Long May She Reign (17 page)

Which seemed to leave most of the opposition entirely unsure of whether to applaud or not.

The other idea Meg knew was near and dear to her heart was for the United States to make a commitment—to its own citizens, as well as people all over the world—to make an all-out, full-time, soaring effort to end world hunger, once and for all. In fact, the President was, essentially, proposing a
war
against hunger. And she was very frank about the fact that simply providing food to the masses was only a short-term solution, to a far more complex problem. She talked about the necessity for the United States to share its good fortune with others, and to encourage every civilized country in the world to join together in the effort—and to continue to work tirelessly to foster democracy in lands which were less than hospitable to the notion of humanitarian ideals, so that their citizens would have the freedom to determine their own destinies. That eradicating hunger was a challenge the country could, and
would
, meet. That this was a battle America had a moral imperative to fight—and win. That to do otherwise would be an utter failure of leadership.

This segued into the need to put aside rigid ideologies and form bipartisan coalitions to serve the nation as a whole, and then, into a paean to the American spirit. Strength, and idealism, and empathy. Imagination, ambition, persistence. Of making mistakes, acknowledging them—and rushing right out to engage the world all over again. Resilience. Determination. Endurance.

Dreading the inevitable, Meg tightened her good hand in her lap, below the wooden railing, working to keep her expression pleasant—and immobile. Several other people were being officially recognized—a store security guard and single mother, who had been on her way home from work when she saw a tenement on fire and ran inside to evacuate all of the occupants, sustaining severe burns and smoke inhalation, clearing the entire building before rescue personnel arrived. A man whose life had taken some terrible and unforeseen turns, leaving him homeless and in despair—who had become an ordained minister and was now the beloved leader of a once-downtrodden, and now thriving, rural parish. A boy whose school bus had crashed through the side of a bridge and ended up submerged underwater, until he managed to force a window open and help lead all of the other students and the unconscious driver to safety. A Marine from a peacekeeping mission overseas, whose helicopter had been hit by ground fire, and even though he was gravely wounded, he managed to fly the chopper to safety, landing without sustaining any further casualties to the other soldiers aboard. A posthumous recognition of a police officer who, at the expense of her own life, had brought down three armed robbers single-handedly inside a crowded fast-food restaurant—and whose family was sitting proudly, and sadly, in the gallery in her honor.

Then, her mother spoke about the nature of heroism. Dramatic, awe-inspiring achievements—and the quieter, less recognized forms. The overburdened nurse effortlessly handling an entire ward alone on a busy night. The teacher who brought excitement and inspiration to every lesson, despite overcrowded and underfunded classrooms. Parents who were simultaneously raising children, taking care of aging relatives, and working full-time. Immigrants who brought fresh perspectives, hope and diversity to the nation.

Just as Meg was hoping that her mother had had a last-minute change of heart and was going to overlook her, she began talk about a year of turmoil and triumph. Of prayers answered. That there was a story they all knew—but also, a more mundane, daily struggle, met without bitterness or complaints. Of her astonishing good fortune to be able to watch not just one person, but
four
people, do just that, with honor and dignity, every single day. Of indomitable—by which point, Meg was so mortified that the words were just one big blur in her head.

Except that her mother must have wrapped up that section, because there was a veritable explosion of applause—
affectionate
applause—and everyone else seemed to be standing, while her mother smiled up at her, and ever so briefly put her hand over her heart instead of clapping.

It was overwhelming, but it was nice. As though people really did care, and that what had happened to her
mattered
to them. And there was such a sweetness in her mother's expression that Meg smiled back at her, shyly. Her mother held her gaze, then nodded, and quickly moved back into her speech, and the applause died down. Meg's heart was still thumping so hard that she couldn't really hear anything else, and her father reached over to squeeze her hand—below camera-level, and she was grateful enough to hang on for a minute.

“Okay?” he whispered.

