Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Well, I—” The room seemed very bright—painfully so—and she wished Trudy would pull the shade back down. “I don’t really—I guess so.” She looked at her clock. Ten-fifteen. That meant that she would have to do the god-damned physical therapy in—Jesus, there was no way she could face that today. “I, uh, I don’t feel very good. Can you tell them I’m going to stay in bed today? That I can’t—I really don’t feel good.”

  Trudy looked at her clock, too. “Maybe after you—”

  “Can you please tell them?” Meg asked. “I need to stay in bed today.”

  Trudy nodded, her eyes so sad that Meg couldn’t look at her, focusing down on her tray.

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “For breakfast, too.”

  After Trudy had been gone for a few minutes, there was a small knock on the door.

  Her parents, to make her do her therapy, probably. Meg pressed her teeth together. “Who is it?”

  “Me,” Beth said.

  Christ. “Okay,” Meg said, humiliated by the idea that she was going to be caught lying in bed with a god-damn tray.

  Beth came in, wearing jeans and her old—but, Meg knew, beloved—maroon Sunnydale High t-shirt. “Hi,” she said, her hands awkward in her pockets. “How do you feel?”

  Meg shrugged, not looking at her, ashamed of how red her eyes—she knew, from her trip to the bathroom—were. “You, uh, you get breakfast and everything?”

  Beth nodded. “Trudy went all out.”

  Meg nodded, too, although she hadn’t touched hers yet. “Uh, sorry about last night.”

  Beth shrugged. “Your brothers and I did some bowling.”

  “Oh. I mean, that’s good,” Meg said. “I guess they’re not having much fun lately.”

  “Not really,” Beth said.

  Yeah.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute.

  “You should at least eat the strawberries,” Beth said. “They were really good.”

  Meg nodded, and moved the dish closer, but didn’t pick up her spoon.

  “Look, I—” Beth stopped. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  Go home. Meg shrugged, looking at her breakfast.

  “Meg—” Beth let out her breath. “I don’t know. You’re a lot worse than I thought you’d be.”

  Meg looked up, furious. “It’s not my fault!”

  “I meant feeling worse, not being worse,” Beth said.

  Oh. Meg scowled, her good hand clenched around the side of her tray.

  “Look, just tell me what to do,” Beth said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I kind of—” she really didn’t want to hurt Beth’s feelings—“I want you to—” Oh, hell.

  “I know you’re not ready to see people yet,” Beth said, her voice very quiet. “And Christ, the last thing I want to do is—” She stopped, her voice getting even quieter. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I sort of needed to see you?”

  Beth, whose goal in life was to be ever cool and invulnerable? Beth, who—at the moment—looked rather small, and upset. “I don’t know,” Meg said.

  “Well, think about it,” Beth said.

  Meg thought about it. About how she would feel if something terrible happened to Beth. Thought about how much she would want to see her, be sure she was all right. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down. “It’s just so hard.”

  “Dragging yourself through the fucking woods was hard,” Beth said. “Hanging out with me is easy.”

  Meg smiled a little. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I promise not to pressure you,” Beth said. “You just tell me what you can’t do, and we’ll go from there.”

  “What I can’t do?” The question was so all-encompassing that Meg smiled a little more. “How much time do you have?”

  Beth grinned, sitting down in the rocking chair. “This girl has nothing but time.”

  THEY DIDN’T DO much. In fact, about the most Meg could manage was to—watch The Brady Bunch. She and her brothers owned the entire series, courtesy of their aunt, and loved every single episode in which Cousin Oliver didn’t appear.

  They started at the beginning—and kept going.

  “I think I may be lapsing into a coma,” Beth said, as they watched the episode where Cindy got to be the fairy princess in her school play, but was only given one ticket—and couldn’t decide which parent to invite. “Slide over.”

  Meg nodded, and carefully eased herself to one side, so that Beth could stretch out on the bed next to her.

  They were watching the one where Jan seemed to be allergic to Tiger, but was, in the end, only allergic to his new flea powder, when her father and Trudy brought in lunch—chicken soup, BLTs, and—of all things; Trudy winking at her—Cokes.

