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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

Long Live the Queen (22 page)

BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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“Figures,” Steven said when he saw the television, then looked guilty.
Meg, however, was amused. “Hey, you know me, I like to be on the cutting edge.” Of all of the latest gossip, anyway.
Her father set up a tray of dinner on her sliding table: scrambled eggs, toast, butterscotch pudding, milk.
“Um, thank you,” she said, as he handed her a fork.
Her brothers, sitting on either side of a small table, were eating the exact same meal, obviously self-conscious. She took a small bite of the eggs, feeling pretty self-conscious herself.
“What are we looking at here?” her father asked, indicating the television.
Meg hesitated. “I was sort of thinking of watching
The Sound of Music
in a little while.”
He nodded, checking his watch so subtly that she almost didn't see him do it. Almost.
The press conference. “Dad, I—” Was he going to be mad at her? “I really don't want to,” she said. “I just—I'd rather not.”
“Whatever you're comfortable with,” he said. “That's what's important.”
“I'm
comfortable
with the Von Trapps,” Meg said.
Her father smiled. A small smile, but unmistakable.
Preston got up. “Tell you what. How about I go check it out, and report back?”
“You can go, too, Dad. I mean, you know—” Meg gestured towards her brothers—“the three of us can just like, hang out.”
Her father looked at them, then nodded. “We'll be right down the hall,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “Call me if you need me.”
When they were gone, she couldn't think of a single thing to say, and it didn't seem as though her brothers could, either.
“Do you want anything, Meggie?” Neal asked, extra-polite.
“No, I—” The fork was shaking in her hand again, and she put it down. “Um, no, thanks.”
Neal looked concerned. “You should eat.”
“Yeah.” She tried sipping some of her milk.
“Does your leg feel better?” he asked.
She nodded, although it felt pretty much the same. Worse, even.
Then, Neal looked at the door. “We're not supposed to ask you questions.” He jumped, and she could tell that Steven—who was just eating his dinner and not looking at either of them—had kicked him under the table.
Meg glanced over at the door, too, to make sure they were alone. “I won't tell them you asked any.”
“Why don't we just watch the stupid
Sound of Music
,” Steven said, eating.
“I don't care if he asks me stuff,” Meg said.
Steven ignored her, scowling across the table at Neal. “Just shut up and eat.”
Meg scowled at
him
. “He can ask me whatever he wants.”
“I don't want to,” Neal said quickly.
Meg sighed. “Well,
obviously
, you do, or you wouldn't—” But, she shouldn't yell at him. If she was going to yell at someone, it should be Steven. “Look,” she said, more calmly. “I don't mind if you ask me stuff. I would kind of prefer it, if you want to know the truth.”
Neal shook his head.
“I would
prefer
it,” she said. Less calmly.
He checked the door. “Was it scary?”
If they weren't supposed to ask questions, then she probably wasn't supposed to answer them. Or, anyway, she shouldn't tell the truth. “I was alone, mostly,” she said.
Steven held out his dish of pudding. “You want this, Neal, or what?”
“I'm talking, Steven, okay?” Meg said, irritated.
Steven slapped the dish down. “Yeah, well, he's not supposed to bother you.”
Meg frowned at him. “You're
supposed
to make me feel like you're glad I'm back.”
“I'm glad you're back,” he said, “okay?”
This time, Neal kicked
him
.
“Yeah, well,
act
like it,” Meg said, “okay?”
“
Okay
,” Steven said.
“Good,” Meg said, and it was such a typical way for them to argue, that she had to grin. “Look, can't you just pretend like I was in a car accident or something, and you're waiting for me to get better is all?”
Steven actually cracked a smile, too. “Yo, Meg, you talk
excellent
.”
They both laughed, Neal joining in a little late.
“Neal, do me a favor,” she said. “Go out there and ask someone to get us some Doritos and Coke and Twinkies and all.”
He looked uneasy. “Are we—”
“We're allowed,” she said. “Hurry it up, so we can watch the movie.”
Neal stopped by the door. “Fritos, too?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you want,” Meg said. Expansively. “Also, if they sell hats there, can you ask them if they can get me like—a little cap or something? I hate my hair being like this.”
Neal looked anxious, but nodded, leaving the room.
Since they were all in a good mood now, Meg decided not to start trouble. Even though there were probably things Steven knew that he could—
“I wish it had been me,” he said, his voice startling her.
“No, you don't.” Meg shook her head. “Believe me, you don't.”
His expression was somewhat offended, and even more uneasy.