Meg nodded, although she was still having trouble hearing, or thinking, clearly. But she could sense an exuberance and confidence in her mother's voice, as she finished the speech, and there was a final ovation. After one last glance up at them, she was out on the House floor, with a wave of people—from both sides of the aisle—proffering handshakes and congratulations.

“Just another boring Tuesday night,” Preston said.

Meg smiled weakly. “Same old, same old,” she said.

11

IT HAD BEEN
decided in advance that her father would stay behind to wait for her mother, and that she and Steven and Neal would go back to the Residence with Preston. He led them through a veritable gauntlet of well-wishers, reporters, and cameras, moving them along as swiftly as possible, although she had to stop more than once to pose for the requisite photographs with all of the people who had been recognized in the speech, most of whom were as embarrassed and self-conscious as she was—with the possible exception of the kid who'd saved his classmates on the school bus, and seemed to be pretty damned pleased with himself.

Lots of other people wanted to be introduced to her—and Steven and Neal, too, for that matter—or have their pictures taken together, but Preston tactfully discouraged most of them, with inoffensive, and accurate, remarks about her brothers having to be up early for school the next day. A couple of times, though, he gave her one of his tiny eye-flicker nods, and she would immediately pause next to someone or other, for a photo or brief conversation, assuming that some unknown political debt was being repaid—or extracted. The party had pretty much held its own during the midterm elections, neither gaining nor losing a significant number of seats, but she knew Preston wasn't ever one to miss an opportunity to shore up a shaky ally.

Just about everyone seemed to be sneaking quick looks at her hand, and she also overheard more than a few “God, it's
uncanny
, isn't it?” exchanges, as though she had some control over whom she happened to resemble. A few reporters asked easy “were you proud when you watched the President tonight?” questions, but then, one of them wanted to know if she thought she would ever have any hope of leading a normal life, given her significant physical impairments and the fact that she was still a universally acknowledged terrorist target.

She could tell that Preston didn't like that one any better than she did—and was making an angry mental note about the guy, but before he could cut him off, she just smiled and said something off-hand about the fact that she thought normality was probably overrated.

After that, Preston and their agents were much more authoritative about moving them along, and when their car was on its way back to the White House, she finally let out her breath. Christ, it had been a long night. Preston was saying jocular things to Steven and Neal, but she could tell that he was still furious about the one reporter.

“I'm
fine
,” she said, when they happened to meet eyes at one point.

Preston shook his head. “I'm sorry, I should have been faster.”

“I'm fine,” she said, again.

He didn't look convinced, but he nodded.

Once they were finally upstairs at the White House, in relative privacy, she sank down on a settee in the Center Hall. Steven went to check his email, while Preston sent Neal off to change into his pajamas, and then sat next to her.

“How you doing?” he asked.

Mostly, she was exhausted. It was extremely damned stressful to pretend to be completely healed and fit, with untold numbers of cameras—and commentators—poised to capture every potential tremor or twitch.

“You were just right,” he said. “Even Linda couldn't have asked for more.”

Hell, Linda was
always
capable of asking for more. Meg grinned at him. “She would if she had the nerve.”

He grinned, too. “Well, maybe.”

Left unsaid was that, for the time being, Linda would definitely
not
be inclined to risk the President's wrath again.

“I really am sorry I wasn't quicker, Meg,” he said. “I know what that son-of-a-bitch is like, but he caught me off-guard by throwing you the little softball first.”

Hmmm. Meg frowned at him. “Am I mad at you about that?”

He nodded.

Oh. She wouldn't have said that she was—but, he was probably right. Which made her quite passive-aggressive. “It's okay,” she said. “It didn't bother me.”

“You got ambushed,” Preston said. “Go ahead and be angry about it.”

Mainly, she was just tired.

“Good answer, by the way,” he said. “You made him look even smaller than he is.”

It would be nice if that were true.

