After brunch, Dr. Brooks came upstairs and gave her one last checkup, complete with a new prescription and the strict instruction that she absolutely was not to spend the rest of the semester in more pain than she could handle, and to call him regularly so that he could adjust the dosage, or change her medication entirely, as seemed to be indicated.
Before it was time to go, she spent about half an hour in her room, patting Vanessa—who accepted this lengthy tribute as her due, but also kept looking warily at the packed duffel bag. After a while, her mother came in, holding a small manicure kit with the Air Force One seal imprinted on it.
Feeling very incompetent, Meg nodded, and her mother sat next to her on the bed—not to Vanessa’s delight. She took out a small pair of scissors, put on her reading glasses, lifted Meg’s hand into hers, and then very carefully cut the nails. Neither of them spoke during this procedure—Meg was too busy being embarrassed, and her mother was concentrating on what she was doing.
After using an emery board to file and shape each nail in turn, her mother glanced at her splint. “Would you like me to—?”
Meg shook her head, moving her good hand—okay, her entire left arm and half of her upper body—protectively in front of it.
Her mother nodded, lifting her own hands to make it clear that she wasn’t going to go anywhere near the splint. As she replaced the manicure tools in the kit, her hair fell forward enough to obscure the side of her face, but Meg knew without looking how sad her expression must be.
They sat there, her mother’s hands tense in her lap, and her shoulders drawn up, and Meg realized that she was sitting almost exactly the same way. She suddenly felt tearful, for no good reason—or, maybe, lots of good reasons—and had to swallow very hard a couple of times.
Her mother glanced over, then looked at her more closely. “What?”
Meg shook her head, avoiding her eyes.
They sat silently, for another minute.
“Meg,” her mother said, sounding very serious.
Jesus, this wasn’t the time for either of them to start anything. “I don’t want to get into stuff,” Meg said. “I’m about to leave, and—I’m about to leave, okay?”
Her mother nodded, then picked up her good hand and dropped a kiss near her wrist. More specifically, her watch.
It was good to have her blatant, public effort to jump loyally to the President’s defense formally acknowledged—but she didn’t want to talk about it. So she shrugged, her mother nodded, and they left it at that.
She and her father departed from the South Grounds, with a much smaller than usual contingent of reporters and staffers looking on, since it was Sunday. Neal and Trudy gave her big, uncomplicated hugs, while Steven stood there with his hands in his pockets, and said, “Later,” sounding very disinterested. Her mother held her for a couple of seconds—stiff and reserved, as she almost always was when displaying affection in front of cameras, which probably didn’t do much to change the minds of those who were of the “she’s an unnatural woman who doesn’t love her children” school of thought—and whispered, “Please take better care of yourself,” Meg shrugging—stiffly—in response.
She and her father didn’t say much on the way over to Andrews, mostly because she was trying to get control of how homesick and close to tears she felt, during the last few minutes of relative privacy she was going to have for the next month and a half.
“I’m sorry if it was, you know, difficult, while I was here,” she said finally, as they drove through the main entrance of the air base. Sorry that she’d snarled almost every time he’d looked at her.
Her father smiled. “August twelfth will always be one of the three best days of my life.”
Her birthday. “Do you still carry them?” she asked.
“Everywhere I go,” he said, and took out his wallet to show her.
For as long as she could remember, he had kept baby pictures of the three of them in there, each taken on the days they were born, and she had never decided whether to be amused—or hurt—that in the one of her, while her father was clearly beside himself with joy, her mother looked very nervous, and maybe even overwhelmed. An “in retrospect, getting pregnant may really not have been a good idea” expression.
She knew the answer, but— “You always wanted children.”
He nodded. “Absolutely. I couldn’t wait.”
She wasn’t going to ask the obvious question about his spouse, because it would just start trouble. But, it begged another question which she would also probably never ask either of them—had her mother married him because he was so nurturing and eager to have a family, or in spite of it? Regardless, it was a relief to see that he also still had the photograph of her in her wedding gown in his wallet, her hair thick and somewhat wild, with such a charismatic grin on her face that it was highly unlikely that anyone who saw it would ever ask why he had decided to marry her. He watched her look at it, and she wondered what he was thinking.
“Russell James Powers never dreamed that one day, he would grow up to be the First Gentleman of the United States,” she said. Which had been the opening line of the most breathless, and wildly inaccurate, biography published about her father so far.
He laughed. “Truer words have never been written, Meg.”
No, probably not.
They were on the tarmac now, and the last-minute flight checks and so forth had been completed, and everyone was ready for her to board. Her father hugged her very close, and she knew he was maybe hoping that she would change her mind at the last second and ask him to come along for the ride. She had the sudden paralyzing thought that something bad might happen during the next six weeks, and that this would be the last time she ever saw anyone in her family again, but—well, there wasn’t much she could do about that. Unfortunately.
“You’re okay by yourself?” he asked, when he finally let go.
