Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  In other words, she wouldn’t do a god-damned thing, no matter what. Mostly, she could keep all of it under control, duly and politely repressed—but, not right now. To hell with it. To hell with her. To hell with everything. “Yeah, well, fuck you,” Meg said.

  Both of her parents flinched, and her mother’s shoulders hunched up.

  Fuck both of them, for that matter. “Suppose the tape had sound,” Meg said, hearing her voice shake. “And I’m screaming and crying and begging—I mean, really screaming, what would you do?”

  Her mother shook her head, seeming to shrink right into herself, apparently unaware that she’d brought one hand over to hold her stomach.

  But, fuck that, too. “Okay,” Meg said, clenching her—still working—hand as hard as she could. “Let’s make it even worse. There are men in the room with me. A bunch of them. And they’re all—”

  “Jesus Christ, Meg,” her father said. Exploded, really. “Enough already! You’re the one doing the torturing now.”

  Yes, she was, and with very specific intent. “We can tear her apart, Dad,” Meg said, looking him dead in the eye. “Not just make her cry, but shred her. Eviscerate her, from halfway across the room. Maybe Steven and Neal can do it a little, too, but mostly, in the whole world, it’s just you and me. Right, Dad? We can do it. Anytime we want.”

  The color in her father’s face had darkened, and he stood up.

  “Excuse me,” he said, through his teeth, and then walked into the Presidential dressing room, slamming the door behind him.

  Her mother hadn’t spoken yet, but Meg could see her trembling, and breathing too hard, and, after the fact, felt completely awful.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Her mother smiled so bitterly that it was genuinely scary. “Nothing personal, Meg, but fuck you right back. Okay?”

  Whoa. That was a first. And, oddly, it came as a tremendous relief. Broke a forbidden barrier. Made it seem as though she was sitting with an actual person, and not the god-damn robotic President. “Yeah,” Meg said, and nodded. “Okay. I deserved that.”

  Now, her mother looked at her miserably. “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry, I can’t believe I just said that to you. I—Jesus Christ, we’re all losing our minds.”

  The sad thing, was that they were all also sorry. Endlessly, constantly, perpetually sorry. And no matter how many times they told each other that, it never seemed to make any difference. Feeling incredibly lonely for some reason, Meg edged over until she was close enough to lean her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  Which felt very good.

  A few seconds passed—long, damn seconds—and then her mother’s arms came around her.

  Which felt even better.

  “They were supposed to protect you,” her mother said softly. “And when they didn’t do that, they were supposed to find you, and bring you home. Those sons of bitches would stand in front of my desk, kind of hanging their heads, and—” She shook her head. “I don’t think they ever came within three states of you.”

  No, it didn’t seem that way.

  Her mother let out a shaky breath. “Meg, people vicious enough to make a concerted effort to torture an innocent seventeen-year-old, and force her parents to watch it, would never release her alive, no matter what I agreed to do.”

  No. They wouldn’t. “I know,” Meg said. “It’s okay. I just needed to be pissed off about it for a few minutes.”

  Her mother nodded, and hugged her closer, but then suddenly stiffened. “My God, I said a very offensive thing to you, didn’t I.”

  Well, yeah. Talk about showing up late for the party.

  “I am so sorry,” her mother said. “I don’t know what I—I wouldn’t even have thought that I was capable of that.”

  This, from the woman who could not, would not, and did not negotiate with terrorists, with her own child’s life hanging in the balance. Meg had to grin. “It’s all right. I said it first.”

  “Granted,” her mother said, “but, let’s not tell anyone, okay? Ever?”

  “Our secret,” Meg said, and her mother looked very relieved.

  Kirby came wandering over, rested his head on her mother’s knee, and wagged his tail. He was either very happy to see her—or possibly needed to go out. Or both.

  “Hey, at least the dog likes you,” Meg said.

  Her mother nodded. “I’ll have to have them start taking lonely, pensive pictures of me with him.”

  Preferably standing by the windows in the Oval Office, staring out at the Great Land for which she was responsible.

  Her mother patted Kirby’s head, and then brought her arms back around Meg.

  “How much of the anger is something you need your father and me to help you with,” she said, “and also have you talk to someone professionally, and how much is because, most of the time, you’re in so much pain you can’t see straight?”

  Good question. Worth weighing. Meg thought it over. “I’d say sixty–forty, in favor of the pain.”

  Her mother nodded. “I’m going to talk to Bob. I think they’re under-medicating you, and we need to bring the pain management people back over here, and come up with some new strategies.”

  Meg nodded, too. That would be nice. It was soothing to rest against her mother—whose heart, she could feel, had finally slowed down to a normal rhythm; which was a relief—and she let her eyes close. But then, she heard the dressing room door, and she opened them again.

  Her father came out, and stared at them. “You’re sitting there like pals.”

  Yeah, that’s pretty much what they were doing. She and her mother both shrugged.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, and went back into the dressing room.

  They watched him go.

  “This is not what that poor man had in mind when he chatted me up in Harvard Square that day,” her mother said.

  Which was how her parents had met, when her father was in law school, and her mother was at the JFK School of Government, having just dropped out of the law school.

