“About time,” Steven said, through a mouthful of potato chips.
Beth shrugged. “Beauty sleep.”
“Didn’t help ’em much,” Steven said to Vinnie, and they both laughed raucously.
Trudy moved her yarn to one side. “Let’s see about some lunch for you two.”
Meg’s father was already on his feet. “Don’t worry, Trudy, I’ll take care of it.”
Oh, great. Meg sat down in an empty chair, deciding that far too much light was pouring in through the wide windows. Something important must have happened in the game, because half of the room cheered, and everyone else groaned.
There was a lot of food spread out on a buffet table—chili and rice and salad and so forth—and Meg looked at Beth, who shook her head. Firmly.
“You two sleep all right?” her father asked.
Beth nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
It might be a good time to change the subject. Meg looked around. “Where’s Mom?”
“Laurel,” her father said.
The cabin where most official meetings were held. She’d probably been giving a New Year’s Day radio address or something, too. Consulting with her staff. Making decisions. Issuing proclamations.
Plus, of course, avoiding all of them.
“There’s plenty of food over here,” her father said, “if you—”
Meg shook her head. “We’re going to start off with Cokes.”
“Small Cokes,” Beth said in a low voice. “Or ginger ale, if you have it.”
“Come in the kitchen, then, Meg,” her father said. “We’ll see what we can find.”
Time to get yelled at. Happy New Year. Meg lifted herself up onto her cane and followed him.
“I think we may be starting to run short on some of the food, guys,” her father said to the steward and Navy cook who were on duty in there.
After the two men left the room to check—and replenish—the table, her father gave her a very penetrating look. “Feeling all right today?”
Meg nodded, hoping her eyes weren’t as bloodshot as they felt.
“How about Beth?” he asked.
Meg nodded, keeping her eyes down, so that he might not notice.
He dropped ice cubes into two glasses, and then sighed. “Don’t make a habit of it, okay?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” he said, and patted her on the back, before filling the glasses with soda.
Meg glanced up. “That’s it? I’m not in trouble?”
“Well, I think it was pretty harmless,” he said. “In the scheme of things.”
She agreed. One hundred and twenty percent. “Thanks,” she said.
Once they went back out to the living room, she and Beth slumped in their chairs with their Cokes.
“I don’t believe I care who’s playing,” Meg said, as more cheers and groans erupted.
“I know I don’t,” Beth said.
A touchdown scored—apparently controversial, as the quarterback might have been beyond the line of scrimmage when he passed the ball—and the reaction in the room went well past mere noise, crossing the line into vociferousness.
“Is it too soon to go back to bed?” Beth asked.
They had been out here for—maybe—twenty minutes.
“Yes,” Meg said.
“Oh,” Beth said, and they sipped their Cokes.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, they both felt better, and by the time they went back to Washington, Beth was full of exhausting “shopping for college” and “going out to get some ice cream” plans. She even talked Meg into inviting Josh, and a couple of her other friends who were home on winter break, to come to the movies with them one night, which ended up being a somewhat stilted social encounter, but ultimately kind of fun. By doing small things like parting her hair on the side, or tying it up in a high ponytail, or wearing one of her pairs of clear glasses—subtle disguise tricks Preston had taught her—she even managed not to be recognized, some of the time.
Of course, the infamous combination of her hand splint and knee brace—and the fact that she maybe looked a hell of a lot like an eighteen-year-old version of someone world-famous—was generally a dead giveaway. To say nothing of her army of agents.
On Friday, Beth was flying to California to visit her father and his latest very young girlfriend, Jasmine, and Meg went downstairs with her to the South Portico to say good-bye. The Residence was going to seem painfully quiet now, especially since Trudy had already left, the day before, to go back to her condo in Florida.
“So,” Beth said. “You’re out of here in about three weeks.”
Meg nodded. Just in time for the second semester, although that meant she would miss the entire January Winter Study program. With luck, were she to make it to her senior year, they would still let her graduate.
“Well, I’ll come up and see you before Spring Break, maybe,” Beth said, adjusting her—pink, this time—beret. “If you want.”
Meg nodded, although that was too far in the very uncertain future to seem plausible.
Beth looked at her. “You’re moving really well now, Meg. I can see the difference.”
She didn’t agree, so she shrugged and gripped her cane. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You’re going to be skiing next winter,” Beth said.
Now, she heartily disagreed.
“Well.” Beth glanced at the car waiting to take her to the airport, and then grinned wickedly. “Off to see Jasmine.”
Meg grinned back. God help Jasmine.
* * *
SHE WAS LYING on her bed that night, with post-exercise ice packs covering her knee and hand, watching C-Span, when her mother tapped on the already-ajar door.
Supposedly, her parents had been out for the evening. “You’re back early,” Meg said.
Her mother shrugged, looking tired in her long black and white gown, which—in Meg’s opinion—had kind of a Cecil Beaton feel to it. A smashing, ribbon-bedecked hat would have improved it, though. “They like it if you show up, but they don’t expect you to stay. In fact, I think they’re relieved when I leave.”
