Long May She Reign (61 page)

She was sure they wanted to argue about that, too, but the hospital commander was coming over with a large entourage, and they all ended up clustered in the middle of the lobby, in front of the statue of the corpsman helping a wounded soldier. But, the good thing about shaking hands with people at a military hospital was that they were
accustomed
to amputees, and the like, and didn't hesitate to reach out for the nearest still-working limb, thereby avoiding any awkwardness. The lobby itself seemed more like an atrium than a hospital, with plants and huge windows, and a long row of flags—all of which made an excellent backdrop, for statements and impromptu press briefings.

The operative word for this one, though,
was
brief, because her mother did little more than smile, shake some hands, pose for a few stills with the hospital command structure, and make remarks about what a fine facility it was, and how pleased she was with the wonderful treatment she and her family had received there in the past, and that she had the utmost confidence in the surgeons who were going to be performing her daughter's surgery, and so forth.

When it was Meg's turn to say something, she went with nothing more than a modestly enigmatic, “Farewell to college joys, we sail at break of day.” The allusion went past a few of the reporters—and some of the White House staff members—who all seemed to think that she was trying, and failing, to be profound, but everyone else in the lobby, especially the ones wearing uniforms, was very much—well—
on board
.

“I appreciate your resisting the urge to be at all colorful,” her mother said, once they were on an elevator, on their way to the Presidential Suite.

Meg just shrugged, although she was quite amused by herself. And, really, if her mother hadn't taken an unsolicited poke at her earlier, she wouldn't have poked back.

Except, when was the last time her mother had criticized her—about
anything
? So, in a way, maybe it was a good sign that she'd felt as though she could do so. And if the elevator had been less crowded, she would almost certainly have said something to that effect.

Meg glanced up at her—since she had now been forced to sit in a wheelchair, on direct orders from Dr. Brooks and Dr. Steiner. “Are there people you need to visit here?”

Since being elected—and while she was in the Senate, for that matter, especially when she was one of the members of the Armed Services committee—the President had spent a couple of hours every week visiting veterans and active-duty soldiers at various hospitals. Sometimes, she just went to Walter Reed, but usually, she came over to the NNMC, too, especially when there were any newly-arrived injured soldiers from overseas incidents. As far as Meg knew, she had yet to miss a week, unless she was out of the country, or they were on one of their rare Massachusetts vacations. Also, it was safe to assume, there had been a notorious thirteen-day period in the not too distant past, during which everything non-essential had been suspended. But, as a rule, she went so often that the press had gotten bored long ago and stopped covering the visits extensively—much to her relief. Neal tagged along with her, more often than not, which probably had something to do with his intense interest in all things military.

“Unfortunately, yes,” her mother said. “But, obviously, I won't do that until later, or maybe tomorrow.”

When Meg had once asked her why the visits were such an unbreakable part of her ever-chaotic schedule, her mother's grim response had been, “
I'm
the one who put them on the ground.” Or on the ship, or underwater, or up in the air, depending upon the situation, although predominantly, lately—luckily—it had been things like accidents during training exercises and routine humanitarian missions, for the most part. Which was still awful, but at least the recent casualties hadn't resulted from a full-fledged
war
. In any case, she made as many hospital visits as possible—and had gone to more than a few funerals, too.

Naturally, the same policy was in place for police officers and firefighters and EMTs and all of the other usual suspects.

“Who's here right now that you're planning to see?” Meg asked.

Her mother closed her eyes for the split second it generally took for her to retrieve her massive internal briefing book. “The kids from the CH-53. Some land-mine casualties. IEDs. The people who are still here from the engine room fire.”

The usual depressing array. “Let's stop by a few rooms, then,” Meg said.

Her father shook his head. “I don't think that's a good idea, Meg. I'd rather get you through your pre-op testing, and then have you settle in and rest.”

How many damned times could doctors repeat the exact same tests in one week? “We'll just say hi.” She looked at her mother uncertainly. “I mean, you know, if you think people wouldn't mind.”

“That's not the issue at all. I'm sure they'd be very pleased to see you. Your father and I would just prefer that you—” Her mother stopped, and looked at her closely. “Is this something you think you should do, or something you
want
to do?”

Both answers had some validity. “I want to,” Meg said.

“Okay, then.” Her mother glanced at Frank, who was standing in the corner, behind a couple of agents. “Please tell Brannigan—” who was one of the official White House photographers— “that there are to be absolutely
no
photos of Meg, and none of me, either, unless someone specifically requests one for his or her family.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the hospital commander. “As low key as possible, Admiral.”

As he nodded, too, Meg noticed that her father had been
very
quiet during all of this. Much too quiet. And maybe he was mad at
her
this time, instead of just being angry at her mother.

“It's good not to feel like an invalid,” she said to him.

He nodded. “I know. But, I just—you're
already
so worn out.”

Yeah. She was. And it was incredibly discouraging to be someone who had no physical stamina anymore.

Nevertheless.

They ended up making about a dozen hit-and-run visits, and since it was Sunday afternoon, a lot of patients had visitors in their rooms already—all of whom were surprised as hell to have the President, and her tragically-troubled daughter—and far-too-subdued husband—pop in to say hello. In a couple of cases, there were medals or service promotions for her mother to present, but every single sailor or Marine they visited wanted a photo with the President—and most of them asked for Meg and her father to be in the picture, too.

Her mother had perfected a very crisp salute, but Meg was caught off-guard when some of them saluted
her
, too, and wasn't sure whether it was appropriate to respond with a clumsy movement of her splinted hand, or if she should just nod politely. In a subtle way, her parents kept an eye on her the entire time, but in her father's case, it was clearly because he was worried, while her mother's attention seemed to be more along the lines of a distinctly detached appraisal.

It was awkward when they got to a guy whose left hand was gone, because Meg didn't know what to shake—and he didn't, either. Finally, she bumped her left fist against the back of his right fist, and he grinned.

“Semper Fi, ma'am,” he said, and she grinned back.

They ended up talking for a few minutes, mainly because the guy's mother was pretty much
grilling
her mother about whether her son's unit should have been sent off on such a dangerous peacekeeping mission in the first place, while her mother nodded, and listened—and then gave a sympathetic, but detailed, explanation of exactly why she felt the deployment had been necessary, and how indebted they all were to the young men and women who had participated in the operation on the country's behalf.

The guy was acutely embarrassed by this, but Meg just shook her head.

“Parents get pretty upset about their children,” she said in a low voice.

He nodded as though he considered that the understatement of the millennium. Then he motioned in the direction of her hand. “You don't go and do that, I bet a whole bunch more of us'd be out there fighting somewhere.”

God, what a thought. Although, yeah, her mother might have had to make some kind of military move, ultimately, in response to her daughter's violent disappearance, and unrecovered body. “She wouldn't put boots on the ground just because something bad happened to
me
,” Meg said. Unless it had been state-supported, in which case she would have had to take action, and maybe—but it
hadn't
been, and—Jesus, what would it be like to be responsible for so many people's lives on a daily basis? For the welfare of an entire
country
? “I, um, I don't think she'd risk other people's children that way.” Just her own children. She glanced over at her mother who seemed, improbably, to be winning over
his
mother. Or, at any rate, easing her mind a little. But she was, after all, notoriously good with strangers.

The guy lifted his stump. “Think it's going to matter? To girls?”

He looked like he
might
be nineteen. Barely out of high school. Quite possibly not a whole lot more experienced with the opposite sex than she was. She raised her splint. “Think it's going to matter to boys?” Was it going to matter to Jack, that there were—well—
things
she couldn't do as skillfully as she once might have?

The guy obviously thought of an instant response to that, but he lowered his head, instead.

“Go ahead.” She checked to make sure that their parents were out of earshot. “I'm hard to offend.”

“Well, um,” he flushed, “
I'd
do you, in a minute.”

Okay, she was a little bit offended, but it was also funny. “Me, too,” she said. “For what it's worth.”

And he looked pleased, so it had been the right response.

By the time they got to the Presidential Suite, she was so exhausted that all she wanted to do was sleep. Which probably proved that her father's original instincts had been correct.

Her mother looked at her, thoughtfully, while they waited for the pre-op doctors to finish setting up for her pre-op tests.

“What?” Meg asked.

“You were very good with them,” her mother said.

Meg shrugged, tired enough to feel peckish. “Well, you've been running me out there since I was about
four
.”

That one must have stung, but after a tiny pause, her mother just nodded. “I daresay I have. But you were still good with them.”

In the old days, her father would already have stepped in to tell her to be more respectful, but he looked away without commenting.

Meg was—maybe—going to apologize, or at least use being tired as an excuse, but the medical people were back now, and in the confusion of having blood-work done, and her knee examined, and everything, it was easier to pretend it hadn't happened.

Of course, by now, they were all experts at pretending that various things hadn't happened.

And that they weren't upset about them.

By the time the doctors were finished, and she had gotten into the bed in the main bedroom suite, Trudy showed up with Steven and Neal. If any of them noticed that she and her parents were being a touch more distant with one another than usual, no one said so. Besides, Steven hated hospitals so much that he was in a surly mood, and her father and Trudy immediately started running interference, by arranging to have snacks brought in, and tuning in a movie on the plasma television.

They got through the evening in relative, if not ebullient, harmony, and since they both had school the next day, Trudy took her brothers home fairly early. Her father went downstairs to see them off—or, more likely, make sure they got to the car without anyone shooting or assaulting them, and she and her mother were alone in the room together.

“Do you need anything?” her mother asked. “Are you hungry?”

Meg shook her head.

“How's the pain?” her mother asked. “Would you like them to bring you something?”

Meg shook her head.

Her mother nodded, refilled the water glass on her bedside table, and then, after a moment of mutual silence, went over to sit behind the executive desk across the room, scanning some of the messages and other papers her staff had been bringing in for the past few hours. She started to pick up the telephone, hesitated, and put it down.

“I'm sorry I tweaked you about being quotable,” she said.

They were all angry about a hell of a lot more than that, but yeah, that crack had probably been today's Fort Sumter. Meg shrugged. “It wasn't a big deal.”

“You just—you need to lower your profile, Meg,” her mother said. “Not the other way around. This past week has been—well, that's all I meant.”

What choice did she have? Anonymity would be
swell
. And, like it or not, the odds were against her ever having it again. “
I
didn't assign Susan McAllister to me,” Meg said. For that matter, she hadn't made any chemical bomb threats to herself.

Hadn't run for President and put her whole god-damn family at risk, either.

Her mother nodded. “I know. I'm extremely sorry that that happened.”

Good. She should be.

After another painfully quiet minute, her mother started returning phone calls, speaking in a very low voice, and taking rapid notes on a legal pad.

“How often do you go out in public without a bulletproof vest?” Meg asked, when she was between calls.

Her mother looked guilty.

She already knew the answer to this, but— “Did you wear one today?”

Her mother shook her head.