“I’m a little worried,” she said, startled by the way the crowd instantly quieted down. She gestured towards her brace. “This could add thirty, maybe forty, seconds to my mile.”
More than a few people laughed.
“Mr. Fielding will be happy to answer questions for you,” her mother said, indicating Preston, and suddenly, they were inside, on their way to the Ground Floor Corridor, and then, the First Family elevator.
Meg took off her sunglasses and let out her breath, hearing her parents do the same thing.
“I-I guess word traveled fast,” she said.
Her mother hugged her. “You handled them perfectly.”
Meg closed her eyes. “I can’t wait to sleep.”
The elevator doors opened and she saw Trudy and her brothers, and quite a few members of the Residence staff, including the Chief Usher, waiting in the Center Hall.
“Hi,” she said to her brothers.
“Hi,” Neal said.
“Yeah,” Steven said.
“Well, aren’t you three silly.” Trudy came over to give her a hug. “Come on, boys, show your sister how happy you are to see her.”
Meg heard claws on polished wood and happy panting, turning to see Kirby, his tail wagging wildly as he tried to climb into the wheelchair.
“Down, Kirby.” Her father grabbed his collar. “Down.”
“I want to see him, Dad.” She patted him, Kirby whining with excitement. “Where’s Vanessa?”
“She ran away,” Neal said.
Meg stared at him. “She what?”
“He means she ran down the hall,” Steven said, and punched him—hard—in the arm. “Stupid.”
If she hadn’t seen how upset Neal looked, she probably would have punched him, too. “Where’d she go—upstairs?” Vanessa loved the light in the solarium.
“It’s ’cause I was hitting her,” Steven said. “I was just hitting her, and hitting her, and she—”
“Steven,” their father said, in the same voice he had used with Kirby.
“I know he’s kidding, Dad,” Meg said. Somehow, no one ever thought she and Steven were as funny as they did themselves. “Can you like, go find her, Steven?”
Dr. Brooks was pushing her wheelchair down towards her room, and the Chief Usher approached, looking solemn.
“Welcome home, Miss Powers,” he said, in his very deep voice. “It’s so good to see you.”
She was too embarrassed about the way she looked to meet his eyes, but smiled at him—and the rest of the staff, in general. “Um, thank you. I mean, me, too.”
For a second, as her father opened her bedroom door, she was afraid. Afraid that it would be different. That it would seem—not that it hadn’t always been stiff and formal. But, except for the vases of flowers everywhere, it looked pretty much the same. Same four-poster bed, same fireplace, same desk, same bureau, same bookcases. Same rug, same rocking chair, same computer, same tall window. The only scary thing was how neat it was. Sterile. Not a room anyone lived in. She gripped the arm of her wheelchair, almost sure that she was going to cry.
“Meg,” her mother was saying, “would you like—”
“I’d like to be alone,” she said, knowing that her voice was too loud. “For—” As long as possible. “A while, please.”
“Would you like some help—” Dr. Brooks started.
“No! I mean, no problem,” she said, more calmly.
Someone—her father?—touched her shoulder, but she didn’t look up until she heard the door close and was sure she was alone.
Alone. In her room. A place she’d never expected she would be again. The last time she’d been in here—getting ready for school that day. In, as she recalled, a hell of a good mood.
Christ, she was sick of crying. That, and sleep, were all she did anymore. She was closest to her bureau, and without bothering to wipe her eyes, she aimed the chair over there, even though she wasn’t exactly great at steering the damn thing.
She opened one of the drawers, the socks and underwear folded so neatly that it looked almost military. Jesus, had they been going through her clothes or something? Bugging everything? She reached her hand in, messing the rows up. Then, she opened the next drawer—razor-creased t-shirts and polo shirts—and yanked a few out, throwing them in the direction of her bed and desk. That made things a little better, at least.
