“—fine,” he said.
Yeah. Something like that.
Once she’d talked him into going back to bed, she watched C-Span until she fell back to sleep—which took about three hours, by which point she felt quite capable of going down to the press room and giving an extensive briefing about the state of economic development in emerging third-world nations.
By the time she made it to breakfast in the morning, everyone except her father was long gone. She found him on the couch in the West Sitting Hall, reading the morning newspapers, even though it was past ten o’clock. He certainly didn’t go rushing joyously down to the East Wing lately, ready to Embrace His Day.
He stood up when he saw her. “Hi. Sleep all right?”
As ever. She nodded.
“Well, let’s see about some breakfast for you, then,” he said.
She had no appetite at all, but she had a double-session of physical therapy scheduled at eleven, and should probably have the good sense to get something into her stomach. If nothing else, it might help wake her up a little.
They sat quietly at the table in the West Sitting Hall, trading sections of the newspapers, while Meg did her best to eat an English muffin. The political coverage was less diverting than usual, and even the editorial cartoons were dull—although, granted, on any given day, they never had much hope of measuring up to her all-time favorite, which showed a group of stone-faced men in suits standing in a clump in the Oval Office, presumably just having shared some very grave news, while a—quite good—caricature of her mother, complete with one hand delicately extended as she examined her fingernails, was saying, “Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting, but more importantly, do you think this dress makes me look fat?” Her father had liked it so much that he had had a copy blown up, signed by the cartoonist, and framed, and then given it to her mother for her birthday—and she had laughed and promptly had it hung in her private study.
And, for a few seconds, she wondered what, if anything, her father was going to get her mother for her birthday this year.
“I’m going to the State of the Union,” she said.
Her father nodded. “So I hear.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But she really wasn’t up for another stressful conversation, and since he was staring down at his coffee, he probably wasn’t, either.
“Will you sit next to me?” she asked.
Now, he looked up and smiled gently at her. “Of course,” he said.
Good.
* * *
SHE SPENT MOST of the next couple of weeks gutting her way through intense physical therapy sessions—trying to wean herself off the cane, which wasn’t going very well, doing a certain amount of packing, and sleeping as much as possible. She also managed to make it to another one of Steven’s games with her father and Neal—and with their father sitting there in the stands, this time, Steven didn’t get into any fights.
One afternoon, while she was stretched out on the couch in the West Sitting Hall after physical therapy, trying to decide whether to try and summon the necessary initiative to take a sip from the glass of Coke which was sitting only about two feet away, her mother’s very polished—and high-strung—press secretary, Linda, and the deputy assistant to the President for communications, Caryn, came up to talk to her about what she was planning to wear to the speech. Meg said, “Sweatpants,” but after exchanging frowns, Linda and her cohort discussed the compendium of possibilities in far too much detail. They felt that black would be too funereal, but that pastels would send the wrong message, and downplay the gravity of what had happened.
Meg just sat on the couch, smiling stiffly, and trying to visualize herself in a pastel ensemble. A pantsuit, maybe. She was going to suggest bright, flaming red, just to be difficult, but that would inevitably lead to them worrying about whether that might convey a certain sexual licentiousness, or—possibly, even worse—a tendency towards bedrock conservatism.
Since she wasn’t really participating, Linda and Caryn decided, of their own volition, that it would be best for her to select something which would subtly compliment her mother’s choice, without reflecting it too closely, or upstaging her in any way—and on and on, it went.
When they finally left, Meg was so tired that she limped to her room and slept right through supper. Felix came in with a tray at about eight-thirty, and she finished half of the onion soup and ate a few carrot sticks. He returned to clear it away, looking rather crestfallen when he saw how little she had eaten, and a few minutes later, he was back with a pitcher of ice water, a tall frosted glass containing a vanilla milkshake, and a plate of peanut butter cookies.
So she lay in bed, sipping the milkshake and looking at the ceiling, with Vanessa purring on her stomach, and C-Span droning on in the background for company. There were nights when the pain was manageable—and there were nights when it was so severe that, on top of the throbbing and pounding of the pain itself, she would actually run a fever. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone how truly bad it was today, because if she did, her parents would get all upset, and a bunch of doctors would show up, and confer, and frown, and she would never get any damn sleep.
It was almost midnight before her mother came in to see how she was doing.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Your father says you didn’t feel well enough to get up for dinner.”
Nope. She hadn’t. Meg shrugged. Seeing her mother in person, as opposed to her dutiful emissaries, reminded her that she was mad as hell.
“Is there anything I can do?” her mother asked.
Meg shook her head.
“Okay,” her mother said. “I just—wanted to see how you were.”
Meg nodded, staring at the ceiling.
“Okay.” Her mother folded her arms uneasily, then glanced at the television. “Anything interesting?”
“There are people out there who don’t support your policies,” Meg said. Some of them so much so that they flirted with apoplexy.
Her mother nodded. “Yes, that’s the word around the office.”
No doubt.
It was quiet for a minute.
