Bethesda Naval Hospital
14th February 2005
"I want to see my wife."
For the nurse on the nurses station, it was a request that, ordinarily, she'd have been powerless to refuse, because the frantic husband in front of her wasn't just any frantic husband, but her Commander in Chief. Ordinarily she'd have been duty bound to comply with his wishes.
But not today. Today was different. Today was – definitely no pun intended – unprecedented.
She stepped forward, clearing her throat nervously as she stopped him in his tracks, "Mr President, I'm afraid that's not possible. Mrs Bartlet's doctors have placed her under very strict conditions. She's currently in isolation."
He barged her out of the way then, striding down the corridor, in search of his wife. She didn't blame him, she understood his reasons, but all the same she felt it would have been to his benefit to heed her warnings.
She made to follow him, but before she could she felt a hand on her arm, and when she turned she found herself face to face with the President's Chief of Staff, a familiar face from her TV screen, who, much like the President himself was looking incredibly, yet understandably, tired, drained and concerned.
If nothing else, however, the other woman was calmer, although just as focused on wanting answers, "I need to know what I'm dealing with here." She said; her tone polite, yet firm, "He," she emphasized the word, "needs to know what he's dealing with."
The nurse nodded, "Of course, come with me."
XXX
And that – although CJ would never have believed things could get any worse before that moment – was where the nightmare truly began. As she sat in the claustrophobically small relative's room, listening intently to what the nurse had to tell her, she felt like the world was crashing down around her ears; around all their ears. Things would never be the same again, not now, they couldn't be.
When the nurse was done she excused herself, and walked numbly to the isolation ward where the First Lady was being held, and where she knew the President would need every ounce of support she could give him.
He was stood at the window, his forehead resting on the glass, watching, and trying to make sense of, what was unfolding on the other side.
CJ stood beside him, taking it in herself. The First Lady, his wife and her friend, was huddled on the floor in the far corner of the room, her pose fetal, right down to the thumb that was jammed into her mouth. She was wearing a hospital gown, designed to preserve her modesty, but even that couldn't hide the array of bruises that covered her body. She was rocking, violently, and if she recognised their presence, her eyes gave no indicator of it.
CJ swallowed hard, glancing at The President. The scene, from the instant she set eyes on it, was attacking her from the inside, almost strangling her, making her feel physically sick, so god only knows what it was doing to him.
"Sir," she said gently, reaching out to lay her hand on his shoulders, "She's been isolated for her own sake. The presence of other people was distressing her." She meant it as a reassurance – the isolation ward in normal circumstances would have been used in cases of highly infectious diseases or for those exposed to biological warfare or radiation – but in actual fact, she knew it would be of little comfort. He was hardly likely to start looking at the bright side given the condition his wife was in.
For a long time, he said nothing, just carried on staring into the other room as he digested the information, leaving her to do the same. It was only when Abbey moved on from the rocking, to repeatedly pulling at her own hair, almost ripping it from its roots; that he turned to her, his eyes full of fear.
"For crying out loud Claudia Jean, what has he done to my Abigail? What the hell has he done to my wife?"
XXX