It was kind of hard to reach the top of the bureau from her chair, but she shifted the arrangement of perfume bottles—she was mighty fond of perfume—and hairbrushes, too. She pulled the nearest bottle down—Chanel—and sprayed some on. Maybe now, she wouldn’t smell quite so much like a veterinarian’s office.
As she was putting the bottle back, she remembered that there was a mirror up there. A mirror. She thought about it, then pulled herself up onto her right foot to look.
It was a mistake. The stitches had only been out for about a week, and there was a red shiny scar going right through her eyebrow and up her forehead. Her eyes were even more red—probably from crying all the time—and her nose was—Jesus. Her nose was actually crooked. Hooked, almost. It was more than obvious that a fist had been there.
And her face actually looked gaunt. Like she’d been in a prison camp or something. A prison camp without any sunshine. And her hair—Jesus.
All of which was so upsetting that she sat down. Quickly. She was going to cry some more, but—it could have been worse. Much worse. As long as she remembered that, maybe she could—what she needed, was Vanessa. But, it was too soon not to have privacy. There had to be something else she could—music. To her surprise, she felt herself smile. Yeah, music.
She pushed the little control button on her wheelchair, motored over to her desk, and turned on her computer. Of course, this being the White House, there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Had they even dusted in here when she was missing, or just while she was at the hospital? Not that it mattered, really.
She waited until all of the software loaded, and then clicked on her music folder. It would be too weird to put on the same playlist she’d been listening to the day—everything happened—but then again, “I Love Rock and Roll” was her favorite song in life, so she had it at the beginning of every single one of her playlists.
So, she picked one at random, made sure the volume was set at its highest level, and then clicked on the song.
Hearing it burst out of the speakers made her grin. An honest-to-God happy grin.
Being home suddenly felt a hell of a lot better.
25
AFTER LISTENING TO about ten of her favorite songs, she was in a pretty good mood. Songs like “Teenage Lobotomy” by the Ra-mones, “Hello, I Love You,” by the Doors, and—of course—“Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” “We Are the Champions” was playing when she finally opened her door and wheeled herself into the small corridor, seeing her parents and Trudy out in the Center Hall, sitting on the Sheraton settee and chair set. They were all drinking coffee and when they saw her, her parents got up.
“I was just—” She grinned as a small grey-and-white head peeked out from over Trudy’s lap. “Hey, there.”
Vanessa’s head stretched out further, her ears pricked forward.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Meg snapped her fingers. “Come on.”
Vanessa scampered over, stopped just out of reach, and began to wash. Very delicately.
“Vanessa,” Meg said. Her cat had never liked to be hurried.
“Wait.” Her father came over to pick her up. “I’ll—”
Meg shook her head. “I don’t want to force her.” She frowned at her cat, who was now rubbing up against an American Federal end table, still just out of reach.
“The minute we get you into bed, she’ll show up,” her mother said.
Meg nodded, grumpy now. “I just wish she—”
Kirby came barking down the hall and Vanessa skittered towards the East Sitting Hall and out of sight. Kirby ignored her, greeting Meg all over again, his front paws up on her lap, her mot
her guiding him away from her surgical brace.
Meg patted him. “At least someone’s glad to see me,” she said. “Animals, I mean,” she added, before everyone got their feelings hurt. But, Kirby’s enthusiasm made her tired, and she was kind of glad when her father hauled him away.
As they all went into her room, her mother bent reflexively to pick up one of the t-shirts from the floor, hesitated, and left it there.
“I, uh—” Meg sighed. Vanessa’s not being happy to see her was depressing. “I’d like to go in and get cleaned up.”
Her mother handed her an impeccably folded Lanz nightgown, then pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom.
“Do you need help?” she asked, turning on the light. Bright light.
Meg shook her head, carefully not looking at the mirror over the sink. Once had been more than enough.
“Well.” Her mother took a step backwards. “Well, then, I’ll—” She moved forward, giving her a hug that was almost fierce. “It’s very good to have you here.”
