Disclaimer: What's the saying? Wish in one hand and shi-oh never mind. It
goes without saying really that this is an amateur work of fiction, and no
copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Whew. This is going to be a doozy. I will be touching on some
extremely sensitive subjects in this story, specifically, abortion. As this
is an issue I know most folks feel very strongly about, I am attempting to
present both sides without leaning one way or the other.
I've done a little research on the 'net and am going to include the
pertinent links. The Feminists for Life page is
Access to Clinic Entrances Act, check out
Summary: Series of first person POV, relating to a traumatic instance in
CJ's life.
Rating: Right now about PG-13.
Feedback: Rocks! Fauquita@hotmail.com
Spoilers: None specifically, but everything is fair game.
Thanks: Lizisita and Sidalicious. Thank you gals for your friendship and
inspiration. Also big ups to all those other CJ/J authors for giving me the
courage to delve into this genre.
Special Note: The Irish proverb contained herein is called 'Smiling Through Tears' and can be found, among other places, at:
+++++++++++++++++++++++
The first time I found him waiting for me on the couch in my office, he'd been drunk. And my office wasn't an office so much as it was a closet with windows. I'd only been on the campaign two weeks, and already I had grown men crying on my couch. Okay, he wasn't really crying…more like railing against Mandy Hampton, and women in general.
The second time I found him waiting for me on the couch in my office, he'd been sober. And my office wasn't an office so much as it was a converted motel room outside of Wildomar, California. We'd been on the trail for a little over two months, and he was burned out. In his defense, we were all a little burned out.
It became a tradition with Josh and me. I knew without a doubt that after a particularly trying day, he'd be waiting for me in my office, room, or even a few times, the large bus we traveled in. We clung to each other because he needed someone to talk to without watching what he said, and I needed someone to listen to without having to take notes.
The last time I found him waiting for me on the couch in my office, he'd been drunk again. But this time it wasn't scotch…it was the euphoria of having just helped a man get elected to the highest office in the country. And the couch…well it was brand new, something he had shipped from Pier One, or Ikea, or someplace like that, and put in my new spacious office as a surprise. He really is very sweet sometimes.
I guess the whole point of this rambling is that he's waiting for me on the couch in my office again…something that hasn't happened in two years. And he's sleeping. You know, with his mouth hanging open and everything. It's times like these I wish I knew how to operate the camera my brother sent me for my birthday five years ago. Bygones.
He looks so uncomfortable though. He's still pretty much sitting in an upright position, with his head thrown back against the cushion and his arms crossed over his chest. I don't know how long he's been here, but he's sleeping soundly because when I sit down beside him he doesn't even stir.
So I've come to the conclusion that I am a pathetic woman, because here I am, sitting in the dark, listening to Josh's breathing, and thinking how wonderful it would be to fall asleep to this particular sound each night. Kill me now, please.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, and in the back of my mind I'm hoping that I'll wake up in my bed at home, and find out this was all just a terrible dream. But sleep won't come because I know that no amount of wishing is going to erase this day, or the days to come. The most I can do is sit quietly in the dark, drawing comfort from a friend whom doesn't even know I'm there.
"Claudia Jean?"
Well, I guess he does now.
"I'm sorry…I didn't mean to wake you."
"No…no. I was waiting up for you." His voice is still thick with sleep, and he's talking in that hushed tone usually reserved for funerals. "Are you all right?"
I smile at him, even though I'm pretty sure he can't see me. "I'm still in one piece, if that's what you're worried about…although maybe I should be asking you that question."
"Toby told you?"
"You really did a number on his knuckles with your face, Josh. He wasn't very forthcoming with information, but I eventually wheedled it out of him." I say as I stand up and cross the office to my desk. After a few seconds of scrambling, I find the lamp switch and blink a few times as the harsh light comes to life with a simple tug of the chain.
