Title: "Two" (Powers of Ten Series)
Author: Marissa
Rating: PG-13, maybe bordering on R for suggestiveness
Genre: Romance
Summary: "This is my hundredth reason, I think to myself. This is why I got in that car accident, so I could find my way back . . . ."
Disclaimer: I do not make any claim to ownership when it comes to this adorable duo. I did, however, basically create two characters out of nothing in this fic, so I guess they're sort of mine. (They're ABS's and my love children!)
Archive: I love it, but I want to know where it's going.
Feedback: You know you want to.
Author's Note #1: Warning: here be flashbacks. Tons and tons of 'em. This story really doesn't have all too much to do with the topic that's at hand in this time frame, but this is a romance, not a general fic, and I'll take whatever creative liberties I want. :) I'm using the events that would happen around this time as backdrop for a romance, not as a main storyline.
Author's Note #2: Goethe is very cool and quotable (just read the story, you'll see). I've included a handy-dandy Goethe quotation at the end that applies very, very well to the story, especially the plotline mentioned in my Summary.
Author's Note #3: If you can't balance your checkbook, you might find this helpful: ten to the second (two) power is one hundred.
I'm tired tonight.
Not only that, but also lonely, hopeless, and depressed. I should be pumped, but I'm not.
We're going to lose.
It is almost a certainty. Joey Lucas has run dozens of polls, and we have come out on top in very, very few of them. Our opponent, Governor Francis Jergen of Kentucky, is a Republican who believes in everything we oppose, and it hurts my heart to think of him in our White House. He'll have a Deputy Chief of Staff, but will he or she go through what I've been through? Will his staff members walk in every day with their head held high because they work for an endearingly idealistic man who really wants to change the world? Will they believe in him the way we've believed in Josiah Bartlet?
I'd love to think that the answer is no. But everyone has their own ideals, and maybe Jergen's staff will admire him the way we admire Bartlet. Maybe they will thank God every day that they are working for their President.
I know I do.
So it is ten o'clock at night on November 3, 2002, and I want to be with someone who understands what I'm going through, who knows what will die when millions of Americans cast their votes tomorrow.
I want to call Donna.
I cannot call Donna.
We made a deal with CJ, and this is the agreement: I do not see Donna in any way outside the staff member/assistant relationship until the election is over.
This means I do not joke around with her, or put my hand on her back as I lead her through doorways, or take her as my last-minute date to parties. This means I cannot call her at ten o'clock at night confessing I have a gut-wrenching feeling that I will be out of a job in three months. It's only been six days, but it's been a bitch. One of the best things in my life is gone, if temporarily, and I need it now the most.
I cannot call Donna. So I dial one of my most familiar numbers. It only rings once before I hear, "Hello?"
"Mom?"
"Joshua, sweetheart, how are you?" It is my mother's sweet, lilting, slightly accented voice that greets me tonight, the night before the election. She sounds delighted. I only call her about once every two weeks, and even then it's usually a short conversation.
"Not so good," I admit. I continue in a joking tone, "Don't forget to vote, Mom."
She laughs. "How could I, when all you talked about five years ago was how 'real' this man was? Joshua, if he's as wonderful as you've made him out to be, how could I not vote for him? And you know your father would turn over in his grave if I voted Republican." She is comfortable talking about him. I'm not.
"I know, Mom. I was kidding. It's just -- well, we need every vote we can get."
"It's going to be a tough one, Joshua, but you'll make it through just fine."
I want to hold my tongue, but I can't. "Mom, we won't win. We can't win. Not with these numbers."
"Never say never, honey. And how is the lovely Miss Moss?" she asks, attempting to change the subject.
"Well, I wouldn't know," I say bitterly.
"Joshua!" She sounds shocked. "Are you telling me you broke that poor girl's heart? I swear to God, you just don't want to be happy!"
"No, Mom, it's not that. We promised CJ that we wouldn't see each other until after the election."
"Oh." There is a pause on the other end of the line. "Nu?"
"I'm miserable."
"Oh, honey." She sounds like she wants to jump through the phone line and travel all the way down to D.C. to comfort me. "It's just one more day."
"Well, it's been an awful six days, and I'm lonely."
"You've got me, Joshua," she says, and I can hear the smile on her face. "You can stay on the phone with me as long as you need to."
"Thanks, Mom." There is a brief pause, then I ask, "Mom, how did you know that you loved Dad?" I think it's the first time I've mentioned him to her since the funeral.
"Well, he was so handsome. And smart as a whip. We met each other in a freshman seminar, and we hit it off from the first. Noah told me . . . he told me he needed to be with a woman who kept him on his toes. That was on our first date. We spent the whole night talking. We went out to dinner at this tiny little hole-in-the-wall -- he didn't have any money, you know that -- and we sat there for four hours and just talked. He told me how his father had been a judge in this tiny town in New Hampshire, and how he wanted to be a lawyer. I told him about Daddy, about Birkenau, about Germany. We just . . . ." She pauses, as if considering what words to use. "The bumps in his head fit the indents in mine, to use an old expression.
