Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  They had wanted her to join them, and she was tempted to say yes, since overseas Presidential trips were always interesting as hell, but if she went, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t bother coming back to finish the semester when they returned. In fact, she had a feeling she might drop out of college altogether, given even the slightest excuse—and, as such, it would be the better part of wisdom to avoid anything which resembled an opportunity to do so.

  But, she was very tense all week, and spent almost every free second glued to CNN, to follow the progress of the trip, and make sure that her family was safe, and appeared reasonably cheerful. For the most part, they looked okay, although she had to laugh when, right before starting to make a statement after a meeting at the IAEA Secretariat, her mother stopped, apologized, and went over to a very anxious-looking Neal, bent down, and spoke to him quietly. Then she glanced at Meg’s father—whose radar was good, but not nearly as sharp as her mother’s—and he came over to lead Neal off somewhere, presumably the nearest men’s room.

  Whereupon, her mother returned to the podium, entirely unruffled, gave her statement, took questions, and went back to the business of international affairs. The media seemed to be divided about whether it was wonderful, endearing footage—or whether her mother had been making a craven high-profile attempt to seem like an engaged parent. Apparently, they had missed the President’s distinct, if subtle, attempt to make eye contact with Meg’s father, or Linda, or one of her many aides, or anyone who could have quickly and easily interceded before she had to do it herself—and they were also, in Meg’s opinion, perhaps lacking in senses of humor. Of course, one of the commentators routinely described the President as “The She-Devil” during many of his very biased round-table talk show appearances, so it was hard to take him seriously on any level.

  Actually, right after her mother took office, some nut had self-published a book called The She-Devil and Her Ruthless Plan for World Domination, augmented by many author-planted five star reviews on Amazon. She and Beth had once spent an afternoon on the roof patio by the Solarium, reading it aloud and pretty much laughing themselves sick the entire time. It was easily the most hilarious book she had ever read, with the possible exception of a ranting diatribe titled Dark Powers, which included detailed accusations of satanic occult practices her mother was thought to embrace, complete with a photo of her holding their cat, Sidney—who looked sleepy, overweight, and deeply phlegmatic—and was described as one of the President’s “familiars.” Meg had even found a picture of herself in that epic tome, taken when she was about eight years old, dressed up for Halloween in a witch costume, smiling away with green makeup on her face. The caption was: “Grooming the next generation,” which was funny all by itself, but made that much more so because the Evil-Being-To-Be was happily holding up a little orange cardboard UNICEF box in one hand.

  It seemed to snow almost every day, which not only meant that she slipped and fell a lot, but served as a near-constant reminder that she was missing out on one of the best New England ski seasons in years. Maybe life would seem less bleak when, and if, the snow ever melted away. But, she just forced herself to keep getting up in the morning, going to classes, studying, heading over to physical therapy, and then studying some more. Trying to remember to eat, making a point of lying down at night even when she couldn’t sleep, missing her cat, watching too much television. All of which was mind-numbingly dull, but at least she was probably going to get really good grades this semester.

  Then, it was Friday, yet again, and she knew she was facing another long, empty weekend, which left her feeling so unhappy and out of sorts that when she got to her psychology class, she started to go inside the lecture hall—and then walked right back out again. Her agents exchanged glances—but, wisely, refrained from commenting. Paula was the first one to find the gumption to break the silence.

  “Will you be needing a car?” she asked.

  Meg shook her head. “Not until we have to go to god-damn physical therapy, no.” What she probably needed was coffee, and maybe even something resembling breakfast.

  So, after informing her agents accordingly, she decided to go down to the coffeehouse on Spring Street, and get a latte and a muffin or something.

  The guy behind the counter was either unusually friendly—or, possibly, just flirtatious— and she was cordially aloof in return.

  Which was, now that she thought about it, the character trait she most detested in her mother. It was always sort of disquieting to realize that the apple was making a regular habit of nestling itself directly underneath the tree.

