Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  “I have classes, and the dining hall, and—the wheelchair really isn’t going to work for me,” Meg said.

  Dr. Steiner nodded. “Well, I’d rather see you fly back to Washington tonight, anyway, and—”

  “I’m in college,” Meg said, “in a place where it rains and snows a lot. And it’s more important to me to try and make my life work, than to have my knee work.”

  The doctors all nodded, and mumbled—and exchanged glances.

  “I’m also eighteen,” Meg said, before anyone could suggest consulting any world leaders. “So, while I’ll definitely talk this over with my parents, it’s really my call. And what I’d like us to do is sit down and figure out the best way for me to get around between now and spring break—” which was only a week away— “while doing the least amount of damage to myself.”

  It was quiet, and they all seemed to be waiting for Preston to weigh in.

  “You heard her,” he said. “Let’s make a plan.”

  To make them all a little less resistant to her treatment protocol notions, Meg agreed to have a conference call with her father and Dr. Brooks, at the White House. She knew that they would both kindly, and supportively, take her side, which they did.

  In the end, she left the hospital wearing the immobilizing brace, using her cane, and allowing a wheelchair to be stuffed into the back of the trail car, just in case.

  There were a few dogged reporters and photographers still outside, but Preston just said a cheery “Have a nice evening” to them, before following her into the car.

  “Favorite day ever?” Meg asked, as they pulled away.

  “You bet,” he said.

  26

  NEITHER OF THEM could face the idea of going into a restaurant, but once they were back at the campus and Preston had seen her safely upstairs in the elevator, he went over to the deli on Spring Street to get some takeout. And, probably, to deal with any press people still hanging around out there.

  Larry, who was at the third-floor security desk, told her that, as far as he knew, Susan was asleep, and had been for several hours. He didn’t mention any of the others—and she didn’t ask.

  Before she even had a chance to check her voice-mail, her mother called.

  “I am not that thin,” Meg said, as soon as she heard her voice.

  “Actually, you are,” her mother said, “but we don’t have to argue about it right now. I’ve been talking to your father and Bob, and I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  She was tired, and cranky, and more than a little pissed off. “Excited, mostly, about getting to spend my vacation in the hospital,” Meg said.

  Her mother sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. Bob says it’ll probably be for only one night, two at the most.”

  Whereupon she would spend the rest of her Spring Break dancing and leaping for joy, post-surgical complications be damned.

  “How’s Susan?” her mother asked.

  Good question. “I don’t know,” Meg said. “She went to bed really early, I guess.” Which reminded her of one of the main reasons she was angry at her mother right now. “Preston’s been great, though.”

  “I know he would be,” her mother said. “Even though he’s probably going to be leaving his job soon, he’s still the only person, other than Trudy, I would ever have trusted to send up there in our place.”

  Okay, now she was more than angry. Meg clenched the receiver so hard it made her fingers hurt. “If you’re dumb enough to fire him, you should be impeached. In fact—I mean, I can’t even believe that you’d consider—”

  “I offered him Communications Director a few days ago, Meg,” her mother said, sounding unruffled. “He’s still thinking about it.”

  Oh. That was, um, actually a promotion. A major promotion. “I—didn’t know that,” Meg said.

  Her mother laughed. “No. You didn’t. But, at least you weren’t quick to jump to conclusions.”

  Heaven forfend.

  Her mother laughed again. “You’re suddenly very quiet, Meg.”

  “I had a really hard day,” Meg said. “And, you know, I’m awfully thin and frail. Maybe you should just be nice to me.”

  “Yes, maybe I should,” her mother said, sounding much more gentle now.

  They talked until Preston showed up with sandwiches, sodas, and a bag of groceries.

  “Preston’s back with the food,” Meg said. “I’m going to hang up, so we can watch the game, okay?” College basketball, in this case. She looked at him. “Do you want to talk to the President?”

  “Tell the President that I am, as ever, her humble servant,” he said wryly.

  But, of course. Especially the humble part. “Did you hear that?” Meg asked her mother.

  “I did,” her mother said. “Tell him to enjoy his supper and whatever it is that you’re going to be watching. And—tell him I said thank you.”

  Right. When she’d hung up, she watched Preston put fresh milk, orange juice, apples, pears, carrots, and cheese into the refrigerator before unpacking their dinner.

  “Mom says thank you.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Communications director?”

  He took one of her reusable ice packs out of the tiny freezer and handed it to her. “I’m thinking about it.”

  Christ, it was an incredibly powerful position. A career-making position. “What’s to think about?” she asked.

  “You,” he said. “Your father. Your brothers.” He looked at her. “You, primarily.”

  Meg frowned, not sure where he was going with that.

  “I’d be working about twenty-eight hours a day, Meg,” he said. “So, I wouldn’t be able to help. Not the way I can now, anyway.”

  Rachel, his ex-girlfriend, was the biggest fool in the world. A pox on her. Or, possibly, she was owed fervent thanks for not having had the good sense to snap him up once and for all. She slid the ice pack inside her brace and then looked back at him. “You’ve helped more than I could ever tell you. But, take the job, okay?”