“Well,” her mother said. “If there isn’t anything you want me to—”
“If you’re so damn worried about what I’m going to wear to the speech, how come you can’t say so yourself, instead of sending messengers?” Meg asked.
Her mother frowned. “I’m sorry. What are you talking about?”
“It’s not like I was planning to embarrass you, anyway,” Meg said. Or herself, for that matter. “So, why have them come up here and bug me about it?”
Her mother caught on then, and her expression darkened to an almost frightening degree. “Who was it?”
Oh. Meg frowned, too. “You mean, you didn’t tell them to do it?”
“Of course not,” her mother said. “You can wear whatever you want to wear.” She stopped. “As long as it’s—well—”
A dress.
“Who was it, Meg?” her mother asked. “I really want to know.”
Would it be smart to get people on her mother’s staff in trouble, or should she opt in favor of just—
“Never mind,” her mother said, and scowled. “I know who it was.” She strode towards the door. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Meg thought about calling her back—but, the truth was, they probably deserved to get into trouble. After physical therapy, she needed to be able to rest, and try to get her psychological equilibrium back, without having anyone show up, uninvited, to interrogate her.
Ten minutes later, her mother came back in, still looking angry, but in a much calmer way.
“Did you yell at her?” Meg asked. Since Linda was, unquestionably, the instigator.
Her mother looked alarmed. “Her?” She spun around as though she was going to rush out of the room to correct her dreadful mistake, then grinned. “I yelled at both of them. They know perfectly well that you and your brothers are off-limits.”
Go
od.
Her mother sat down on the edge of the bed, which made Vanessa hiss—and flee. “It won’t happen again, but for God’s sakes, Meg, if it does, don’t just lie here and be angry—pick up the phone and tell me, so I can take care of it.”
Meg nodded. As far as she could remember, she had never been one to go running off to her mother when things went wrong, especially with staff members or the press, but maybe she had, and she’d just forgotten.
“I know it was the right decision at the time,” her mother said, “but in retrospect, I really regret agreeing to let your father lay claim to Preston.”
Meg nodded again. In all likelihood, Preston—who had been indispensable during the campaign—had originally been destined for an influential position in the West Wing, but early on, the media treatment of her father had been so merciless and insulting, that Preston had ended up joining his staff, instead.
“Sit up for a minute, okay?” her mother asked.
She was too god-damn tired to sit up, but slowly did it, feeling shaky, and having to support herself with her good hand.
Her mother leaned forward and hugged her tightly. “I know you think you made an unbreakable promise, but I’m not holding you to it,” she whispered. “If you decide you don’t want to go, even on your way into the gallery, don’t.”
A firm hug was much nicer than a tentative one.
“Okay?” her mother said.
Meg nodded.
Her mother reached over to feel her forehead with the back of her hand, frowned, and then picked up the telephone. “Yes, hello, could you send someone up to my daughter’s room with some ice packs? And a thermometer, too, please.” She listened for a moment. “Thank you.” She listened again. “No, I’d prefer that you didn’t put it through here, I’ll take it down in the Treaty Room.” When she hung up the phone, she sighed. “I’m sorry, this is going to be a while. If your light’s still on, I’ll come in and see how you’re doing?”
Meg nodded. The take-charge mother was so much easier to be around than the burdened-by-guilt one.
“Good,” her mother said, hugged her one more time, and left the room.
* * *
IN THE END, she wore a green dress. Not lime or kelly, but not quite forest, either. Pine, maybe. Perhaps it dovetailed with her mother’s blue one—a brightish indigo or midnight, which brought out her eyes to an amazing degree; perhaps it stood on its own.
Perhaps she didn’t really care.
Either way, it was a nice dress. Simple, dignified, classic lines; went well with pearls. She couldn’t manage even a low heel without stumbling, so she wore black flats. Since she would be sitting down just about the entire time, it probably didn’t matter much, anyway. Although she did agree to have her hair blown out, and so forth, to prepare for the cameras.
She was incredibly tense—but, on State of the Union day, everyone in the entire White House was a nervous wreck. Even the usually unflappable Neal fell prey to the collective anxiety and had to come home sick from school. This caused a huge debate about whether he, and maybe Meg’s father, should stay home, but Neal got so upset about the idea of missing all of the excitement that her parents finally agreed that he could go to the speech, as long as he ate—and kept down—his dinner.
The First Family was supposed to make their formal entrance to the gallery after all of the Senators and Representatives and the diplomatic corps, and right before the Supreme Court justices. It was considered de rigueur for everyone to clap when they came in, but as they made their way to their seats, Meg being extra-careful on her cane going down the steps, and worrying like hell that her foot might make one of its untimely flops, the entire chamber burst into such loud applause and cheering that she seriously considered throwing up right on the spot.
Which would not be ideal.
“It’s all right,” her father said, in her ear. “Just nod at them. You don’t have to wave or anything.”