"I guess I realized I loved him when we had American History together sophomore year. He gave this wonderful speech about FDR, and I just . . . realized I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life. We kept seeing each other all through college. A lot of girls would have dropped out of school to marry, but my father would never have allowed it. You know, Joshua, when you spend part of your life captive under a fascist regime, you tend to be quite adamant about education." She laughs lightly. It fascinates me how my mother can laugh her childhood off so blithely. She was born in 1935 in Germany, and although her mother and father were imprisoned at Birkenau in the late Thirties, she was hidden and raised by a Catholic family. In 1945, her father found her, and they managed, somehow, to get passage to the United States in 1947. My grandmother, my mother's mother, had died in the concentration camp.
My mother continues her story, unaware that I am wondering for the millionth time how she ever survived the first twelve years of her life. "So we graduated. I'm glad I did. Having a college education made me feel much better about myself. I got my degree in English, Noah got his in history, and he was accepted into Yale Law. At graduation, he told me that he wouldn't trade the four years he had had with me for anything in the world. Then he proposed to me, Joshua, and I was ecstatic. We moved to New Haven, got married, and within the year I was pregnant." She stops. I hear her clear her throat. "My Joanie." But then her tone brightens. "Then in 1961 you were born, dearest, and here you are, working for the President of the United States! Daddy couldn't have dreamed of a better life for you. That's why he found me, and got us out of Germany. So my child could live the way you're living now. And your father would be so, so proud."
"Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I love Donna."
"I know you do, dear."
"You do?" She amazes me. Even after forty-one years of being her son, she amazes me.
"You talk about her constantly, sweetheart. You sent me those photographs from the inauguration, and there's one of you two, and you're looking at her with the most adoring face . . . ."
"Mom!" She's embarrassing me, as awful as that sounds.
"Oh, honey, you looked just like your father in that picture." She sighs. "So nu?"
"I -- I want -- I want to marry her," I splutter.
"So marry her!"
"You don't mind that she's not Jewish?"
"Joshua, if she's got a good head on her shoulders and is willing to give you the time of day, I don't care if she's a Zoroastrianist! Have you proposed yet?"
"No, Mom."
"You? My little go-getter? My decisive Joshua hasn't asked the woman he loves to marry him?" She sighs. "I swear, you're exactly like your father. He got very, very drunk the night before he asked me to marry him. He was scared."
"So am I."
"Bite the bullet, sweetheart." She gasps a little, realizing what she has said. "I mean -- I mean --"
"I know, Mom, don't worry about it. Don't forget to vote!"
"Don't forget to call me and let me know how it goes."
I know she means my proposal to Donna, which I'm still not sure will actually occur. "All right, Mom. I love you."
"I love you, too, my little Joshy."
"Bye," I say, and hang up. When Mom gets emotional, she calls me Joshy. It annoys the hell out of me, but it's also quite endearing.
She has every reason to be emotional, anyway. Tomorrow the fate of the free world hangs in the balance, and I have every reason to believe the outcomne will be less than pleasant.
It's ten o'clock, and although it's early, I decide to turn in.
Tomorrow is going to be a long day.
~~~
I can't sleep.
Goethe, one of my roommate Laura's three cats, is asleep at my feet, and I wish fervently for the ablility to fall asleep at the drop of a hat that Goethe possesses, but no miraculous force descends upon me and grants me repose.
Sleep will not come easily tonight. I might as well call my parents.
When I first told my parents about me and Josh about two weeks ago, they seemed surprised. My type had always been the slightly obnoxious, superficially charming, very handsome guy who treats girls like crap. There were quite a few of them at my high school. I didn't date too much when I was young, but I dated enough to make my parents worry.
Mostly, they worried that I would end up sleeping with some guy, getting scared, and marrying him too quickly. My parents love me, and they've always been concerned about my decision-making capapbilities.
I'm better at it than I let on. After all, I ended up with Bartlet for America. Explaining that choice to my mother, however, was a different story.
In short, she didn't let me explain. She was angry and hurt, so she let me go -- again -- and didn't ask for an explanation.
Now that I am serious about Josh, though, she feels obligated to find out more about my job and my co-workers. So even as I try to engage in small talk, she reroutes the conversation.
"I know you're still angry with me."
"For what, Mom?"
"For pretending not to care when you left Madison the second time."
"I'm not still angry over that. Why would you think that? I was angry with you at the time, but I've had four years to get over it."
"Is it too late to apologize?"
I smile. She's half right; she did hurt me incredibly when I left the second time, but it wasn't the soul-crushing blow she thinks it was. She didn't speak to me for four months, and since then there's been a rift between us that no words until now could completely heal. "It's never too late to say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry." She breathes a huge sigh of relief. "I really am, Donnatella. So is your father. It's just that we never understood why you would pack up and leave again. We thought you were homesick from the start, and that's why you came back. But then you left again, and since then we really haven't had a chance to talk about it."
"Mom, I've been home for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving . . . ."
"I know, dear, but with all those men around I never could could get a straight answer out of you."
She has a point. I am very uncomfortable talking about relationships when my father or brothers are around. Daddy shifts around in his chair and clears his throat conspiculously whenever talk turns to sex; John and Vincent are incredibly immature, which is sad, because they're both older than I am.
"Well, Mom, what do you want to know?"
