When the table moved, she woke up completely, afraid that the doctors' scalpels would slip, then realized that the operation was over, and she was being wheeled back to a recovery room or something.
“Am I all right?” she asked. She couldn't quite understand what the doctors said to her, but was pretty sure she heard the word “encouraging” in there. Which would have to be a positive sign.
A lot of people were fussing over herâtaking her temperature, pumping up a blood pressure cuff, sponging off her faceâand she watched from what seemed like way inside her head, too tired to do more than nod or shake her head when they asked questions.
When she woke up again, the first thing she felt was pain. Her leg was propped up, in some kind of strap-on surgical brace, and she groaned before she could stop herself. There was a flurry of activity around the bed, people trying to make her more comfortable, and she put on the best smile she could come up with, wanting to be a good sport. A good scout. A good
soldier
.
Her mother was holding out a glass of water with a bent straw, and Meg gratefully sipped some.
“What time is it?” she asked, her tongue less than responsive.
More than one person answered, and she gathered that it was after five. The press conference was at eight, and she looked at her mother. “You're still going,” she said, “right?”
Her mother nodded.
“Good.” She drank some more water, trying to wake up, then recognized one of the surgeons and moved her head to get his attention. “Is it going to be okay?” she asked, indicating her leg.
“Well, I'm afraid we're looking at a multifaceted and protracted process, but we're encouraged by the degree to which you're maintaining vascular sufficiency and the fact that the peroneal was not fully transected,” he said.
Maybe that was her cue to go back to sleep for a while.
“Perhaps you could clarify that,” her mother said, frowning.
The surgeon looked uncomfortable. “Yes. Of course, Madam President.” He focused on Meg. “I guess what I meant to say is that, if the current situation holds, and the surgical grafts we do later are successful, there's a chance that, down the road, you'll be able to walk unaided.”
Meg blinked. “
Walk
unaided?” She shot a look at Dr. Brooks, who didn't quite meet her eyes. Okay, he was a nice primary care
doctor; of
course
he wouldn't have wanted to tell her anything that grim. But, stillâit was
her
god-damn leg. They bloody well could haveâJesus, the whole thing was such a nightmare that it was almost starting to be funny. She looked back at the surgeon. “My leg won't haveâun
sight
ly scars, now will it?”
“Well,” he said, hesitantly.
“I believe my daughter's kidding,” her father said, and Meg laughed. A little.
Except that she was going to be a whole god-damned
bundle
of scars. Scars, and crippled things, and
general
unsightliness. She covered her eyes with her arm, her fist clenched, wishing that everyone would go away and leave her the hell alone. They
did
back off a little, although there was a big production about moving her down to her room to rest still
more
comfortably.
She kept her arm over her eyes, afraid that she might be going to cryâor yell at someoneâor both. Once she was in bed, and everyone but her parents had cleared out, she lowered her arm, just to make
sure
that they were alone.
“Meg,” her father said, looking unhappy.
“I'm really tired,” she said. “I need to sleep for a while.” She covered her eyes again, her teeth pressed together almost as tightly as her fist.
Walk
unaided. Christ.
BY THE TIME she heard her mother moving around, getting ready to leave, she felt under enough control to lower her arm.
“I'm sorry,” her mother said. “I didn't meant to wake you up.”
“I wasn't asleep.” She rubbed her hand across her eyes. “Can you say hi to Vanessa for me? I mean, you know, pat her and all?”
Her mother nodded. “Of course. Is there anything you'd like me to bring back?”
Vanessa
. Meg shook her head.
“Maybe some books,” her mother said, “orâ?”
“No, thank you,” Meg said. Like she would ever be awake long enough to
read
them? “I meanâgood luck.”
“I'll be back soon.” Her mother bent down to kiss her good-bye, then straightened up, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“We'll look for you,” her father said, gesturing towards the television and sounding so vague that Meg almost smiled.
“Okay,” her mother said, smiling briefly, too.
After she had left, Meg glanced at her father. “She looks nervous.”
“She's worried about
you
,” her father said. “We bothâ”
Meg interrupted, before he could go on. “I might be getting hungry soon. Where are Steven and Neal?”