“I don't mean that you wouldn't be—” She sighed. “It was terrible. I mean,
really
terrible.”
He glanced at her leg, then quickly away. “Because of stuff they did to you?”
“Oh, hell, I looked
forward
to him coming in,” she said, without thinking. “I mean—” She stopped, realizing how that sounded. “I don't mean I wanted them to—at least then, I had someone to talk to.”
Steven turned to make sure the door was still closed. “Did they
look
scary?”
Her parents were right; she
didn't
want to answer questions. “He looked regular,” she said. “I mean—he could have been anyone.” Anyone at all. Someone they
knew
, even.
“Did they speak English?” he asked.
“Very well.” She grinned slightly. The man had been a god-damn
grammarian
. “Exceedingly well.”
“Were they—” Steven started.
Neal came back in, smiling happily. “They said they'd buy everything!”
“You know I'm going to get my way for about the next hundred years,” Meg said to Steven, who made a sound that was close to a laugh.
“That mean we have to watch this damn thing?” he asked, getting up to put the movie in.
“We'll have to watch it
repeatedly
,” Meg said, Neal laughing. “Hey, fatso,” she said to him. “You want to sit up here with me?”
Neal hung back. “We're not—”
“I know you're not supposed to,” she said. “You want to do it, anyway?”
He didn't move.
“Come on, already,” she said, impatiently, indicating the left side of the bed.
He stayed where he was. “Will I hurt your leg?”
She shook her head, and he climbed over the railing—which, yeah, hurt—but, it was nice to have someone sitting with her. Less like being in the zoo.
“We ready?” Steven asked, holding the remote.
Meg nodded. “Play it, Sam.”
“If she can stand it,
I
can,” Steven said to Neal, and turned on the movie.
Maria was just running into the Abbey when Dr. Brooks, a nurse, and a corpsman arrived with the food. Seeing them, Meg felt guilty.
“Am I allowed to eat this stuff?” she asked.
“I'm just happy to see you have an appetite,” Dr. Brooks said, as the corpsman unpacked a grocery bag full of junk food and the nurse gave each of them a plate, some napkins, and a glass full of ice, pouring them some soda as they nodded polite thank-yous.
Dr. Brooks smiled, taking a cap out of the bag and handing it to her. “Oh, your—hat.”
An Orioles cap. Yuck. Meg grinned sheepishly, and put it on. “Thank you.”
“It was all they could find,” he said.
“It's great,” Meg said. Having it on—whether it looked stupid or not—was a tremendous relief.
The nurse and the corpsman left, and Dr. Brooks folded the empty bag, sticking it under his arm. Then, he ruffled Neal's hair. “Watching the movie with your sister?”
Neal nodded, starting to get off the bed.
“No, it's all right. Just be careful.” Dr. Brooks gestured towards Meg's knee. “Much pain?”
“It's okay,” she said. Which was a lie.
He looked at his watch. “Well, I'll come back in about an hour, see how you are.”
She nodded. Nothing like having life revolve around the next pain pill.
“What do you want first, Meggie?” Neal asked, as Dr. Brooks headed towards the hall.
“Twinkies,” Steven said, already eating one.
Meg grinned. “Doritos,” she said. “Definitely Doritos.”
THEY ATE A lot. Enough so that by the time the Von Trapps were singing at the Salzburg Festival, Meg was having trouble staying awake. Of course, she'd been up for—gosh—five or six whole hours now. And the Demerol or Vicodin or whatever the hell it was that they were giving her, wasn't helping matters any.
“You want to watch another?” Steven asked.
Meg jerked awake. “What?” She must have missed the ending. “I mean, yeah, I guess.” Neal was asleep, too, leaning against her, and she maneuvered her arm enough to put it around him. “
Mary Poppins
?”
Steven groaned, but got up to put it in.
As the movie started—a dark London skyline, with the familiar soundtrack, Meg smiled. Musicals were so—sweet. So
swell
.
She looked around, waking up a little more. “Wasn't Dad in here?”
“Before, yeah,” Steven said.
“Where'd he go?” she asked, noticing that it was dark, except for the small light over near where the nurses usually sat.
Steven shrugged. “To wait for Mom, I think.”
“Oh.” She looked up at the movie, at Bert singing and dancing in the park. “Did we talk about the press conference?”
Steven shook his head. “You were sleepy.”