Meg nodded. Her parents often breezed through several social gatherings in a couple of hours. Smiles, posing for photos, handshakes, waves—and then, it was on to the next event.
With Beth around, it hadn’t seemed as obvious that she had barely seen her mother at all lately—a fast good-night here and there, ten minutes at breakfast, that sort of thing. If she were, oh, say, keeping track, it would probably bother her that they hadn’t spent any significant time together since Christmas night, on the patio outside Aspen.
Her mother came over to check the glass pitcher of ice water on her bedside table—which, go figure, was now being brought to her room at regular intervals, unasked—and refilled her glass. Meg picked it up without thinking and drained half of it, then felt stupid and put it down.
“Did you get enough supper?” her mother asked.
As usual, she had left considerably more on her plate than she finished, but Meg nodded.
“Okay,” her mother said. “Good. That’s good.” She looked at the desk chair, and the rocking chair, but remained standing. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Hmm. Apparently, it had taken all this time for the other shoe to drop. Meg clicked off the television. “Is this about what happened at Camp David?”
Her mother looked puzzled momentarily, then shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, obviously, I hope that, in the future, you’ll do your best to make, um, judicious choices, whenever possible, but, no. I was just hoping to discuss something with you.”
Even by their current low standards, this had been an unusually unsuccessful conversation so far. Her mother seemed to have some sort of specific agenda here, but it was hard to assess what the—except then, she realized what was probably coming, and found herself gulping down a burst of dread. Her mother was going to say, “Your father and I have decided that it would be better if he took the three of you ba
ck to Chestnut Hill,” and then—
“We need to talk about the State of the Union,” her mother said.
Oh. Meg let out her breath, so close to tears that she had to blink a few times.
“What?” her mother asked, looking concerned.
No good could come from confessing that she’d expected a divorce announcement. As opposed to the State of the actual Union. “Nothing,” Meg said. She rarely exaggerated about the degree to which the pain was bothering her at any given moment, but she would make an exception in this case. “It’s just—” She gestured towards the ice packs— “you know. No big deal.”
“I can call downstairs,” her mother said, heading for the telephone. Meaning, in this case, the Medical Unit. “I have no idea who’s on duty, but they can send him or her up here, and—”
A reaction she should have seen coming. “I’m fine, Mom,” Meg said. “Really. Anyway, what about the State of the Union?”
Her mother hesitated. “If it’s not a good time, we can—”
It was very disconcerting to see such an abnormally self-confident—in fact downright cocky, now and then—person act so god-damned unsure of herself. A person who, apparently, found it less stressful to run the country than to have a conversation with her own daughter. “Just, you know, talk to me, okay?” Meg said. For once.
Her mother sighed, and lowered herself into the desk chair. “I hate even bringing this up, but—frankly, we’re in a difficult position. Much as I’d prefer to do so, I don’t think I can just ignore what happened. I’m certainly not going to dwell on it, but—it can’t go unremarked.”
Terrific. With all of the things she found to worry about every day, the State of the Union address hadn’t even made the list. Now, it was going to be somewhere near the top.
“I don’t expect you to come,” her mother said, “and I’ll touch on it as lightly as possible, but—” She sighed. “I don’t know, Meg. Unfortunately, a great many people feel very invested in the situation, and I don’t see how I can avoid it.”
Even more terrific, which could probably be raised to a “nifty.” “If I don’t show up, it’ll make you look—” Like a worse mother than usual. “It won’t look good,” Meg said.
Her mother waved that aside. “I don’t care how it looks. I’m trying to figure out the best way to handle things.”
Was that really true? If so, it was another huge change. Not too long ago, she would have cared, even if she didn’t admit it. Meg frowned. “Do you want me to come?”
“That’s entirely up to you,” her mother said, so swiftly that the answer was obviously yes.
Swell. So much for Presidents not passing the buck.
“Meg, you know I don’t want you and your brothers ever to do anything you find too public, or in any way uncomfortable,” her mother said.
Meg was feeling almost testy enough to remark that handcuffs were uncomfortable, but she made herself resist the impulse. Besides, it would be a cheap shot. However, she’d better come up with some response or other, before her mother kicked into the shopworn “I won’t let you three be used as props” riff.
Which, in all fairness, she’d always been pretty scrupulous about observing, by politician standards.
“I’ll be as brief, and oblique, as possible,” her mother said. “There’s going to be a short section on heroism, and—well, I can’t overlook the obvious.”
Oh, for God’s sakes. She must have done something really awful in her last life, to get stuck with such a bizarre one this time around. “So,” she said grimly, “the gallery’s going to be seeded with carefully selected Americans, all of whom have heartwarming and courageous tales to tell?”
Her mother flushed, but nodded. “I’m sorry, but yes. Unless you have a better idea.”
So, she’d be surrounded by real heroes, and look like a grasping wannabe, trying to usurp their genuine achievements—on national television. Picturing that made her head—and hand—start throbbing. “I’m going to look egotistical. Because they’ll all be actual brave people, and I’ll just seem—” Meg shook her head. “You’re going to need to come up with something else.” Or, better yet, leave her out entirely, as—frankly—a normal, caring parent would do.