Josh chuckles humorlessly and as I turn around, I understand why. The side of his face is swollen so that it looks like he's harboring a giant Gobstopper in his cheek. And well, there really isn't a color in any Crayola box I've ever seen that matches the hue of that great big bruise on his face.
"Oh Josh, what in the hell were you thinking?" I sigh as I sit beside him again and tentatively reach out my fingertips to caress his cheek. He flinches at the contact, but doesn't pull away. "You should know better than to mess with Toby when he's in a mood."
"Well, in my own defense, I didn't think he was actually going to hit me."
"Come on, let's go to the Mess and get some ice."
"No way…everyone's going to be staring at me."
"Oh stop being such a guy. Unless you plan on wearing a paper bag on your head, which by the way isn't such a bad idea, for the rest of the week, then I'm pretty sure everyone is going to know Toby kicked your ass."
"Let me state for the record that Toby did not kick my ass. He threw one punch and—"
"He threw one punch, and just look at you. I don't even want to think about what you would've looked like if you hadn't curled into a ball and played dead."
I know I'm having way too much fun at his expense, but I'm usually on the receiving end of Josh's own unique brand of humor, so I don't feel too bad. But he's looking at me with those wounded eyes and I smile despite myself.
"I don't know what tales Mr. Ziegler has been regaling you with, but I most certainly did not curl up into a ball and—"
"Oh calm down, Josh. I was kidding. Now come, we're going to try and get that swelling down." I instruct as I get to my feet. He eyes my extended hand warily for a moment before capitulating and accepting my help. "Although…I gotta ask."
"What?"
"Why didn't you hit him back?"
For once I think he's about to give me a serious answer, because his brow furrows in what I take to be deep thought. Maybe he's going to tell me that he knows Toby needed to hit something, and he was willing to sacrifice himself. Maybe he's going to tell me that he was scared of what might happen if he did return the blow. Or maybe he's going to tell me he was still dazed from the first punch that he couldn't even think to reciprocate.
He cracks a smile and shrugs. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
++++++++++
It's really tough putting up a macho front when what you really want to do is scream like a girl. At least I don't give into the temptation of batting CJ's hand away as she presses the make-shift ice-pack onto my cheek. She arches an eyebrow at my clenched fist, but refrains from saying anything.
We are alone in the cafeteria, and most of the chairs have been stacked on the tables. The smell of disinfectant is in the air…kind of a combination of chlorine and Pinesol, and it reminds me of elementary school. It's comforting in an odd sort of way.
"So, I never said thank you."
"For what?"
CJ smiles and squeezes my arm gently. "For defending my honor…or whatever the hell you were doing when you decided to march into Toby's office."
"You know, for someone who's trying to sound grateful, you aren't being very nice."
She chuckles lightly and moves my hand so that I am now supporting the ice pack. I lessen the pressure considerably and try not to wince at the soreness of my jaw. "Oh Josh…what am I going to do with you?"
I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and grin. "You want me to alphabetize a list for you?"
She swats my arm and laughs openly…and God, how great the sound is. I know it's a bit cliched, but her laughter really is musical. It's lilting and happy, and whenever I hear the sound, I can't help but join in too because it's so contagious. I want to tell her this, and much more, but I'm scared.
I'm scared she'll see the vulnerability in my eyes and run screaming. The one insecurity that consumes CJ is her fear that she will hurt someone she cares about. Oh, she's never told me this, but I know it anyway.
I know it because she'll eat all the cookies Carol bakes for potluck lunches when no one else will touch them. I know it because instead of telling Sam his tie is ugly, she'll go out and buy him a new one. I know it because she once endured three hours of a Doobie Brothers concert rather than tell me she hated the band.
I don't want to scare her away, but there is so much I'm longing to know, so much I need to know. There are better places than the deserted cafeteria in the West Wing to have this conversation, but I can't bring myself to wait. I'm frightened that I may never get the chance to ask her all the questions I have, so as with everything else in my life, I plunge in headfirst.
