Long May She Reign (6 page)

For her knee, mostly they did range-of-motion stuff, and very few weight-bearing exercises. Like, she would sit on an examining table, with her leg hanging over the side—painful in and of itself—and Edith would make her raise it. Or she would lie down on the table and try to straighten her leg, tighten her quadriceps, or flex and extend her foot. Sometimes, she would have to lift a light weight or pull against some Thera-Band, which hurt so much that it was always a struggle to keep from slugging whoever was asking her to do it. Instead, she would grip the edge of the table with her good hand, her teeth pressed against her lower lip, attempting not to bite right through it.

Once, she'd had a male physical therapist—Edith was home sick, maybe—and he'd been so critical about the “results of her therapy thus far,” exhorting her to “dig in,” that she'd told him to get the fuck away from her, or she'd god-damn well make him regret it.

Since then, she'd always had female therapists, she'd noticed. Although the guy's gender hadn't been nearly as much of a problem as the Nazi-coach attitude.

Not that men in their thirties were her favorite people these days. Particularly tall, muscular Caucasian men with dark hair.

Be interesting to see how that PT guy would feel if some son-of-a-bitch had kicked
his
god-damn knee apart.

And then stood there, smiling faintly, afterwards. Making her literally
crawl
down that filthy hallway, back to the room with the metal bed, handcuffed the whole time, and—Christ, talk about degrading. Even among the many bad memories, that one ranked pretty high.

It had been a few months after she got back before one of her orthopedic surgeons had told her, hesitantly, that such a severe traumatic dislocation of the knee could actually have been fatal, because if there had been significant vascular injuries—in other words, if the bastard had managed to shred her arteries, along with the ligaments, cartilage, and nerves—she probably would have bled to death. No one had said anything at the time, but for several weeks, they had also been very concerned about the prospect of having to amputate her leg, because of possible necrosis or some damned thing. Apparently, her instinct in the mountains, to try and force the joint back into place and rig up an incompetent splint with sticks might have saved her life.

During physical therapy—usually at the beginning, while she still had some energy—they also made her do weight-resistance and strengthening exercises with her good arm and leg, to “keep them well-toned.” Like she really gave a damn. But she did all of the stupid repetitions, allowed them to shoot the dumb electro-stimulus and ultrasound stuff into her, got grimly into the White House swimming pool when they asked her to do slow-motion versions of the same movements in the water, let them strap ice or heat packs all over her, afterwards—oh, yeah, it was a great way to spend a few hours.

Day, after
day
, after god-damn day.

Bright and early the next morning, she sat in the little physical therapy room which had been set up near the White House Medical Office on the ground floor. Personally, she didn't see why she couldn't do it in the family quarters—maybe up in the third-floor gym, or in the little room where President Eisenhower used to paint landscapes, and where the current occupant of the Oval Office got her hair done—but she had a feeling that Dr. Brooks wanted the sessions to be held downstairs just to make her leave the second floor more often.

With luck, it
wasn't
because the President was afraid that someone might notice a faint scent of ammonia in the tiny second-floor cosmetology room, and suspect that all of that thick auburn hair was actually, deep down, getting pretty god-damned grey.

“How is it today?” Edith asked, unfastening the knee brace, one Velcro strap at a time.

It was ice cream in the spring. “It's okay,” Meg said evenly, trying to prepare herself not to wince as Edith helped her ease her leg over the edge of the table.

It
hurt
. It hurt a lot. Fuck. She pressed her teeth together.

Edith smiled at her. “You're making much more progress than you think you are.”

Well, that was good news, seeing as she was shooting for the Olympics and all. Edith was moving her knee around gently, and Meg clenched all of her muscles—she was supposed to try and keep her leg relaxed—waiting for it to be over.

“Do you want to try now?” Edith asked.

More than she wanted world peace. Meg set her teeth into her lower lip, and then raised her leg so that it was mostly straight—she was still at least twenty degrees short of full extension—which seemed to take an incredibly long time. Then, very slowly, she lowered it. She was supposed to do
ten
of these. Christ.

