“When did you eat last?” he asked.
“Breakfast,” she said, more and more tired, rubbing her face with her shoulder.
He stared at her. “You had breakfast today?”
She shook her head, the motion of the ambulance making her even sleepier. “Before school.”
“The day you were kidnapped?” he asked.
She nodded, hearing more than one gasp, someone saying, “Jesus Christ” in a low voice. The doctor was asking another question, but she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore, falling into a confused sort of daze.
It seemed as if they drove for hours, and as if they drove for seconds, because then, she was being carried out of the ambulance, into what had to be the helicopter. People were talking at her, but she was too tired to pay attention, feeling the helicopter lift off the ground. She hated helicopters.
After a long time, the motion stopped and, hearing many more voices, she forced her eyes open. It was bright outside, and there were soldiers everywhere. She heard the word “President” and tried to get off the gurney, so eager that she forgot how much everything hurt.
Then, her parents were there, and she was hugging them with her good arm, trying not to cry. But they were, so maybe it was okay.
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I’m really sorry.”
They were both talking, which was too confusing to follow, and she felt her eyes closing, letting herself slump against them. They wouldn’t mind if she—just for a minute—if she—she was aware of being moved—into another helicopter? Air Force One? Aware of new voices, and questions, and her parents hugging her, but mostly, she just slept, feeling safe, and protected, and extremely happy.
SHE WOKE UP to feel the gurney moving again and opened her eyes, seeing fluorescent lights overhead. A hospital. Maybe they were at the hospital. Her parents were right next to her, holding on to her good hand, and she tried to smile at them. They were saying nice, soft things to her, their faces pale and worried.
“Are Neal and Steven okay?” she asked, and saw them nodding. “Are we at the hospital?”
They seemed to be saying yes, and she nodded, too, about to close her eyes again. Josh. Preston had said—“Is Josh going to be here?” she asked.
“I’ll have someone get him,” her mother said, motioning behind them.
There was a lot of dirt all over the front of her mother’s dress—which was really strange to see, and Meg was going to say something about it, but instead, let her head fall back on the pillow, seeing a blur of people standing against the walls as they passed. Blue and olive drab uniforms, mostly. Grey suits, too. Then, they were in a very bright room, and the people were wearing white coats, or surgical scrubs.
“I’m pretty drugged out, hunh?” she said, her voice feeling distorted. She closed her eyes, too tired to wait for a response.
The doctors were doing stuff to her, poking and probing, and flashing more lights at her eyes.
“—going to hurt a little,” a voice was saying.
She opened her eyes. If they were warning her, it was going to be something bad.
“I’m just going to numb your arm, so it won’t hurt when we take the X-rays,” a man said.
She nodded dully, then recognized him. Dr. Brooks, the White House physician. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi.” He smiled at her. “I’m very glad that you’re here.”
She smiled back, sleepily, and let her eyes close again. The needle did hurt, and she gripped her mother’s hand, her father’s hand squeezing her shoulder.
“Okay?” Dr. Brooks asked.
She nodded, although it hurt a lot. Much worse than novocaine.
“Okay, all finished,” he said. “In a few minutes, it’ll be numb, and then we’re going to take you down to radiology.”
She laughed a little. “What are you doing to do—a full body shot?”
He smiled, and touched the split in her eyebrow. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to remember, and shook her head. It was hard to remember anything.
There was a small sound, like a gasp, and she saw Josh standing by the bed, tears running down his cheeks. Seeing him there, looking the way he always did, she had to cry, too, so happy to see him safe that she was close to losing the little bit of control she had left.
“He told me they killed you,” she said weakly. “He told me—I thought—”
He was bending over the bed, kissing her cheek, and she got her arm around his neck, hugging him as hard as she could.
“I,” she hugged more tightly, “I’m sorry I look so ugly, I—”
“You look beautiful, Meg,” he said, and she could hear his voice shake. “I-I can’t believe you’re here.”
She hung on to him, her eyes closed, the last major worry leaving, now that she had actually seen him.
There was a low voice—Dr. Brooks?—and Josh bent closer. “They want me to go now.”
She nodded, not wanting to let go of him. “I’ll, uh—” She didn’t want to cry again, either. “See you in school tomorrow?”
“S-school?” he said.
She laughed, which hurt her ribs. “Got you.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be here if you need me. The hospital, I mean.”
She nodded, the fatigue seeping back, feeling her parents take her hand again as he moved away. The doctors were doing something excruciating to her knee—and then, Dr. Brooks crouched down very close to her face.
“Meg,” he sounded both awkward and gentle, “is there anything you need to tell me? Anything they might have—done to you?”
Rape. She felt her parents tense, and shook her head.
“You’re sure,” he said.
She nodded.
“Okay.” He straightened up. “We’re going to take you down now.”
She nodded, her eyes already half closed. “Is it okay if I sleep?”
“It’s fine if you sleep,” he said.
