Long May She Reign (67 page)

She wasn't sure if she could take herself—or them—through the days of crawling through the woods. A lot of it was kind of blurred in her mind, anyway. She closed her eyes, felt her mother's hand graze her cheek, and opened them again. “Did you think there was any chance I'd get back on my own?” she asked.

It was very clear that they didn't want to answer that, but finally, they both shook their heads.

Swell. She wanted to snap something like “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” but she restrained the impulse. “So, what did you think was happening?”

Again, they avoided looking at her.

Then, her mother let out her breath. “I assumed that they were brutalizing you, but keeping you in relatively good shape, so that they could use you to manipulate me.”

Her father made an abrupt and angry gesture with his hand, but didn't say anything.

“All right, manipulate
both
of us,” her mother said, sounding as tense as her father looked.

That was a blatant lie, but Meg, for one, wasn't going to point that out.

“But then,” her mother said, when neither of them responded in any way, “after a few days, when we weren't hearing anything, or coming up with any legitimate intelligence, I thought that—” She stopped for a second before going on. “I assumed that it was already over, and probably had been from the very first night.”

Jesus. Meg glanced at her father, who nodded.

Another reminder that thirteen days could be a
really
long time.

And once again, her mother was the only one with the nerve to break the silence.

“When I saw the teeth, part of me hoped that you were dead,” she said, quietly.

Jesus. Meg leaned away from her, although her mother was staring off into the indeterminate distance, and didn't even seem to notice. She looked at her father, whose face was so rigid and still that she had absolutely no idea what he might be thinking.

“It was almost the worst thing I could imagine, but I assumed that if they could do something that unspeakable to you, and casually leave the evidence behind, that they might—” Her mother moved her jaw. “I thought you might be in a situation where you would rather
not
be alive.”

It was probably just as well that she was never going to know exactly what it was like to be inside her mother's head. And she could tell that her father felt pretty much the same way.

“He never crossed the line into unspeakable,” Meg said finally.

Her mother looked directly at her, which was strange just by virtue of being notable. “I've always assumed that he was pure evil.”

Meg shook her head. “He was very
controlled
evil.” Mostly controlled, anyway. Except that she was never going to know how it might have played out, if he hadn't decided to end the whole thing abruptly, and just leave her to die on her own.

If he hadn't, frankly, chickened out.

“I, um, I don't think he would have let them decapitate me while I was still conscious,” she said, which made her parents do something that looked very much like cringing. Although, obviously, they all knew that it would have almost been—predictable—if her body had been found that way. Terrorism, in its most grotesque, and hackneyed, form. “I mean, if they were going to film one of those—bad scenes, I think he would have stopped and made sure I was dead, first, before they got to that part.” She
hoped
so, anyway. “Or, I don't know, maybe he just would have left the room, so he wouldn't have to watch it happen.”

And gone far enough away so that he wouldn't have to
listen
to it happening, either.

The room was quiet enough so that the ticking of the grandfather clock—which had actually belonged to her grandfather—was almost painfully loud. Then, the phone rang, and they all jumped, and then looked over, as it rang again.

“I'm sorry,” her mother said. “If I don't pick up, you know they're going to start knocking.”

And maybe even break the door down.

Watching her effortlessly cross the room, Meg felt an intense combination of anger, envy, and resentment. It must be nice to get up and walk, without having to think about it and make plans, first. To be able to use both hands. To have hours, and maybe even whole days and weeks, when life didn't revolve around how much everything
hurt
.

God-damn her, anyway.

Her mother was listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the line, and then gave terse instructions, and authorized something or other. When she finished the call, she spoke somewhat crossly to the signal board operator, reiterating that she still didn't want any non-emergency communications put through for the time being, and then hung up.

“I'm sorry, Meg,” she said.

Meg shrugged, staring down at her splint and trying to flex her middle and ring fingers, still feeling the resentment cocktail bubbling around somewhere inside.

Whatever conversational rhythm they'd managed to establish was gone now, and they sat there, about a foot apart from one another, in silence.

“I really do apologize,” her mother said.

Yeah. Her mother was always sorry. Over and over and over again.

And had too damn many
reasons
to be. Time to take off the gloves. “What would you have done if they'd brought you a video, that showed them hurting me?” Meg asked.

Her mother shivered, instead of answering, and her father looked off in the other direction.

This time, for once, she wasn't going to back down, or be nice. She was
sick
of being nice. “If you knew,” she said, “for a fact—saw it, with your own eyes—that I was being tortured beyond human capacity, and all they wanted was
one
small concession, what would you do?”

Her mother shook her head. “I don't know.”

In other words, she wouldn't do a god-damned thing, no matter what. Mostly, she could keep all of it under control, duly and politely repressed—but, not right now. To hell with it. To hell with
her
. To hell with everything. “Yeah, well, fuck you,” Meg said.

Both of her parents flinched, and her mother's shoulders hunched up.

Fuck both of them, for that matter. “Suppose the tape had sound,” Meg said, hearing her voice shake. “And I'm screaming and crying and begging—I mean,
really screaming
, what would you do?”

Her mother shook her head, seeming to shrink right into herself, apparently unaware that she'd brought one hand over to hold her stomach.

But, fuck that, too. “Okay,” Meg said, clenching her—still working—hand as hard as she could. “Let's make it even worse. There are
men
in the room with me. A bunch of them. And they're all—”

“Jesus Christ, Meg,” her father said. Exploded, really. “Enough already! You're the one doing the torturing now.”