Meg shook her head, not hugging back. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“It will,” her mother said. “You just have to get used to things again.”
Maybe.
Her mother hung on to her for what seemed like a long time, then straightened up. “Well,” she said, her eyes wet.
Meg coughed. “I’m just going to get cleaned up now.”
“Right.” Her mother stepped away. “If you need—”
“Yeah,” Meg said.
After her mother was gone, she realized that she did need help—but, Christ, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life having people take her clothes on and off. She would just put the nightgown on over her sweatpants, and not worry about trying to take off the god-damn surgical brace.
When she finally opened the door, her whole family, Trudy, and Dr. Brooks were all standing around the room.
“Uh, hi,” she said.
Her father pushed the wheelchair over to the bed, then lifted her into it.
“How about your sweatpants?” her mother asked.
“I’m a little chilly,” Meg said.
Her mother nodded, pulling up the sheet and blankets.
“Are you hungry, Meg?” Trudy asked.
She smiled shyly. “I heard a little rumor about mashed potatoes.”
Trudy smiled back, and bustled out of the room.
“Stupid’s here,” Steven said, jerking his head towards the window.
Meg looked away from Dr. Brooks and the blood pressure cuff he’d already managed to get around her arm to see Vanessa sitting on the low windowsill. Washing. Just as she was about to give in and ask someone to bring her over, Vanessa jumped down and onto the bed, walking right up her bad leg.
Dr. Brooks frowned. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah.” Meg grinned, pulling her already-purring cat over for a very close cuddle. “She’s kind of a jerk.” She gave her a kiss, then patted her some more, Vanessa trying to climb into her sling, her head and front paws disappearing from view. Meg glanced up at Dr. Brooks, who she knew was not particularly fond of cats. “Pretty cute, hunh?”
“Mmmm,” he said, and checked her pulse.
By the time he had finished examining her, Trudy was already coming in with a tray, and she arranged it across Meg’s lap, moving Vanessa aside. It was nice to see familiar—if overly ornate—china, and the arrangement on the tray was just about a work of art: a crystal vase with a small yellow rose, matching crystal salt and pepper shakers, a flat bowl mounded with mashed potatoes and creamed corn, a matching bowl of salad—Boston lettuce, tomato roses, and carrot curls—with, no doubt, Trudy’s special honey vinaigrette, a dish of butterscotch pudding with whipped cream, and a glass of milk.
“Does she make tomato roses faster than anyone you know, or what?” Meg said to no one in particular.
“She made them before,” Neal said, helpfully.
“Oh,” Meg said, as though that explained everything, and then picked up her fork.
“Would you like anything else, dear?” Trudy asked.
“No, thank you—this is great.” It was embarrassing to have them all watching her, but everything looked so good that Meg started eating, anyway. “You all don’t like, have to stand there or anything,” she said, tasting the salad. Yup, honey vinaigrette. “I mean, I’m home now, right? You might as well pretend like I’m normal.”
“Pretend,” Steven said quietly.
At least he was acting regular. “Do you want to watch the game with me later?” she asked.
He looked at their father guiltily. “Um, game?”
So much for acting normal. Meg drank some milk. “Yeah. You know, the thing we watch about 162 times every year.”
He looked at their father again, then shrugged. “No big deal if I don’t see it.”
Oh, for Christ’s sakes. “Okay, but I’m going to watch,” Meg said. “I just thought you might want to watch it with me.”
“Me, too?” Neal asked.
“Sure.” Meg tried the mashed potatoes, which were delicious, then looked at her father. “Are you going to watch with us?”
“I’d love to,” he said.
“Uh, you guys can, too,” she said to her mother and Trudy. “I just—don’t feel like you have to.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” her mother said.
ALONG ABOUT THE seventh inning, with the Red Sox down 8–2, Meg figured they were all maybe sort of regretting tuning in. The atmosphere in the room probably would have been more than a little cranky, but Preston had shown up during the fourth, and kept saying jolly things. Even when the Red Sox rallied for five runs, then had the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, before someone popped up for the third out.
