Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita. And also to Lin.
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.
The first drink burns, and the second one soothes. The third takes the edge away, and by the fourth, my grasp of language is tenuous at best. It must be after the fifth glass of vodka that I lose count, because at this point, I can't remember how many I've had. But the bottle is half-empty, and the room is spinning dangerously, and so it's time to stop.
I notice a run in my nylons, and with an idle curiosity, trace it with my index finger. The sound of a key in the lock barely registers, and I am only vaguely aware of the door opening from my place on the kitchen floor. There is something fascinating, and almost mystical, in the constant beating of rain against the window, and so I close my eyes to concentrate.
I know it is him before he even speaks, because his step is heavy on the carpet, and there in an impatient cadence to his stride. He doesn't wear cologne, but I detect the faintest hint of aftershave, the same scent that has branded itself into my sheets and pillowcases. And sometimes my skin, I think.
His voice is low and oddly detached, as Josh kneels in front of me. "You fucked up today, CJ."
"Maybe."
"What are you doing? You seem hell-bent on self-destructing, and you may not realize it, but you're taking the rest of us with you."
I finally open my eyes to meet his dull gaze, and it burns me that this is what we have come to. I know that I should argue, or at the very least, explain myself. But there is some truth in his words, and I am a little ashamed.
"Sorry."
"That's it?" he asks incredulously.
"What more do you want me to say?"
He looks at me in something akin to disgust as he gets to his feet, and I suddenly realize that I have just killed something inside of him. I mentally add this to my list of crimes, and wonder what the penalty will be. Maybe I know already.
"Bruno wants to send you on a leave of absence," he says coldly as he leans against the counter top.
"Is that the general consensus?"
He sighs and bows his head for the merest of seconds before studying the wall. "No one really knows what to do with you, quite honestly."
I want to tell him that I don't know what to do with myself either, but the words die on my lips because his eyes are unforgiving. And so instead I shrug, and climb to my feet as gracefully as possible, which isn't very graceful at all. The alcohol has robbed me of dignity and coherent thought, but this job has robbed me of so much more. And it hits me like a cold wind.
"Why don't you have me taken out back and shot?"
"Don't."
"I'm just saying."
"Look, I just came over to give you a heads up, and maybe grab some things."
"Yeah. Listen, I don't know if I'll be in tomorrow, but-"
"Are you insane, CJ?" he interrupts, his face an alarming shade of red. "If you don't go in tomorrow, you're finished. And there's nothing Toby, Sam, or I can do to protect you."
"Your job is to protect the President, not me."
"No, CJ. Your job is to protect the President," he says harshly, and I hear the accusation in his tone as surely as if he'd spoken the words out loud.
I clear my throat and try to swallow the lump suddenly obstructing my speech. "Yes, well, all that aside, you need to arrange a meeting with Henry's people. The Republicans are going to be hit just as hard by all this."
"Now you're trying to dictate strategy? Now, when-"
"For now Simon can say 'no comment', but I'll draw up a statement and deliver it in a day or so," I continue over him. "We have to play defense on this."
"No way."
"Excuse me?"
"The White House doesn't comment on the personal lives of staff, remember? We all decided that it would be best to let Shallick handle this himself."
"You're all wrong. If we weren't going into the campaign with the MS and grand juries, then-"
"There aren't going to be any more grand jury hearings."
"What?"
"Leo cut a deal with the committee."
"This just happened today?"
"You've missed a lot," he says quietly.
"What...what kind of deal?"
"The committee is handing down a Censure, but..."
"Yeah."
I feel as though we should be celebrating, as though we should be sighing in relief and gratitude that we won't have to testify, that our relationship won't be dissected. But right now I can honestly say that I would rather be facing a panel of hostile senators than cancer and chemotherapy. I don't know what his excuse is.
"The campaign is still going to be the toughest anyone has ever had to run," I finally say when the silence has become unbearable.
"No doubt about it, but at least we won't have this hanging in the back of our minds."
"Right. I still think-"
"It's already been decided. We're not touching this story." His voice is tinged with finality, and so I nod my head.
He must know what it will be like in the press room for me, he must know how I will be hounded, how nothing important will be written if I am delivering the statements. I am finished. But I accept this calmly because even something as important as my career fades to the background in lieu of what I might be facing.
"We're going to bench you for the next few days," he says almost apologetically. "Just until this story blows over."
I chuckle bitterly. "You need to get a new Press Secretary, Josh."
"What?"
"If you don't let me go in there and clarify things, defend myself, I'm no good to you."
"I disagree."
"Well, I'm not going to subject myself to those vultures to prove a point to you. I'll have my resignation to Leo by tomorrow evening."
"You can't be serious," he whispers.
"Why not?"