If he got on the plane with her, he would be back home by dinner-time, the press would never know the difference, and she would have someone to talk to on the way up. Someone she trusted. Someone who could make her feel safe, for a little while longer.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
43
EIGHT OF HER agents came on the plane this time, and they spent most of the flight playing cards, although Martin sat with her long enough to ask how her vacation had been, Paula came over to compliment her sweater, and Garth took a few minutes to discuss some new procedures and security devices and code words and such which were going to be put into effect for the rest of the semester.
But, other than that, she kept her sunglasses on, stared out the window, and alternated sips of coffee and ice water. When they landed, she realized—with a sense of intense panic—that there was no way that she was going to be able to carry her bag and computer off the plane by herself. Even taking two trips and moving them one at a time would be a challenge, although it was the only realistic option, since it was against Secret Service guidelines—and not very dignified, to boot—for her to ask for help, so—okay. No problem. In fact, she would damn well make it look easy. She would—
“Meg, don’t do that,” Garth said. “We’ll take care of it.”
She hesitated, about to pick up her laptop. “I’m not ever supposed to ask you guys to—”
“We’ve got it,” he said. “Just be careful on the steps, okay?”
Right. Starting with getting off the plane, she was now officially back to a life of constantly dealing with things like stairs. Steep, exhausting stairs. Sisyphean stairs.
It was a short drive to the campus, and all too quickly, they were pulling up in front of her dorm. There was a fair amount of activity going on—mostly, other people returning from their breaks, too, but also, a few reporters and paparazzi hanging around on the main road and Park Street.
Christ, she wasn’t ready to put herself through this again. She closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach—and very much like crying.
“How overt do you want us
to be?” Garth asked, from the passenger’s side of the front seat. “It would be my pleasure to have them run off.”
Her pleasure, too, but it would make for very bad visuals. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said, picking up her cane. “They don’t bother me.”
Someone was holding the door for her—Ronald, maybe—and she took her time getting out, since the new brace was so cumbersome, and it would be far too easy to fall. She didn’t think there were any tears in her eyes, but she adjusted her sunglasses to reassure herself that they were fully covered, and wished that she had thought to wear a cap, for extra protection. A photo of her sobbing helplessly in public would have to be worth a nice chunk of change, although only a tiny fraction of what a similar shot of her mother would get on the open market.
And she wasn’t irrationally afraid of stepping away from the car, and back into very public college life, she was just—tired. Very, very tired.
“Hi, Meg,” a voice said.
She looked up and saw Khalid, from her entry. Someone she had only just been starting to get to know before spring break, but so far, he seemed swell. Had grown up in Bloomfield Hills, was planning to major in chemistry, spent a lot of time playing intramural sports. “Hi. How was your break?” she asked.
He nodded, disheveled in baggy shorts and an old Detroit Tigers hoodie, and—judging from the shin pads stuffed inside his socks—on his way back from playing pick-up soccer. “Good. How was yours?”
“Fine, thanks,” Meg said.
It was a relief to be able to fall into step—limp—with someone, although he paused when he heard cameras clicking.
“They’ll probably get published somewhere,” she said. “Do you care?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s kind of funny, though.”
The degree to which she was apparently dating every single man who had ever set foot in the Berkshires? Yeah, it was. She nodded. “Want a good laugh? Put your hand on my arm, and watch what happens.”
He reached out to touch her elbow—and the sounds of clicking increased exponentially. “Jesus, that’s a trip,” he said, put his arm all the way around her, and grinned at the photographic response. “That son of a bitch Taylor’s going to be pissed if these get printed.”
With luck.
Once she was inside the dorm, she allowed herself thirty seconds to indulge in rampant self-pity and anxiety before getting on the elevator. Then, as she stepped out onto the third floor, she heard Susan saying, sounding very reassuring, “Well, yes, it’s possible, but I really don’t think you have to worry. It’s probably just a statistical anomaly.”
That was a conversation she was not at all sorry to have missed. And there was only one person on the floor with whom Susan could be having it.
“Hi,” Susan said, when she saw her—and she was, in fact, talking to Jesslyn, over near the stairwell. “Welcome back.”
“Yeah, you, too,” Meg said, and nodded at Jesslyn, who looked very troubled by some numerical aberration or other. “Hi.”
Jesslyn squinted at her, instead of answering.
Whatever. Let them return to math, then.
Juliana must have heard her unlocking her door, because she came out to the hall right away, grinned, and instantly burst into song—her voice much better and stronger than Meg would have guessed. “Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh!”
Farewell to college joys, we sail at break of day. Meg grinned sheepishly. “You saw that?”
Juliana laughed. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t get it, but my father did, and he explained it to me.”
“Was he in the Navy?” Meg asked.
“No,” Juliana said cheerfully. “He’s just smart.” Then she went down the hall to pound on Mary Elizabeth’s door. “Hey, sucker, pay up!”
Mary Elizabeth came out, looked at Meg, frowned, and then handed Juliana what looked like a ten-dollar bill.
She had probably just inadvertently forgotten to say a hearty—even overjoyed—hello. “Boy, it’s so good to see you,” Meg said. “I missed you a lot.”
Mary Elizabeth’s nod lacked conviction. Or, even, interest.
Okay. Moving on now. “What was the bet?” Meg asked.