  And no, this couldn’t have been anywhere in the realm of the way he’d imagined things would turn out.

  Her mother’s arms felt so warm and safe that she wished they could just sit like this, for hours.

  “I didn’t mean to swear at you, either,” Meg said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her mother smiled. “Don’t worry, we both know I earned it. In fact, I think it was probably long overdue.”

  Kind of, yeah. “We always used to fight a lot,” Meg said. As far back as she could remember. “I mean, always.”

  “Well, mothers and daughters,” her mother said, and shrugged.

  Yeah. And they’d had a long night, so she should probably be quiet, and not push anymore, but— “Did it make it easier?” she asked.

  Her mother looked confused. “Make what easier?”

  Could she really ask this? What the hell. Torpedoes be damned. “Not negotiating,” Meg said. “I mean, since I can be—hard to be around.” And then some.

  Her mother frowned at her. “Are you serious?”

  Meg nodded.

  “God, Meg,” her mother said, sounding impatient, as opposed to defensive—the former being a far more comforting reaction, actually. “Do you think I sat there and did a cost-benefit analysis about you?”

  Possibly.

  Her mother held her hand up as though it were a microphone. “Madam President, when they disemboweled you, what hurt more—cutting out your stomach, or your liver?” She paused, pretending to listen. “Oh. I see. Well, did it also hurt when they chopped your lungs in half? I see. Interesting.”

  Okay, she got the point.

  “I’m guilty of many things, Meg,” her mother said, “but not loving you with every fiber of my being isn’t one of them.”

  Deep down, she knew that, but sometimes, it just plain had to be said aloud.

  They sat on the couch, t
he clock ticking away.

  “Could you have borne it?” her mother asked, her voice so soft that Meg had to move closer to hear her.

  Rape. Torture. Some unendurable combination of the two. Meg couldn’t help shuddering. “I don’t know. I guess it would depend on how long it went on, and how sadistic they got.”

  Her mother slowly released her breath. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  Not much else to say, beyond that.

  The sun was coming up, which meant that the President wasn’t going to be able to hold off the world much longer.

  “How’s the pain right now?” her mother asked.

  They were being honest tonight. This morning. Whatever. “I feel like slaughtering a busload of nuns and orphans,” Meg said. Maybe some puppies, too. Kittens. A nest full of newly-hatched robins.

  Her mother nodded. “Just as well you took it out on us, then.”

  Yes, much less collateral damage that way. But, still. “If I had it all to do over,” Meg said, “I think maybe I just would have come in here last night, and asked you to hold me like this until I fell asleep.”

  “Well,” her mother kissed the top of her head, “we’ll try that tonight, maybe.”

  Yeah.

  39

  AFTER A WHILE, her father came out again, and they all acted as though it was a normal morning—mostly because there was enough commotion out in the hall to indicate that her brothers were up and about, and probably already on their way into the dining room to eat breakfast. Her parents looked so wrung-out that she felt guilty, especially since they weren’t going to have the luxury of going straight to bed after breakfast, if they felt like it.

  Her mother gave her one last squeeze and then stood up, noticeably stiff, pausing to stretch her back slightly.

  “Make sure they put some down-time in your schedule today,” her father said.

  Her mother shrugged. “A shower, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Kate,” he said, and her mother nodded impatiently.

  Were they always this abrupt—and grumpy—in the morning? Now that she thought about it, she had no idea, because they almost never used marital shorthand in front of her.

  Her father was wearing a flannel pajama shirt and old grey sweatpants, and he frowned down at himself, then walked over to his dresser.

  “You’ll go this afternoon?” her mother asked. Steven’s game, presumably.

  Her father nodded, as he pulled on a sweater and stepped into a pair of ancient loafers.

  “Good,” her mother said.

  The first knock—the timing of which had been nervously debated by the staff, no doubt—on the door came, and Felix brought in coffee, English muffins, and a pile of morning newspapers. Then, Frank arrived with a stack of leather-bound folders, paperwork, and daily briefing reports, the phone started ringing off the hook—and the President, still dressed in yesterday’s work clothes and unshowered, was back on the clock.

  Her father reached out to ruffle Meg’s hair. “I want you to get some sleep, but come have breakfast, first, okay?”

  Meg nodded. Against all odds, she was pretty hungry, which seemed wrong, somehow. He gave her a hand up, and then held her crutch out for her. She had to stand very still to make sure that she had her balance, but then followed him to the hall.

  He covered it up pretty well, but she pretty much lurched into the dining room, where Trudy was fussbudgeting around, while Steven and Neal sat at the table, eating pancakes and sausages.

  “Well, don’t you two look scruffy this morning,” Trudy said.

  Odds were, the President wasn’t going to be at her most perky, either.

  “Me, too, Dad?” Meg asked, as her father poured himself some coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard.

  He brought over an extra cup, and she drank half of it before even remembering that it might have been nicer to add milk and sugar, first.

  Her brothers didn’t ask why her father wasn’t wearing a suit, but she could tell that Steven was suspicious. And Neal seemed to notice Steven’s reaction, because he looked worried, but neither of them said anything.