"Because...because, damn it, CJ!" He pounds the counter top in frustration, and it is only then that I notice the various pamphlets spread haphazardly across the surface.
Oh Shit.
He follows my gaze because my body has tensed in apprehension, and the color quite literally drains from his face as he runs two fingers down the glossy cover of 'Chemotherapy and You'. He shuffles through the three other booklets with trembling hands, and more than five minutes pass before he looks at me again.
"What is all this?" his asks, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"Look, maybe-"
"Loss of appetite and weight loss, easy bruising, joint pain...oh God, this is...I mean, you...this can't be happening."
I approach him cautiously and gently pry the leaflet from his grip. There are so many things I want to say to him, things that I've left unsaid for too long, but the disbelief in his eyes, coupled with my own, is somehow debilitating, and I only nod my head.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why can't you trust me?" he shouts as he pulls away from my outstretched hands, pacing the length of the kitchen.
"I just found out today," I answer quietly.
"But you must've had suspicions...you knew you were sick."
"I didn't want to worry you."
"I give you everything, CJ, every part of me. And I get nothing in return."
"I've given you what I can. It might not be enough, but-"
"It's not," he interrupts. "I can't...I can't believe you would keep this from me."
Anything I say now would be wrong, so I don't say anything at all. But he has become good at reading my silences, and when he grabs his keys from the table, he looks at me in disappointment and remonstrance.
"You don't think you did anything wrong."
"No." I won't soften the truth because I owe him more than that.
"And you would do the same again."
"Yes."
He sighs and in it, I hear 'goodbye'. "I can't live like this, CJ. I can't always be the one making concessions."
"I understand."
"Do you? Do you really?" he asks, his tone bordering on desperation.
I feel like the world has tilted off its axis in a matter of minutes, and it is almost as if the wind has been knocked out of me. He hasn't been happy in quite some time, and I wonder why I've never noticed. I guess I was too wrapped up in myself, in press releases, in MS, in lawyers. In life.
"Yes."
"I don't know if I can handle this. I don't think I'm strong enough," he admits quietly. "I love you so much, and I can't...I can't watch you die. I can't go through it again. I need time to think."
He doesn't wait for my response as he hurries out of the apartment and into the street. I don't follow him because the slamming of the door convinces me that I'm not what he needs right now. Maybe I never was.
Instead of thinking about my shattered life, I walk to the bathroom and remove my contacts, carefully avoiding the mirror. I all but rip the ruined nylons off, throwing them to the floor in disgust. The skirt proves a little trickier, as does the blouse. I fall into bed, spent, clad only in my underwear because I don't have the energy to change into pajamas.
I don't know how long I lie there humming Beethoven's Fifth Symphony as I try to avoid thinking about the future. I don't know how long I lie there biting my lower lip to keep the screams inside. I don't know how long I lie there silently railing against God. I have lost all sense of time as I try to hold myself together.
I jump in surprise when Josh slips into bed beside me, but I quickly surrender to his touch. His hands and lips are everywhere, and I need him more than I've ever needed anyone. His kisses are urgent and bruising, and my fingernails dig into his hips and back. But he doesn't seem to mind. We both welcome the pain because it is life affirming. There is no tenderness in our lovemaking now, only basic human need.
There is something in the way she walks now that concerns me. She doesn't glide like she used to, doesn't float into the room. She is lumbering and awkward. She is weary and angry, sullen and quiet, bitter and resentful. She is not CJ Cregg. But there are military coups, and taxes, and political refugees. And so I don't have time to think about the woman who is left in her place.
She delivers her briefings as effortlessly as always, and even if the sparkle and trademark wit is missing most days, I can make myself believe that she is fine. She has to be, because we can't deal with a falling-apart Press Secretary. We're just starting to recover in the polls.
Jenny used to accuse me of burying my head in the sand, of ignoring glaring problems because I didn't want to deal with them. And she was right, of course. I know something is wrong with CJ, can see it written plainly in her face, but I don't know how to help her. She wouldn't let me, anyway.
She's been carrying this angry-at-the-world attitude around her like a shield for months now, and it, quite frankly, scares me. Josh assures us that she is fine, and I don't know whether he is saying it to convince himself or us. Maybe both. But Bruno is not fooled and wants to send CJ on a leave of absence.
He's a good man, but so intent on winning that he can't see the trees for the forest, and to him she is simply a liability. The politician in me thinks that maybe he is right. But the man thinks we can't afford to lose her heart. The President was strangely quiet during the meeting, and I know what was going through his mind.
He blames himself for her appearance, for the way she argues bitterly with Sam in staff, and the way she dismisses Toby's suggestions with a quick wave of her hand. He blames himself for the way she can't look into his eyes, and the way she dreads speaking to him.
