Long May She Reign (101 page)

Her mother nodded. “I heard that come out of my mouth, and I thought, Christ almighty, Kate, can't you just tell the kid you're proud of her?”

It wouldn't have been the world's worst idea.

“I am, by the way,” her mother said. “Immeasurably so.”

Which was nice to hear.

“But I suspect that what's really bothering her is ‘Can not, have not, and
will
not,'” her mother said.

Meg didn't have the heart to agree.

Her mother stared at her purloined cup of coffee, then put it down, where it would be out of reach. “It's the Susan McAllisters of the world I'm never going to get back.”

It was difficult to see that much pain in someone's eyes.

“More importantly, I don't think I'm ever going to get the four of you back,” her mother said softly. “Or, at any rate, the
three
of you. I suppose Neal is in his own category.”

If Neal ever figured out the extent of his capacity for power and influence, he would have to work very hard to resist the temptation to become unbearable.

“Well,” her mother said, and glanced at the door as though she might be hoping that Winifred would make a timely return.

“You have to start forgiving yourself,” Meg said. “Because, as far as I'm concerned, it's
completely
getting in the way.”

Her mother's laugh was harsh. “You can say this the very day after you bore the brunt of the fact that I happen to believe that women have an inviolable right to make private medical decisions about their own bodies?”

Meg nodded.

“I can't protect you,” her mother said. “I have more power than any one person has a right to—” She shook her head, instead of finishing the sentence. “But it's all superfluous in the end, because
I can't protect you
. Any of you.”

Granted, this was an extreme case, but had a parent ever lived who had found it humanly possible to protect his or her children completely? Not anything she felt like pointing out right now—but, still.

There was another knock on the door, and it was admirable that her mother
didn't
swear, before she went over to answer it. But this time, it was Dr. Brooks, along with her primary hand and knee surgeons from Washington.

“Oh, good,” her mother said, and let them in.

So, she was examined and prodded and questioned, while her mother paid very close attention, even though Winifred and Linda and Saunderson, the deputy National Security Advisor, each came in and out more than once, with various updates and requests.

Then Frank stood in the doorway, and nodded.

Her mother nodded back, and got up. “Thank you,” she said. “I know it's inconvenient, but can you have each of them hold in place for a few minutes, and I'll come right down?”

As he left to arrange that, Meg raised her eyebrows.

“I can't not thank them in person,” her mother said.

“Kyle and Paula?” Meg asked.

“And your friend who doesn't like me very much,” her mother said, giving her a fast kiss on the top of the head. “I'll be back momentarily.”

Her father—who was just about to leave the White House and head out to Andrews—called while her mother was still downstairs, and it was far more pleasant to spend time on the phone with him, than it was to listen to Dr. Brooks and the others talk to one another about possible rotational malalignment, the dorsal midline, whether they should proceed with percutaneous k-wire fixation, how they felt about the AP and oblique views they had seen, and if she should have a tomogram, and maybe a CT scan, too.

If she spent too much more god-damn time with doctors, she was going to be informally qualified to practice medicine herself.

When her mother came back upstairs, her only comment was that her conversations had been confidential, and that if any of them wanted Meg to know the details, she was sure that they would share them later on.

There was some debate about whether they should go to the hospital so that the doctors could do more precise tests and radiographic studies, and the general feeling seemed to be that her North Adams doctors could drive down and meet the Presidential party at the hospital in Pittsfield—which, Meg assumed, was designed to spare her from having to revisit the scene of the attack.

But, god-damn it, she really didn't need to be coddled that way. She would prefer not to have more tests, but if she needed them, she wanted to be someplace where she knew people, and since all area medical facilities were put on alert whenever the President left the White House, there was no need to ask whether it would be secure enough.

Meg looked at her mother. “I think you should see where I've been going all these months, and meet Vicky and Cheryl and everyone, too.”

Her mother picked up a brush from the dresser and started running it through her hair, which seemed affectionate, but was also probably designed to fix whatever mess was there, as opposed to complaining about it later. “I'm not sure if I'm comfortable having you go back so soon.”

Meg pointed towards the hallway, where Dr. Brooks and the surgeons were waiting. “You know they're dying to go do that tomography or whatever.”

Her mother sighed. “I don't know if I want you to go through
that
today, either.”

She wasn't excited by the concept herself, but if she had to do it, she would rather get it out of the way—accompanied by at least one of her parents, instead of having to spend the weekend dreading the prospect. “I think we should just go,” she said. “And afterwards, you can stand out front and give a nice little statement, and make that lady twice as crazy by not even
mentioning
yesterday.”

Her mother shook her head, but she was also smiling. “There are moments, Meg, when I think you are a woman after Nero's heart.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. A woman after
Linda's
heart, more likely.

“And if I haven't mentioned it yet,” her mother said, “I really dislike your shirt.”

Christ, it had taken her long enough to say so. Meg grinned. “Beth gave it to me.”

“Well, as you know, I love Beth, but I despise the shirt,” her mother said.

Odds were, her father was going to hate it twice as much as her mother did. Meg took a purple and white pinstriped Oxford shirt from her closet, and after she shrugged into it, she let her mother button it up for her, and help her put the sling back on.

“Are you sure about this?” her mother asked, looking at her intently. “Bob and the others could come back here on Monday, and do the tests, then.”

No doubt. “If you have enough time, I'd rather go today,” Meg said.

“Okay, then,” her mother said, and held out her cane for her. “Let's take a ride.”

*   *   *

THE SEATS IN
the Presidential limo were so comfortable that she was tempted to curl up and take a nap. Her mother looked exhausted, too, and maybe the best decision would have been not to bother going to the hospital at all, and just have the motorcade drive around aimlessly while they both sacked out for a couple of hours.