"Do you have any regrets?" I ask quietly.
Her smile fades immediately and she looks down at her hands. CJ's face, her beautiful face, is usually so expressive, so vibrant and illuminating. Now, it is set in hard, angry lines and she seems to have aged five years right in front of my eyes. She sighs, and I hear the tiny catch in her throat.
"Every day." She whispers so softly that it takes me a moment to realize she has spoken. She looks up and meets my gaze, and I am taken aback at the naked pain in her eyes. "God Joshua…those people out there…those people who want to punish women like me…they have no idea. I have to live with my decision for the rest of my life, and that is punishment enough."
"You…you think you made the wrong choice?"
"No." She answers vehemently. "No…I know I wasn't ready. Horrible…I would have been a horrible mother."
CJ a horrible mother? It's not possible. She's so full of love, so gentle and kind-hearted. How could she think she would have been anything less than perfect with a child?
"Why do you think that, CJ?" My voice sounds pained, even to my own ears.
"I couldn't bear the thought of not loving my own child. What if I hated him, or resented him? There would be no one to protect him from me. I couldn't bear the thought of destroying someone, a child, like that. No, I know I made the right decision…but Josh, there are days when I wake up and wonder if the baby would've had my eyes, or his nose. And I hate myself. I just hate myself."
Her voice is strangely calm and resolution sparks in her eyes, and I have to know what, or who, made this intelligent, capable, and caring woman so unsure of her capacity to love. And then it hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks.
You see, as much as CJ talks about her brothers, about her father, about the modest home in Napa and the summers spent in Tahoe, I can count on one hand the number of times she has ever mentioned her mother. And I know without a doubt that all the anguish carved in her features now stems from the woman who died while CJ was working on her masters at Berkeley.
"CJ…oh CJ-," is all I can manage before pulling her awkwardly into my arms. She doesn't resist, but she is stiff and quiet in my embrace, and I don't know what to do. "I don't…I don't know what your mother said, or did to you, but—"
She pulls back with lightning speed, and is on her feet in an instant. "Don't…just don't go there, Joshua."
The anger in her voice brings me to my feet as well. "It's true, isn't it? This…this fear you had, this fear you have comes from your mother." I'm yelling now, and I realize from the look in her eyes that this isn't the best tactic, so I relent. "What was she like? You never talk about her-," I try softly.
She clenches her fists and begins to pace the room. "My father and brothers loved her very much."
"But how did you feel about her?" I coax.
She shrugs her shoulders and looks at a point behind me. "When I was five, I remember her pulling me onto her lap while she put her make-up on. She was so beautiful…and I wanted to be just like her." She sighs. "I don't know if you can understand this Josh…but there is a point in every girl's life when she is absolutely certain that there is no one more perfect than her mother."
"At what point do you realize that she's human, and faulted?"
She looks at me then, and there is such infinite sadness in the smile she offers that it takes all I have not to cross the room and kiss it all away.
"It depends really. I know women who still worship their mothers…and I just wish it could've been like that for me."
"But it wasn't?"
She laughs bitterly and looks as if she's ready to fall to pieces any minute now. "She hated me, Josh. And I don't mean she favored my brothers, or that she was strict with me. I mean there wasn't a day I looked into her eyes that I didn't see disgust, or disapproval. She hated me, and she didn't care that I knew it."
"I'm sorry." I know it's inadequate, but it seems the only appropriate thing to say.
"Don't be…it made me stronger. Her hatred made me independent, made me push myself harder to prove I was just as worthy as Tom or Peter."
"But it also made you afraid, CJ. It made you doubt yourself…your ability to love."
There is a movement at the door, and suddenly we are joined by Toby. He looks between the two of us curiously but refrains from making any observations. Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets and speaks to CJ.
"It's time for the meeting…The President, Leo and Sam are waiting for us in the Oval."