"Why did you leave us that second time?"
How to begin? I joined the Bartlet campaign back in February of 1998, worked there for a couple of weeks, then went back to my boyfriend. That was possibly the stupidest thing I ever did, except maybe for dropping out of school.
But then, one beautiful day in April, I was driving down the street to my parents' house, listening to NPR, and suddenly I heard the commentator say, "Well, for those who dismissed Governor Bartlet out of hand early on, this may be the time to reconsider. Polls indicate that he is gaining on fellow Democrats John Hoynes and William Wiley, and some experts believe he may soon take a lead in the polls. For those who have supported Bartlet from the beginning, this is no surprise. Former Secretary of Labor Leo McGarry, one of Bartlet's closest friends and likely candidate for Chief of Staff if Bartlet wins, had this to say . . . ."
Then I heard Leo's voice. "We have good people working for us here at Bartlet for America. Everyone here is a good person. But the best person is our candidate, which is not often the case. I have known Jed Bartlet for years. He is intelligent, hard-working, and a caring person. We all believe in him, and that is what makes him a viable candidate: the good people here and our belief in him."
I had started crying without even realizing it, and I was no longer paying attention to the road. Consequently, I ran up onto the curb and hit a telephone pole.
I was only going fifteen miles an hour, so the accident really wasn't a big deal, but my right ankle hit the edge of the brake pedal and snapped. I was only about one hundred feet from my parents' house, so I just leaned on the horn until they came out to see what the hell was going on. When they saw me in the car (the front end of which was now shaped like pincers), they panicked and called an ambulance.
After a few minutes of coercion, I also got them to call my then-boyfriend. I was taken to the hospital, and he showed up -- two hours later. When he admitted what happened, I dumped him on the spot and began debating myself on whether or not to go back to Washington.
Uprooting yourself from your home, family, and friends -- for a second time -- is a huge decision, and it wasn't one I was about to make lightly. So I took a lined sheet of paper and titled it "REASONS TO GO BACK TO WASHINGTON."
When I started thinking about it, they came easily. Number one was Jed Bartlet, two was Josh, three was CJ, and I continued in that vein until I used up all the people I knew on the campaign. Then came self-esteem, self-image, learning about government (one of my many majors), and all sorts of other intangible benefits. Then I listed all the good things about D.C. itself: GW Hospital, the Metro, the Library of Congress, the Newseum (back when it was a point of interest and not a terrible memory), and all the other great things about the capital city.
Then I listed things that would come about if somehow my presence swayed the balance in the campaign: gun control, better education, etc., etc. I had heard his platform explained so many times it was easy to put it all on paper.
To top it off, I listed the things I wouldn't have to do if I left Wisconsin: meet up with old high school friends who were pregnant, listen to my parents bitch about my terrible taste in boyfriends, ever see "Dr. Freeride" again, eat cheese. There were more than that, but those were the highlights.
By that time, I was up to ninety-eight reasons, which is a lot, if you think about it. Deciding to go for one hundred, I added as #99, "Serving at the pleasure of the President." But I couldn't think of a hundredth reason. So I just wrote the number and left it blank.
But ninety-nine reasons is more than enough to pack up and move out all over again. I don't remember how I scraped together the money for a plane ticket, but I got to Washington, all right. "We have good people working for us," Leo had said. I wanted to be one of those good people again. On the Bartlet campaign, I had made a difference, or at least I liked to think I had.
Now here I am, four years older, and I have learned more than I ever could have in college. I have learned about airstrikes and ambassadors, about storms and staff meetings, and I am happier than I have ever been.
How can I explain this to my mother?
"I loved the people, and I loved the atmosphere. I didn't really have much of a reason to stay in Madison."
"We're not a reason? Your own parents are not a reason?"
"Mom . . . it was time for me to move on."
Surprisingly, she accepts this. I think it's a terrible excuse for an explanation, but she moves on unscathed. "So what's so great about this Josh guy?"
"Oh, Mom, I wish you could meet him. He's cute, and so smart, and when I'm with him I feel like I could conquer the world."
"Does he respect you?" That has always been Mom's question. My sister asks, "How's his ass?" My mom asks about respect.
"He respects me enough to argue with me when he feels passionately about something. He respects me enough to listen when I tell him something -- anything. He loves me, Mom."
"If you say so, honey." Her voice holds inklings of doubt and regret, leftover from previous boyfriends of mine. The one who ignored me. The one who yelled at me. The one who hit me.
"No, Mom, this time I'm sure. I think -- I think I want to be with him. Forever, I mean."
"Are you saying you want to marry him?" Mom sounds faintly shocked. She knows we only dated for a week (and that we're now taking a week off), and that's a very short time for a courtship.
"I don't know," I say, exhaling loudly. I've been turning this over and over in my head, and I can't make any sense of it. I've spent so much time with Josh over the past four years that it's almost like we've been together for that long, but we really haven't, and I want more time to get my bearings in the relationship.
On the other hand, things move quickly in our world, and what's here today may be gone tomorrow. I don't doubt that Josh and I will last, but the world we live in is quickly crumbling. The President knows his time in the White House is almost up, and the day-to-day tension is palpable. I love working at the White House, but it gets less pleasant every day.