  Her father looked at the television. “Maybe we should have just brought you two some Jell-O.”

  “There’s always room for Jell-O,” Beth said, to no one in particular.

  Meg’s father smiled, then looked at Meg. “Bob is going to come by in a while? Say hello to you?”

  Meg nodded, drinking her Coke.

  They watched The Brady Bunch for a very long time. Hours, to be precise. Dr. Brooks came in, checked her over, and said jovially that a nice day of rest might be “just the ticket.” Steven and Neal showed up more than once, and each time, they looked at the television, then one of them would say, “Still?”, and they would shake their heads and leave. Her mother called from the West Wing, “to say hi,” although when she asked what they were doing, Meg just said, “Oh, you know, hanging out.”

  “We’re getting stupid, Meg,” Beth said, as they watched the one where Alice hurt her ankle—and was in danger of not being able to attend the Meatcutters’ Ball with Sam the Butcher. “I can feel it happening.”

  Meg nodded. She was, indeed, feeling pretty stupid. “You want to call it quits?”

  “What, are you kidding?” Beth said. “The one where Marcia gets braces is next.”

  Oh, yay. Meg grinned. “Perfect,” she said.

  WHEN NEAL CAME in to tell them it was almost dinnertime, Beth looked over at her.

  “Well? What do you think?” she asked.

  Meg sighed. “Okay, but that’s it for tonight.”

  “Fair enough,” Beth said.

  So, Meg put on sweatpants, and her—not quite beloved, but certainly well-liked—Sunnydale High t-shirt, and they went down to the Presidential Dining Room. They compromised, Meg riding the wheelchair down there, but crutching into the room itself.

  She was too tired to participate in the dinner conversation, but luckily, Steven and Neal had spent the afternoon playing basketball with Preston and off-duty Secret Service agents, and were all charged up, agreeably yapping away throughout the meal. Beth was pretty quiet, too, suffering—almost certainly—from a severe situation comedy overdose.

  “Steven and me played excellent,” Neal said, his mouth full of scalloped potatoes. “We—”

  “Try some chewing and swallowing,” their father said from the end of the table, sounding much less annoyed than he ordinarily would have. Before, anyway.

  Neal chewed, and then swallowed. “They couldn’t stop us at all, practically.”

  Steven laughed. “Yeah, you should have seen Baby Skyhook here. He’s a wild man.”

  Which was all too easy to picture. Steven had been coordinated before birth, but Neal was—to put it nicely—kind of a late bloomer.

  “So, hey.” Steven jabbed his fork in her direction. “We watching the game tonight?”

  Meg shook her head. “I sort of think I’m sleeping tonight.”

  “Yo, you traitor,” he said, and pointed his fork at Beth. “You watching?”

  “Sorry,” Beth said, and shook her head, too.

  “Traitors,” he said grimly. “I’m totally surrounded by traitors.”

  Meg grinned, finishing up her last piece of asparagus. Steven was pretty funny when he wanted to be.

  “I bet those girls are going to watch the Yankees,” he was say
ing to Neal. “I bet they’re going to watch the Yankees, and clap.”

  Beth laughed. “You know it. And the Mets are on the coast tonight, so we can watch both games.”

  Steven collapsed in his chair, pretending to faint. “Smelling salts,” he said weakly to Trudy, who was sitting to his left. “Where are my smelling salts?”

  “You just sit up and eat your dinner,” she said, rapping sharply on the table with her fork. “Don’t be so silly.”

  Meg found that amusing, too. Trudy had always been one to crack the whip of authority, especially during meals. Felix paused by her seat to offer her more salad, and she shook her head, her eating energy depleted. But, she sat through the rest of the meal, smiling at the right times, and nodding or shaking her head, if anyone asked her a question.

  Her mother spent half of the meal out in the West Sitting Hall, conferring with Glen, who was her Chief of Staff, the Secretary of State, and the National Security Advisor, and various aides about—Meg assumed—the latest wave of turmoil in Pakistan, although it was sometimes hard to keep track of the rapidly changing problems her mother juggled on a daily basis. Anyway, when she finally came back in, Meg caught her checking her plate to see how much she had eaten, and then glancing at Trudy for confirmation.