  Although a lot of people were coming in and out to get drinks or pastries to go, most of the tables were empty. She was looking for the most secluded place to sit down, when she noticed Hannah Goldman, her most recognizable journalistic shadow, slumping in a chair in the back room, with a cup of coffee, looking rather petulant and as though she really wanted a cigarette. She was still dressing as though she was expecting to be called into the White House Press Room for a vital briefing at any moment, and possibly then do an extensive live analysis on national television herself, but apparently, the reality of a foot and a half of snow had been enough to force her to abandon her high heels temporarily for a pair of impractical, but flashy, knee-high black leather boots.

  Ms. Goldman looked up, saw her standing there, and instantly checked her watch.

  It was scary to think about what an incredibly long list of people knew her daily schedule, down to the very minute. Meg shrugged at her, started to look for a seat as far away as possible—but then, changed her mind and limped over.

  “Haven’t seen you around lately. Happy to be back in town?” she asked.

  Ms. Goldman nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

  Yeah. Sure. “Here for a gloriously exciting follow-up story?” Meg asked.

  This time, Ms. Goldman’s nod was more resigned.

  Well, she wasn’t planning to be helpful, but she could still have a chat. Maybe even try to cheer herself up, a little, by being just short of cooperative and revealing. Meg indicated the empty wooden chair across from her. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Ms. Goldman looked delighted—and somewhat perplexed.

  Meg eased herself down clumsily, managing to spill some of her latte—the largest size, with an extra shot of espresso—when an unexpected tremor of pain ran through her bad hand, intense enough to make her good hand shake, too.

  When her lone napkin wasn’t quite up to the task of wiping it up, Ms. Goldman pushed a couple more over to her. “How’s your physical therapy going?” she asked.

  Okay, this was a reporter. It wasn’t as though they were going to sit here talking about how pretty the snow was, or the excitement of the Red Sox reporting to spring training, or anything. “I’m an inspiration to one and all,” Meg said—and wanted to slug herself for making the grave mistake of being candid.

  “You may well be,” Ms. Goldman said, either overlooking—or missing—the sarcasm.

  Oh, yeah. Totally. Meg motioned towards the cell phone resting on the table. “Don’t you need to call in the fact that I’m skipping class? In case they want to use it as a Breaking News bulletin on the Web?”

  Ms. Goldman blushed slightly, and tucked the cell phone into her blazer pocket, although she didn’t—Meg noticed—turn it off. Not that, depending on her carrier, she was going to be able to count on getting a completely reliable signal, on a campus surrounded by mountains. God-damn snow-covered mountains.

  “Am I really that newsworthy?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem particularly worthwhile to have so many of you still showing up here all the time.”

  “That’s what I keep telling my editor,” Ms. Goldman said, sounding gloomy.

  Meg grinned. “So, this isn’t what you’d consider a plum assignment?”

  Ms. Goldman was obviously too polite to agree, but she had not been blessed—or, perhaps, cursed—with a decent poker face.

  “Cheer up,” Meg said. “Maybe you’ll
catch a break this afternoon, and someone’ll—” She fired her forefinger in her direction— “take a pop at me.”

  Ms. Goldman stiffened, and Meg realized—too late—that she’d sounded considerably more malicious than she’d intended.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was just meant to be a bad joke, not an indictment of your entire profession.”

  Ms. Goldman nodded.

  Although it had almost certainly come across as a rather venomous insult. For lack of a better idea, Meg sipped some of her coffee. Not enough sugar, but she didn’t feel like limping over to get more. “I really am sorry. It’s—an innately adversarial process, that’s all.”

  Ms. Goldman frowned at her. “Does your whole family always speak that way? Even when you’re by yourselves?”

  Christ, the country should eavesdrop on one of their contentious private dinners sometime. It would probably set off a whole new reality-show craze. An Evening with the Fractious First Family. “Yes,” Meg said. “We do. In fact, my parents would be upset that I just slipped and used a couple of contractions.”