It doesn't matter that everyone else has gotten over it, that the Press have stopped making MS the story, that we are starting to pull ourselves out of the ashes to build a strong campaign. He doesn't feel CJ is with us, and doesn't think we can make it without her.
But he won't talk to her because he is ashamed. Ashamed at not having told her face-to-face. Ashamed because he has failed to live up to her expectations. Ashamed because he is not the man she thought he was. And I don't know how to tell him that she will never forgive him unless he asks.
So instead I watch the progress of her anger, how it manifests itself in curt words and sour expressions. I watch how she sits stiffly and refuses to give an inch. I watch as she crumbles, and I am helpless.
I don't know how to ask for forgiveness either.
I have learned to accept that there will always be parts of herself she keeps hidden. The awkward adolescent desperately seeking approval, the graduate student struggling to maintain her GPA while traveling home every weekend to hold her mourning family together, and the thirty-something career woman in love with a married man.
I have only to look at the subtle clenching of her jaw, or the almost indiscernible tightening of her mouth to know that I am approaching something painful and untouchable. She has mastered the art of misdirection, and there are times when I wonder what she is so afraid of.
I have lost some kindness, I think as I span her ribcage with one hand. I don't like that I can feel every groove; don't like what it implies. And so instead, I take one of her hands in my own and gently trace the lines on her palm. But her delicate wrists are mocking too, and so I have nothing to do but pull her into my arms and close my eyes. Maybe I can pretend that...no, her bones are too sharp against my stomach and chest.
If I am honest with myself, I can admit that I knew she was ill. I knew there was something more to the hollowness of her stomach and hips than late hours and stress. But I ignored it because I wasn't strong enough to face the fact that she wasn't ok. We've all done it: Sam, Toby, Leo, even the President.
But they don't come home to her every night. They don't cook meals with her and they don't draw her bath. They don't hold her hand under the table in staff sometimes and they don't get lectured for leaving dirty dishes in the sink. They don't hear her gentle laughter in sleep and they don't share her bed. Allowances can be made for their denial, but none can be made for mine.
I plant a firm kiss on her shoulder and bury my face in the side of her neck. She is so precious to me, and I will never be able to forgive myself for walking out on her last night. She needed me and I failed her. But I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Or maybe I will only have the rest of hers. It is a depressing thought.
"Mmm...what time is it," she asks huskily as she shifts slightly in my arms.
"A little after seven."
"You're going to be late for staff."
"I talked to Leo earlier. I'm not going in today."
She bolts upright and her eyes are glittering dangerously. "What did you tell him? They're going to need you in the office today and I want to know what you said to-"
I cut her off abruptly as I capture her lips with my own. "I was very vague, but firm. I didn't tell him anything," I murmur as I pull away.
She searches my eyes for the truth and nods in satisfaction after a few seconds. She runs a hand down the side of my face and leans in for another lingering kiss. I thread my fingers through her hair and sigh because these are the moments I live for.
"We need to talk, Claudia Jean," I say against her lips even though I'm tempted to worship her body with my hands again.
She rests her forehead against mine briefly, and then leans back against the pillows. "I know."
"I read those pamphlets, and then did a little research on the Internet."
"How long have you been awake?" she asks in disbelief.
"A few hours," I admit sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep. I needed to know what we were facing."
"We?"
"Yes, 'we'," I whisper as I take her hand and bring it to my lips. "There's no excuse for my actions last night, and I can't apologize enough. I shouldn't have walked out when-"
"Shh...it's ok, mi amor. I understand," she replies softly.
"How can you understand, when I don't? I just...I was scared."
"Me too."
"Well, I'm telling you now that I love you, and that I'm not going anywhere. We are in this together."
"I'll be bald."
"Yes."
"And nauseous all the time."
"They have drugs for that, now."
"And I'll be pale, and tired and-"
"Why are you telling me all this?" I interrupt because she is growing more agitated with every statement.
"I'm not holding you to anything. And I just want you to know what it will be like if...when I undergo chemo."
"I've already read it. I know, CJ. And I'm not going anywhere. If I can live with your stupid Rod Stewart cds, then-"
"Hey, don't be mocking Rod."
I smile at her because this is what it used to be like between us before the MS. She squeezes my hand affectionately and snuggles into my side when I join her against the pillows. "When do you think I should tell the others?"
She is scared. If the trembling of her voice isn't enough, the look of near desperation in her eyes is. I have always taken my cues from CJ, and it is slightly disconcerting that we have reversed roles. She is looking to me for direction now.
"Have you made an appointment for a bone marrow biopsy, yet?"
"You really have done research," she grumbles. "I was going to call Kevin today to see if he could pull some strings...maybe get me in to see an oncologist as soon as possible."