16
SOMETHING—SOMEONE?—LOOMED over her and she slid hard to the right, trying to protect herself, only her left arm responding. Hands fastened around her wrist and elbow, yet another hand touching her face, and she struggled away from them, realizing that she was surrounded. That three, or maybe even more of them, had come in to—to—her mother. One of them was her mother. She stayed very still, waiting to see what was going to happen.
Her mother—it was her mother—was saying something, and Meg frowned, trying to focus.
“—safe,” her mother said, then something about a hospital.
Hospital. She began to remember the night before—and the night before that, and—Jesus.
“Wh—” She swallowed, her mouth so dry that her voice didn’t want to work. She licked her lips. “Wh—”
A straw came into her mouth and she choked, spilling water down her front. Water. They must have thought—which was funny, and she laughed, moving away from the straw. “No, I—” She choked again, spilling more water. “What time is it, not—” She laughed some more.
Her mother was holding her hand now. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” she said, gently sponging the water away.
Afternoon? Meg frowned. “Today? Or—” She shook her head, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Shhh,” her mother was saying, and she saw that her father was there, too.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—I mean—I’m really sorry.”
They were saying things that blurred somewhere inside her head and she realized, embarrassed, that there were a number of other people in the room.
“I can’t remember where we are,” she whispered.
“Bethesda Naval Hospital,” her father said.
“Oh.” She gulped, feeling tears for some reason. “I thought we’d be right near home.”
Her parents said more soothing things to her and she tried to smile at them. She looked down, saw that she was wearing a hospital gown—and froze, not wantin
g to think about another group of people taking her clothes off, and looking at her. The way all of those men must have—“What happened to my—?” She swallowed. “I’m not—”
“Your mother and the nurses did it,” her father said. “To make things easier.”
“Only women,” her mother said quickly.
“Oh.” She still didn’t like it, but she made herself relax a little, starting to wake up enough to feel pain. Lots of pain. Her hand was still the worst, encased in plaster and metal and wires, pushed up at an agonizing angle. There were bandages on her face, and her leg was trussed up in some kind of weird splint and pulley. She took an experimental breath, to see how her ribs were, and felt tight, mediciney-smelling tape. “Am I going to be all right?”
They both nodded, some of the tears in her mother’s eyes spilling over.
“It—” She stopped before saying that it hurt, not wanting to sound whiny. But they must have figured it out, because a military nurse was already by the bed, injecting something into her IV. She was going to ask what it was, but decided that it was easier to close her eyes, let sleep take over again.
She would wake up for a few seconds at a time, see—blurrily—one or both parents, feel pain, and fall back asleep. At first, it was dead, black sleep, but then, nightmares began. Being punched, the school and all of the shooting, the mine shaft. Drowning, burning, falling. She would wake up, muscles rigid, crying, and warm hands—her parents?—would calm her back to sleep.
One of the nightmares was worse than the others—she was chained, unable to move, and rats were crawling over her. Crawling, and biting, and—this time, she woke up screaming, fighting to get away. A lot of hands were holding her down, and she lay on her back, trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking the pillow.
“It’s all right,” her mother said. “You’re safe. We’re here with you.”
“They were—” It wasn’t just her parents; there were other people. “I mean—” She closed her eyes, embarrassed.
She heard her father’s voice, then people withdrawing.
“It’s all right,” her mother said. “We’re the only ones here.”
Meg saw that they were, and let the tears fall—slow, tired tears. “I thought rats were on me,” she said, and shuddered. Which hurt, and she had to cry some more, ashamed and embarrassed.
Her parents were telling her not to be afraid, that she was safe, that everything was all right, and she did her best to stop crying, working to find a smile.
“I—” She swallowed, her throat hurting. “What time is it?”
Her father checked his watch. “Just past midnight.”
That meant that she’d been safe for at least a day. A whole day.
“Here.” Her mother was holding a plastic glass with a bent straw. “Sip some of this.”
Obediently, Meg sipped, but then started crying again, hating herself for obeying that meekly. Even her parents. Oh, Christ, if only she’d been tougher. She shouldn’t have—
“It’s all right,” her mother said, touching her cheek. “It’s really all right.”
“I’m sorry,” Meg said, still crying. “I really tried. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me.” Her father bent much closer. “You did everything right. More than everything. I have never been more proud of you.”
She looked up at him, wanting to believe it. Also wanting to fall apart; cry the loud, scared tears—the emotion tears—she’d been holding back, but she was afraid to start, afraid that she’d never be able to get control again. She pulled in a deep breath, wincing from the instant jab in her side, aware of pain. Very aware. She wanted to ask questions—like, would her hand ever work again, was her knee ruined—but was afraid of the answers. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d ask questions.
The thing to do now, was sleep. It was the only way to get through this.
THE NEXT TIME she woke up, it was still dark. The room went in and out of focus, then she saw her father, slouched in a chair by the bed.
“How do you feel?” he asked, straightening up and taking her hand.
“I don’t know. Tired.” She wanted to yawn, but it seemed like too much work. “What time is it?”
He squinted at his watch. “Five-thirty.”
“Wow.” She looked around the dark, quiet room, seeing a nurse sitting in the far corner, discreetly ignoring them. “Where’s Mom?”
