Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  She looked up.

  “Given the complication of your hand, it may take some creative thinking,” he said, “but, at the very worst, we could put you in a mono-ski.”

  Those weren’t skis; they were sleds. She had to cover her eyes again.

  “Dr. Hammond—” one of her surgeons, who worked with the U.S. Ski Team— “and I have been discussing all of this a great deal during the past few months, and there are plenty of options,” he said. “Three-track skis, outrigger poles—any one of a number of things. He’s been gathering some material together, and—” He paused. “In fact, I think I’m going to have him come here this afternoon, and we can all discuss it.”

  Except, wait. “Isn’t he in Utah?” she asked. Since this operation was supposed to be routine, he wasn’t scrubbing in.

  Dr. Brooks shrugged. “That’s hardly insurmountable, Meg.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want him to have to drop everything, just because I’m kind of upset,” she said.

  Dr. Brooks smiled at her. “Which do you think is preferable? My calling and asking him to come here for a consultation, or the President ordering him to be on the next plane to Washington?”

  “I don’t think she’d do that,” Meg said. Although, given her mother’s apparent overall testiness and generally frayed temper of late, she probably would. “Could you maybe have him wait a few days, though? Since I probably won’t be feeling very good tonight?”

  “Sure. We’ll arrange for it sometime at the Residence, later this week,” Dr. Brooks said. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

  There was plenty, but she was tired, and about to have surgery, so she shook her head.

  Her parents came in, staying until it was time for her to be wheeled into the actual surgical suite. And even then, she could tell they weren’t happy about not being able to accompany her the rest of the way. But they promised that they would see her as soon as the operation was over, and she was lethargic enough from the Valium or whatever it was she’d been given to do nothing more than nod vaguely and attempt to smile at them.

  After that, they must have started the anesthesia, because she couldn’t remember anything until she was suddenly aware of herself saying, “Ow,” followed by “Fuck!,” and then waking up just long enough to apologize before drifting off again.

  The next time she opened her eyes, her knee hurt, her throat hurt, and her hand hurt. The lights were so bright that it made her head hurt, too, and she wasn’t sure where she was. Back in her room, maybe? Still in the middle of the operation? In the Recovery Room? All she knew for sure was that she was in intense pain, and she groaned.

  Her mother was by the bed, and she instantly got up.

  Meg nodded at her, fighting the urge to go right back to sleep.

  Her father was also in the room, because now he was coming over, too. They were asking how she was, and if she needed anything, but it took her a minute to make any sense of what they were saying, which gave her time to notice that she also felt very dizzy and nauseated.

  A nurse was doing something to her IV, and when she smelled Old Spice, she realized that Dr. Brooks was there, too.

  All of which was just too much activity to process.

  More people seemed to be coming into the room, mostly wearing surgical scrubs, and she heard a series of numbers—blood pressure? her pulse?—and a jumble of voices saying things like “should expect that” and “we’ll monitor the—” and “normal to feel—”

  She closed her eyes again.

  * * *

  WHEN SHE WOKE up the next time, she still felt awful, and for a terrible minute or two, she thought she might be about to throw up. A nurse was ready with a basin, but by concentrating as hard as she could, and swallowing a few times, she managed to get her stomach under control, and then moved her head away from it, upon which, the nurse withdrew.

  The lights were less glaring, and she looked around, finally figuring out that she was back in the Presidential Suite, and her father was next to the bed. There was a bunch of medical people standing around, too.

  Her father said something, and there was a lot of movement, along with several voices, in response. Then, a minute or two later, the door opened, and her mother hurried into the room, holding her glasses in one hand and some papers and thick folders in the other, all of which she handed to Frank, before bending over to kiss her on the cheek.

  “I have a catheter, right?” Meg whispered.

  Her mother glanced down at the side of the bed, and then nodded.

  Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about a bedpan anytime soon, then.

  Everyone seemed to be asking her how she felt, and given the negative slant to the answer, she decided to avoid saying anything at all, and just sipped the ginger ale her father was holding out, trying to regain some semblance of her mental and physical equilibrium.

  After a while, she found enough energy to look at Dr. Brooks. “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Well—” His hesitations were always a bad sign. “You had done more damage to your knee than we’d hoped, but your hand has shown some minor improvement, and they elected to remove the last of the external pins.”

  It was hard to tell, with the new splints and bandages. She tried moving her hand and wrist, which hurt so much that she didn’t bother attempting to do the same with her leg.

  “Am I, um,” Christ, it was infuriating that her voice always shook, “hooked up to my morphine thing?”

  Her father nodded, putting the little pump near her left hand.

  She wanted to push it, and give herself a good strong dose, but there were too many people watching, so she sipped ginger ale, instead.

  It was a great relief when they all finally cleared out, and she was alone with her parents—and could take advantage of the morphine without witnesses. Then, something or other happened—she was too tired to pay much attention, except the telephone kept ringing—and her mother had to go back to the White House for a while, instead of just working in the conference room. Regardless, it was nice to take a nap, while her father sat and read The Washington Post.