"Will you let me know when you figure things out?" I've always moved faster than my parents, and it has confounded my mother since the day I got up from my playpen and started to walk -- away from her.
"Yes. All right, Mom, don't forget to vote tomorrow!" I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.
"Yes, dear. Talk to you later."
"Bye." With that, I hang up the phone and collapse on my bed. "You love me, don't you, Goethe?"
The cat purrs in response, and I take that for an affirmative. "And I love you, too, smoocher," I assure him. "I'll never leave you." I scratch his head, but apparently I'm a little too rough, because Goethe stirs and shakes his head in irritation. I lay one hand on his gray-and-white-striped fur. "Shh," I murmur. "It's going to be all right. You'll see."
With that, I decide, I will go to sleep. So I curl up under the covers, clutch my pillow with one hand, and stroke Goethe with the other. I start to lose consciousness, but I remember that I still have my list of reasons to go back to Bartlet for America; it's tucked in my wallet along with my senior portrait from high school and the newspaper clipping from the day I was born.
Just before everything goes black, I call up memories of Josh, and I fall asleep thinking about him.
~~~
I dream about Donna. I dream about her sudden appearance during the campaign, her vigil at GW after Rosslyn, her tears after finding out about Mrs. Landingham, and her calm confidence at her deposition.
I wake up smiling.
Then I remember what day it is.
~~~
I wake up thinking about Josh, but before long I realize what today is, and what it means.
~~~
Fourteen hours after I wake up, Donna follows me out of the West Wing and onto Pennsylvania Avenue at a brisk walk. She joins arms with me, and we walk to my place without a word.
Once we arrive, we sit on my sofa and turn on NBC. ". . . Texas having just been called for Jergen, we can see that the GOP has grabbed most of the electoral --"
With that, I turn off the television. I knew all along that we would lose, but this death knell still hurts me somewhere deep inside.
But I put it at the back of my mind, and I turn my attention to the beautiful woman at my side. There are tears in her eyes, and they quickly spill over onto her pale face. I lean over and kiss them away, tasting the bitter, briny liquid with a small, perverse amount of pleasure: someone in this world is suffering as much as I am.
Then I move my lips to her jawline, her neck, her clavicle. She responds instantly, and in a few moments we are together as if we hadn't spent a week apart.
I move back to her face, and we kiss once -- a blinding melding of two pairs of lips that makes my world stand still. I grasp her head between my hands and hold it still, perhaps a little harder than I had meant to, but dear Lord, I need something to hang onto right now.
She pulls away just as I feel like my lips will bruise, and attacks my shirt. She knows that this one is one of my favorites; I felt today was a special occasion that warranted a good shirt. She is careful with it. She unbuttons my shirt one button at a time, slowly, and the time it takes, when I don't feel her touching me, is anguish. I frantically press my lips to her forehead as she concentrates on my shirt; then my shirt is off and we resume kissing.
Suddenly I remember what I had meant to do. The pure pleasure of kissing Donna is enough to erase almost anything from my mind, but this -- I need -- I need to do this.
So this time I pull away, and I look straight into her eyes. She looks a little confused by my trepidation, but deep within her eyes are trust and love.
"Donna," I rasp. I clear my throat and send a brief prayer to my father. Dad, I need you now. "Donna, I wouldn't trade these last four years with you for anything in the world."
Her eyes widen, and she sits back. "Josh?"
"I want to marry you, Donnatella. I love you. I want to marry you, and I want you to go back to school, and then I want to have children. I was thinking three, but you have more say in it than I do." I smile, and I see fresh tears forming in her eyes as she smiles back at me. "I sure as hell can't live without you. I don't know what I'll do if you say no. Please say yes, Donna."
~~~
This is my hundredth reason, I think to myself. This is why I got in that car accident, so I could find my way back to Bartlet -- to Josh. All that time ago, when I was making up my list, how could I have dreamed of something like this? A marriage proposal as an administration teeters on its last legs. Not exactly romantic, but so apropos for us, who never would have met had it not been for President Bartlet.
We'll be able to show our children video tapes of Jed Bartlet's speeches and say, "Hear those words? The policies were set by your father, and the words were written by your 'Uncle' Sam. And the man himself -- oh, you never met him, but he was a shining man, Jed Bartlet. He could lift houses off the ground when he spoke . . . ."
"You have to promise me two things," I whisper.
"What's that?" he asks. He looks concerned.
"One is that we don't have any children until I'm finished with school. I want to get my degree, and I know from my mom -- once you have kids, schooling becomes a giant hassle, and --"
"Donna, hold on, I agree with you. I want you to be happy. What's the second thing?"
"Love me always," I say, and before he can react, I pull him to me and kiss him again.
~~~
Lying in her arms later that night, I whisper in her ear, "I will."
She is asleep, and she probably can't hear me. But all the same, her lips curl in an innocent smile, and all I can think about is how much I love her.
"As if whipped by invisible spirits, the sun steeds of time run away with the light chariot of our destiny, and nothing remains to us but to hold onto the reins with calm courage, steering the wheels, now right, now left, from the stone here and the abyss there. Where it goes -- who knows? One hardly remembers from where one came."
-- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Author: Marissa
Rating: PG-13, maybe bordering on R for suggestiveness
Genre: Romance
Summary: "This is my hundredth reason, I think to myself. This is why I got in that car accident, so I could find my way back . . . ."
Disclaimer: I do not make any claim to ownership when it comes to this adorable duo. I did, however, basically create two characters out of nothing in this fic, so I guess they're sort of mine. (They're ABS's and my love children!)
Archive: I love it, but I want to know where it's going.
Feedback: You know you want to.
Author's Note #1: Warning: here be flashbacks. Tons and tons of 'em. This story really doesn't have all too much to do with the topic that's at hand in this time frame, but this is a romance, not a general fic, and I'll take whatever creative liberties I want. :) I'm using the events that would happen around this time as backdrop for a romance, not as a main storyline.
Author's Note #2: Goethe is very cool and quotable (just read the story, you'll see). I've included a handy-dandy Goethe quotation at the end that applies very, very well to the story, especially the plotline mentioned in my Summary.
Author's Note #3: If you can't balance your checkbook, you might find this helpful: ten to the second (two) power is one hundred.
I'm tired tonight.
Not only that, but also lonely, hopeless, and depressed. I should be pumped, but I'm not.
We're going to lose.
It is almost a certainty. Joey Lucas has run dozens of polls, and we have come out on top in very, very few of them. Our opponent, Governor Francis Jergen of Kentucky, is a Republican who believes in everything we oppose, and it hurts my heart to think of him in our White House. He'll have a Deputy Chief of Staff, but will he or she go through what I've been through? Will his staff members walk in every day with their head held high because they work for an endearingly idealistic man who really wants to change the world? Will they believe in him the way we've believed in Josiah Bartlet?
I'd love to think that the answer is no. But everyone has their own ideals, and maybe Jergen's staff will admire him the way we admire Bartlet. Maybe they will thank God every day that they are working for their President.
I know I do.
So it is ten o'clock at night on November 3, 2002, and I want to be with someone who understands what I'm going through, who knows what will die when millions of Americans cast their votes tomorrow.
I want to call Donna.
I cannot call Donna.
We made a deal with CJ, and this is the agreement: I do not see Donna in any way outside the staff member/assistant relationship until the election is over.
This means I do not joke around with her, or put my hand on her back as I lead her through doorways, or take her as my last-minute date to parties. This means I cannot call her at ten o'clock at night confessing I have a gut-wrenching feeling that I will be out of a job in three months. It's only been six days, but it's been a bitch. One of the best things in my life is gone, if temporarily, and I need it now the most.
I cannot call Donna. So I dial one of my most familiar numbers. It only rings once before I hear, "Hello?"
"Mom?"
"Joshua, sweetheart, how are you?" It is my mother's sweet, lilting, slightly accented voice that greets me tonight, the night before the election. She sounds delighted. I only call her about once every two weeks, and even then it's usually a short conversation.
"Not so good," I admit. I continue in a joking tone, "Don't forget to vote, Mom."
She laughs. "How could I, when all you talked about five years ago was how 'real' this man was? Joshua, if he's as wonderful as you've made him out to be, how could I not vote for him? And you know your father would turn over in his grave if I voted Republican." She is comfortable talking about him. I'm not.
"I know, Mom. I was kidding. It's just -- well, we need every vote we can get."
"It's going to be a tough one, Joshua, but you'll make it through just fine."
I want to hold my tongue, but I can't. "Mom, we won't win. We can't win. Not with these numbers."
"Never say never, honey. And how is the lovely Miss Moss?" she asks, attempting to change the subject.
"Well, I wouldn't know," I say bitterly.
"Joshua!" She sounds shocked. "Are you telling me you broke that poor girl's heart? I swear to God, you just don't want to be happy!"
"No, Mom, it's not that. We promised CJ that we wouldn't see each other until after the election."
"Oh." There is a pause on the other end of the line. "Nu?"
"I'm miserable."
"Oh, honey." She sounds like she wants to jump through the phone line and travel all the way down to D.C. to comfort me. "It's just one more day."
"Well, it's been an awful six days, and I'm lonely."
"You've got me, Joshua," she says, and I can hear the smile on her face. "You can stay on the phone with me as long as you need to."
"Thanks, Mom." There is a brief pause, then I ask, "Mom, how did you know that you loved Dad?" I think it's the first time I've mentioned him to her since the funeral.
"Well, he was so handsome. And smart as a whip. We met each other in a freshman seminar, and we hit it off from the first. Noah told me . . . he told me he needed to be with a woman who kept him on his toes. That was on our first date. We spent the whole night talking. We went out to dinner at this tiny little hole-in-the-wall -- he didn't have any money, you know that -- and we sat there for four hours and just talked. He told me how his father had been a judge in this tiny town in New Hampshire, and how he wanted to be a lawyer. I told him about Daddy, about Birkenau, about Germany. We just . . . ." She pauses, as if considering what words to use. "The bumps in his head fit the indents in mine, to use an old expression.
