The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [135]
I watched the funeral on TV from my hospital bed. Naturally, they kept cutting away to the President’s and First Lady’s reactions. Hidden by her wide-brimmed black hat, she kept her head steady, trying to hold it in—but as Boyle’s daughter started to speak . . . The camera caught it for half a second, never even realizing what was happening. The First Lady wiped her nose, then sat up straighter than ever. With that, it was done. It was still the only time I’d seen the First Lady cry.
Until just now.
Still looking over my shoulder, I stare up the hallway at the open door of the bedroom. No doubt, I should go downstairs. This isn’t my business. There are infinite reasons she could be crying. But right now, two days after seeing Boyle’s brown and light blue eyes . . . a day after Nico escaping from St. Elizabeths . . . plus whatever the First Lady was hiding under her seat . . . I hate myself for even thinking it. They should fire me for even thinking it. But with everything that’s swirling, to just walk away now—to give up, to pretend it’s not there, to walk downstairs without finding out why one of the most powerful women in the world is suddenly devastated . . . No. I can’t. I need to know.
Pivoting back toward the bedroom, I take a silent step across the handwoven gold carpet that runs up the hall. I hear a soft sniffle from her direction. Not crying. A strong, final sniff that buries everything back down. Clenching my fists and holding my breath, I take two more tiptoed steps. For eight years, I’ve fought to protect their privacy. Now I’m the one invading it. But if there’s something she knows . . . something about what happened . . . I keep my pace, almost at the door. But instead of heading to the bedroom on my left, I crane my neck, check to make sure the First Lady can’t see me, and duck into the open door of the bathroom that’s diagonally across the hall on my right.
With the sun fading outside, the bathroom’s dark. As I duck behind the door, my heart’s pounding so fast, I feel it in the sides of my temples. To be safe, I shut the door halfway and peek out from the thin vertical gap between the door spine and the frame. Across the hall, in her bedroom, the First Lady’s back is to me as she sits at her writer’s desk. From the angle I’m at, I only see the right half of her body—like she’s split vertically in two—but it’s the only half I need, especially as she reaches under her seat cushion and pulls out whatever it was she hid.
Pressing my nose into the opening, I squint hard trying to see what it is. A photograph? A memo? I don’t have a chance. Her back blocks everything. But as she holds the item, lowering her head to examine it, there’s no mistaking the sudden droop in her posture. Her shoulders sag. Her right arm begins to tremble. She reaches up, as if she’s pinching the bridge of her nose—but as another sniffle cuts through the air, followed by an almost inaudible whimper—I realize she’s not pinching her nose. She’s wiping her eyes. And once again cryi—
Just as quickly, her posture stiffens and shoulders rise. Like before, she buries the moment, a final sniffle patting the last bits of dirt on the grave of whatever previous emotion she momentarily let through. Even in solitude, even as her arm continues to tremble, the President’s wife refuses to suffer weakness.
Moving like she’s in a rush, she promptly folds up the memo or photo or whatever it is, and stuffs it between the back pages of what looks like a paperback on her desk. I almost forgot. Manning isn’t the only one the Madame Tussauds folks are here to see. With a final deep breath, the First Lady smooths out her skirt, dabs her eyes, and lifts her chin. Public mask back in place.
As she turns to leave the bedroom, she stares across the hallway, at the dark space where I am, pausing for half a second. I shrink back from the sliver of doorway,