To her brothers' delight, Jason brought hot fudge sundaes out to the table in the West Sitting Hall, and the four of them sat down to eat, although Meg mostly watched hers melt, and Preston took only three bites before turning to his cup of coffee.

“Mom was
good
,” Neal said with his mouth full. “They
totally
liked her.”

Steven transferred the whipped cream from Meg's dish onto his own sundae. “Yeah, right, like you weren't falling asleep the whole time.”

“
I
was awake,” Neal said, moving his arm to block Steven from stealing his whipped cream, too. “You were all bored and stuff, but
I
wasn't.”

While they traded “You were more bored,” “No,
you
were more bored” insults, Meg glanced at Preston. “How do you think it played?”

Preston lifted his hands as though he was holding a bat, swung them forward, made the sound of hitting a ball, then squinted as if he was watching it fly over the center-field fence.

“That was nice,” Meg said. “Do you do shadow-puppets, too?”

He nodded. “I'm also very good with interpretive dances.”

There was no question but that she would pay a
serious
admission price to see that.

She was too exhausted to wait up for her parents to come home, or bother checking her messages, of which there were apparently quite a few. She also didn't have the nerve to turn on C-SPAN or CNN or—God knows—Fox, on the fairly-likely chance that she might be forced to see
herself
being beamed around the world, and maybe even having her body language and demeanor analyzed by self-styled experts, and other such embarrassments.

But, thank God, it was over, and she hadn't cried, or panicked, or fallen, or—as far as she knew—looked rattled or intimidated.

Although she would have been a lot more impressed with herself if her last thought before she fell asleep hadn't been about the degree to which she did, indeed, have significant, permanent physical impairments—and the fact that she almost certainly still
was
, and possibly always would be, a target.

She made a point of avoiding all forms of media for most of the week, with the exception of the snarky articles about her mother's speech at the Alfalfa Club dinner, an event at which she was required to be witty and self-deprecating, and Meg's father had to sit there on the dais and smile and laugh and be unreservedly supportive. Naturally, they came home on the early side, both in foul moods. Apparently, it had not been her mother's finest performance, and although it was moderately well-received, it didn't seem to have gone unnoticed that many of the jokes had been ghost-written, and lacked the President's normal easygoing, friendly, off-the-cuff touch. But the coverage was minimal beyond the Beltway, luckily, since the dinner was traditionally considered off-the-record, and supposedly off-limits to the press.

Beth's verdict on the State of the Union Address—after commenting that, once again, Meg had selected one of the least interesting pairs of earrings ever assembled by human, or even mechanical, hands—had been that she looked appropriately mortified about being singled out, in a courteous, if somewhat patrician—and fortunately,
not
imperious—way. Which was a relief because, if caught on the wrong day, she and her mother were both capable of erring in that direction. Meg liked to think of that tendency as being regal, but ingrained imperiousness was probably closer to the truth.

Appearances aside, the people in Beth's dorm had been deeply disappointed that her mother had not, even once, used the phrase, “The State of the Union is strong,” and their drinking game had suffered accordingly. However, one of the other cues had been to take a large gulp every time the cameras cut to the First Family, and as a result, they had all gotten smashed.

She spent the next few days doing last-minute packing for school—and trying not to think about how nervous she was. Downright scared, actually. It was almost impossible to sleep, and she had more nightmares than usual—which meant that the rest of her family wasn't sleeping very well, either. Unfortunately.

The plan, was for her to fly up to Albany with her parents in Air Force One; then, her mother would stay behind and have a not-wildly-necessary meeting with the governor, while Meg and her father, and maybe Preston, went over to the campus. After lengthy discussions, they had all finally agreed that having her mother make the entire trip would turn the whole thing into too much of a news event, and Meg wanted to slip in as unobtrusively as possible. Having the First Gentleman along wasn't exactly the route to anonymity, but it wouldn't compare to the utter madhouse, and massive entourage, which would accompany the President.