White House Autumn (8 page)

FOUR SHOTS HAD
been fired. Maybe five. Her agents hustled her past the police barricades, and crowds of reporters and cameras, into the hospital, which was grey and blue with Secret Service agents, and white and turquoise—from the surgical scrubs—with doctors and nurses. Everyone was yelling at once.

She was steered into a small, noisy waiting room and scanned the faces through incredible dizziness, searching for her family. Neal jerked away from the aides who were holding him and she bent to hug him.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, everything’s okay.”

He clutched her around the neck, crying so hard that his whole body shook.

“I know,” she said, hugging him more tightly. “Don’t worry, I’m here.” She closed her eyes, afraid that she was going to cry, too. But, she had to be an adult. He needed an adult.

They were taken to another room, beige and windowless. Meg sat on a scuffed green leather couch, pulling her brother onto her lap. The hall was a babble of tense, excited voices and she tried very hard not to listen, afraid of what she might hear.

“I’m scared,” Neal whimpered, his arms tight enough to half-choke her.

“I know.” She rubbed his back, struggling to be comforting. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay. I promise.” She didn’t look at anyone in the room, not wanting to see a contradiction in their expressions.

They sat there, Meg holding and rocking him, whispering for
him not to worry. Hearing something at the door, she glanced up and saw Steven, looking as terrified as she felt, his hands tight fists in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up. Seeing her with Neal, his mouth quivered, but he didn’t say anything as he came over and sat next to them on the couch.

“You okay?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, his fists in his lap, arms rigid.

“Steven?” she asked.

He hunched more.

“Don’t worry.” She touched his shoulder. “It’s going to be—”

“Leave me alone!” His voice was low, but definite.

She hesitated, then withdrew her hand after one gentle squeeze. An aide showed up with grape sodas, and to keep Neal occupied, she shared one with him, keeping up a steady monologue about how cold it was, how glad she was that it was Welch’s, because that was the only brand she liked and what did he think, and if he maybe wanted a sandwich or a Snickers bar. There was a lot of commotion out in the hall, and whenever there was a flurry of activity—people running in to whisper to aides who would then leave, any kind of shifting of personnel that might mean something bad—she spoke more loudly, so that they wouldn’t have to pay attention to it. While the talking was distracting Neal, she could tell it was getting on Steven’s nerves, but since he sat back at one point, still rigid, but at least not hunching, she figured it was helping.

No one seemed to know exactly what was happening, and the shouting in the hall was garbled. She would catch occasional phrases, whenever someone opened the door, but many of them seemed contradictory. All she really knew was what her agents had told her on the way over in the car, and that was pretty sketchy. “Shots fired, Shamrock down. Transport Sandpiper.” The only things she had found out since then was that her mother
had
been hit, and that her
father had been there when it happened. The two of them had been on the way to a luncheon or something, and the shots had been fired from a nearby window when they got out of the car.

Her mother had been hit. And no one knew where. She closed her eyes, trying not to picture the bullet hitting her in the chest, or the head, or—she had to stop, had to pretend that none of this was happening, that—

“Meggie?” Neal asked, sounding scared.

“What?” She realized that she was trembling, and must have unconsciously clutched at his arm. “I mean, don’t worry, everything’s okay.”

Maybe if she kept saying it, it would be true.

“I’m scared.” He was crying again. “I want Mommy and Daddy.”

“I know. Don’t worry, they’ll be here soon.” She took a deep, shaky breath. Now that she had started thinking, she couldn’t stop remembering the things she read about, or seen on film, her whole life, all the people who had been shot, and—except she couldn’t let herself think about it. Her mother falling, the blood, her lying in a—but she was going to crack up, if she kept thinking about it, and—Steven and Neal needed her. She had to get a grip.

But, that beautiful grey dress. A dress she had
borrowed
once. Her mother falling, the blood spreading over the grey cloth, agents swarming around, grave newscasters reporting around the clock about—she had to stop. Kennedy, King, Kennedy, Sadat—she couldn’t keep—something touched her arm and she stiffened, looking up to see Preston sitting on the table in front of the couch.

“Hey, kids,” he said gently, one hand on Meg’s shoulder, the other on Steven’s, Neal in between them.

Looking at him, Meg thought that she really
might
panic. He was—rumpled. Sleeves rolled up, tie undone, his handkerchief nowhere in sight. And he seemed tired. Very, very tired. She closed
her eyes for a second, knowing that her brothers were as afraid to ask him what was happening as she was.

“How are you guys doing?” he asked.

Meg gulped. “Is—I mean, is everything—”

“We’re going to have to wait for a little while,” he said.

“Is Mom—” Steven’s voice was very small. “Is she—”

“There’re a lot of people trying to help her. We just have to keep praying, okay?” He glanced at Meg. “We’ve got some lunch out there for you guys. How about giving me a hand, Meggo?”

She nodded, guessing that he wanted to speak to her privately, having to swallow several times at the thought.

“How come I can’t come?” Steven asked. “Can’t I—”

“No,” Preston said. “Sorry. Hang out here and keep Neal company, Big Guy.”

Steven nodded unhappily, and Preston hugged him, then Neal, as Meg stood up, finding her right leg asleep, but trying not to make a big production of stamping on it.

“Be right back,” Preston said, and gestured for an aide to come sit with Steven and Neal, a woman by the door responding. Janice, or Janet, or something—Meg couldn’t remember.

Meg followed him out to the crowded corridor, walking requiring a conscious, difficult effort.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t.

“Good,” he said. “Because you’re going to have to keep taking care of them for a while. I don’t know when your father’s going to be able to get down here.”

“Is Mom—” She took a deep breath. “What’s happening?”

