Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Good job,” Edith said, when she was finished. “A month ago, you couldn’t even do five of those.”

  Gee, maybe the New England Journal of Medicine would write her up. JAMA. Meg hung on to the table, out of breath, her t-shirt feeling damp against her back. Yeah, that was progress, all right. A tiny little weight, and she felt like passing out.

  After working on her hamstrings, and getting her to tighten and relax her quads for a while, Edith strapped her up with ice, spread a light fleece blanket over her, and left the room.

  Meg sank back against the pillows at the end of the examining table. Jesus. Now, she would probably go upstairs and sleep for the rest of the day.

  She was dozing, right there on the cold, thinly-padded metal table, when there was a knock on the half-open door, and Dr. Brooks came in. Technically, he was a Navy Admiral, and they were probably supposed to address him that way, but he, and her family, all preferred “Dr. Brooks.” He was such a kindly and sympathetic man that she always made sure not to be surly, or swear in front of him—no matter how much she felt like it.

  He smiled at her in his grandfatherly way. “Edith tells me that you did extremely well today.”

  Yeah, she couldn’t be prouder. Meg nodded. “I lifted five whole pounds.” Or possibly only three.

  “Progressing to weights is a very big step,” he said.

  Unh-hunh.

  “Getting a little more movement in the hand, too,” he said.

  Unh-hunh. Emphasis on, a little. She nodded politely.

  “We’d like to start weaning you off that, over the next couple of months—” he indicated her cane—“and see how you do with just the brace.”

  Meg looked down at the bulky ice packs. “So, I’ll put my full weight on it?”

  Dr. Brooks nodded. “It’ll improve your mobility, and should accelerate your progress.”

  No point in asking how much it was going to hurt. “Will I always need a brace?” she asked. “Just to walk?”

  “Well, the extent of—” He hesitated. “I think you’re coming along very well so far, Meg.”

  None of the medical people ever directly answered her questions, especially when bad news was involved. Meg looked at her ice packs. Hard to believe that tennis and skiing had once been such major parts of her life. Two of her favorite reasons for getting up in the morning. And now, presumably, walking was going to be an achievement. “I, um—I’m having a lot of pain, sir,” she said. “Lately.”

  He frowned. “The ibuprofen isn’t doing anything for you?”

  It probably wasn’t making things worse, but that was about it. She shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Well, why don’t we put you back on the Tylenol-3 for a while,” he said. “I’d like to avoid the stronger medications for now, if possible.”

  So much for more Percocet or Vicodin. Ultram, Hydrocodone, Tramadol Hydrochloride, Darvon, Lortab, Dilaudid, Fioricet, Voltaren, Toradol, Anaprox, Lodine, OxyContin. She knew all their damned names, at this point. But, Meg nodded. The last thing she needed was a trip to Hazelden or someplace. Not that she was an addictive type, but Christ, chronic pain was a whole different ballgame.

  Dr. Brooks picked up one of the ice packs, checking for swelling, maybe. He examined her knee, frowned again, and then replaced the ice pack. “Is it unbearable?” he asked, his expression noticeably more concerned.

  Well, it hadn’t killed her yet. Although not, she suspected, for lack of trying. “I guess not,” she said. Doubtfully.

  “Well, I think I’ll give you something stronger for the next week or so,” he said, “and we’ll see how you respond, okay?”

  She wanted to nod eagerly, but that seemed too close to the reaction an outright junkie would have.

  “I’m also going to have one of the orthopedists come over later today, and give you a look,” he said.

  Christ. That sounded ominous. Meg looked at him nervously. “Is something wrong?”

  Dr. Brooks shook his head. “No. I just think it’s a good idea if we stay on top of things.”

  Which didn’t sound all that good.

  “There’s no need for you to be alarmed, Meg,” he said, with his very kind smile. “You know how careful we like to be around here.”

  And how.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked.