  Although Meg didn’t think she had a right to be critical—since she’d barely touched her own dinner.

  However, the butlers were now used to working for a President who forgot to eat on a regular basis, and as they served dessert, Felix brought out some fresh yogurt and fruit, as well as a small chef ’s salad and some matzoh crackers for her. It seemed to take her mother a minute to remember that she was—ever so briefly—back to being a regular human being again, and start eating the salad.

  In the meantime, her father and brothers were digging into dessert, and Beth—because she was just too god-damn cool for her own good—opted for black coffee, to which she added quite a lot of sugar.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some, dear?” Trudy asked, after giving Neal a second serving.

  Butterscotch pie, no doubt delicious. Meg shook her head. “No, thank you, I’m full.”

  “You look like you’ve just about had it,” her mother said. Very much so. Meg nodded, reaching for her crutch. “Yes. In fact, I kind of think—”

  “You’re right,” Beth said, getting up. “The Yankees game starts in about five minutes.”

  Shaking her head when her father moved to help her, Meg eased herself up onto her good foot while Beth went out to the hall to get her wheelchair.

  “We’ll be down to say good-night?” her mother said.

  Meg nodded, crutching her way to the hall.

  THE NEXT MORNING, bright and early—if eleven o’clock was bright and early—Edith, the physical therapist, arrived. She was very pleasant, in her thirties, with blonde hair and glasses, but Meg sure as hell hated the sessions. Hated every single minute of them. Each time, she had to fight the urge to throw a Presidential-progeny tantrum and intimidate Edith into not ever coming back.

  However, the odds of Dr. Brooks letting her skip two days in a row were slim.

  Beth came upstairs to the work-out room to watch, and Meg let herself be strapped into the Cybex weight machine, which was apparently used a lot for sports rehabilitation. Oh, yeah, like she was going to be playing sports again.

  “Okay,” Edith said, once she had set the resistance on the machine. “Can you do three sets of ten?”

  No. Meg set her jaw, and forced the weight up with her right leg. Her supposedly good leg. Ten times. Then, ten more. Slowly, she started the final set, already perspiring, her leg shaking in protest. The weight was incredibly heavy, and even though she had seven repetitions to go, she had to stop.

  “Come on,” Edith said, very kind and encouraging. “You can do it.”

  Meg shook her head, breathing with some difficulty. “I’m sorry. It’s too hard.”

  Beth was sitting on the recumbent bicycle in the corner, her ankles propped up on the wheel, reading Dispatches by Michael Herr. As a concession to Meg’s having to exercise, she had put on a pair of sweatpants, too. Bright red. “Come on, keep going,” she said, not even looking up. “You want to ski, or not?”

  Meg forced the weight up again, scowling over at her. “Can’t you at least pedal that thing?”

  Beth turned a page. “I don’t want to ski.”

  Still scowling, Meg pushed the weight up again. Five more to go.

  “That’s it,” Beth said, as she managed another, and then another. “Keep it up.”

  “Easy—” Meg forced the weight up, out of breath—“for you to say.”

  “Three months, Meg,” Beth said. “Three months, and it’ll be snowing out West.”

  Meg glared at her, but finished the set of ten.

  “Very good,” Edith said, smiling. “Good job.” She had a bit of a Romper Room quality, but she was nice.

  Beth turned another page. “Do ten more.”

  “You do ten more,” Meg said, accepting the white towel Edith gave her, and wiping her face.

  “Thanksgiving,” Beth said. “Mountains all over the country will be open by Thanksgiving.”

  Meg ground her teeth together, but started another set, keeping a hard, constant rhythm.

  “Ski,” Beth said conversationally to Edith, who looked a little nonplussed. “‘Ski’ is the magic word. Say ‘ski,’ and she’ll do just about anything.”

  Seven, eight—Meg glared at her—nine, ten. Then, she let her leg fall, too out of breath to say anything.

  “What does she do now?” Beth asked. “Pull the weight down?”