“They’ve been operating since noon,” he said, automatically checking his watch. “It’s—” He stopped, looking very unhappy, then started again. “It’s not very good, Meg.”

Jesus. But obviously he had to tell her, because she was going to
have to be prepared, if anything—her brothers were going to
need
her. So, even though she wanted to collapse, or sob, or maybe even pass out or something, she just nodded.

He nodded, too, and despite the chaos swirling around them, the tiny section of the corridor where they were standing seemed absolutely silent for a few seconds.

“Is she—” Meg tried not to gulp visibly. “I mean, where—”

“The shoulder and the chest. And Bert Travis took one in the leg,” he said.

Bert Travis was one of her mother’s agents. “So, he’ll be all right,” Meg said, looking down at her hands.

Preston nodded.

That was good news—and she wished that she cared more. “Mom—” She took a deep breath. “N-not the head?”

“No, kid,” he said gently, putting his arm around her. “Not the head.”

Meg blinked, not wanting him to see how close she was to crying. “I was mean to her this morning. I wouldn’t—”

“Forget it,” he said.

How was she supposed to do that? Meg shook her head. “Yeah, but—”

“Forget it.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Can you handle your brothers for a while longer?”

She nodded. “When will Dad be able to come see us?”

“He’s—” Preston hesitated. “I’m not sure. As soon as he can. He’s—in pretty bad shape.”

Okay. Jesus Christ. She suddenly felt like a tiny child—and a wizened adult. “Should I—I mean, is there anything I can—”

“You can take care of your brothers,” he said.

Walking back into the waiting room, her hands were shaking so much that she put them into her pockets, aware that she was pretty obviously without lunch.

“The sandwiches weren’t ready yet,” she said.

Her brothers didn’t say anything, waiting for older sister answers.

“I guess it’s going to be a while,” she said and sat on the couch. “Maybe they can bring in a television or something, and we could—”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to find one,” an aide said quickly, and she remembered what almost every single station was going to be covering. How many times had she watched live coverage—or historical footage—of shootings, and bombings, and all sorts of other tragedies. And how many times had she watched without ever
really
thinking about the family that was falling apart somewhere. It was always too easy to forget about the families.

They were in the room for a long time, surrounded by people they barely knew, most of whom kept their distance and spent a lot of time exchanging nervous glances.

Which wasn’t at all helpful.

Meg kept her arm around Neal, who cried on and off, finally falling asleep against her. Steven, who had been slouching down with his fists clenched, noticed right away and sat up.

“Okay,” he said in a low voice. “What’s going on?”

“I told you,” she said, just as quietly, trying not to wake Neal up. “Everything’s okay.”

“Then, how come Dad isn’t here?” he asked.

She hesitated, not sure how to answer.

“I’m not a little kid,” he said. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him, small and stiff, fists tight. “They’re operating on her.”

“Is she—” He stopped the same way she had when she was talking to Preston. “I mean, where—”

“Not the head.” She saw his eyes get very bright. “Steven, they’re doing their—”

“Shut up!” he said.

Okay, she’d handled that one completely wrong. Meg sighed. “Steven—”

“Just shut up!” He kicked the table as hard as he could, then stood up and kicked over a chair. “Shut up and leave me alone!”

“Meggie!” Neal woke up, clutching at her as she moved to get Steven. “Meggie, don’t leave me!”

“I’m not.” She tried to pry his hands off her arm. “Neal, I’m just—” She winced as Steven, who was crying now, kicked over another chair.

“Come on, Steve,” an agent said, trying to stop him. “Calm down. Your mother’s going to be—”

“Get off me!” Steven punched at him, and the other agent who had come over to help.

“Come on, son,” the second agent said. “Let’s—”

“I’m not your son!” Steven yelled. “Stupid jerks! You’re supposed to protect her, and you let them shoot her! You god-damn—”

“Steven, don’t.” Meg managed to pull away from Neal, and get in between him and the agents. “Steven—”

“Leave me alone!” He kept swinging, hitting out at anything that came near him, kicking and struggling as an agent gently held him from behind, pinning one of his arms. “Let go of me!” He kept the other arm flailing. “Let go of me, you son of a bitch!” The fist got Meg in the face and she gasped before she could stop herself, her hand going to her mouth. He heard the gasp and went limp, staring at her, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Meggie, I’m sorry.” He stumbled forward against her as the agent let go of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.” She put her arms around him. “It isn’t your fault. I walked into it.”

“But, I hit you,” he said, crying harder. “I didn’t mean to, Meg. I really didn’t mean to.”

She hugged him more tightly. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Don’t hate me!” he said. “Please don’t hate me!”

“I love you,” she said, and reached back to pull Neal over, knowing that he must have been terrified by the whole scene. “I love both of you.”

“Don’t leave us again,” Steven whispered, hanging on to her as fiercely as Neal was. “Please?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

ONCE STEVEN STARTED
crying, he couldn’t seem to stop, and he held her hand as they all sat on the couch. An aide finally
did
bring in sandwiches, but neither of her brothers would eat, and Meg felt too sick at the thought of food herself to try and make them. There was something exhausting about just sitting on a couch for hours and she concentrated on staying awake, the room windowless and stuffy.

“What time is it?” Neal asked sleepily.

Meg squinted at her watch. “Almost six.” She kissed the side of his head. “You didn’t have any lunch. You want one of those sandwiches, maybe?”

He shook his head, and she didn’t push him. There was some noise in the hall, the first sounds she’d heard after hours of ominous silence, and she picked up one of the cans of warm grape soda, drinking some to steady herself. Her mother’s aides were looking at one another, and Meg held her breath, perching on the edge of the couch, hearing a lot of voices as someone opened the door.