CJ nods her head, and with one last look in my direction brushes past Toby into the hallway. I sigh in frustration but decide that maybe what she needs is time…time to deal with her demons, time to heal. I move to follow her, but Toby steps in my way.
He's not looking at me, and I wonder what is running through his mind as he studies his soft leather shoes. "Look…I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"Yes."
"What are you sorry for?"
Toby finally looks at me and realizes that I'm having a little fun with him. "I'm sorry for kicking your ass."
"You, my friend, did not kick my ass. I allowed you to get one hit, one hit, and may I just add that I learned to box in the streets. I could take you if I wanted to."
Toby laughs…well, as close to laughing as Toby Ziegler comes. "I wasn't aware they had 'streets' in Connecticut."
"Are you mocking me?" I ask indignantly.
"And what if I was? Are you going to, you know, 'take me'?"
I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of me taking Toby anywhere and I shrug my shoulders. "All right, all right. I never learned to box."
Toby sobers for a moment and grasps my right shoulder. "Seriously Josh, I do apologize. I was out of line, and—"
"Forget it, Toby…I mean it, forget it."
He gazes at me in that penetrating way of his for a moment and then nods his head. "Yeah. Um, yeah, OK."
"Just buy me a beer sometime, and we'll call it even."
"Or I could, you know, get Mrs. Landingham to give you a few boxing lessons."
+++++++++++++++++++++++
It's amazing where your thoughts lead you in times of trouble.
I haven't thought about my grandmother's apartment in that old Boston Tenement in years. We visited her every summer, my sisters and I. I still remember how the smell of freshly brewed tea and brown bread greeted us every time we crossed the threshold. I still remember how brightly scrubbed her kitchen was, how clean the other rooms were despite the shabbiness of the furniture, worn out by ten children.
And I still remember the delicate, framed proverb, hand-stitched by my grandmother's grandmother hanging over the small couch in the living room:
It's easy to be pleasant when life flows by like a song.
But the man worth while is the one who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble and it always comes with years.
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through the tears.
I would stare at the green letters for hours, lightly tracing them with my fingers, long before I knew what they meant. On the last visit I made to my grandmother, the summer before I went off to my freshman year at Stanford, she placed the frame in my hands and told me to be sure to hang it where I would see it every day. And I had. I kept that damn thing hanging in every apartment I ever rented until I married Jenny.
She'd refused to hang the simple frame in our home together, replacing it instead with a cheap print of Monet's 'Water Lillies' and I hadn't bothered to argue with her. She packed my grandmother's gift along with the other 'tasteless bachelor things', as Jenny called them, that I'd collected over the years.
That box followed us through three moves, and even now sits in the storage garage I rent in Maryland. I haven't bothered to go through it, but I'm considering making the trip just to dig out that piece of my history. I'm going to need it in the next couple of weeks. CJ's going to need it. Hell, we all are.
She's sitting across from me, quietly sipping from her bottle of water as we wait for Josh and Toby to arrive. Jed is making small talk with Sam about pecans, or peaches, or something that starts with a 'p', and I can't stop myself from staring at CJ, covertly of course.
She's always been a bit of an enigma to me, you see. This woman who I almost didn't hire because she'd never worked on a national campaign. It was only Toby's insistence that secured her job; that made me want to give her a chance.
And God, I'm so glad I did.
I can't imagine life without her now. Can't imagine what it would be like to work one day without her dry wit, the bright smile, or graceful poise. I took her under my wing during the campaign because I missed Mallory, and she missed her father.
She would stay behind some nights while the guys went to the local watering hole and listen to me ramble on about Mal and Jenny. She endured the picture show, the tirades about my only daughter's newest boyfriend, and the unabashed pride when Mal received her Master's degree in education.
She never spoke much about herself really, I think she just enjoyed being in my company. When we were elected, I had to set boundaries. We weren't friends trying to get a good man in office anymore. I was her boss, and I had to put distance between us.