  Preston shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.”

  He was obdurate. “Think hard,” Meg said.

  He gave her a small salute, and then turned on the television, flipping channels on the remote until he found the game.

  “Who’s replacing you?” Meg asked, unwrapping her sandwich one-handed. Hot roast beef, cheese, lettuce, barbeque sauce. It looked good.

  “Maureen,” he said. “Today’s been kind of a dry run for her.”

  She had to admit she was relieved to hear that it wouldn’t be Ginette. “That’s good. I like Maureen.”

  “Your father and I figured she’d be the best person for the job, yeah,” he said, and moved her desk chair so that he would be able to see the television better. “Of course, I’m still only thinking about it.”

  She studied his grey suit, white shirt, and dark red tie. “Not exactly a carefree, freewheeling, East Wing sort of outfit you have going here.”

  “Let’s watch the game,” he said.

  It was a poor substitute for baseball—and, in Preston’s case, football, but the world was an imperfect place. And, luckily for her, April would arrive in the very near future.

  She started to bite into her sandwich, and then stopped. “You sly dog.”

  Preston, already halfway through his, glanced over.

  “You offered your resignation last night, because if you’re going to move over to the West Wing, you need to establish new boundaries with her,” Meg said.

  “Or, also, because I happen to believe that I booted this one,” he said.

  That, too. She grinned at him. “Take the damn job, Preston.”

  He shrugged affirmatively, and then they watched basketball.

  * * *

  THE GAME WASN’T terribly interesting, but it was relaxing just to sit, and eat, and discuss nothing other than sports, and movies, and a few books they had each read recently when they were supposed to be busy doing other things. Both of their phones rang more than once, but they would jus
t look at each other, shake their heads, and keep watching television.

  Before he left, they decided to meet over at the Inn for breakfast, which Hannah Goldman either would, or wouldn’t, attend. They also came to a mutual agreement that they would try to get something resembling a good night’s sleep. Meg had every intention of following this edict, but with midterms coming up, she had to do some studying, first. Reading Plato made her drowsy, and she switched over to Pericles, which tired her out all the more. Julius Caesar and Henry V were the only two plays she’d enjoyed at all so far, despite being, of course, a devoted English major.

  There was a tiny little tap on her door. She didn’t feel like getting up, but she certainly wasn’t about to ignore Susan, if she felt like talking—or yelling at her—or something. So, using her cane, she maneuvered her way over there, opening it to find—Juliana.

  “You busy?” Juliana asked, sounding, and looking, atypically apprehensive.

  Busy trying not to fall asleep. Meg shrugged. “Kind of. Why?”

  Juliana hesitated. “Can I come in?”

  Meg shrugged again, and limped back over to her bed. Juliana leaned against the desk, her eyes widening when she noticed the new, cumbersome brace.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Meg shrugged, picking up Pericles and using her good thumb as a bookmark.

  “I was really a jerk this morning,” Juliana said.

  Meg glanced down at the page she had been reading. “Whatever. Hadn’t given it much thought.”

  Which was a total lie, of course.

  “Seeing them go after Susan like that was just—” Juliana shivered. “I kind of wigged out. I mean, she looked so scared.”

  No argument there, considering Meg had pretty much wigged out herself.

  There was a long silence.

  “That it?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Juliana said. “Depends on how good you are at accepting apologies.”

  “Okay.” Meg returned to her book. “No big deal.”

  It was silent again.

  “It was a lot less high-pressure around here last semester,” Juliana said. “I wish I could tell you it wasn’t, but—it was. I mean, it was just college, you know?”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Meg nodded. “I know, I wrecked everything by coming here, and you wish I would just go away once and for all. Got the message loud and clear, okay?”

  Juliana started to leave, but then shook her head and sat down in the desk chair. “You really want to spend the rest of the semester being mad at each other? On a floor this small? Why don’t we try to straighten it out? Christ, Meg, people have fights, you know? It’s not the end of the damned world.”

  Except that it was so much less work to keep her distance from people. Had been for a long time.

  “Sometimes, it is the end of the world,” Juliana said suddenly.

  Meg looked up.

  “My sister Tracy had this huge blowup with my parents last year, and I thought, okay, she’ll get over it,” Juliana said. “But, she stopped speaking to us, and didn’t show up for Christmas or anything—it’s really awful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meg said. “If that happened with either of my brothers, it would completely tear me apart.” In fact, she couldn’t bear to imagine such a thing. “Do you think it’ll be okay?”

  Juliana looked miserable. “I don’t know. I was trying to run interference, but they all just ended up getting mad at me.”

  Tolstoy, and his unhappy families. “My mother and I are afraid of each other,” Meg said. “It causes most of the tension in our family.”

  “Afraid of each other?” Juliana asked. “It goes both ways?”

  “Much more so on her side, actually,” Meg said.

  Juliana thought about that, then grinned. “Well, you scare the shit out of me, so maybe I’m with her on this one.”

  All right, that was funny. Meg grinned back.

  “So. We okay?” Juliana asked.