  None that he was going to be able to answer. In all likelihood, she would need a damned theologian, or something, for that. So, she shook her head.

  “Can we get anything for you? Some juice, maybe?” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Well.” He smiled at her again. “Edith will be back in a minute to get rid of all that ice, and then I’ll send Carlotta in, so you can finish up for today.”

  Meg nodded. All she had to do now, was stay awake that long.

  When she finally got back upstairs, she went right to bed. After calling the switchboard and asking them not to put any calls through, and unplugging her phone again, for good measure.

  It was just past seven o’clock when a knock on the door woke her up. She looked around the darkened room, tired and confused, as Vanessa yawned and stretched next to her.

  The knock came again, very quietly.

  “Who is it,” she said.

  “I just, uh—” Steven cleared his throat. “Dad said to ask if you want dinner.”

  Did she? It seemed like an inordinately complicated decision.

  “Meg?” he said through the door.

  She sighed, and reached over to turn on the light. “I don’t know. I mean, you can come in, if you want.”

  He opened the door, walking partway into the room.

  “So, uh,” he stared down at his high-tops, “how you doing?”

  Sometimes she forgot that all of this must be pretty hellish for her brothers, too. Okay, most of the time. Suddenly, she wasn’t really part of their lives anymore. Not the way she had been.

  She sat up, her neck very stiff. “I’m all right. I was just—reading.” Not that there was an open book nearby, but she knew he wouldn’t contradict her. “How was school?”

  Steven shrugged, reaching out to pat Vanessa, who swiped at him and jumped off the bed. “Friendly, that cat,” he said.

  “Fickle,” Meg said. “How was basketball?”

  “Okay.” He glanced at her for a second. “Got a game tomorrow.”

  “Well—that should be good,” Meg said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Or, at least, interested.

  He nodded, glancing at her again, and then away.

  Oh, Christ. He never asked any of them—never had—but she knew that he loved it when people came to his games. That he played better. “Steven, I—” She sighed. “I get really tired.”

  “Hunh?” He looked up. “I mean, yeah, I know. That you need to rest and all.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, still not meeting her eyes. “Do I tell Dad you don’t feel good, or—”

  She sighed again. “I don’t know.” Was she hungry? No. “I should probably eat.”

  He nodded.

  Jesus, if the thought of dinner, just down the hall, safe inside the White House, was daunting, how could he expect her to go to a crowded gymnasium and watch a noisy basketball game?

  He headed for the door. “I’ll tell Dad you’ll be there in a while.”

  Feeling guilty, she took a deep breath. “Steven. I want to go to your game. But—it’s kind of scary.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, no big deal. I just thought—it like, totally doesn’t matter. I only meant if you weren’t busy and all.”

  Busy sleeping. “Is Dad going?” she asked.

  Steven shook his head. “He can’t tomorrow. Mississippi, or something.”

  No point in even asking if their mother was planning to show up. She would always try to make it to at least one game of whatever sport Steven was playing that particular season, but weekday afternoons were the worst possible tim
e.

  “Neal’ll be there,” Steven said. “He always comes.”

  Had she known that? In fact, did she have any idea what her brothers did with themselves lately? Probably not. Would it be enough to have Neal with her, or would she still be afraid? Christ, if she couldn’t manage this, how the hell was she going to go away to school? Go anywhere. Ever.

  Steven went out to the hall. “Dad said we’ll eat around seven-thirty.”

  Meg looked at her clock. Quarter past. “Okay, I’ll get cleaned up.”

  Steven nodded, closing the door behind him.

  She used her good hand to guide her leg over the side of the bed, then leaned down for her cane. Seven-fifteen. That was early. She plugged her phone back in, and dialed Preston’s office extension. He was on another line, the staff told her, but they put her right through, anyway.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Preston asked, sounding as though he had all the time in the world.

  “Were you talking to someone important?” she asked, feeling incredibly intrusive.