  “Well—” Edith blinked a few times—“yes.”

  “Good.” Beth nodded her approval, then focused on her book. “Sounds good.”

  Meg watched as Edith set the machine for the opposite work-out, her glasses slipping down. “You know, that damn shuttle still leaves every hour.”

  Beth nodded. “So you hear.”

  The machine was ready, and Edith checked to make sure the Velcro strap was fastened tightly around Meg’s ankle, then stepped back.

  “Three sets of ten?” Meg said.

  Edith nodded.

  Fine. Meg pressed her teeth into her lip, and began.

  When the first half of the session was finally over, and Edith had strapped ice packs to the arm and leg Meg had exercised—which was the regular routine—she left the room with a fluttery “I’ll just see if Admiral Brooks—I’ll be right back.” Meg looked over at Beth, who was still reading.

  “What happened to not pressuring me?” she asked.

  “That wasn’t pressure,” Beth said. “That was inspiration.”

  Yeah. Right. “You made her nervous,” Meg said, gesturing towards the door with her hand splint.

  Beth shrugged. “She’ll get used to me.”

  “You’re staying that long?” Meg asked.

  Beth laughed.

  “Having fun?” Meg asked, tired enough from the exercises to feel good and cranky.

  Beth took a bookmark out of her red terry-cloth headband, and closed the book. “It looked pretty hard.”

  That was because it was. “We haven’t even done the part where I exercise the things I hurt yet,” Meg said. None of which involved weights, because her bad hand and knee still weren’t strong enough to handle anything more than very thin elastic bands—and so far, even that seemed to be pushing it.

  Beth nodded.

  “And I’m not ever going to walk right,” Meg said, “forget ski.”

  “You’re already walking,” Beth said.

  Meg gestured towards the crutch. “You call that walking?”

  “Better than nothing,” Beth said.

  Yeah. But, still. Meg slouched down, pressing the towel against her face, feeling heavy with fatigue. “You really don’t understand how hard it is.”

  “It’s going to be a long time before you do anything that isn’t hard,” Beth said.

  Meg lowered th
e towel. “That’s cheering.”

  “Want me to humor you?” Beth asked.

  Christ, no. Meg shook her head.

  “So,” Beth said. “What happens next?”

  “I try to move my fingers for like, half an hour straight, and cry part of the time, then try to flex and extend my leg,” Meg said. During which, she also sometimes had to cry. “And then, she shoots electricity into me.”

  “Where?” Beth asked uneasily.

  Meg sighed, very tired. “I put one hand in water, and the other in the socket.”

  Beth laughed. “Sounds exciting.”

  Hair-raising, even. “They shoot it into my knee, mostly,” she said, gesturing towards a little machine with wires and suction cups, “and my hand a little, too. It’s supposed to stimulate healing.”

  “Oh.” Beth looked at the machine dubiously. “Does it hurt?”

  Yes. “Stings, sort of,” Meg said.

  “Oh.” Now, she looked at Meg. “This really isn’t much fun, is it?”

  “Not much fun at all,” Meg said.

  30

  THAT NIGHT, PURSUING the list of things Meg could and could not do, they went up to the solarium and watched Mean Girls—which Meg had always loved—and ate popcorn, upon which Steven put altogether too much Parmesan cheese. Neal went a little heavy with the seasoned salt, too.

  After the movie, Meg crutched her way to the third floor elevator, then switched to the wheelchair for the ride downstairs, holding her crutch.

  “So,” Beth said, pushing her in the wheelchair once they were on the second floor. “You tired?”

  “I don’t know.” She’d had a very long nap that afternoon. “A little.”

  “You want to go downstairs?” Beth asked. “Look at the East Room and all?”

  Meg tensed in her chair. “If I go down there, I have to have agents.” Since they were only free of said albatrosses up in the Family Quarters.

  “Oh.” Beth considered that. “Well, you want to go outside?”

  Was there a comprehension problem? Meg frowned at her. “I told you, if I—”

  “I meant, the balcony,” Beth said, indicating the Yellow Oval Room.

  Meg shook her head.