  She didn’t wake up again until about six-fifteen, when Trudy arrived with her brothers. They only stayed long enough to have a fast supper—none of which she ate, except for the vanilla pudding. She had used the pain medication pump more than once, although it didn’t seem to be accomplishing much, beyond making her feel sleepy.

  It was just before eight o’clock when there was a knock on the door and Garth came in, holding an impressive bouquet of roses and tulips. A lot of other arrangements had already been delivered, but almost all of them were from people who didn’t know her personally, and were almost certainly just trying to curry favor with the President.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said, formally, and he and her father shook hands.

  “You, um, you brought me flowers?” Meg asked. It was really thoughtful of him, but also unexpected. “Thank you.”

  Garth’s already-ruddy face reddened more. “Well, no. I probably should have, maybe, but, uh—no.”

  “It would be crossing professional lines,” Meg said, in an effort to bail him out.

  “Yes.” He nodded gratefully. “Yes, it would. Although—well, obviously, I hope you’re feeling okay?”

  She felt like the very devil, but no matter. “Yeah,” Meg said. “Thanks.”

  None of which changed the fact that he was standing there, looking awkward and holding a bouquet of undetermined origin.

  “I guess I’m facilitating a flower delivery from someone,” he said, then set the vase down on her bedside table, and handed her a small card.

  She opened it with some difficulty and found a note which read: “Good-bye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square! —Jack.” Not his handwriting, so he must have dictated it. “Oh,” she said, and grinned, suddenly feeling a lot less like the devil.

  After Garth left, her father leaned over to look at the card.

  “I’m hoping
that’s not your philosophy professor,” he said.

  Meg just grinned.

  * * *

  SHE ADMIRED HER flowers for a while, and then let herself doze off again. When she woke up, the room was dark, except for a very small light on the desk, where her father was reading. Her knee was hurting even more than her hand now, and she looked at her pain-pump, but decided that she would rather not drug herself right back to sleep. Not yet, anyway.

  Seeing that she was awake, her father closed his book, got up to pour her a cup of ice water, and then helped her drink it.

  “Would you like some more?” he asked.

  When she hesitated, he promptly fixed her another, and she finished it in a few gulps. Then, she looked around, feeling slightly more cogent.

  “Mom hasn’t come back yet?” she asked.

  “She was in here before,” he said, “but she didn’t want to wake you up.”

  Meg nodded. “So, she’s in the conference room?”

  “She’s downstairs,” her father said. “She’ll be up in a little while.”

  What would she be doing downstairs at this time of night? That didn’t make any sense. Meg frowned. “Why? Are they having a ceremony, or a press conference or something?”

  “Her stomach’s been bothering her,” her father said, “and since it’s so quiet right now, they managed to talk her into having some tests.”

  Jesus. Solely within the privacy of the family, her mother was overwhelmingly medically phobic, and tended to get very queasy even thinking about the possibility of encountering doctors on her own behalf. “So, why are you sitting here?” Meg asked. “If she’s having tests, you know how scared she must be.”

  Her father shook his head. “She’s fine, Meg. Don’t worry about it.”

  Was he trying to be nice—or was he being dismissive? “Or maybe you think her stomach should hurt, so you’re not too concerned,” Meg said, stiffly.

  Her father looked so irritated that she was pretty sure that she’d guessed right. “Or maybe, your mother and I decided that the fact that our daughter had surgery today and is in terrible pain, had a higher priority.”

  Maybe. “So, she’s down there because she’s been literally eating herself up with guilt for months,” Meg said.

  Her father sighed.

  Great. Just great. Meg scowled at him. “She didn’t shoot herself, and she didn’t kidnap me.”

  Her father’s jaw clenched. “I’m aware of that, Meg.”

  Maybe her mother wasn’t the sole genetic source for her dispassion, after all. Hell, maybe she wasn’t even the main source. And, just possibly, she and her mother weren’t the ones who were dragging the rest of the family down. “You going to let her off the hook someday, Dad?” she asked.

  His jaw, if possible, tightened more. “I really don’t think this is a good time to talk about it. Okay?”

  Was there ever going to be a good time? Not bloody likely.

  Someone knocked on the door, and then, a nurse came in to check on her. She wasn’t happy about the interruption, but since she no longer had her catheter, she let the nurse help her into a wheelchair, so that she could use the bathroom. When she came out, her bed had been freshly made, someone had delivered a plate of cookies and graham crackers, along with some juice and a small carton of milk, and her father was back in the bedside chair, reading his book.

  After the nurse left, neither of them spoke for a while. Her father stared at his book, without turning pages, and she looked at her snack, without eating or drinking anything.

  “Do you want to watch television?” he asked finally.

  She shook her head.

  “Is there anything else I can have them bring you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “Would you like me to turn the light out?”

  She shook her head.