I regret it now. I regret that I'm not as close to her as Josh or Toby. But I realize this comes with the territory. I realize that our relationship can be no different than it is. I do think of her as a daughter, as much as I think of Josh and Sam as sons, but I can never tell them this. I pray they know it anyway.
"Do I have something in my teeth?"
I break out of my reverie to find CJ staring back at me with her head tilted to the side. She's smiling and I realize that I've been caught. I cough in embarrassment and notice that Jed and Sam have turned their attention to the two of us.
"Uh, I was just zoning out there for a minute."
She arches her eyebrow quizzically but before she can respond, Toby and Josh enter the office in the middle of what seems to be a conversation on boxing skills. They both halt abruptly however at the stern look I toss them.
"Glad to see you two could join us." I say gruffly as they sit beside me on the sofa.
Josh flashes me a crooked grin, and Toby ignores me completely as he starts flipping through the notes in his folder and speaks.
"Simon should give the morning briefing tomorrow…Sam and I have a rough draft of the statement already written—"
"I want to give the first briefing. It will look like I'm hiding if I pass this off to Simon." CJ cuts in stubbornly. Yeah, like I didn't see this coming from a mile away.
Toby sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "CJ, you can't deliver a statement about yourself…it doesn't sound right."
"Why not? I think—"
"Toby's right." Sam says, although he avoids eye contact with her for a moment. "Let Simon handle the first briefing."
The office is quiet for a moment, and it unnerves me. I expect more argument from CJ…but I see she's deep in thought even as she studies one of her well-manicured fingernails. When she looks up again, there is fire in her gaze and I wonder if the others can feel it.
"Fine…Simon can handle the briefing…but I want a chance to get up there. I want to answer questions…I want to speak for myself."
"Absolutely not," I say quietly before anyone else can.
She looks at me in surprise. "Excuse me?"
"I said absolutely not. You're not ready for this."
"Who are you to tell me what I'm ready for? I thought you of all people would understand the need I feel to do this." I wince at the sharpness of her voice, but I don't back down.
"You get up there, CJ, and it gives those vultures a chance to tear you apart. I won't allow it."
Her face softens at my concern, but the resolve is still clear in her large eyes. "You don't think they're going to do it anyway? You don't think they're going to print lies and trash about me if I don't get up there? Get real, Leo."
I know she's right, I know it. But I can't quell the fear that she's getting in over her head, and the father in me just can't stand back and allow her to get hurt in the process. Everyone else in the room seems to have taken a step back…they know this is between CJ and me.
"You don't understand, CJ. They're going to get personal…they're going to ask you questions you may not be prepared to answer."
CJ leans forward and frowns. "I know and I can take care of myself. I supported you Leo, and I'm asking you to support me, now."
I'd have to be a fool not to know what she's referring to. I'll never forget the look on her face when she came into my office to tell me that news of my stay at the drug rehab clinic had just gone public. The concern, the anxiety in her voice had nearly sent me over the edge, but she'd promised to prep me. And I knew everything would be fine.
I knew because she was so good at her job, and I trusted her.
She's asking me to trust her again, and I realize I have no reason not to. I nod my head in defeat and give her a small smile. "Just be careful out there, Kid. I don't want to have to whoop some reporter's ass."
She smiles back at me and I realize for the first time that there are tears in her eyes, and it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen because the smile that is worth the praises of earth is the smile that shines through the tears.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was never good a solving puzzles.
It wasn't that I didn't have the attention span. Quite the contrary, my concentration is legendary in the Cregg family.
It wasn't that I didn't have a grasp for the concept.
And it wasn't because my brothers would inevitably tear through the room, scattering the pieces across the floor in their boredom.
No, I was never good with puzzles because no matter how hard I tried, I could never get any two pieces to fit together like they should. I used to be convinced that it was a conspiracy, that these puzzle makers had in fact put all the wrong pieces in the box just to drive me crazy.