She was
still
sleepy. But, now that she thought about it, Bert must have been one of her very first crushes. Her grandfather—it would have been a couple of years before he died—had even given her a little striped blazer, a straw hat, and a cane, so she could do the Bert Dance. Steven was a baby, so he had only gotten a hat. Once,
she had taken some ashes from the fireplace to do a chimney sweep dance, but her parents' reaction—to say nothing of Trudy—had been less than enthusiastic.
“How come Trudy isn't here?” she asked.
“Because Jimmy's still in the hospital,” Steven said. “I think she's coming on Sunday. Neal was on the phone with her for like, a really long time today.”
Jimmy was her son, and—oh, wait, he had had a
kidney transplant
. “Was his surgery okay?” she asked.
Steven pulled over the mostly-empty Fritos bag and ate a few. “Dad says yeah.”
Okay, that was good. He had been on dialysis for a long time.
“Can't believe I like, know all these words,” Steven said, as Mrs. Banks sang the “Suffragette's Song.”
Meg nodded. “Mom used to sing this.”
“Yo, no way,” he said.
Yep. “English accent, and everything,” she said. “She was always singing musicals' stuff.”
Steven frowned. “I totally don't remember.”
“Yeah, well, it was a long time ago,” Meg said stiffly.
Steven started to say something, then just looked at the television.
By the time her parents came in, Steven had fallen asleep, too, and Meg was, foggily, watching Julie Andrews sing “Feed the Birds.” Her father gently picked Neal up, carrying him out of the room, while her mother bent down to kiss her.
“How do you feel?” she whispered.
Meg shrugged, half-asleep.
“Do you want to keep watching the movie?” her mother asked.
Meg shook her head. “I'm pretty tired.”
Her mother clicked off the machine, pausing to kiss Steven, too, before returning to the side of the bed.
“How'd it go?” Meg asked.
“A lot of people care about you,” her mother said. “Even more than you know.”
Whatever
that
meant. Meg let her eyes close partway. “What time is it?”
“Past midnight,” her mother said.
Her father came back in, taking Steven out of the room.
“Do you guys sleep down there, too?” Meg asked. Although mostly, they seemed to do all of their sleeping sitting up in chairs.
Her mother nodded.
“When can we go home?” Meg asked.
Her mother paused, before answering. “Soon, I hope.”
In other words,
not
any time soon.
“I know,” her mother said. “I'm sorry.”
She was curious about the press conference, but she also felt like going back to sleep. She wasn't exactly tired, but the pills made her feel—funny. Slow.
Her mother seemed to be saying something, and Meg looked up.
“I was just wondering if you wanted anything,” her mother said.
Philosophically, an ironic question. Meg shook her head, noticing that her mother didn't look like
she
was in very good shape, either. “You guys don't have to, you know, stay up with me.”
Her mother, about to sit in the chair by the bed, stopped. “Do you want privacy?”
Did she? “I just meant you should maybe get some
normal
sleep, and not—” She indicated the chair.
“Your father and I feel better being in here,” her mother said, and sat down.
Since it was their decision, Meg wasn't about to argue. “What time did you say it was?”
Her mother turned her wrist to look at her watch. “A little after twelve-thirty.”
“Oh.” Meg glanced at the telephone. Twelve-thirty was pretty late.
“Would you like to call Josh?” her mother asked. “Or—”
“I kind of thought I'd call Beth,” Meg said. Which she hadn't realized she'd been thinking until she heard herself say it. “Only, I guess it's too—”
“I think you should,” her mother said. “You'll both feel better.”
Meg tilted her head curiously. “You mean, you've talked to her?”
Her mother shook her head. “Your father did, at one point. I assume Preston has, too.”
“Oh.” Weird. “That was nice of them.” She looked, uneasily, at the phone. “I can't call this late—you know how her stepfather is.”
Her mother shrugged. “We'll have someone place the call
for
you.”
Which might make things even worse, given her stepfather's tendency towards conservatism. “No,” Meg said. “I mean, I don't want it to be a big deal, I just—”
Her mother moved the telephone onto the bed. “Why don't you just go ahead and call.”
Meg reached for it, then pulled back. “Will the FBI or someone be listening in?”
“
No,
” her mother said. “They very definitely will not.” She got up. “If you need anything, we'll be outside.”
“Oh.” Meg looked at the window in pretended confusion. “Do I like, open that and yell out?”
“What?” Her mother looked
genuinely
confused, then smiled. “Right,” she said, and gave Meg's hand a squeeze before leaving the room.
Once she was alone, Meg put down the handset, and looked at it some more. It
was
pretty late. Only, if she sat around, it was going to be even
later
. She picked up the receiver again, flinching when
she heard a voice say, “How may I help you?” A White House operator, or someone.