“Okay?” Edith asked.

Oh, yeah. It was a day at the beach. An afternoon in the Green Monster Seats. A devil-may-care night gallivanting on the town. Meg nodded. She was supposed to concentrate on lowering her leg as slowly as she had lifted it—and not arching her back, and not holding her breath—but mostly, she had to focus on not groaning or crying.

“Let's try a weight,” Edith said, when she was done.

Meg nodded, not looking at her.

Lifting the weight—was it three pounds, maybe? five?—hurt so much that she couldn't stop shaking.

“Only four more,” Edith said, her voice encouraging.

Meg finished the set, trembling so hard that the whole table seemed to be vibrating. The whole
room
. She brushed her sleeve—surreptitiously, she hoped; yeah, right—across her eyes. “Should I do a couple more?” she asked, hearing her voice quiver. “Sets, I mean.”

Edith looked uneasy, moving a blond wisp of hair back behind her ear. “If you think you can.”

Of course she couldn't. But, then again, she
did
have those Olympics looming ever closer. Wanted to nail her compulsories and such.

“Take your time,” Edith said.

Well, true, it wasn't like she had any place to go. So, she pushed herself through ten more leg lifts, but when she started the last set, the pain was so severe that she felt sick to her stomach. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to continue. To keep the third of a glass of orange juice and half piece of raisin toast she'd had for breakfast down in her stomach, where they belonged.

“Good job,” Edith said, when she was finished. “A month ago, you couldn't even do five of those.”

Gee, maybe the
New England Journal of Medicine
would write her up.
JAMA
. Meg hung on to the table, out of breath, her t-shirt feeling damp against her back. Yeah, that was progress, all right. A tiny little weight, and she felt like passing out.

After working on her hamstrings, and getting her to tighten and relax her quads for a while, Edith strapped her up with ice, spread a light fleece blanket over her, and left the room.

Meg sank back against the pillows at the end of the examining table. Jesus. Now, she would probably go upstairs and sleep for the rest of the day.

She was dozing, right there on the cold, thinly-padded metal table, when there was a knock on the half-open door, and Dr. Brooks came in. Technically, he was a Navy Admiral, and they were probably supposed to address him that way, but he, and her family, all preferred “Dr. Brooks.” He was such a kindly and sympathetic man that she always made sure not to be surly, or swear in front of him—no matter how much she felt like it.

He smiled at her in his grandfatherly way. “Edith tells me that you did extremely well today.”

Yeah, she couldn't be prouder. Meg nodded. “I lifted five whole pounds.” Or possibly only three.

“Progressing to weights is a very big step,” he said.

Unh-hunh.

“Getting a little more movement in the hand, too,” he said.

Unh-hunh. Emphasis on, a little. She nodded politely.

“We'd like to start weaning you off that, over the next couple of months—” he indicated her cane—“and see how you do with just the brace.”

Meg looked down at the bulky ice packs. “So, I'll put my full weight on it?”

Dr. Brooks nodded. “It'll improve your mobility, and should accelerate your progress.”

No point in asking how much it was going to hurt. “Will I always need a brace?” she asked. “Just to walk?”

“Well, the extent of—” He hesitated. “I think you're coming along very well so far, Meg.”

None of the medical people ever directly answered her questions, especially when bad news was involved. Meg looked at her ice packs. Hard to believe that tennis and skiing had once been such major parts of her life. Two of her favorite reasons for getting up in the morning. And now, presumably,
walking
was going to be an achievement. “I, um—I'm having a lot of pain, sir,” she said. “Lately.”

He frowned. “The ibuprofen isn't doing anything for you?”

It probably wasn't making things worse, but that was about it. She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Well, why don't we put you back on the Tylenol-3 for a while,” he said. “I'd like to avoid the stronger medications for now, if possible.”