  Her conversation with her parents had been private—but, that didn’t mean that her brothers shouldn’t know about it. In fact, arguably, they should. Except for the more gruesome, and personally unflattering, parts, of course. But she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be the one to bring it up, although she was positive that her father had no intention of doing so, since he was drinking coffee and bent over The Washington Post. So, she decided just to let Trudy fix her a plate of breakfast and try to stay awake long enough to eat some of it.

  After about fifteen minutes, her mother came in, all decked out in a royal blue designer suit and high heels, looking extremely soigné—except for one small detail, and Meg laughed.

  “What?” her mother asked, pausing halfway to her chair.

  “You, um, have a Mary Tyler Moore hair-bump,” Meg said. As so aptly demonstrated in what might be her all-time favorite episode of the entire series—or any other television show, for that matter.

  Her mother frowned. “Oh, I most certainly do not.”

  Her brothers and Trudy—and even her father—grinned.

  “Well, of all things,” her mother said, and bent to check her reflection in the side of the coffee pot.

  Watching her try to fix her hair-bump—which kept popping stubbornly back up every single time she patted it down—made the atmosphere so wonderfully relaxed that it crossed Meg’s mind that her mother had never once in her life left her bedroom without stopping for a long, critical examination of herself in the mirror, first.

  “Does the President need a comb?” Meg’s father asked.

  “The President does, indeed,” her mother said, and glanced at Neal. “Be a good kid?”

  Neal laughed, and hustled out of the room, returning with a comb, and two different kinds of hairbrushes, all of which her mother employed, with questionable results.

  This was an entirely intentional hair-bump, no two ways about it. The President, attempting to change the tone of family interaction, by providing unexpected comic relief.

  “You should, perhaps, find this somewhat less amusing,” her mother said to her, “given the fact that you have a significant hair-bump of your own.”

  Stop the presses. “Have I ever gotten through an entire day when I didn’t have a hair-bump, at least part of the time?” Meg asked.

  Her mother thought about that. “Sadly, no, but I think I might have preferred it if you hadn’t reminded me of that troubling fact.”

  Felix appeared with more coffee, whole wheat toast, a bowl of fresh blueberries and cantaloupe, and a crystal parfait of yoghurt mixed with granola. Meg saw him register the President’s hair-bump, with a second of indecisive consternation, but then continue serving her without missing a beat.

  They were having a pleasant meal. Should she be smart, and leave it at that, or should she take advantage of the situation, and try to move things forward? She looked at her father, who shrugged in a resigned way, and then, at her mother, whose shrug was tentative, and maybe even had a touch of restrained panic in it.

  Screw it, then. Back into the breach. She waited until Felix was gone, and then put down her fork. “Mom and Dad and I talked for a long time last night,” she said.

  Only to be greeted by complete, not terribly receptive, silence.

  Noticing Trudy make a movement towards the door, as though she was about to make a tactful exit, Meg shook her head.

  “You’re part of the family,” she said. And an ideal combination of peacemaker and strict disciplinarian—both of which they might need, to officiate. Referee. “Please stay.”

  Trudy glanced at her parents, then nodded, and settled back into her chair.

  “I know everything’s—” She should be careful here; Trudy hated profanity— “messed up, and we’re all mad, and scared, and—” Okay, she was also in danger of doing some serious rambling. Maybe she should wait and bring this up on a
morning when she’d actually had some sleep. Could think more clearly. “I’m scared, okay? All the time. And I’m just god-damned—” So much for avoiding swearing; she looked at Trudy— “uh, sorry—if I want to let them wreck our family like this. I want us to—Christ, I don’t know. Try to be ourselves again. You know?”

  “So, like, you mean, all of us trying to fix stuff?” Steven asked stiffly. “Or just you and me and Neal?”

  Their father sighed. “She means all of us, Steven.”

  Steven’s shoulders were even more stiff than his voice had been. “Yeah, well, at least Meg and Neal and me have been trying. You know, to act like we like each other.”

  Her parents didn’t respond to that, but they also didn’t contradict him.

  “But, we do like each other,” Neal said uneasily. “I mean, this is our, you know, our family. And everything.”

  Funny that her brothers couldn’t quite bring themselves to look at their mother—but they weren’t having any trouble sending glares at their father. Her mother’s expression was blank to the point of being frightening; her father mainly looked worn out.

  “You’ve all had a very hard time,” Trudy said. “It’s going to take a while for you to sort through things together, that’s all.”

  Steven scowled at her. “It’s been a while, Trudy. And they just, like—it keeps getting, you know, worse, not better.”

  Trudy smiled at him. “It’s not a train, dear. You can’t make it run on time.”

  A wise, and peaceful—and somewhat tiresome—remark.

  “If it happens to me,” Steven said, staring at their mother now, “or Neal, or Dad, or Meg again, you gonna negotiate or anything this time?”

  Her mother’s face was immobile—the shade of her skin seeming like some combination of green and grey—and then, she very gently shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “I’m sorry.”

  Whereupon, the silence was so oppressive that it seemed loud. Deafening, really. Her father wouldn’t look at anyone, but Meg saw his fists tighten.