There was a long, and rather deadly, silence in the room.
“Never a dull moment,” Preston said, and Meg’s father and Steven scowled at him. Anyone else, they would have smacked.
“They never give up,” her mother said. “They’re to be admired for that.”
Her father and Steven didn’t say anything.
Since he wasn’t about to yell at her, Meg looked at her father. “Maybe it’s because you weren’t in your lucky chair.”
He shrugged. Pleasantly. “It’s only a game.”
Next to him, Steven pretended to commit hara-kiri, then fell to the floor. Meg—at least—was amused. Maybe things were different now, but “it’s only a game” was something people in her family occasionally said, but never meant. Not deep down inside. Particularly, of course, when the Red Sox were involved.
“Well, this has been very nice,” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to—” The phone next to Meg’s bed rang and she answered it, then looked at Meg. “They have Beth on the line for you.”
Meg thought about that, then nodded. If she got tired and had to hang up, Beth would understand. As she took the phone, she saw everyone in the room tactfully leaving. Who would ever have thought that having people be constantly, completely considerate would be sort of tiresome?
“Hello?” she said into the phone.
“Thirty seconds to your mile?” Beth said.
Meg felt herself blushing. “What was I supposed to say?”
“It was pretty funny,” Beth said. “You in your sunglasses and all.”
“Preston gave them to me,” Meg said defensively.
Beth laughed. “The man has taste.”
“Yeah.” Still embarrassed, Meg shifted her position. Vanessa, who had been very comfortably asleep on her lap, flounced away to the bottom of the bed and curled up again. “Was it a special report, or just like, on the news?”
“What an ego,” Beth said.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Beth sighed a very deep sigh. “They interrupted regularly scheduled programming.”
“Pretty weird,” Meg said.
Neither of them spoke for a minute.
“So. How are you doing?” Beth asked. “Is it okay being home?
”
“Yeah, I guess,” Meg said. “We just watched the game.”
“Did they win?” Beth asked.
Meg shook her head. “No.”
“Was Steven mad?” Beth asked.
“Yeah,” Meg said. “Not as much as my father, but—yeah.”
“Was Vanessa glad to see you?” Beth asked.
Meg looked down at the bottom of the bed, where Vanessa was already deep in sleep. “Not really.”
“Well—she’s like that,” Beth said.
Yeah.
There was another long silence.
“Well,” Beth said. “I just, you know, wanted to see how you were doing.”
Meg nodded. “Yeah. I mean, thanks.”
“People up here said to say hello to you,” Beth said. “I mean, the next time I talked to you.”
Not that it really mattered, but it was thoughtful, at least. Meg looked at the glass of water on the bedside table. It would have been nice to drink some, but she couldn’t do that and hold on to the phone at the same time. Since she no longer had two hands. “Um, my father says I got cards and stuff from a lot of them,” she said.
“The Greater Boston area?” Beth asked.
“Yeah, kind of.” She was definitely thirsty—but, okay, it could wait. For another minute, maybe. According to her father, she’d received a card or letter or something from almost every teacher she’d ever had—even the ones who hadn’t liked her, and from people who had gone to school with her, and practically every neighbor they’d ever met—as well as something from almost everyone her parents had known in Boston. Hell, in the world.
Plus, thousands and thousands—and thousands—of strangers.
Weird.
“Have you seen Josh or anyone?” Beth asked.
Meg sighed. “No.”
“Oh,” Beth said, sounding a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I—maybe it’ll be easier, now that you’re home.”
Maybe. Meg frowned at the glass of water, noticing that the ice was starting to melt. “Um, look, I’m getting sort of tired, and—”
“Yeah, I just called to see how you were,” Beth said, and paused. “You, uh, you looked good on television, Meg. Really confident.”
Now, Meg frowned at the phone, instead. “You don’t have to humor me.”
Long Live the Queen Page 22