  Ms. Goldman smiled.

  “I know you guys all want to be assigned to the regular press corps,” Meg said, “but, it’s really not such a great job.” Which didn’t seem to stop reporters from openly lusting for the opportunity. “I mean, it’s pretty much just hurry up and wait all the time, except when Linda comes grumping out to give everyone a little spin and misdirection.”

  Ms. Goldman shrugged. “Maybe, but at least then you’re in the thick of it. And, you’re surrounded by actual civilization.”

  There were few things as glaring as city slickers who felt utterly out of place, despite being in the midst of tremendous pastoral beauty. “You know, this just might be the prettiest little town on the entire planet,” Meg said.

  Ms. Goldman nodded, glumly.

  Right. “But you wish I’d picked Georgetown or Columbia or Harvard, or maybe even Stanford or Berkeley,” Meg said.

  Ms. Goldman’s expression brightened. “Northwestern and UCLA would have been okay, too. Or Emory.”

  Cities, cities, cities. All big cities. Places where high heels and incessant ambition fit right in.

  “Out of curiosity, why did you come over here?” Ms. Goldman asked.

  Good question. Why the hell had she? It would have been easy enough to feign not seeing her, or just—if absolutely necessary—exchange unfriendly nods before going off to find someplace to drink her coffee in peace.

  Let both of them drink their coffee in peace.

  “I’m sorry, I probably disturbed you, didn’t I,” Meg said, feeling pretty stupid that it had taken this long for the thought to cross her mind. It wasn’t as though they were friends, and enjoyed hanging out together. She started to stand up. “Maybe I should just—”

  “I was only asking,” Ms. Goldman said.

  And it had been a legitimate question. Which meant that it probably deserved an answer. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure why,” Meg said. “I just did, for some reason.”

  Ms. Goldman nodded.

  “I miss adults,” Meg said. Except for her brothers, she usually pretty much spent all of her time around adults, and—she liked adults. Felt comfortable around them.

  Ms. Goldman looked up alertly. A reporter look. “So, you find your fellow students immature?”

  Oh, Christ, that was going to make a god-awful headline. “No,” Meg said quickly. “Not at all.” Damn. She’d better find her way the hell out of this, and fast. “I’m, uh—I’m making no pejorative implications about them whatsoever.”

  Luckily, Ms. Goldman’s cell phone went off, so she was probably going to be able to escape from this one without creating too much more trouble for herself.

  But Ms. Goldman just glanced at the number, shook her head, and turned it off. “I was only asking a question, Miss Powers. I’m not out to skewer you.”

  Which, if it were true, would probably be a first in the history of modern journalism. Of course, she’d walked right into this—okay, limped—and so, had no one to blame but herself.

  And, it was rather telling that they weren’t even on a first-name basis.

  “I know it must seem that way, sometimes,” Ms. Goldman went on, “but—”

  Probably because it was that way. “Isn’t that what you guys do?” Meg asked. “Wait for one of us to get tired, or distracted, and then try to make us say something as idiotic as possible?” The bigger the gaffe, the better the story.

  “That’s what some of us do,” Ms. Goldman said. “But, the rest of us—” She stopped, and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You were trying to have a normal conversation with me, and I really blew it, didn’t I?”

  “We both did. Don’t worry about it.” Meg pulled on her jacket. “But, hey, I’d better go start getting ready for my next class. Take it easy, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Ms. Goldman said, visibly disappointed. “You, too.”

  19

  SOMEHOW, PHYSICAL THERAPY felt even more grueling than usual that afternoon. Although by now, she probably should have figured out that she really didn’t do very well when she tried to make it through a whole day on nothing but coffee. Going to the hospital tended to be stressful, anyway, because, inevitably, people would recognize her, and want to say hello, or have her stop so they could take her picture or something. And she couldn’t exactly say no, when they were either injured or ill themselves, or visiting someone else who was. Her agents weren’t thrilled about it, but she was pretty much damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t, since everyone always seemed to get hurt or offended if she just nodded and kept going. So, most of the time, it was easier to be nice and pause for a few seconds.