  Meg nodded. “Yeah, we’re fine.” Then, she remembered something. “This morning, Jesslyn was saying something about a couple of people who turned down being my JA?”

  Juliana shook her head. “Lori and Angela. No, they were freshmen. You know, here in the entry.”

  Oh. “Who didn’t want to live near me,” Meg said.

  “Did you think these two rooms were just sitting here empty all last semester,” Juliana asked, sounding very irritated, “in case you might decide to show up?”

  Christ, she’d never really thought about it. “You mean, people got kicked out?” Meg said. Oh, hell. “Jesus, I never wanted anyone to—”

  Juliana shrugged. “Lori decided to double up with Amber, over in Sage A, and someone in Mills decided not to come back this semester, so Angela was just as happy to go down there, since her boyfriend lives in Pratt.”

  Why hadn’t something so obvious—the fact that she had displaced people—occurred to her long ago? “What about the security room downstairs?” Meg asked.

  “It was just a common room before, so that wasn’t too complicated,” Juliana said. “Those guys always hang out in the JAs’ common room, anyway.”

  Yeah, but still. Maybe she was a damn princess, after all. Accustomed to having trays of food magically appear, her sheets changed—which was hard as hell to do alone with one hand, and Susan had had to help her almost every time so far, her clothes washed and folded and put away, fresh flower arrangements everywhere, magazines and newspapers brought to her room—and every other conceivable convenience and luxury, regardless of whether she requested anything or not.

  She let out her breath. “I knew there was something off about Susan, but I never once asked you, hey, what’s Susan’s deal, anyway?”

  Juliana looked right at her. “No,” she said. “You never did.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS A heavy sleet falling the next morning, so her agents drove her to the Inn, even though it was just down the street. Despite taking two pain pills the night before—damaging her original plan to hoard the prescription as long as possible—she had slept badly, and her knee felt worse than ever.

  A lot of the remaining media people must have been staying at the Inn, because the group standing in front of the main entrance smoking all put out their cigarettes as soon as they saw her. Meg just nodded, and limped past them. Most of the other reporters were in the dining room, having breakfast, and she was the focus of attention the second she came in.

  Preston was sitting at the far end of the room, with Hannah Goldman, and four or five other reporters were also gathered around the table, holding cups of coffee. Today, he had gone with another tedious grey suit, a white shirt, and a blue and grey striped tie, although at least he had a snazzy pocket handkerchief to liven it up a little.

  “How’s the knee?” he asked, after walking over to meet her.

  She shrugged, instead of answering, because she didn’t really feel like complaining.

  He indicated the small group of reporters with a slight movement of his eyes. “Up to giving them a few generalized remarks?”

  No. “I thought it was just going to be Hannah,” Meg said.

  Preston nodded. “I know. But I have some carrot and stick action working here, and if you could hand them a couple of vague little carrots, I’d be very pleased.”

  She had to assume that he wouldn’t ask, if it weren’t important. “Okay. Do you want to take five minutes, and figure out a script for me, first?”

  “Planning to swear at them?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then, I’m not going to worry about it,” he said. “Just tell them how much you’re going to appreciate it, if they give you some room to have a normal college experience, and that sort of thing. I’ll let them have a couple of questions, too, okay?”

  Well, she’d already agreed, so she could scarcely back out now. Meg nodded.

  “Can you stand?” he asked. “Or would you rather sit?”

  Ther
e were cameras, so she would definitely stand. She took off her sleet-covered Red Sox cap and moved her sunglasses up on top of her head, in the hope that it might make her hair look a little less unruly. “I didn’t really dress for this,” she said. Sweatpants, albeit reasonably well-fitting, because it had just been too hard to strap the new brace over anything else, a gold turtleneck, and a purple Williams sweatshirt with yellow lettering.

  He looked her over quickly. “Lose the jacket, and you’re fine. In fact, the sweatshirt’s just right—it’ll be an ideal reminder of the nice, normal coed thing.”

  She nodded, and put her coat down on a chair in the lobby, taking one fast second to grab some lip gloss from the side pocket and put it on while her back was turned. She hated makeup, but her mother had managed to convince her that it was worthwhile to carry lip gloss around for unexpected cameras. “What do I do with my hand?” she asked, tucking the tube away.

  He smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “Absolutely anything you want, Meg. Just—whatever’s the most comfortable.”

  It was at moments like this that she missed her sling. She leaned the base of the hand splint on top of her cane, without putting any pressure on it, and hoped that her good leg would compensate and keep her steady. But then, she got a better idea and moved over to one of the upholstered chairs by the fireplace, where—telegenically enough—a fire was burning. She perched against one of the chair arms, just enough to take the weight off her leg and make it possible to put the cane behind her, out of sight. Then she rested her bad hand on her lap. Ideally, the pose would look both casual and relaxed, while still in a dignified setting.

  Preston waved at the reporters from the dining room, and the others who had come into the lobby from outside hurried to join them, which made Meg feel like the ball in the middle of a scrum. Civilian guests in the dining room, and checking out at the front desk, watched all of this with great curiosity.