“Were you on there before?” Meg asked. “Did I like, hang up on you?”
“Of course not,” the man said, sounding as overly kind as
everyone
was being to her. Not that White House switchboard people were
ever
rude. “Would you like me to ring a number for you?”
“Uh—” She had to make a decision here. “Yeah, I mean—please.” Meg gave him the number, the call going through damn near
instantly
.
Extra
-special fiber optics, presumably. She probably should have called her cell, instead of calling the house directly—but didn't want to go to voice-mail, which was likely, after midnight.
Naturally, Beth's stepfather answered. Sounding cranky.
Meg swallowed. “Um, may I please speak to Beth?”
“Who is this?” he asked. “Do you know what the hell time it is?”
“Um, yes, sir. I'm sorry, I—” She could hear a voice in the background—Beth's mother, probably—and her stepfather came back on.
“Just a minute,” he said.
Meg started counting, getting ready to hang up when she got to ten, but she was only on seven when Beth came on. And, once she heard her voice, Meg couldn't think of anything to say.
“Hello,” Beth said again.
“I'm sorry, I—” Not knowing what to say made her feel panicky, and she gripped the phone tightly. “I mean, did I wake you up?”
“Meg?” Beth sounded almost stunned. “I mean,
hi
. I mean—Jesus, I don't—Jesus Christ.”
“I, um—” Meg shifted slightly on the bed—which sent a serious jolt of pain through her leg. “I just—hadn't talked to you yet, so I thought—I know it's late and all—”
“Where are you?” Beth asked. “I mean, no, that's stupid. Are you—I'm
really
glad you called.”
Her friend's voice sounded so strange that Meg felt even more uncomfortable. “You're not like, going to cry, are you?” she asked. Beth
never
cried. About anything.
“No.” Beth laughed shakily. “I mean, yeah—what do you expect?”
Beth
absolutely
never cried. Never had. “Well,” Meg said uneasily, “do I call you back, or—”
“Just relax, okay?” Beth took a deep breath, then laughed a normal laugh. “You know how emotional my people are.”
Her people. Meg had to laugh, too. “What, and my people aren't?”
“Oh, yeah,” Beth said. “Famous for it.”
There was another silence, but this one wasn't as strained.
“How, um, are you feeling?” Beth asked.
Meg sighed. “I don't know. I guess I'm going to be here for a while.”
There was more silence, Beth apparently finding this conversation as difficult as she was.
“They don't even seem to know if I'm ever going to be able to walk right,” Meg said, when the dead air made her too nervous. “Only, I don't know if that means a brace, or crutches, or what.”
“Maybe they're just being cautious,” Beth said.
“I don't know. No one gives me straight answers.” She tightened her fist around the receiver. “Well. I guess it doesn't matter. It's not like I don't have plenty of other things to worry about, right?” This whole situation really,
royally
—“Did you watch the press conference?”
“Yeah,” Beth said, sounding a little hesitant. “I thought it was great.”
“What did she say?” Meg asked.
“Oh. Well, she—” Beth stopped. “She was pretty angry.”
As well she should have been.
“I just meant, she didn't
sound
the way she looked,” Beth said.
Well, how likely would
that
have been? “What was she
supposed
to do,” Meg said, “sound all defeated? Jesus, Beth!”
“I guess I thought she'd be more—frazzled,” Beth said.
Yeah, right. “Not hardly,” Meg said. “Not in
public.
”
To her surprise, Beth laughed. “I was impressed, okay? Take it easy.”
Yeah, she should probably dial it down a couple of notches. Being tense wasn't a good enough reason to start barking and snapping. “What did the pundits think?” Meg asked.
Beth laughed again. “They agreed with me.”
Meg was too tired to be amused. “What were you, a guest commentator?”
“Yeah,” Beth said. “You should have watched. I was very articulate. C-Span says they're going to ask me back.”
Knowing the media, they actually
could
have tried to get Beth to come on. Best friend of First Family victim, and all. “You weren't—were you?” Meg asked.
“Yeah,” Beth said. “In fact, I did a whole bunch of satellite hook-ups with different news shows.”
Which had to be a joke. Although, even under the best of circumstances, she couldn't always tell when Beth was kidding. It was usually safe to assume that she
was
.
“Sorry I missed it,” she said. Grumpily.
“She
was
good, Meg. Tough as anything. Saying things like ‘
beneath
contempt,' and ‘reprehensible,' and all.” Beth paused. “And even the reporters said nice things about
you
.”
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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