"I guess I realized I loved him when we had American History together sophomore year. He gave this wonderful speech about FDR, and I just . . . realized I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life. We kept seeing each other all through college. A lot of girls would have dropped out of school to marry, but my father would never have allowed it. You know, Joshua, when you spend part of your life captive under a fascist regime, you tend to be quite adamant about education." She laughs lightly. It fascinates me how my mother can laugh her childhood off so blithely. She was born in 1935 in Germany, and although her mother and father were imprisoned at Birkenau in the late Thirties, she was hidden and raised by a Catholic family. In 1945, her father found her, and they managed, somehow, to get passage to the United States in 1947. My grandmother, my mother's mother, had died in the concentration camp.
My mother continues her story, unaware that I am wondering for the millionth time how she ever survived the first twelve years of her life. "So we graduated. I'm glad I did. Having a college education made me feel much better about myself. I got my degree in English, Noah got his in history, and he was accepted into Yale Law. At graduation, he told me that he wouldn't trade the four years he had had with me for anything in the world. Then he proposed to me, Joshua, and I was ecstatic. We moved to New Haven, got married, and within the year I was pregnant." She stops. I hear her clear her throat. "My Joanie." But then her tone brightens. "Then in 1961 you were born, dearest, and here you are, working for the President of the United States! Daddy couldn't have dreamed of a better life for you. That's why he found me, and got us out of Germany. So my child could live the way you're living now. And your father would be so, so proud."
"Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I love Donna."
"I know you do, dear."
"You do?" She amazes me. Even after forty-one years of being her son, she amazes me.
"You talk about her constantly, sweetheart. You sent me those photographs from the inauguration, and there's one of you two, and you're looking at her with the most adoring face . . . ."
"Mom!" She's embarrassing me, as awful as that sounds.
"Oh, honey, you looked just like your father in that picture." She sighs. "So nu?"
"I -- I want -- I want to marry her," I splutter.
"So marry her!"
"You don't mind that she's not Jewish?"
"Joshua, if she's got a good head on her shoulders and is willing to give you the time of day, I don't care if she's a Zoroastrianist! Have you proposed yet?"
"No, Mom."
"You? My little go-getter? My decisive Joshua hasn't asked the woman he loves to marry him?" She sighs. "I swear, you're exactly like your father. He got very, very drunk the night before he asked me to marry him. He was scared."
"So am I."
"Bite the bullet, sweetheart." She gasps a little, realizing what she has said. "I mean -- I mean --"
"I know, Mom, don't worry about it. Don't forget to vote!"
"Don't forget to call me and let me know how it goes."
I know she means my proposal to Donna, which I'm still not sure will actually occur. "All right, Mom. I love you."
"I love you, too, my little Joshy."
"Bye," I say, and hang up. When Mom gets emotional, she calls me Joshy. It annoys the hell out of me, but it's also quite endearing.
She has every reason to be emotional, anyway. Tomorrow the fate of the free world hangs in the balance, and I have every reason to believe the outcomne will be less than pleasant.
It's ten o'clock, and although it's early, I decide to turn in.
Tomorrow is going to be a long day.
~~~
I can't sleep.
Goethe, one of my roommate Laura's three cats, is asleep at my feet, and I wish fervently for the ablility to fall asleep at the drop of a hat that Goethe possesses, but no miraculous force descends upon me and grants me repose.
Sleep will not come easily tonight. I might as well call my parents.
When I first told my parents about me and Josh about two weeks ago, they seemed surprised. My type had always been the slightly obnoxious, superficially charming, very handsome guy who treats girls like crap. There were quite a few of them at my high school. I didn't date too much when I was young, but I dated enough to make my parents worry.
Mostly, they worried that I would end up sleeping with some guy, getting scared, and marrying him too quickly. My parents love me, and they've always been concerned about my decision-making capapbilities.
I'm better at it than I let on. After all, I ended up with Bartlet for America. Explaining that choice to my mother, however, was a different story.
In short, she didn't let me explain. She was angry and hurt, so she let me go -- again -- and didn't ask for an explanation.
Now that I am serious about Josh, though, she feels obligated to find out more about my job and my co-workers. So even as I try to engage in small talk, she reroutes the conversation.
"I know you're still angry with me."
"For what, Mom?"
"For pretending not to care when you left Madison the second time."
"I'm not still angry over that. Why would you think that? I was angry with you at the time, but I've had four years to get over it."
"Is it too late to apologize?"
I smile. She's half right; she did hurt me incredibly when I left the second time, but it wasn't the soul-crushing blow she thinks it was. She didn't speak to me for four months, and since then there's been a rift between us that no words until now could completely heal. "It's never too late to say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry." She breathes a huge sigh of relief. "I really am, Donnatella. So is your father. It's just that we never understood why you would pack up and leave again. We thought you were homesick from the start, and that's why you came back. But then you left again, and since then we really haven't had a chance to talk about it."
"Mom, I've been home for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving . . . ."
"I know, dear, but with all those men around I never could could get a straight answer out of you."
She has a point. I am very uncomfortable talking about relationships when my father or brothers are around. Daddy shifts around in his chair and clears his throat conspiculously whenever talk turns to sex; John and Vincent are incredibly immature, which is sad, because they're both older than I am.
"Well, Mom, what do you want to know?"
"Why did you leave us that second time?"