Yes, she was, and with very specific intent. “We can tear her apart, Dad,” Meg said, looking him dead in the eye. “Not just make her cry, but
shred
her. Eviscerate her, from halfway across the room. Maybe Steven and Neal can do it a little, too, but mostly, in the whole world, it's just you and me. Right, Dad? We can do it. Anytime we want.”

The color in her father's face had darkened, and he stood up.

“Excuse me,” he said, through his teeth, and then walked into the Presidential dressing room, slamming the door behind him.

Her mother hadn't spoken yet, but Meg could see her trembling, and breathing too hard, and, after the fact, felt completely awful.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” she said. “I didn't mean to—”

Her mother smiled so bitterly that it was genuinely scary. “Nothing personal, Meg, but
fuck you
right back. Okay?”

Whoa.
That
was a first. And, oddly, it came as a tremendous relief. Broke a forbidden barrier. Made it seem as though she was sitting with an actual person, and not the god-damn robotic President. “Yeah,” Meg said, and nodded. “Okay. I deserved that.”

Now, her mother looked at her miserably. “No, you didn't. I'm sorry, I can't believe I just said that to you. I—Jesus Christ, we're all losing our minds.”

The sad thing, was that they were all also sorry. Endlessly, constantly, perpetually sorry. And no matter how many times they told each other that, it never seemed to make any difference. Feeling incredibly lonely for some reason, Meg edged over until she was close enough to lean her head on her mother's shoulder.

Which felt very good.

A few seconds passed—long, damn seconds—and then her mother's arms came around her.

Which felt even better.

“They were supposed to protect you,” her mother said softly. “And when they didn't do that, they were supposed to
find
you, and bring you home. Those sons of bitches would stand in front of my desk, kind of hanging their heads, and—” She shook her head. “I don't think they ever came within three states of you.”

No, it didn't seem that way.

Her mother let out a shaky breath. “Meg, people vicious enough to make a concerted effort to torture an innocent seventeen-year-old, and force her parents to watch it, would never release her alive, no matter
what
I agreed to do.”

No. They wouldn't. “I know,” Meg said. “It's okay. I just needed to be pissed off about it for a few minutes.”

Her mother nodded, and hugged her closer, but then suddenly stiffened. “My God, I said a very offensive thing to you, didn't I.”

Well,
yeah
. Talk about showing up late for the party.

“I am so sorry,” her mother said. “I don't know what I—I wouldn't even have thought that I was capable of that.”

This, from the woman who could not, would not, and
did
not negotiate with terrorists, with her own child's life hanging in the balance. Meg had to grin. “It's all right. I said it first.”

“Granted,” her mother said, “but, let's not tell anyone, okay? Ever?”

“Our secret,” Meg said, and her mother looked very relieved.

Kirby came wandering over, rested his head on her mother's knee, and wagged his tail. He was either very happy to see her—or possibly needed to go out. Or both.

“Hey, at least the dog likes you,” Meg said.

Her mother nodded. “I'll have to have them start taking lonely, pensive pictures of me with him.”

Preferably standing by the windows in the Oval Office, staring out at the Great Land for which she was responsible.

Her mother patted Kirby's head, and then brought her arms back around Meg.

“How much of the anger is something you need your father and me to help you with,” she said, “and also have you talk to someone professionally, and how much is because, most of the time, you're in so much pain you can't see straight?”

Good question. Worth weighing. Meg thought it over. “I'd say sixty–forty, in favor of the pain.”

Her mother nodded. “I'm going to talk to Bob. I think they're under-medicating you, and we need to bring the pain management people back over here, and come up with some new strategies.”

Meg nodded, too. That would be nice. It was soothing to rest against her mother—whose heart, she could feel, had finally slowed down to a normal rhythm; which was a relief—and she let her eyes close. But then, she heard the dressing room door, and she opened them again.

Her father came out, and stared at them. “You're sitting there like
pals
.”

Yeah, that's pretty much what they were doing. She and her mother both shrugged.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, and went back into the dressing room.

They watched him go.

“This is not what that poor man had in mind when he chatted me up in Harvard Square that day,” her mother said.

Which was how her parents had met, when her father was in law school, and her mother was at the JFK School of Government, having just dropped
out
of the law school.

And no, this couldn't have been anywhere in the realm of the way he'd imagined things would turn out.

Her mother's arms felt so warm and safe that she wished they could just sit like this, for hours.

“I didn't mean to swear at you, either,” Meg said. “I'm sorry.”

Her mother smiled. “Don't worry, we both know I earned it. In fact, I think it was probably long overdue.”

Kind of, yeah. “We always used to fight a lot,” Meg said. As far back as she could remember. “I mean,
always
.”

“Well, mothers and daughters,” her mother said, and shrugged.

Yeah. And they'd had a long night, so she should probably be quiet, and not push anymore, but— “Did it make it easier?” she asked.

Her mother looked confused. “Make what easier?”

Could she really ask this? What the hell. Torpedoes be damned. “Not negotiating,” Meg said. “I mean, since I can be—hard to be around.” And then some.

Her mother frowned at her. “Are you serious?”

Meg nodded.

“God, Meg,” her mother said, sounding impatient, as opposed to defensive—the former being a far more comforting reaction, actually. “Do you think I sat there and did a cost-benefit analysis about you?”

Possibly.

Her mother held her hand up as though it were a microphone. “Madam President, when they disemboweled you, what hurt more—cutting out your stomach, or your liver?” She paused, pretending to listen. “Oh. I see. Well, did it also hurt when they chopped your lungs in half? I see.
In
teresting.”

Okay, she got the point.

“I'm guilty of many things, Meg,” her mother said, “but not loving you with every fiber of my being isn't one of them.”

Deep down, she knew that, but sometimes, it just plain had to be said aloud.