  There was a certain amount of schedule rotation, and usually a doctor or two somewhere in the general vicinity, but she mostly spent her sessions alone with the same two physical therapists—Vicky, who was a no-nonsense, but fairly jovial, older African-American woman, and Cheryl, who was a skinny, skittish Caucasian woman in her early thirties. Both of them were friendly, although Vicky was more inclined to chat. Meg was always very polite, and—well—aloof.

  “Are you taking care of yourself?” Vicky asked, as they worked on her range-of-motion—which hurt like hell.

  Meg opened her eyes, which, for some reason, made the pain feel much more intense. “How do you mean?”

  Vicky shrugged. “Eating, sleeping, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Meg said, and nodded to punctuate that. “You bet.”

  “Unh-hunh,” Vicky said. “So, it’s my imagination that you’ve lost about ten pounds since you’ve been coming here?”

  No way. Meg looked down at herself. “Two pounds, maybe.” Although, since she was wearing an oversized blue turtleneck and heavy black sweatpants, it was hard to tell, one way or the other.

  “After we finish, I’d like to get a weight on you,” Vicky said, blandly. “Keep your chart up-to-date.”

  Meg glanced at the water bottle resting nearby, wondering how much she would have to drink, before she got weighed, to make it seem as though—and Christ almighty, was that an anorectic thought, or what?

  And Vicky was frowning at her. Damn. Caught in the act.

  “What have you eaten today?” Vicky asked.

  She could lie, but it wasn’t going to be convincing. Meg sighed. “Today was unusual. It was—hectic.” So terribly hectic, that after leaving the coffeehouse, she’d randomly skipped her Shakespeare class, too, and spent lunchtime in the library, reading a paperback mystery in the quietest enclosed carrel she could find down on the lower level.

  Vicky nodded. “So, what, you had a couple of cups of coffee, and called that a meal?”

  Yeah, so? “You have no way of knowing that,” Meg said stiffly.

  “You walked in here with a very large latte,” Vicky said, “and your hands are shaking. It doesn’t really take a rocket scientist to figure it out.”

  Suddenly very tired of physical therapy
—and of being criticized—Meg yanked her leg free, which hurt so much that she had to fight off a gasp. “My hands are shaking, because every time I come here, it’s extremely god-damn painful.”

  Vicky nodded. “I know. You want to take a break?”

  Meg shook her head, aware that her good hand was tightly clenched. “No, I want to finish up already, so I can get the hell out of here.”

  That much of a growl would have been enough to scare Cheryl off for the rest of the afternoon, but Vicky just nodded and helped her resume the extension and flexion exercises. They worked in complete silence for a few minutes.

  “I think it’s to your credit that you don’t throw your weight around,” Vicky said.

  Mostly because her father would hit the roof, if any of them behaved that way. Although there wasn’t much he could do about ordinary crankiness, and general character flaws. Meg shrugged, not looking at her. “I’m probably too thin to throw it around.”

  Vicky’s mouth moved as though she might be about to laugh, but she nodded again, and they kept working.

  When they were finally finished—Meg’s leg now quivering even more than her hands were—Vicky carefully packed her knee with ice.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you started drinking some nutritional supplements,” she said, “okay? At least two a day.”

  The very thought made Meg feel sick—sicker—to her stomach. When she was in the hospital, they constantly brought her what they cheerfully called “milkshakes” to choke down, to help her try and regain the weight she’d lost as the result of two full weeks of complete starvation and near-fatal dehydration. “You mean that gross stuff in the cans?” she asked.

  “If you keep it in the refrigerator, it isn’t that bad,” Vicky said. “I assume you have one in your dorm room?”