How to begin? I joined the Bartlet campaign back in February of 1998, worked there for a couple of weeks, then went back to my boyfriend. That was possibly the stupidest thing I ever did, except maybe for dropping out of school.
But then, one beautiful day in April, I was driving down the street to my parents' house, listening to NPR, and suddenly I heard the commentator say, "Well, for those who dismissed Governor Bartlet out of hand early on, this may be the time to reconsider. Polls indicate that he is gaining on fellow Democrats John Hoynes and William Wiley, and some experts believe he may soon take a lead in the polls. For those who have supported Bartlet from the beginning, this is no surprise. Former Secretary of Labor Leo McGarry, one of Bartlet's closest friends and likely candidate for Chief of Staff if Bartlet wins, had this to say . . . ."
Then I heard Leo's voice. "We have good people working for us here at Bartlet for America. Everyone here is a good person. But the best person is our candidate, which is not often the case. I have known Jed Bartlet for years. He is intelligent, hard-working, and a caring person. We all believe in him, and that is what makes him a viable candidate: the good people here and our belief in him."
I had started crying without even realizing it, and I was no longer paying attention to the road. Consequently, I ran up onto the curb and hit a telephone pole.
I was only going fifteen miles an hour, so the accident really wasn't a big deal, but my right ankle hit the edge of the brake pedal and snapped. I was only about one hundred feet from my parents' house, so I just leaned on the horn until they came out to see what the hell was going on. When they saw me in the car (the front end of which was now shaped like pincers), they panicked and called an ambulance.
After a few minutes of coercion, I also got them to call my then-boyfriend. I was taken to the hospital, and he showed up -- two hours later. When he admitted what happened, I dumped him on the spot and began debating myself on whether or not to go back to Washington.
Uprooting yourself from your home, family, and friends -- for a second time -- is a huge decision, and it wasn't one I was about to make lightly. So I took a lined sheet of paper and titled it "REASONS TO GO BACK TO WASHINGTON."
When I started thinking about it, they came easily. Number one was Jed Bartlet, two was Josh, three was CJ, and I continued in that vein until I used up all the people I knew on the campaign. Then came self-esteem, self-image, learning about government (one of my many majors), and all sorts of other intangible benefits. Then I listed all the good things about D.C. itself: GW Hospital, the Metro, the Library of Congress, the Newseum (back when it was a point of interest and not a terrible memory), and all the other great things about the capital city.
Then I listed things that would come about if somehow my presence swayed the balance in the campaign: gun control, better education, etc., etc. I had heard his platform explained so many times it was easy to put it all on paper.
To top it off, I listed the things I wouldn't have to do if I left Wisconsin: meet up with old high school friends who were pregnant, listen to my parents bitch about my terrible taste in boyfriends, ever see "Dr. Freeride" again, eat cheese. There were more than that, but those were the highlights.
By that time, I was up to ninety-eight reasons, which is a lot, if you think about it. Deciding to go for one hundred, I added as #99, "Serving at the pleasure of the President." But I couldn't think of a hundredth reason. So I just wrote the number and left it blank.
But ninety-nine reasons is more than enough to pack up and move out all over again. I don't remember how I scraped together the money for a plane ticket, but I got to Washington, all right. "We have good people working for us," Leo had said. I wanted to be one of those good people again. On the Bartlet campaign, I had made a difference, or at least I liked to think I had.
Now here I am, four years older, and I have learned more than I ever could have in college. I have learned about airstrikes and ambassadors, about storms and staff meetings, and I am happier than I have ever been.
How can I explain this to my mother?
"I loved the people, and I loved the atmosphere. I didn't really have much of a reason to stay in Madison."
"We're not a reason? Your own parents are not a reason?"
"Mom . . . it was time for me to move on."
Surprisingly, she accepts this. I think it's a terrible excuse for an explanation, but she moves on unscathed. "So what's so great about this Josh guy?"
"Oh, Mom, I wish you could meet him. He's cute, and so smart, and when I'm with him I feel like I could conquer the world."
"Does he respect you?" That has always been Mom's question. My sister asks, "How's his ass?" My mom asks about respect.
"He respects me enough to argue with me when he feels passionately about something. He respects me enough to listen when I tell him something -- anything. He loves me, Mom."
"If you say so, honey." Her voice holds inklings of doubt and regret, leftover from previous boyfriends of mine. The one who ignored me. The one who yelled at me. The one who hit me.
"No, Mom, this time I'm sure. I think -- I think I want to be with him. Forever, I mean."
"Are you saying you want to marry him?" Mom sounds faintly shocked. She knows we only dated for a week (and that we're now taking a week off), and that's a very short time for a courtship.
"I don't know," I say, exhaling loudly. I've been turning this over and over in my head, and I can't make any sense of it. I've spent so much time with Josh over the past four years that it's almost like we've been together for that long, but we really haven't, and I want more time to get my bearings in the relationship.
On the other hand, things move quickly in our world, and what's here today may be gone tomorrow. I don't doubt that Josh and I will last, but the world we live in is quickly crumbling. The President knows his time in the White House is almost up, and the day-to-day tension is palpable. I love working at the White House, but it gets less pleasant every day.