“She has an early staff meeting, but she went down to check on the boys, first,” he said.
Her brothers. “Can I see them?” she asked.
He nodded. “In the morning.”
She grinned a little. “Later in the morning.”
“Yeah,” he said.
It was nice to be quiet, and she looked at him, seeing for the first time how exhausted he was—unshaven, his face greyish and thin. And his hand, although it felt strong holding hers, was shaking a little.
“How long have you been up, Dad?” she asked.
“Two weeks,” he said, with the same edge of hysteria she could hear in her own voice. In damn near everyone’s voice.
Jesus. “How bad was it?” she asked.
“Pretty bad.” He laughed a little, and wiped his free hand across his eyes. “Pretty god-damned bad.”
Looking at him, she realized that she couldn’t imagine it, any more than they could really imagine what it had been like for her. Feeling tired again, she pulled his hand closer, leaning her head against it.
“How’s the pain?” he asked.
Pretty god-damned bad. She tried to smile.
“I’ll get Brooks in here,” her father said, starting to stand up. “He can—”
Meg shook her head. “I’d rather be quiet for a while. Just, you know, sit here.”
Her father looked worried, but glanced at the nurse, and sat back down.
“Is it true there was a news blackout?” she asked.
“Well—” He hesitated. “They haven’t been getting anything from us, if that’s what you mean.”
That wasn’t what she meant. “I guess they’re all over the place here?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” her father said. “They won’t be able to get anywhere near you.”
Remembering, suddenly, the time her mother had had a post-shooting, and general, checkup, and had to spend the night in the hospital, and the way the media had actually trained searchlights up on her window, Meg looked uneasily at the window in the far corner. The shade was down, and it seemed dark. “Are they like, filming my room?”
Her father shook his head. “They’re not sure where you are.”
This room did look different from the Presidential Suite. More—ordinary. Sterile. “Are Steven and Neal in the Suite?” she asked.
He nodded.
With luck, the lights weren’t shining on them.
She still had a bunch of questions, but also wanted to go back to sleep. “Did she run the country, or transfer to Mr. Kruger?” she asked. Mr. Kruger was the Vice President.
Her father sighed, not answering right away. “She didn’t really have a choice, Meg.”
Which didn’t quite answer her question. Meg frowned. “It would have been like, a concession? Taking the 25th?” Which was the Amendment governing the transfer—temporary or otherwise—of Presidential power.
He nodded.
There was no need, then, to ask whether it was true that she hadn’t negotiated. Besides, staying awake was hard work. “I might sleep again,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“I just want you to get better,” her father said. “I just—that’s all I want.”
WHEN SHE WOKE up again, Dr. Brooks was there, checking her pulse.
He smiled at her, and it was comforting to see his nice, grandfatherly face. “Good morning.”
“Hi.” She blinked to focus. “Where are my parents?”
He indicated the door. “Just outside. How do you feel?”
How did she feel? “Tired,” she said.
He nodded. “Well, your system’s had a pretty rough couple of weeks.”
To put it mildly.
“How else do you feel?” he asked, lowering her wrist.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Confused, mostly. And—everything hurts. I mean—” She stopped. “I don’t want to be whiny.”
“I think you’ve earned the right,” he said.
She glanced at the door to make sure her parents hadn’t come back in. “How hurt am I? I mean, am I going to be all right?”
“You’re going to be fine, Meg,” he said. “Do you have any appetite yet?”
Did she? “I don’t know,” she said. “Not really.”
“Well, what we’ll do is bring you some broth and crackers, see how you do.” He smiled, but his eyes were very sad. “You have a lot of weight to gain back.”
There were worse problems to have in life. She waited for him to go on.
“You did a pretty fair job of rehydrating out there, but,” he glanced at her, “you must have been in pretty bad shape at some point.”
She nodded. That was for damn sure.
“We’ve run tests, in case you’ll need certain medications for anything you might have picked up from the water,” he said.
What a thought. She shuddered.
“Don’t worry, there’s no sign of that so far. The main thing,” he indicated the IVs, “is that we want to get you built back up. Repair the electrolyte imbalance, that sort of thing.”
She nodded, basically understanding what he was talking about. Sort of.
“We took a few stitches inside your mouth to help the healing process, and the antibiotics will take care of the infection. A couple of your other teeth were loosened, but you’re not going to lose them.” He studied her face, looking more unhappy than he’d probably intended. “We had to, essentially, rebreak your nose to set it.”
Meg automatically lifted her left hand in the direction of her face, but didn’t touch it. There was a big splint there, anyway. “How bad does it look?”
“Not bad at all,” he said quickly. “But, if you’re not happy with it, cosmetic surgery is always an option later on.” He gestured towards the rest of her face. “There weren’t any other fractures, but we had to put some stitches up past your eyebrow. There’s evidence of a mild concussion, but you obviously came through it all right. Actually,” he looked uncomfortable, “considering the extent of the beating you sustained, your face is healing very nicely.”
Long Live the Queen Page 14