So much for more Percocet or Vicodin. Ultram, Hydrocodone, Tramadol Hydrochloride, Darvon, Lortab, Dilaudid, Fioricet, Voltaren, Toradol, Anaprox, Lodine, OxyContin. She knew all their damned names, at this point. But, Meg nodded. The last thing she needed was a trip to Hazelden or someplace. Not that she was an addictive type, but Christ, chronic pain was a whole different ballgame.

Dr. Brooks picked up one of the ice packs, checking for swelling, maybe. He examined her knee, frowned again, and then replaced the ice pack. “Is it unbearable?” he asked, his expression noticeably more concerned.

Well, it hadn't
killed
her yet. Although not, she suspected, for lack of trying. “I guess not,” she said. Doubtfully.

“Well, I think I'll give you something stronger for the next week or so,” he said, “and we'll see how you respond, okay?”

She wanted to nod eagerly, but that seemed too close to the reaction an outright junkie would have.

“I'm also going to have one of the orthopedists come over later today, and give you a look,” he said.

Christ. That sounded ominous. Meg looked at him nervously. “Is something wrong?”

Dr. Brooks shook his head. “No. I just think it's a good idea if we stay on top of things.”

Which didn't
sound
all that good.

“There's no need for you to be alarmed, Meg,” he said, with his very kind smile. “You know how careful we like to be around here.”

And how.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

None that he was going to be able to answer. In all likelihood, she would need a damned theologian, or something, for
that
. So, she shook her head.

“Can we get anything for you? Some juice, maybe?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Well.” He smiled at her again. “Edith will be back in a minute to get rid of all that ice, and then I'll send Carlotta in, so you can finish up for today.”

Meg nodded. All she had to do now, was stay awake that long.

When she finally got back upstairs, she went right to bed. After calling the switchboard and asking them not to put any calls through, and unplugging her phone again, for good measure.

It was just past seven o'clock when a knock on the door woke her up. She looked around the darkened room, tired and confused, as Vanessa yawned and stretched next to her.

The knock came again, very quietly.

“Who is it,” she said.

“I just, uh—” Steven cleared his throat. “Dad said to ask if you want dinner.”

Did she? It seemed like an inordinately complicated decision.

“Meg?” he said through the door.

She sighed, and reached over to turn on the light. “I don't know. I mean, you can come in, if you want.”

He opened the door, walking partway into the room.

“So, uh,” he stared down at his high-tops, “how you doing?”

Sometimes she forgot that all of this must be pretty hellish for her brothers, too. Okay,
most
of the time. Suddenly, she wasn't really part of their lives anymore. Not the way she had been.

She sat up, her neck very stiff. “I'm all right. I was just—reading.” Not that there was an open book nearby, but she knew he wouldn't contradict her. “How was school?”

Steven shrugged, reaching out to pat Vanessa, who swiped at him and jumped off the bed. “Friendly, that cat,” he said.

“Fickle,” Meg said. “How was basketball?”

“Okay.” He glanced at her for a second. “Got a game tomorrow.”

“Well—that should be good,” Meg said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Or, at least,
interested
.

He nodded, glancing at her again, and then away.

Oh, Christ. He never asked any of them—never had—but she knew that he loved it when people came to his games. That he played better. “Steven, I—” She sighed. “I get really tired.”

“Hunh?” He looked up. “I mean, yeah, I know. That you need to rest and all.”

“Yeah,” she said.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, still not meeting her eyes. “Do I tell Dad you don't feel good, or—”

She sighed again. “I don't know.” Was she hungry? No. “I should probably eat.”

He nodded.

Jesus, if the thought of
dinner
, just down the hall, safe inside the White House, was daunting, how could he expect her to go to a crowded gymnasium and watch a noisy basketball game?

He headed for the door. “I'll tell Dad you'll be there in a while.”

Feeling guilty, she took a deep breath. “Steven. I
want
to go to your game. But—it's kind of scary.”