OK, I'm not that paranoid, but you get the idea.
So, after all these years, I still feel like a ten year old, unable to create the image of the Eiffel Tower on the box. Only now, I'm trying to get the pieces of my cracked life to fit. And I have about six hours to do it.
Sigh.
Why didn't I ever take a creative writing class? Why can't I be poetic, or enlightening, or brilliant? Why is it that I'm stuck with inadequate words, and tedious paragraphs?
It doesn't seem fair that Toby and Sam can write speeches about the Gross National Product that brings people to their feet, and I can't manage to pour a single ounce of emotion into my own statement.
I'm already developing a headache from the blinking cursor on the screen of my laptop…well, I have been staring at it for two hours. Why can't I write this simple thing? Why can't I tell them of the fear, of the pain, of the almost blinding whiteness of the clinic operating room?
Because I don't want to appear weak, that's why.
I've worked too damned hard to get where I am today, I've made too many sacrifices. It can't all come down to this, can it? A simple statement, me in front of people I've worked with for two years, trying to explain something that is beyond their understanding. Trying to defend myself about something that can never be rationalized, but must be felt.
"How are you doing?"
I look up and try to smile at Sam, but the energy it requires is too much and I settle for a faint upturn at the corners of my mouth. "I gotta tell you, Sam, I've seen better days."
He takes this as an invitation to come into my office, which of course it is.
"Need any help?" At the look I give him, he shrugs. "Stupid question, I guess. Do you need anything? A coke, a muffin maybe?"
"A muffin?"
"Yeah, you got something against muffins?" he asks defensively.
He looks so cute standing there with his chest puffed out and I can't help but to chuckle. "Oh Sam. Have a seat."
Sam smiles and sinks onto my couch, letting out a satisfied sigh. "You know, CJ…you have the most comfortable couch in the West Wing…I don't get to use it often enough."
"Yeah, and don't get used to it either, Spanky, or I might have to start charging you rent."
"Hey, I offered to bring you a muffin, didn't I?"
"Toby and Josh go home yet?"
"When I left my office, Josh was sleeping at his desk, and Toby was playing with his balls." Sam must be reading my mind because he quickly interjects. "Get it out of the gutter, CJ. I meant his pink, rubber balls."
This sends me off into a peal of laughter, and Sam joins me after a minute or two.
"Jesus! You'd think a body could get some sleep at midnight in the White House." Josh bellows from the hallway, and it isn't long before he makes an appearance in my office. He joins Sam on the couch and tosses us both an irritated look. "What are you two laughing at?"
"Nothing," we both say at the same time, and of course we start laughing again, even as Josh glowers at us.
I sober first and turn back to the computer screen. "Now, you boys are welcome to stay here as long as you like, but I've got work to do, so pipe down and let me get to it."
Josh mock salutes and Sam mutters "Yes ma'am", but they both smile at each other as if I can't see them.
Thirty minutes later I'm still on the same sentence, and I can feel Josh's eyes on me. Sam has long since fallen asleep, and I feel strangely vulnerable, naked in front of this man who has been my friend for almost four years.
He knows more about me than I'd like. He knows that beneath all my bravado and confidence, I'm still a little girl longing for her mother's approval. And if Josh could figure it out, what makes me think that Arthur Leeds won't, or Katie?
Maybe Josh senses my discomfort because he closes his eyes and sinks further into the couch, making a pretense of sleep. I know he's wide-awake fifteen minutes later however, because his breathing is still shallow and regular. God Bless him for trying anyway.
I've gotten through worse, haven't I?
I'm going to get through this, and I'm going to come out stronger on the other side. And now I sigh because I sound like a frigging Hallmark card. There are worse things I suppose, and before I know it words are flowing from me like a river and I feel strangely light. This is cathartic for me, and although it may not be the most eloquent thing to come out of the West Wing, it just might be the most honest, and that's ok with me.
TBC…