“That you’d find some plausible excuse not to come back,” Juliana said, stuffing the money into her pocket. “But I said, not a chance.”
“I should only have gone for five,” Mary Elizabeth said, and went back into her room.
“Anyone else take you up on it?” Meg asked.
Juliana shook her head. “No, Tammy said ten was too much, Jesslyn said it was too small-time for her, and Susan said you’d drag yourself back here even if you were gushing blood from about five different arteries.”
Typical, on all three counts.
She called her parents right away to let them know that she had arrived safely, but didn’t talk very long, because she didn’t want them to know how homesick she already was. She wanted to lie down, but knew she would fall asleep, so she set up her laptop, instead.
When she checked her voice-mail, she found three messages from Jack. In the first one, he wanted to know if she would meet him for dinner at 5:30, in the second, he suggested 5:45, and in the third, he suggested 6:00. Since it was now 6:13, she decided to wait until 6:15—which was when the phone rang.
“Hey,” he said, sounding very pleased to hear her voice. “When’d you get back?”
Whoa, did she have a boyfriend? It was beginning to seem that way. “Just now,” she said. “How about you?”
“This morning,” he said.
He wanted to meet at the dining hall right away, but she talked him into holding off until quarter to seven, so she could wash her face and just generally pull herself together. Again, she had to resist the urge to stretch out on her bed, although she did allow herself to rest at her desk for a few minutes, leaning her head against her good arm and almost nodding off.
Now that it was almost dark, it was much colder outside than she expected it to be, but she wasn’t about to haul herself back upstairs to get her coat, so her sweater would just have to suffice. Brian looked as though he might be about to offer her his jacket, but that was one of those awkward agent/protectee lines that none of them ever crossed. There was only one photographer still waiting around, out on the street past the cast iron gates leading into the quad, and he took a couple of pictures, but it seemed like more of a reflex action than anything else.
Jack was lounging around near the bike racks in front of Mission, and two girls—one of whom she recognized, although she didn’t know her name—were busy flirting with him. She was very prepared to be jealous, but he jumped up, looking so happy to see her that it didn’t seem to be necessary.
“Hi!” he said.
She wasn’t sure she was ready to have them be a completely flagrant and open couple, so she backed away from his hug. But then, she was afraid that might have hurt his feelings, so she leaned into it for a second.
“Well, see you later, Jack,” one of the girls said, giving Meg something of an “if you weren’t famous, you wouldn’t have a shot with him” look, while the other girl just seemed disappointed that Malibu Bobby was now going to be otherwise occupied.
“Yeah, okay, Connie,” he said. “See you around, Gaylan.”
As the two girls drifted, reluctantly, off, Jack grinned at her.
“How much tongue can I give you in public?” he asked.
He really was just an ambulatory penis, wasn’t he. “I think maybe none,” she said.
“Damn.” Then, he moved much closer and kissed her, deeply. “Oops.” He pulled away, and grinned at her again. “My bad.”
She was amused—and aroused, but elected to keep these two facts to herself.
A lot of people said hello to him, while they were waiting in line on the stairs to get into the dining hall, and she was pleased when a few others—not just sycophantic strangers, but people she knew, from classes and the dorm—said hi to her, too.
She glanced at his ski ja
cket, which was hanging open, and noticed that the zipper was unadorned. “No lift tickets?”
Jack shrugged.
Wait a minute. “Did you cut off your lift tickets, so I wouldn’t have to see them?” she asked.
He nodded.
That was nice. “Thanks,” she said, and—because she bloody well felt like it—gave him a kiss.
Everyone standing nearby looked at them—in fact, some of them flat-out gawked—so, it was possible that the kiss had been a little on the deep side.
It was also possible that she completely didn’t give a good god-damn.
Among other things, the dining hall was serving marinated steak, which looked pretty good, but she didn’t take any, because her rocker knife was tucked inside her jacket pocket—back in her room, and she wouldn’t be able to cut the meat by herself, otherwise. So, without being excited about the unavoidable compromise, she went with some vegetable jambalaya and a small helping of apple crisp, instead.
“Christ, Meg, is that all you’re going to eat?” Jack asked, after they were both sitting down at a table with several people from his dorm, since it was too crowded for them to find one of their own.
She shrugged, already embarrassed that he’d had to carry her tray for her, because her balance on the surgical brace and her cane was so unsteady. “It looks good,” she said, even though she was envious of his steak, two baked potatoes, onion rings, and double-sized serving of corn. In fact, if her leg didn’t hurt so much, she might have gone back and gotten herself some onion rings, at least.
He frowned at her. “Are you a vegetarian?”
She didn’t want to have anything resembling a personal discussion in front of people she didn’t know. “Late lunch,” she said, and reached for the pepper, a guy named Karl, who was sitting across from her, practically falling all over himself to hand it to her.
It felt as though everyone at the table was watching her eat—or, okay, mostly not eat, and she finally gave up and concentrated on her coffee, limping up twice for refills. Most of the conversation revolved around their dorm, Armstrong, so she just sat and listened, although they also talked a lot about what they had all done on their spring breaks.