  “No one I can’t call back,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.” Oh, yeah, like she called him up every other minute. “I mean, I don’t want to bother you when you’re working.”

  “I’m not doing a thing,” he said.

  Sure. “Well, it’s just—” She let out her breath. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”

  “No,” he said, without hesitating.

  Yeah, right. No one who worked in the White House ever had a free afternoon. She had to smile. “You liar. Aren’t you supposed to go to Mississippi with Dad?”

  “Louisiana, actually,” he said. “And Maureen—” who had been hired to be her father’s press secretary, after Preston officially took the chief of staff position— “is going, so no problem.”

  She was a complete jerk even to have picked up the phone; she knew better than to get in the way of White House events.

  “For that matter, your father’s a pretty big kid,” Preston said. “He could probably handle a day care center and a community housing construction site on his own.”

  There was a good chance of that, yeah.

  “What’d you have in mind?” Preston asked. “Maybe some Christmas shopping?”

  On the one hand, she hated it that they all dropped everything whenever she said a word; on the other hand, thank God they did. “Steven has a game,” she said. “And I thought—well—”

  “You want some company, maybe,” he said.

  Yeah. Only now, she felt—weak. Incompetent. Halfway to fulfilling the wimp acronym. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “No, sounds fun,” he said. “The little guy coming, too?”

  Neal was the Little Guy; Steven was the Big Guy. “Yeah. But, can you, um—” Christ, this was humiliating. She sighed. “Leave with me? Instead of meeting us there?”

  “Sure,” he said instantly. “No problem.”

  Which was such a relief that she was all the more embarrassed. “I—I’m sorry to ask,” she said. “I know how busy—”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

  * * *

  THE GAME WAS at three-thirty. Leaving her just enough time to go to her classes, come home, do her exercises, then rest for an hour. She was supposed to meet Preston downstairs at two forty-five, and at two-fifteen, she actually found herself standing in her bedroom, leaning on her cane, worrying about what to wear. To a junior varsity basketball game, for Christ’s sakes.

  So, she put on a clean pair of sweatpants, a blue Lacoste shirt, an old V-neck tennis sweater, and Saucony running shoes with one of the pairs of special elastic laces Carlotta had given her. That way, each shoe would expand enough for her to put her foot in, and then snap back into place for a fairly tight fit. The laces looked goofy, but it was preferable to going around in orthopedic Velcro shoes or slip-ons. She had to use a long plastic hook to pull her left sneaker on, since her knee couldn’t even take the pressure of pushing her foot into a shoe, but at least she could get into it without having to ask for help from anyone.

  Preston was waiting for her near the Diplomatic Reception Room, surrounded by several staff members and aides, who—judging from the tenor of the conversation—all seemed to be very anxious about the logistics of several upcoming holiday parties and receptions the White House was holding. And her father was going to have to host the unveiling of the official White House decorations in a couple of days, an annual chore which, she knew, did not thrill him.

  “Just use your best judgment,” Preston said to Ginette, the deputy press secretary. “I should be back around five-thirty, six.”

  As the staff members moved off towards the East Wing, Meg nodded a self-conscious hello in response to the various nods and “how are you today”s.

  “So.” Preston slung on his coat—a long, quite smashing, grey duster. “We ready to go?”

  Meg nodded, putting on her sunglasses.

  “Maybe we should work up an endorsement deal for you,” he said.

  Meg flushed, and straightened them. There was presumably something extremely nonegalitarian about overpriced designer sunglasses. She had several pairs of glasses with clear lenses, which she wore sometimes when she was trying very hard not to be recognized, but it never seemed to make much difference, and she felt much safer behind sunglasses. The darker, the better.

  When they got outside, there were a few reporters—and civilians—hanging around, some of whom shouted questions, to which she responded with a smile and a vague, friendly wave before getting into the car.

  “Are my little friends coming?” she asked.

  Preston nodded. “Looks that way. Sorry.”