Her mother smiled slightly, which was jarring. “Interestingly enough, I gather that some of the people we’ve approached have expressed the same concern.”
And she still wanted her to go, and be undeservedly feted? Talk about hubris. “See,” Meg said. “I told you.”
“They seem to feel that they would have no business sitting in the same gallery with you,” her mother said. “Which leads me to believe that you all are just wired a little differently from the rest of us.”
Christ, this was going to be awful. And she really had no choice but to go. Meg scowled. “Oh, yeah, it’ll look heroic as hell if they’re all up there waving modestly, and I’m back here, hiding in my room.”
“People might not even notice,” her mother said.
Was it her imagination, or had the President’s nose just grown a couple of inches? Time to return to the Land of Political Reality.
“All right, they’ll notice,” her mother conceded. “But, I promise I’m only going to mention it in passing.”
Great. Just fucking great. “Even if you don’t bring it up, my not being there would send a pretty bad message,” Meg said. The State of the Union address being what it was. “And if I am there, everyone’s going to be looking at me, trying to figure out how sane I am.”
Her mother’s shrug was reluctant, but affirmative.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to recuperate without millions of people watching her do it? Or, more specifically, fail to do it?
Truth be told, though, her mother had been—and probably still was, even though she rarely mentioned it—in a similar situation. The last State of the Union address had been less than three months after the shooting, and while her mother had looked, and sounded, powerful and optimistic, she was so weak and exhausted afterwards that she’d almost passed out the second she was safely back inside her limousine, where—secretly—a medical team had been waiting the entire time. Because she’d been afraid she might slur her words, or that her eyes would look glazed, she hadn’t taken any painkillers before the speech, but she’d sure as hell slugged some down in the car on the way home.
A more discouraging memory was the degree to which her father had been quietly frantic about her mother’s well-being, before, during, and especially after, the speech. In fact, he’d hovered over her to such a degree that her mother had been quite snappish to him in the holding room, right up until it was time for her to go out and address the nation about how wonderful everything was.
A speech which, as it turned out, got glowing reviews, and was described as being, among other things, “inspirational” and “fiery.” Later, when they were all in a better mood, they had been amused that part of the reason the speech had been so damned “fiery” was probably because of the vicious parental argument which had served as her mother’s unofficial warm-up.
“Maybe you and your brothers should just stay home,” her mother said. “You don’t need the extra pressure.”
Oh, now she thought that? Please. Meg gritted her teeth. “I also don’t need the whole world thinking I’m too damaged to show my face in public.”
“It really only matters what you think,” her mother said, with almost no hesitation.
Except that there was at least one other person who lived in the White House who she assumed also had a pretty strong opinion about the prospect of all of this. Meg glanced over at her. “What’s Dad think?”
Her mother’s face tightened. “It’s probably better if you ask him directly.”
Yeah. God forbid they all be open and honest with one another. Act like a real, live family. “Completely against it,” Meg said, “right?”
Her mother’s jaw was rigid, which served as a more than sufficient answer.
“I know you’re
not asking me to do it for political gain,” Meg said, since she was quite sure that that was going to be one of her father’s main objections.
Her mother looked at her sharply. “No, I’m not. But, by the same token, I don’t guess we can pretend that your sitting there, appearing calm and healthy and dignified, isn’t going to be to my benefit.”
Well—yeah. If she were less tired, she’d probably be angry about being put in such a difficult position, but mostly, she just felt resigned. Trapped, but resigned.
And her mother had to feel even more trapped. By ambition. By circumstance. By plain old bad luck. By the damning, crushing weight of hindsight.
By can not, have not, and will not.
“I’m never going to be able to tell you how sorry I am, Meg,” her mother said, looking at her with great intensity. “About everything. If I’d ever dreamed that anyone would—”
Meg shook her head. “I—I can’t do this tonight. I really can’t.” Didn’t ever want to do it, frankly. “I said I’d go to the damn speech. Okay? Just—take it and be happy.”
For a second, her mother looked as though she’d been punched in the stomach, but then she recovered herself and nodded. “Yes. Of course.” She got up abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” She stopped. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Please let me know if you need anything.”
The albatross of other people’s guilt was just—then, it occurred to her that maybe she had gone too far, and should apologize, but her mother was already gone.
So, she sat on her bed and stared at the blank television screen.
The State of the Union Address.
Great. Just great.
10
SHE HAD SUCH terrible dreams that night that whatever yelling she had done woke Steven up, and he came into her room to see if she was okay.
“You want me to get Mom or Dad?” he asked, once she was awake enough to have some idea of where she was, and what was going on.
Meg shook her head, fumbling for her glass of water and drinking some. “No, thanks, I’m fine. I’m sorry I was, you know, loud again.”
He shrugged. “You, uh, you want like, more to drink?”
What she wanted was for her brother, never once in his life, to feel as though he needed to wait on her. Meg put the glass down unfinished, to prove that she wasn’t thirsty. “No, I’m—”
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