“Did
you
sleep okay last night?” Meg asked.

Her mother smiled faintly. “I don't think I can remember the last time I slept well, Meg.”

Odds were, she hadn't had a night of
uninterrupted
sleep since the Inauguration, and maybe not since before the campaign. Her staff was under orders not to disturb them during this drive, unless it was an emergency, but, of course, that was no guarantee that the phone wouldn't start ringing.

“What?” Meg asked, aware that her mother was sitting there, staring at nothing.

Her mother shook her head. “I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”

Dark thoughts, no doubt. “Sunshine and daisies and little bunnies gamboling about?” Meg asked.

“Naturally,” her mother said, but her smile was still weak.

Did she want to pursue that—or just let it drop? “What?” Meg asked.

Her mother shook her head again, and reached for the top folder on the nearest stack of briefing materials.

Perpetual avoidance got tiresome. “
What?
” Meg asked, less patiently.

It didn't seem as though her mother was going to answer, but then she let out her breath. “A lot of what you've been told about my mother isn't true,” she said.

That was out of left field. Meg frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her mother flipped the folder open. “Nothing. I'm sorry. I was thinking aloud.”

Swell. Then, why bring it up? “You've never told me much of anything,” Meg said. “Other than what happened to her.” Whoa, was there some hidden, unsavory secret there? Except, how likely was that, in a world where journalists and bloggers managed to find out damned near everything about people, no matter how personal or obscure the information was? “A riding accident
is
what happened to her, right?”

Her mother nodded, using a silver pen to make a note in the margin of one of the pages.

“You always never think aloud,” Meg said. Too damned cautious for that.

“Well, I just—” Her mother stopped. “She wasn't—I'm sorry. Forget I mentioned it.”

Fine. Whatever. Nothing new there. Meg looked at her cast, noticing that her hand had started throbbing. Badly.

Her mother sighed. “You're right. That isn't fair.” She closed her eyes for a minute, then opened them and put her pen away. “I don't know. From what I gather, apparently the novelty of having me wore off pretty quickly. I mean, I don't want to sound—for all I know, that would have changed, with time. She was very young.”

Twenty-six, when she died. Possibly twenty-seven. And it was beyond strange that she didn't actually know which answer was right. That none of this had ever been discussed.

And all the more unnerving to see her mother looking so unsure of herself. Vulnerable. Her face very pale, in comparison to her bright red suit. “It was an accident,” Meg said cautiously. “She didn't mean for it to happen.”

Her mother nodded. “No, of course not. After all, I was
there
. She fell right in front of me.”

Which had to have done some serious damage to the sweet, happy five-year-old she'd seen in photographs, who looked so different from the thin, forlorn child of only a year later—and for that matter, the rather remote, sad-eyed adult.

“She was a reckless person,” her mother said. “Reckless with her possessions, reckless with me, reckless with the damn horse. Too often, I think I was a plaything, whom it was easier to leave with Maud, when there was something more interesting to do.”

Maud, being her very British nanny. Governess, to be precise. “But, you loved her,” Meg said. Or, so she had always heard.

Her mother nodded. “I adored her. And my father did, too. But—well, I gather that she was a certain kind of Upper East Side woman. Too rich, too spoiled, and too bored.”

So far, this conversation felt utterly bewildering. Or maybe she was just tired, and not following the connections properly. Hell, maybe they were both too drained to make sense.

Her mother swallowed. “I'm not saying that she didn't love me. I'm sure she did. But, on the whole, she wanted to live her life, and I could be so very inconvenient, I suppose. And she had the luxury of being able to hand me off to someone else, at the slightest whim, so that she could go away and do what she wanted to do.”

Finally. A little bit of illumination. “That's not who you are,” Meg said quietly.

Her mother looked right at her. “Isn't it? I'll grant you that it may manifest differently, but in the end, it's really very much the same thing. Misplaced priorities, and an inexcusable self-absorption.”

Maybe. Meg returned the steady gaze. “How many people would you, personally, have been willing to kill to get me back?”

“How high can you count?” her mother asked.

Meg shook her head. “I don't mean cruise missiles, or calling up the 82nd Airborne, or something. I mean,
you
, personally.”

“How high can you count?” her mother asked, never breaking eye contact for a second.

Jesus. It was maybe more than she wanted to know, but it was also something that only a person who loved her desperately would say. Meg looked down at her cast and tried to move the one finger which still had never been broken, feeling a searing shock of pain go through her, shooting all the way up to her shoulder and neck. She didn't need to be told the answer to this question, but— “Can a person who isn't ruthless win the Presidency?”

The cold “can not, have not, and will not” expression moved across her face, and then her mother shook her head. “No, I don't think so,” she said. “And even if it were possible, he or she wouldn't be strong enough for the job.”

Exactly what she had already assumed, so Meg just nodded.

“Do you want to know something I've never even told your father?” her mother asked.

Hard to believe that there could be any secrets
left
.

“It
was
easier because it was you,” her mother said. “As opposed to Steven or Neal.”

Well, great. The truth finally came out. Parents weren't supposed to have favorites, and now her mother was admitting that she did. She had always suspected it; now, she knew for sure.

Her mother reached out to touch her shoulder. “Which is not to say that it was in any way easy, but simply that it was easier.”

Meg nodded, and shrugged the hand away. “Because of my being more difficult to be around.”

Her mother shook her head. “Because of your being so much more likely to survive.”

Or less likely to be
missed
.

“You're even tougher than I am, Meg, and I'm so tough that I frighten myself,” her mother said.