  Swell. They hadn’t even pulled out of the driveway yet, and she was already exhausted. She sat back, keeping her sunglasses on, her fist tight in her lap.

  “Okay?” Preston asked.

  She nodded, pretending to look out the window, but keeping her eyes closed. Then, as they drove towards the Southwest Gate, she started having trouble getting her breath.

  Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh, Christ. She was going to lose it, right here in the car, and when they got to the school, she wouldn’t be able to—

  Preston’s hand came onto her shoulder. “You’re all right, Meg. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  Which gave her another reason to panic. What if they were attacked, and Preston got caught in the cross-fire? Or her brothers. Or a bunch of innocent bystanders. Or—

  “Count to ten,” he said. “Do it a couple of times.”

  She looked at him, hoping like hell that he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes behind the sunglasses.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re the only ones here.”

  She wanted to sob, and throw up, and just generally fall apart. Make the car turn around, hurry inside, and huddle in her room for the rest of the day and night. The rest of her life, if possible.

  The gates had opened, and they were on the street now, and it occurred to her that her all-too-quiet agents were witnessing this silent meltdown, too. It was bad enough to make a fool of herself in front of Preston, but she really didn’t want her agents to see how cowardly she was. So she sucked in her breath, counted to ten, counted to twenty, and then—just to be sure—counted to fifty.

  Preston gave her shoulder one last squeeze, took his hand away, and pulled a small tin out of his inside coat pocket. “Altoid?” he asked.

  Why the hell not. With an effort, she opened her fist, and then clumsily helped herself to a couple of mints. “Thanks.”

  “I have LifeSavers, too,” he said.

  Good to know.

  “This is going to make your brother very happy,” he said.

  It damned well better.

  5

  WHEN THEY GOT to the school, she saw a lot of extra Secret Service agents milling around, indicating that Neal had gotten there ahead of them. Which made sense, considering that he was only coming over from t
he Lower School. Although security was much heavier on game days, regardless. With all three of them in the same place, there would be at least twenty-five agents in and around the school. Probably not the most efficient use of the taxpayers’ money—but, as far as she was concerned, the more, the merrier.

  She moved as quickly as she could, very aware of the size of her entourage. The deathwatch didn’t help matters any. Once they got to the gym, everyone—a pretty sparse crowd, luckily—turned to stare, and she stopped short, not sure if she could go through with this.

  “Come on, there’s Neal.” Preston steered her towards the bleachers, where Neal, his friend Ahmed, and three Secret Service agents were already watching the action on the court.

  Carefully, she climbed—hopped, sort of—up several rows and sat down next to Neal. “Hi.” She nodded at Ahmed. “Hi.”

  Ahmed nodded gravely, peering at her through his very thick glasses.

  “Steven made like, the last four in a row,” Neal said, pointing at the lay-up drill.

  “It was ex-cellent,” Ahmed said, in his precise, clipped little voice. He was a Foreign Service child, and had picked up a British accent somewhere along the way.

  Meg looked across the huge gym—it had been built quite recently, and was quite state-of-the-art for a high school—at the far basket, searching for Steven. He was wearing his usual number 9—the number he tried to be assigned in all sports, because of Ted Williams. Her family had always been partial to Ted Williams. And Carl Yastrzemski, of course. Jim Rice. David Ortiz. The usual suspects.

  The other team, in blue and white, looked taller, and Meg glanced at Neal. “Are they good?”

  Neal nodded.

  “Is Steven’s team going to win?” she asked.

  Neal and Ahmed shook their heads.

  Oh. Meg scanned the whole gym, including the jogging track up above them, still wearing her sunglasses, looking for anything out of place, or suspicious, or—fortunately, the most unusual phenomenon was the number of men lurking around in suits and earpieces. Her body-watch had filtered in, the cameraman and photographer wandering down to a spot near the scorer’s table to join three other photographers and videographers, who might be professionals—or simply overly-involved parents.