Okay. Nodding was relatively easy. She nodded, politely, and the noise seemed to intensify. Everyone she passed, most of whom were complete strangers, seemed to be very happy to see her, and kept reaching out to try and clasp her hand—good luck to them and the Boston Red Sox, touch her sleeve, or pat her on the back. It was hard not to flinch each time, and she was relieved when her father quickly began shaking hands with almost all of the people they went by, preempting their attempts to greet her. Then, finally, they were sitting down, with her father on one side, and Steven on the other.
The applause seemed to go on endlessly, but it was probably just a matter of seconds.
Or minutes.
Or hours.
Months.
Then, the Supreme Court justices were announced, and everyone’s focus—and the applause—shifted.
“Well, now, this isn’t fair,” a voice said, very quietly. “I paid good money for these seats, and it turns out that my view is blocked. By, granted, someone who looks quite extraordinary in her dress, but still blocked.”
Meg smiled, in spite of herself. The only specific request she’d made was for Preston to be seated directly behind her, for moral support.
“And check out your tie, Little Guy,” he said to Neal. “You exude power.”
Neal, who was wearing a bright red tie, straightened it proudly.
There were more formal entrances—her mother’s Cabinet, and the like—and she concentrated on trying to look relaxed and unruffled, since there was no way of knowing when television cameras would be pointed in their direction, and it wouldn’t be safe to let her guard down for even a second. Then, she suddenly started getting scared that she might panic, the way she had in the car on the way to the basketball game that time, and what would happen if—
“I had a very bad blister,” Steven said.
Where the hell had that come from? Meg looked over.
“Blood—actual blood—was dripping out of my finger,” he said. “And Coach, like, wanted me to come out of the game, but I had a shut-out going, and we were only up by one run, so I said, no way, and kept pitching.” He paused. “It was wicked brave of me.”
Meg laughed. “You’re an unbelievable cretin, Steven.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but a brave cretin.”
And, for that matter, a funny cretin. “If you’d been doing paraffin treatments on your hand, or soaking in pickle juice—” as any sensible pitcher should— “you never would have gotten the blister in the first place,” Meg said.
Steven shrugged. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t suffer.”
Neal looked worried. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk in the gallery, Dad.”
“I can talk,” Steven said. “That rule is really just for you and Meg. Because, see, I’m—”
At which point, the Sergeant-at-Arms gave his clarion “Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States!” yell, and her mother, cool and confident, was being escorted into the Chamber to a standing ovation. People swarmed in her direction, and it was clear that it was going to take quite some time for her to work her way down the aisle.
Meg glanced at her father. “Do you think she’s scared?”
He nodded once.
Well, it sure as hell didn’t show. There was an unexpected burst of laughter from her mother’s general vicinity, and Meg was wildly curiously about what she might have said to provoke it—and if she would even remember the joke, if any of them asked her later.
She finally made it up to the front of the chamber, greeted Vice President Kruger and the Speaker of the House, and handed them sealed copies of her speech, saying something which made both of them grin broadly. For someone who was supposed to be scared, the President seemed to be feeling pretty god-damned loose. Those who were completely not-in-the-know assumed that she and the quite conservative Speaker were fervent enemies, but, in fact, they had been freshman representatives during the same election cycle together, and had established a friendship so surprisingly solid that the Speaker and his wife were on the tiny list o
f Washingtonians who had been invited to private dinners with the family—on more than one occasion. He and her father watched football together sometimes, too.
Which didn’t stop him from torpedoing the Administration’s legislation on a regular basis.
The applause had yet to die down, and finally, the Speaker used his gavel to bring order to the chamber and proclaim his “great honor and very high privilege to present the President of the United States.”
Predictably, there was another ovation in response, but finally, after one quick glance up at them in the gallery, her mother began to speak. Meg was too distracted to pay attention, but she clapped mechanically when other people did, although she thought the cheering and other unruly outbursts of support—some of them purely partisan; others appearing genuine—made Congress seem more like a bunch of rowdy, ungovernable frat boys than anything else.
At one point, her mother made a crack to the effect of “am I mistaken, or are only half of you pleased by that?,” which got a pretty big laugh—and a full round of applause. With luck, America was amused, too.
The speech was the same stuff Meg had been hearing her practice for the last few weeks, pacing up and down the second-floor hallway at odd moments, muttering brutal criticisms to herself throughout—but, verve and style made all the difference.
One of her mother’s pet projects was a national service program which, in lieu of solely targeting young Americans, was retroactive. The goal was to encourage all Americans to provide voluntary service to others, and to the nation, harnessing the brainpower, talents, and efforts of the entire citizenry in countless ways. This made a good segment of the chamber nervous—and noticeably silent—probably because they assumed that the plan would result in yet another bloated, overpriced bureaucratic agency, although her mother stressed that the plan would be localized in order to respond to the specific needs and interests of each individual community, and that said service could be rewarded by college tuition reimbursements, fixed-rate low-interest loans for small businesses and individual entrepreneurs, personal income tax deductions, and other “service-related” incentives.