The baby wails as she jiggles absentmindedly him on her knee. Eleven months old and just like his father, he demands attention that isn't always given. He's been awake for hours now, and Donna's exhausted, but he won't sleep until his father gets home, so she lets him stay up, mentally planning tomorrow and the long list of things she has to do. Knowing that his mother's mind is elsewhere, Jamie sulks as only a baby can, and throws his chubby arms in the air, tipping his head backwards so his mother will look at him.
It doesn't work. She's glancing over at the television in the corner of the small but supposedly cosy flat, where the nightly reruns of bad sit-coms have been interrupted by a "Breaking News" report.
She listens half heartedly, turning back to her little baby, and expecting to hear reports of troop movement or some important death, but it's not until she hears, "multiple gunshots were fired at President Bartlet," that she sits up straighter and turns up the volume, breathing out a little "Oh," as she hears the report.
The baby wriggles a little in her arms, and she hushes him and they both look at the television; he likes the bright lights. But her mind flashes back to the three weeks on the campaign. Governor Bartlet is a bright memory; she met him once but she recalls him well; that that he seemed like a brilliant man, if not a little cold towards his staff. She shivers at the memory of his wife, Dr. Bartlet; she seemed like such a gentle woman when she met her briefly, and she hopes silently that they're both alive. The man on television promises more news when they have it, and then cuts to live footage of the arena.
She should be planning the dinner now; it's gone ten but Alan's on late turn again, and he'll be home soon, but she can't tear herself away from the images on screen. Images of crying people, and shot out windows in police cars, and a man in an ambulance...wait, is that...Josh! She peers closer, and thinks she can see CJ… but then it's back to the studio, and the images are gone.
Donna stands quickly and paces around the room, baby held with her arm to her hip; her feet wearing a track into the carpet. She's not thinking anymore; her brain is switching itself off. But it was only three weeks, and would she really want to be with him now? In some waiting room in Washington with the others that she barely remembers? No, she's here with her family. Safe. But still she walks; the baby falls asleep against her chest, and they stay like that until Alan arrives home, tired, and bends down to kiss her cheek, flicking the living room switch on with his hand.
"Hey, sweetie," he says in her ear, and chucks the baby's head with his forefinger gently. She flinches from him; he knows she hates that word. "What are you doing in the dark?"
"The President's been shot." She turns her head, finally noticing the brightness of the room in contrast with the dark outside. "There were shots... I think it was at a speech or something..." Donna trails off, not knowing how to continue. Was it really Josh, or was it just her imagination? She's been stuck indoors all day, and her mind plays tricks on her. Alan jokingly calls it cabin fever. She thinks otherwise.
"Oh, that. I heard it on the radio. Poor guy." She feels tears pricking at the corners of her eyes at his seemingly easy dismissal and turns the television off at the socket, bending awkwardly with the weight of the baby against her. She lies him down in his cot, listening to Alan puttering around the kitchen. He pokes his head around the door to say,
"Hey, didn't you work for him for a while or something?"
He's finally remembered. "Yeah, for three weeks."
"Was he nice?" He shouts as he walks away, his voice echoing into the hallway.
She ponders it. "I... guess." Stupid question. No one can pass him off as simply 'nice'; not even Alan could. He was brilliant, of course, spectacularly so, and had such a way with words, and was just so passionate about everything... but she doesn't know how to say this to Alan.
"Shame. I didn't vote for him or anything, but it's the President, so… yeah, real shame. Hey, did you make dinner or anything? It's not in the oven..."
She thinks of the Josh-like in the ambulance, and murmurs her agreement, remembering the few weeks she was there. But she's here with her family now, and there's no point dwelling in the past. Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears and hurries to the kitchen.