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in t
he mirror right across the hall, by mistake—and if she hadn’t known quite well who it was, she might not have recognized the frail, white-faced person leaning unsteadily on a crutch.

  Beth gestured towards a closed door to their right: the White House Cosmetology Room. “Want to stop off and get a quick blow-out?”

  Meg shook her head.

  “Come on, that was funny,” Beth said.

  “Hilarious,” Meg said, painfully crutching her way towards the West Sitting Hall.

  Her father, who was sitting on the couch reading, glanced up, looking startled to see her.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  Meg shook her head, sitting heavily—damn near collapsing—at the round mahogany table they used for breakfast, or late night snacks, sometimes. “Beth was wondering when dinner was.”

  “Oh.” He was maybe going to say more, but didn’t. “Any time now, I think. Let me go find your mother and the boys.”

  As he left, Meg leaned her head on her arm, very tempted to fall asleep. Her mother came down the hall from the Treaty Room, holding her reading glasses in one hand and some papers in the other, as a group of various advisors and aides clustered around near the stair landing.

  “I thought I heard your voice,” she said, looking surprised.

  “Excuse me.” Beth got up from the table, heading towards Meg’s room. “I’m going to wash up for dinner.”

  Her mother hesitated, then sat down in the chair Beth had vacated. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you don’t really feel ready for visitors.”

  Meg looked down towards the advisors, mostly men in grey suits, with a few women in business-dress sprinkled in. “Hey, you’re the President. It’s your show.”

  Her mother ignored that. “I thought you needed to see her.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “I’m not able to make these decisions for myself.”

  Her mother sighed. “Meg, I’m just—”

  “Trying to help,” Meg said. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” Her mother stood up. “Have your father let me know when supper’s ready.”

  BETH WAS HER usual self at dinner—fairly hyper, quite glib, and rather entertaining. Which was good, because everyone else was pretty quiet.

  “So, there we are,” Beth said, nodding thank-you as a butler served her some salad, “in Tunisia, right? And Meg, of course, has no money. So, we go to this bar. A—men’s bar, really. And—” She paused, looking at Meg. “Would you like to tell the rest?”

  “I wasn’t listening,” Meg said, eating a piece of ham. With her hand and all, her father or someone always had to cut the meat for her.

  Not that it made her feel pathetic, or anything.

  “Oh,” Beth said, and grinned. “Then, maybe we should speak of other things.” She looked across the table at Steven. “Think they’re going to win the pennant?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “They’re good now, Steven,” Beth said. “You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re going to win,” he said.

  Beth nodded. “Now, that is what I call dogged optimism. It’s—it’s inspirational.”

  He helped himself to some more baked beans. When Trudy was around on a Saturday night, they always had baked beans. “Still don’t think they’re going to.”

  “Well, that’s that Puritan heritage of yours,” Beth said sadly. “You really can’t help yourself.”

  Meg shook her head, starting to be amused by this. “What a jerk.”

  Beth gave her a stern look. “Being a Puritan doesn’t make him a jerk. Be more tolerant.”

  “Yeah,” Meg said. “America is a melting pot.”

  “It certainly is,” Beth said. “What a clever observation.”

  Meg laughed. “Jesus.” Her parents were, reluctantly, used to them swearing, but she looked guiltily at Trudy. “Excuse me.”

  Her father smiled. “What kind of summer have they been having up there?” he asked Beth.

  “Well.” She gave that some thought. “It’s been endless fun and happiness. I’d have to say.”

  Meg nodded. “Kind of like here.”

  “Well, not quite as fun,” Beth said. “But then, I don’t have your sunny disposition.”

  Meg grinned, motioning for Neal to pass her the brown bread.

  “Graduation was pretty fun, too,” Beth said. “I came in first,” she paused, “and second in the class, so I was pretty busy, but—” She shrugged, indicating helplessness in the face of her own success.

  “Your family must have been very proud,” Meg’s mother said, smiling.

  “Well, they were a little disappointed,” Beth said. “They were hoping I’d come in third, too.”

  “Ba-dum,” Steven said, and pointed at Neal, who made a cymbals sound, a little late.

  Meg couldn’t not grin, passing her plate to her father for some more ham. Beth was, undeniably, a girl who knew how to have fun.

  “So,” Beth said, sitting back and plucking significantly at her sleeve, where the name “Louie” was embroidered. “What are we going to do after dinner?”

  Meg, having just picked up her fork, put it back down. “You’re not going to make me bowl, are you?”

  Beth looked down at her shirt, the pocket of which read: Clover Lane Bowling Championships, 1972. Duckpins, apparently. “You didn’t notice my shirt?”

  A shirt so pink that it almost certainly glowed in the dark. “Are you kidding?” Meg said. “Every ship within fifty miles changed course.”

  “Oh, now, don’t exaggerate,” Beth said. “Four miles. Maybe five.”

  There was, in fact, a bowling alley in the basement, and whenever Beth visited, she always insisted upon playing a few frames. Every once in a while, Meg and her brothers played for the hell of it, and once, Meg had had the rare privilege, and unforgettable pleasure, of seeing her parents play with the very patrician Senate Minority Leader—who was a close friend of her mother’s—and his wife. One of those evenings when she would have damn near sold her soul to have a camera handy.

  “I feel that it’s imperative for us play,” Beth said. “Right after dinner.”

  “Me, too?” Neal asked.

  “Of course,” Beth said, and glanced at Meg’s crutch. “If you want, you can sit in your damn chair.” She looked at Trudy. “Excuse me.”

  “Oh, yeah, sounds great,” Meg said, passing her plate to Steven for another helping of baked beans, nodding when Trudy put some coleslaw on there, too. As she took her plate back, she saw her parents exchange happy glances, and she flushed. Her mother, as a rule, had too much dignity to say, “I told you so,” but maybe it hadn’t been such a terrible idea for Beth to come down and visit.

  BY THE TIME dinner was over, Meg was so exhausted that it was an effort to sit up in her chair. And her knee hurt. Her knee hurt a lot.

  “Would you like some more cake?” Trudy asked. “Some ice cream?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Which made her even more tired, and she held back a yawn, resting her chin on her propped hand.

  “You want to maybe skip bowling tonight?” Beth asked. “Watch some television?”

  “I, uh—” She didn’t want to be rude. “I’m sorry, I’m really tired.” So tired, that sitting here at the dinner table was beginning to make her feel panicky. “I kind of—I think I need—”

  Her mother shot a glance at one of the butlers, who instantly brought over her wheelchair, Meg nodding gratefully. The idea of moving was more than she could handle, but her father was already up and helping her into the chair.

  Feeling guilty—and ashamed, she looked at Beth. “I’m sorry, I—I just can’t—I’m really sorry.”

  Beth shrugged, but was obviously a little unnerved. “No problem. I’ll see you later.”

  Meg nodded, wishing desperately that she was already in bed, relieved when her parents took her down the hall, her mother helping her into her nightgown, then under the covers. As her father turned
out her lamp—the bathroom light already on—she was so glad to be in the safety of her bed that she almost started crying. Then, when her mother bent to kiss her good-night, she did cry.

  “This is why I can’t have visitors,” she said. “It’s too hard.”

  “It’s all right,” her mother said. “Beth understands.”

  No one understood. Meg pulled a Kleenex from the box by her pillow—a concept depressing in and of itself—and wiped at her eyes. “I don’t want her to be mad at me. I just—I can’t.”

  “Beth will be fine,” her father said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Don’t worry? Jesus, was he from another planet? “All right,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I just have to sleep.”

  “Okay.” Her father leaned over to kiss her, too. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Please don’t let anyone come in here,” Meg said, fighting back what felt like an explosion of tears inside. “I just want to sleep.”

  Her parents nodded, then quietly left the room.

  29

  WHEN SHE WAS sure she was alone, she let the tears come, turning her head away from the door, praying that no one would hear. She cried until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t do anything but sleep, her arm over her eyes in case someone came in. For some reason, Vanessa wasn’t on the bed—or even in the room, which made her feel even worse.

  If nothing else, she slept soundly, not waking up—or maybe even moving—until Trudy knocked on her door the next morning and came in with her breakfast.

  “Good morning, dear,” Trudy said, putting the tray down on her desk, then moving the curtains to let in some light. “How do you feel?”

  Awful. Meg sat up with some difficulty, hoping that her eyes weren’t as red as they felt—and wondering where Vanessa was. “I-I’m all right. I mean, good morning.”

  After helping her into the wheelchair so she”could go into the bathroom, Trudy set up the tray for her—orange juice, broccoli and mushroom quiche, toast triangles, and a dish of strawberries and cream.

  “I, uh—” Meg picked up her juice glass, her hand so shaky that she almost dropped it. “Is Beth still here?”

  Trudy nodded. “Would you like her to come in?”