He studied her for a second, then nodded. “They're down in the guest rooms. I'll check about getting you some dinner, too. Is there something special you'd like?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and put her arm over her eyes.
He had only been gone for a minute when there was a light
knock on the door, and she glanced up long enough to see Preston. Preston. The
one
person who'd promised to be straight with her.
“Okay if I come in?” he asked, holding a large cardboard box.
She folded her good arm across her chest, not looking at him.
“Okay, no problem.” He put the box down on the floor, out of the way. “Unless you need anything, I can give you a hello later.”
“You said you'd be
straight
with me,” she said, as he turned to go.
He stopped, turning back. “I'm not sure what youâ”
“
Walk
unaided?” she said.
He sighed.
God-damn it. “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You
did
know.”
He sighed again. “If you could see what your eyes looked like,
you
wouldn't tell you unnecessarily upsetting things, either.”
“Not tell me that I'm going to be
crippled
?” Saying the word made her so angry that she clenched her fist to try and keep from losing control.
“I don't know, Meg.” He sat down in one of the many chairs, running his hand over his hair. “I guess the logic was, if you didn't know, you'd be up and walking around that much faster.”
Yeah,
right
. “The logic
was
, “Let's play God.'” She gritted her teethâthe ones she had
left
âwanting to smash her fist through something.
Any
thing.
“Megâ” he started.
“I mean, it's
my
god-damn leg,” she said. “What's the deal with my
hand
âthey going to cut it off or something? Maybe tell me a week later?
Maybe
?”
Preston looked very tired.
“I shouldn't ask
you
, anyway,” she said. “It's not like you're going to tell me the truth.” What was going to happen, was that she was going to cry. Cry, and swear, andâshe held her hand against her eyes, fighting not to fall apart.
“Meg,” he said, “Iâ”
She shook her head. “Don't say
anything
. I don't trust you.”
“Meg.” He let out his breath. “I would
never
do anything to hurt you. I mean, you know that, right?”
She moved her hand enough to look at him. “Omission can be just as much of a lie.”
He nodded.
“It's just like being a prisoner,” she said. “People telling you
what
they want,
when
they want.”
He nodded.
“Iâ” She swallowed, having to look away from him. “I don't want you to remind me of him.” The thought made her shiver, and she looked at him again. “I mean,
you
, particularly.”
He sat back, looking almostâstricken. An expression she had never seen on his face. “I would never want to,” he said quietly.
Jesus Christ, this was
Preston
. One of the very few people in the world who she absolutely, one hundred percent trusted and loved. Being angry at him was tooâif he got angry at
her
, it would beâ
“Meg, I would
die
before I let anyone hurt you,” he said.
She nodded, the thought too scary to imagine. But, she could tell that he meant it. “I'm not mad at you,” she saidâalmost whispered. “I'm justâmad.”
He nodded. “You have every right to be, Meg.”
“About everything, not justâ” She looked down at her leg, exhausted now that the energy of being furious was gone. “How bad
is
it?”
“I don't know,” he said, sounding worn out, too. “Until they reconstruct the ligaments, and get you into physical therapy, I don't think
they
really know. From what I gather, right now, they're mainly relieved that your popliteal artery didn't rupture.”
If her leg hadn't been all strapped up, she might have grabbed at it, protectively. “That could have
happened
?” she said.
He nodded.
Jesus. If it had, maybe she would haveâ“When are they going to do the ligaments?” she asked.
“Within a week or so,” he said. “They're waiting for as much of the swelling to subside as possible.”
Well, at least
that
was pretty specific. She slumped back into her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Will I be completely crippled? In a wheelchair and all?”
He shook his head. “A brace and a cane, probably.”
Great. “Permanently?” she asked, her stomach hurting.
“I don't know, Meg,” he said. “I honestly don't.”
Honestly. She smiled a little. “
Honestly
?”
He nodded, very serious.
“What about my hand?” she asked. “The same basic deal?”
He nodded again.
Swell. Just swell. The only
good
thing was that she was too drained to think about it very much.
“I can't tell you how sorry I am,” he said. “About this whole damn thing.”
She nodded.
“I'll do anything I can to help you,” he said.
Odds were, she was going to
need
it.