"Will you let me know when you figure things out?" I've always moved faster than my parents, and it has confounded my mother since the day I got up from my playpen and started to walk -- away from her.
"Yes. All right, Mom, don't forget to vote tomorrow!" I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.
"Yes, dear. Talk to you later."
"Bye." With that, I hang up the phone and collapse on my bed. "You love me, don't you, Goethe?"
The cat purrs in response, and I take that for an affirmative. "And I love you, too, smoocher," I assure him. "I'll never leave you." I scratch his head, but apparently I'm a little too rough, because Goethe stirs and shakes his head in irritation. I lay one hand on his gray-and-white-striped fur. "Shh," I murmur. "It's going to be all right. You'll see."
With that, I decide, I will go to sleep. So I curl up under the covers, clutch my pillow with one hand, and stroke Goethe with the other. I start to lose consciousness, but I remember that I still have my list of reasons to go back to Bartlet for America; it's tucked in my wallet along with my senior portrait from high school and the newspaper clipping from the day I was born.
Just before everything goes black, I call up memories of Josh, and I fall asleep thinking about him.
~~~
I dream about Donna. I dream about her sudden appearance during the campaign, her vigil at GW after Rosslyn, her tears after finding out about Mrs. Landingham, and her calm confidence at her deposition.
I wake up smiling.
Then I remember what day it is.
~~~
I wake up thinking about Josh, but before long I realize what today is, and what it means.
~~~
Fourteen hours after I wake up, Donna follows me out of the West Wing and onto Pennsylvania Avenue at a brisk walk. She joins arms with me, and we walk to my place without a word.
Once we arrive, we sit on my sofa and turn on NBC. ". . . Texas having just been called for Jergen, we can see that the GOP has grabbed most of the electoral --"
With that, I turn off the television. I knew all along that we would lose, but this death knell still hurts me somewhere deep inside.
But I put it at the back of my mind, and I turn my attention to the beautiful woman at my side. There are tears in her eyes, and they quickly spill over onto her pale face. I lean over and kiss them away, tasting the bitter, briny liquid with a small, perverse amount of pleasure: someone in this world is suffering as much as I am.
Then I move my lips to her jawline, her neck, her clavicle. She responds instantly, and in a few moments we are together as if we hadn't spent a week apart.
I move back to her face, and we kiss once -- a blinding melding of two pairs of lips that makes my world stand still. I grasp her head between my hands and hold it still, perhaps a little harder than I had meant to, but dear Lord, I need something to hang onto right now.
She pulls away just as I feel like my lips will bruise, and attacks my shirt. She knows that this one is one of my favorites; I felt today was a special occasion that warranted a good shirt. She is careful with it. She unbuttons my shirt one button at a time, slowly, and the time it takes, when I don't feel her touching me, is anguish. I frantically press my lips to her forehead as she concentrates on my shirt; then my shirt is off and we resume kissing.
Suddenly I remember what I had meant to do. The pure pleasure of kissing Donna is enough to erase almost anything from my mind, but this -- I need -- I need to do this.
So this time I pull away, and I look straight into her eyes. She looks a little confused by my trepidation, but deep within her eyes are trust and love.
"Donna," I rasp. I clear my throat and send a brief prayer to my father. Dad, I need you now. "Donna, I wouldn't trade these last four years with you for anything in the world."
Her eyes widen, and she sits back. "Josh?"
"I want to marry you, Donnatella. I love you. I want to marry you, and I want you to go back to school, and then I want to have children. I was thinking three, but you have more say in it than I do." I smile, and I see fresh tears forming in her eyes as she smiles back at me. "I sure as hell can't live without you. I don't know what I'll do if you say no. Please say yes, Donna."
~~~
This is my hundredth reason, I think to myself. This is why I got in that car accident, so I could find my way back to Bartlet -- to Josh. All that time ago, when I was making up my list, how could I have dreamed of something like this? A marriage proposal as an administration teeters on its last legs. Not exactly romantic, but so apropos for us, who never would have met had it not been for President Bartlet.
We'll be able to show our children video tapes of Jed Bartlet's speeches and say, "Hear those words? The policies were set by your father, and the words were written by your 'Uncle' Sam. And the man himself -- oh, you never met him, but he was a shining man, Jed Bartlet. He could lift houses off the ground when he spoke . . . ."
"You have to promise me two things," I whisper.
"What's that?" he asks. He looks concerned.
"One is that we don't have any children until I'm finished with school. I want to get my degree, and I know from my mom -- once you have kids, schooling becomes a giant hassle, and --"
"Donna, hold on, I agree with you. I want you to be happy. What's the second thing?"
"Love me always," I say, and before he can react, I pull him to me and kiss him again.
~~~
Lying in her arms later that night, I whisper in her ear, "I will."
She is asleep, and she probably can't hear me. But all the same, her lips curl in an innocent smile, and all I can think about is how much I love her.
"As if whipped by invisible spirits, the sun steeds of time run away with the light chariot of our destiny, and nothing remains to us but to hold onto the reins with calm courage, steering the wheels, now right, now left, from the stone here and the abyss there. Where it goes -- who knows? One hardly remembers from where one came."
-- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe