Long May She Reign (74 page)

Not that she was envious, of course.

She also got caught up on her email, finding—among other things—short “so, how was the surgery?” sorts of messages from Susan, Juliana,
and
Mary Elizabeth. As well as a couple of off-hand, if probing, ones from Hannah Goldman—whose article was supposed to run soon, but who still had lots of questions—which Meg politely deflected, forwarding both the originals and her responses on to Maureen and Anthony, just in case.

After vacillating for a while, she emailed Nathan at Duke, and Zachary at Penn, to tell them she'd gone to the game and seen their former teammates—and went ahead and wrote a similar one to Alison, at Bowdoin. She heard back from all of them within hours, so maybe she
did
still have a few high school friends. Nathan and Alison were both on break, too, but Nathan was heading off to some baseball tournament, and Alison was on her way to Cancun.

While checking
his
email one morning, Steven—whose home page was currently set to a disreputable, ever-updating celebrity gossip and scandal site—had come across a somewhat grainy photo of her standing near Paresky with Jack—and promptly dubbed him “Malibu Bobby.” She found that insulting, on Jack's behalf, although when she pronounced the name aloud, the Bostonian in her was amused in spite of herself.

Her mother spent the entire weekend with them—interspersed with long meetings over in Laurel, and she was also able to come up for two of the four remaining nights. The second time, it was so late that Meg was the only one still awake, lying on the sun porch couch, watching C-Span, when she walked in from the helipad.

The stewards fixed her a late supper, and Meg kept her company while she ate. They didn't talk much—it seemed like the better part of wisdom, but after the stewards cleared the table and she had made, and received, a few phone calls, her mother saw the checkers board Neal had left out and brought it over. They played three increasingly competitive games—her mother taking two of them, and then switched to a quick round of Battleship, which Meg won swiftly and decisively.

“Two out of three?” her mother asked, poised to set up her ships again.

Meg shook her head. “It's better with us each winning an equal number of games.”

Her mother nodded. “Yes, it probably is.”

Definitely
was.

So, they went back to the couch and watched
Bringing Up Baby
, instead, although neither of them was hungry enough to eat very much of the popcorn the stewards served. Her mother must have had a really long day, because she fell asleep during a noisy sequence of dueling leopard and loon calls, and didn't wake up again until the jail scene.

When the movie was over, her mother yawned. “Pretty late,” she said.

Heading on to three. Which meant that the President really needed to get some sleep. But, once again, it was a perfect chance to have a thus-far neglected conversation. And this particular topic was pretty important. “I know you're tired,” Meg said, “but, um, could I talk to you about something, first?”

A question which had to inspire dread, but her mother nodded.

“I think, um, I maybe need to see a doctor,” Meg said.

Her mother was already on her feet.

“No, that's not what I meant,” Meg said quickly. “I, uh—” She glanced around to make sure they were alone. “A gynecologist.”

Her mother looked puzzled. “Didn't you see her a few months ago?”

Meg nodded. “Yeah. I just—I need to go again.”

“Oh.” Her mother took that in, also checked to establish that they were the only two in the room, and then sat back down. “I see. Of course. We'll have to—yes. That is what we'll do, then. For you, I mean.”

Amazing how inarticulate the Leader of the Free World could be.

“Is there—a problem?” her mother asked.

Meg shook her head. It might be easier to go to the health center at school—Susan or Juliana would probably be willing to keep her company—but the odds of such a visit
not
leaking somehow, complete with embarrassing personal details, were minuscule.

“Are you—I mean, I know it's none of my—” Her mother stopped. “Gosh.”

Well, now, this was a whole lot of fun, wasn't it. “Could I maybe go up here?” Meg asked. “So it can be private?”

Her mother nodded. “Of course. I'll arrange for her—” She and her mother shared the same gynecologist, a USAF Colonel— “to meet with you tomorrow, before you all come back to the city.”

“Thanks,” Meg said, and reached for her cane—Dr. Brooks had agreed that she could start trying to work her way up from the crutch—so she could go down to her room.

Her mother cleared her throat. “This is maybe something we should discuss?”

Ideally, no. Ideally,
never
. Meg shook her head. “I sort of just want to talk to Dr. Holtzman, if that's okay with you.”

“Of course, but—I think it's what mothers and daughters do,” her mother said, hesitantly.

Maybe. She'd have to ask around. Or, at least, ask Beth. “You mean, since we have a completely conventional relationship?” Meg asked.

A touch of pink came into her mother's cheeks, but she nodded.

Jesus. Talk about the blind leading the blind. Two people who had
no idea
how normal mothers might behave. The night she'd gotten her period for the first time, her mother had been down in Washington, and while they had—for lack of a better word—consulted, on the phone a couple of times, mainly, her father had had to handle it, because Trudy had already gone home for the night. He had been tactful and discreet, but they had both been pretty self-conscious about the whole thing.

It was very, very quiet in the room—in a way that it was
never
quiet in the White House, where there always seemed to be an underlying hum of energy, somehow.

Which was one of the nicer aspects of Camp David.

“Am I allowed to ask whether this is preemptive, or—” her mother hesitated again— “after-the-fact?”

“You're allowed to ask,” Meg said.

And
that
hung in the air.

“You know,” her mother said, after a minute. “There's no question that I'm not the easiest parent in the world, but on occasion, the argument could be made that you're not the easiest kid, either.”

A year ago, that would have offended her; now, there was something calming about being criticized. But, Meg shrugged defensively, anyway.

Her mother folded her hands in her lap. “This young man Steven has been teasing you about is the same one who sent the flowers?”

That was a harmless enough question, so Meg nodded.

“The one in your psychology class?” her mother asked.

Meg nodded.

It was quiet again, and this time, the utter silence made her nervous.

“He's not even
from
Malibu,” Meg said. “He's from Santa Monica.”

Her mother nodded. “You're right, that's entirely different.”

Well, okay, maybe not.

“Obviously, you already know this,” her mother said, looking very uncomfortable, “but, even when you're using other forms of protection, condoms are still—”

“Got the memo on that, yeah,” Meg said.

And then, there was more deadly, deadly silence.

“For what it's worth?” her mother said.

Meg looked over.

“Loving the person really does matter,” her mother said.

This was in danger of getting
way
too personal.

There had been plenty of public rumors about her mother's sexual history over the years—at least ninety percent of which Meg assumed were false, especially the ones involving women, but she really had almost no concept of how many people her mother had dated, or—this topic could easily explode into more than either of them could bear.

But now, she was curious. “Um, did you? Love the person? Your first time, I mean?”

“Yes. Very much.” Her mother smiled weakly. “But, I made the mistake of believing that it was mutual, and—well. I was not correct.”

Ouch. “So, you, uh—” Christ, this was just no fun at all. “This was before Dad?” Meg asked.

“Well, obviously, that goes without saying.” Her mother gave her an uneasy look. “I mean, that
is
obvious, isn't it?”

In hindsight, yes, so she nodded. The idea that either of her parents had ever had an affair was too horrible to contemplate—and highly unlikely, given the long-term inability of the rapacious press to find any convincing evidence of such a thing.

Not that they hadn't tried.

There was still a bunch of questions she wanted to ask—how old she had been, whether she thought she'd waited too long—or not long enough, whether she'd been—well—
disappointed
by the actuality of it, if the guy had been upset about her lack of experience the first time—but, if her mother was willing to tell her such revealing things, then it wouldn't be sporting for her to refuse to do the same, so— “I hate this conversation,” she said.

Her mother nodded. “It's not my favorite, either. But, at least it's a
normal
bad conversation.”

So it was.

42

THE GYNECOLOGIST ENDED
up giving her three months of birth control pills, and a crisp professional rundown on potential side effects, sexually-transmitted diseases, and various risky practices she should avoid, and how to protect herself, if she chose not to do so. For the most part, Meg nodded, mumbled her assent where it seemed to be required, and avoided making eye contact as much as possible.

That night, when they were all back in Washington, her mother did nothing more than pause by her room to find out whether the appointment had been okay, and to assure her—although her eye contact was also less than stellar—that if she had questions, or needed advice about anything whatsoever, all she had to do was ask. Meg had no real intention of doing so, but it was nice to know that she probably
could
.

The next day, her brothers were even more hyper than usual, to the degree that right after lunch, her father excused himself and went into the Presidential bedroom and closed the door. Meg did some packing to get ready to go back to school, and then rested on the couch in the West Sitting Hall, drinking coffee and having a wide-ranging, if unfocused, conversation with Trudy. Her brothers were still bombing around, and wrestling a lot, and every so often—when an ominous sound came from one of their rooms—Trudy would yell, “Don't make me come in there, boys!” and it would, ever so briefly, be quiet again.

Her mother came upstairs in the middle of the afternoon, looking as though she wanted to go lie down for about a month and a half, but Steven and Neal decided that it would be
totally fun
to go into the kitchen and bake something with her. Her mother was dubious about this plan—and Meg and Trudy were even more so—but, in short order, there were several stewards standing uncertainly in the hall, until they pulled themselves together and went downstairs to the main kitchen. Xavier came back up twice, with premeasured cups of flour and sugar and all, and Meg knew he was only trying to be helpful, but it was kind of funny to think that the chefs were all afraid that the President was incapable of beating a couple of eggs by herself. The bowl of freshly washed blueberries and the dish of grated lemon rind made it clear that, as usual, her mother was making her one and only culinary specialty.

It sounded like the three of them were having fun in there, but Meg decided that it was nicer to lie on the couch, covered with strategically-placed ice packs, in something of a haze from her most recent dose of more-potent-than-usual painkillers.

“What are the odds that they burn it?” she asked Trudy.

Trudy peered at the row of stitches she had just completed on the afghan she was crocheting. “If I were a betting woman, I would say three-to-one.”

Yeah, that was probably about right.

Glen came striding down the hall, but stopped short when he heard the commotion coming from the kitchen.

Meg shook her head at him.

“Steven, don't throw that,” her mother was saying, while her brothers laughed like maniacs. “No, really, don't throw that.”

There was a pause, then a small crash, and more evil laughter.

“That's great,” her mother said, sounding very amused. “That's just great. You went ahead and threw it.”

There was another mysterious crash, her brothers laughed, and Kirby barked.

“It's not funny,” her mother said, and laughed, too.

Then, as Steven said, “Hey, he could have
ducked
, Mom,” there was another crash, and a splat, upon which Neal said, “Whoa, there go the
eggs
!”

Glen listened to all of that, looked at his watch, nodded at Meg and Trudy, and left without a word.

“That was nice of him,” Meg said, watching him head down the hall.

Trudy smiled at her. “Your family is not as alone as you sometimes think.”

Maybe not.

A little while later, her father came out of the bedroom, looking sleepy and somewhat rumpled. He started to say something, then paused almost exactly the same way Glen had, took in the noise, and the fact that Trudy and Meg were on the couch, and that, therefore, Steven and Neal were goofing around with
someone else
.

After that slight hesitation, he sat down in the blue easy chair that had always been in the living room in Chestnut Hill. “I don't think it's very respectful,” he said, rather cheerfully, “when children are so unruly that their father is not allowed to complete his nap.”

Ordinary paternal humor.
Good
. Meg grinned.

“Do you want anything, Russ?” Trudy asked, poised to put down her crocheting.