They sat without speaking for a few minutes, Preston looking almost as lost and sad as she felt.
Finally, she rubbed her hand across her eyes, then looked over at the cardboard box on the floor. “What's that?”
“Well, I don't know. It must be a gift.” He got up, whipping off the cover with some theatricality, revealing a fancy DVD/DVR recorder and two stacks of movies. “Thought you might be too tired for reading,” he said, and handed her a remote control.
He was definitely right about that. “Thanks,” she said.
“
And,
” he said, “we have some lovely films for you.”
She grinned wryly. “POW dramas?”
“Well, let's see.” He lifted each small case in turn, pretending to examine it at length. “
The Sound of Music. The Music Man. Oklahoma.
Andâwhat's this?â
Mary Poppins
!” He widened his eyes at her, and she smiled back.
“Are they all musicals?” she asked.
He nodded. “
Many
lovely things,” he said, and held up a thick pile of unmarked disks. “Know what we have here?”
Hmmm. “
It's a Wonderful Life
,” she said.
“No, but that's a good ideaâI'll have them bring it over.” He winked at her. “
Un
colorized.”
She flushed, since he had been forcedâmore than onceâto listen to her speech about the evils of colorization.
“Anyway,” he said, “
these
are all the Red Sox games you missed.”
Whoa. She sat up partway. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?” he asked, looking a little sheepish.
“So, wait,” she said, missing that, “in the middle of everything, you were like, recording the Red Sox every night?”
“Except for that first night,” he said, not smiling anymore.
“Butâlike, what if I hadn'tâ” She stopped, not wanting to get into that, but still curious. “What would you have done with all of them?”
“I don't know,” he said, quietly. “It was a sort of good-luck charm, sort ofâI don't know.”
Which was reallyâsweet. Feeling tears in her eyes, she blinked so he wouldn't see them. “My father always likes to sit in the same chair when he watches them,” she said. And drink from the same beer glass, andâalmost alwaysâwear his lucky hat.
“I know. And this was probably equally effective.” Then, he actually looked embarrassed. “Burned you a few E! specials, too.”
Meg laughed, feeling out of practice. “Particularly
scandalous
ones?” Especially when they involved child stars who had come to unsavory ends.
He nodded. “Yeah. I know they're your favorites.”
Meg laughed again, aiming the remote control around the room, pretending to be surprised when nothing came on or off. “Do my parents know about this?”
“Wellâgood-luck charms should be private,” he said.
Pretty funny.
“I have to warn you, though,” he said, taking the machine out of the box. “They dropped both ends of a double-header one of the days.”
Oh, nifty.
That
was going to be a treat to watch. “Naturally,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”
“Do you think her press conference'll go okay tonight?” she asked.
“Wellâ” he looked around for a good place to put the player/recorder downâ“she'll certainly have a receptive audience.”
“People don'tâblame her?” Meg asked. “I mean, you know, the country.”
“I think people
empathize
,” he said, starting to set the machine up. “They know how much all of you have gone through.” He paused. “Do
you
blame her?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I haven't decided.”
He nodded.
Did
she? Probably. Or not. “I don't know,” she said, again. “It'd be kind of like blaming her for getting
shot
. Maybe it's justâI don't know. Bad luck.”
He nodded, bending down to plug the machine in.
“
Real
bad luck,” she said.
“I'll buy that one,” he said, straightening up.
“Is her speaking tonight going to be a big deal?” she asked, pretty sure she already knew the answer.
He just looked at her.
Okay, that had been a dumb question. “Am I going to lookâpathetic?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Are you kidding? Whether you know it or not, you've hit folk-hero time.”
Meg blushed. “It's not like Iâ”
“Trust me on this one,” he said, double-checking the connections. “People want to grow up and
be
you.”
Oh,
right
. “I'd advise
against
that, myself,” she said.
“Well, just don't worry about anyone thinking you're pathetic.” He held up one of the plastic cases. “Want me to put in
The Sound of Music
?”
Sort ofâbut, maybe she should save that. “How about one of the E! specials,” she said.
He smiled. “Sure. Sounds great.”
They were watching a behind-the-scenes exposé of an old ensemble drama, when her father and brothers came in with dinner.