  Given that sort of uncommunicative feedback, her mother would already have made some kind of excuse and left the room by now, but her father stayed where he was, still staring down at his book.

  It would be very much easier to tell him that yes, she was tired, and maybe she should try to sleep some more—and not bring any of this up again. Easier on both of them.

  “I would have done exactly what she did,” Meg said.

  Her father slapped the book shut. “Oh, the hell you would have,” he said, sounding so angry that she couldn’t help drawing back. “You don’t have it in you.”

  Was that a compliment, or an insult? Or maybe he just didn’t know her as well as she would have thought he did. Hoped he did. She let out her breath. “You would have, too.”

  He looked away from her, clearly so furious that he was afraid to answer right away.

  “I’ve never known anyone more responsible, Dad,” Meg said, “and the god-damn country matters. It would have killed you inside, but you would have done it.”

  He just shook his head.

  “You going to let it kill her?” she asked.

  “She’s fine,” he said tightly.

  Yeah. She was super. And so was Steven. And Neal probably wasn’t as god-damned well-adjusted as he seemed.

  He reached up to rub his temples for a minute. “Let’s not worry about any of this tonight, okay? Why don’t you try to rest?”

  In other words, it was an incendiary topic, and she was supposed to drop it.

  As usual.

  “How’s the pain?” he asked.

  It sucked, just the way it always did.

  “Meg, I’m sorry, I just really don’t want to talk about this right now,” he said.

  No kidding.

  But, it had been a tough day, and he had been up for hours, and maybe she shouldn’t push him anymore. “All right,” she said. “But, will you please go check on her?”

  He sighed.

  “Please?” she said.

  He looked at her, and then sighed again. “Okay,” he said, and got up.

  * * *

  SHE HAD BEEN lying there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, when there was another knock on the door. Since she wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, or force herself to be polite, she decided to ignore it.

  “Okay if I come in?” Preston asked, from the hallway.

  Preston was one of the few people she could probably tolerate right now. And if she felt lousy and asked him to leave, he wouldn’t take it personally. “Sure,” she said.

  He opened the door, balancing two large Starbucks cups, as well as his briefcase.

  “Oooh,” she said, in a better mood immediately.

  He nodded. “Thought you might have a little latte jones going by now.”

  Major jones, actually.

  He handed her one of the cups. “Before you get too excited, it’s decaf.”

  She frowned.

  “But, it is mocha,” he said.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He was wearing one of his West Wing conservative suits, and from the way he sat down, she could tell how tired he was, although he didn’t loosen his tie, or even take his jacket off. Mr. Fielding, at hyperalert leisure.

  “Are you just heading home from work now?” she asked.

  He nodded wryly. “My predecessor did not see the need to leave the office shipshape.”

  Particularly since his departure had not been voluntary, in the wake of a minor ethics scandal, due to what had turned out to be his unfortunate propensity to do things like accept free golf vacations from lobbyists. To describe her mother as having been displeased by this turn of events would be putting it very, very mildly. But, the fallout hadn’t been too bad, so far, because luckily, someone had tipped Glen off before it broke in the press, and the guy had already been fired by the time the story went public.

  Which didn’t change the fact that Preston looked tired as hell.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “The important question is, are you okay?”

  She wasn’t, but there was n
o good reason to dwell on it, so she shrugged.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She shrugged again.

  They focused on their cups of coffee, Preston slouching in his chair, in a way that managed to evoke the sixteen-year-old version of himself after Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Did you run into Hurricane Russell on your way in here?” Meg asked.

  “No,” he said. “But they were still cleaning up debris out in the hall.”

  Not that her father ever raised his voice—but, he could most assuredly make an oppressive black cloud swirl in his wake, when he was out of sorts. “Mom’s having a bunch of tests,” she said. “They think there’s something wrong with her stomach.”

  Preston glanced over. “Maybe she encounters stress in her workplace.”

  Just maybe. “Yeah, that must be it,” Meg said. “Because we all know she has a happy home life.”

  Preston grinned, and helped himself to a graham cracker from her plate of snacks.

  She wanted to complain about how lousy she felt, and the degree to which the morphine wasn’t helping, and the fact that Dr. Steiner had indicated that she was almost definitely going to need to have more work done on her knee after the semester was over—and her wrist and thumb and forefinger, too, in all likelihood—but, he presumably had his own problems, and might be sick of hearing about hers.

  “I’m sure she’s fine, Meg,” Preston said. “They’re just going to remind her that she needs to take better care of herself.”

  Maybe. But, she nodded.

  He looked sharply at her. “They may remind you, too.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. “Does that mean you want me to have some of the graham crackers?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “But, you would never, ever tell me what to do,” Meg said.

  “Never in a million years,” he said, and moved the plate closer so that she could reach it.

  Subtle. She wasn’t in the mood for crackers, but the cookies looked halfway decent, and she took one of the oatmeal ones. “Happy now?” she asked, eating it.