"OK, well, I invited Leo, Toby, and Sam over tonight." At her panicked look, I continue. "Just for a strategy meeting."
"I thought you said-"
"You're right. If we don't let you defend yourself, you'll have no credibility. It makes it look like we think you're incompetent. You have to deliver a statement."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. So, listen, call Kevin and try to get that biopsy scheduled for this morning. The guys will come over later, we'll discuss your statement, maybe arrange a meeting with Shallick, or one of his people. And then you need to decide how to tell them."
"Tonight?"
"It's up to you, CJ. But I really think you should lay out all your cards tonight."
"But we won't get the results of the biopsy back until tomorrow, and that's only if I can get the appointment today. I don't want to worry them."
"It doesn't matter. I'm trying not to look at it politically, but we're going to have to announce your leave of absence to the Press and the reason behind it. I think you should disclose everything in one statement."
She smiles slightly and shrugs her shoulder. "Until you mentioned it, I hadn't even thought of taking a leave of absence. But I'm going to have to, I mean I can't work the hours I do and-"
"You have to concentrate on treatment, on yourself."
"Yeah."
"So, you'll tell them tonight?"
"I guess I have no other choice." She sighs and rests one cold hand on my chest.
"Call Kevin now."
"It's a little early."
"He won't mind," I assure her.
She rolls her eyes, but reaches over me to the phone. I kiss the top of her head and then slip out from under her. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Kay," she mutters distractedly as she flips through a worn address book.
I watch her for several moments from the doorway. The early morning light hits her highlights in the right places and her hair glows like a halo. I don't really listen to the one-sided conversation because I am concentrating instead on the expanse of her shoulders and the curve of her back as she lies on her side. I can't begin to contemplate a life without her.
"First, your skin will be swabbed with a betadine solution. Then, after receiving a local anesthetic, a needle will be inserted and the cells from the bone marrow will be aspirated. You may feel some discomfort, such as a pulling or drawing feeling down your leg."
"Wonderful," I sigh as I pat Josh's knee.
"You want me to stop reading this?" he asks as he waves the paper around.
The waiting room is unusually empty for this time of morning. The only other occupants are an elderly man grumbling something about punctuality, and a young mother, cradling a small child against her breast. We've been waiting for almost an hour and Josh is getting anxious.
"No, no, continue."
"Ok, well, it says here that the entire procedure should only take about fifteen minutes. After that, they'll put a bandage on your hip, and I'll take you home. You might feel a little pain after the anesthetic wears off, but walking usually helps." I chuckle and he looks at me appraisingly. "What?"
"It's just, whenever we were kids, and we'd fall off our bikes, or otherwise injure ourselves, my dad would always tells us to walk it off. I mean, we could have a broken leg, and he'd say, 'don't cry now, just walk it off'."
Josh smiles and leans back in his chair, placing his arm around my shoulders and hugging me close. "How are you going to tell him?"
I sigh and put my head on his shoulder. "I haven't really thought about it. I just want to get through this and find out exactly what I'm dealing with before I call him."
He nods thoughtfully. "Maybe he could come and stay with us for a few weeks. Your brothers, too."
"My father maybe, but my brothers both have families to worry about."
"You're their family."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, still, I'd like to meet them."
"What, threats over the phone aren't good enough for you anymore?"
He is saved from responding when a petite woman with owlish glasses walks into the hallway. "CJ?"
I exchange a glance with Josh and get to my feet. She doesn't seem intimidated by my height, and smiles warmly as I say, "Thank you so much for squeezing me in today."
"I'm a sucker for Doctor Byrne," she admits candidly. "Doctor McCloud," she says as she sticks her hand out.
I grasp it firmly in my own and squeeze. "Doctor McCloud, would it be at all possible for-"
"Bring him along," she smiles past me at Josh and he graces her with his legendary dimples.
"Thank you."
Josh places one hand on the small of my back as we follow Doctor McCloud down the confusing hallways and into one of the private rooms. "Why don't you go ahead and get changed into the gown. A nurse will be in shortly to take your vitals, and then she's going to insert an intravenous sedative."
I wait until she closes the door behind her before grimacing at Josh. "Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn around, I'm changing into the gown."
He laughs incredulously and steps closer. "Are you kidding me with this, CJ?"
"My naked body might prove too tempting and I don't want Nurse Ratchet walking in at an inopportune moment."
Josh grins and makes a great show of turning around, whistling off-key as I quickly strip down and pull the thin gown over my head. "You can turn around now," I call as I hop onto the paper-covered bed.
"That's a nice look for you."
I roll my eyes and shift uncomfortably on the bed. Before I can think of a suitable smart-assed reply, there is a tentative knocking on the door and a young blonde woman pokes her head around the door.
"Are you decent?"
"No, but she's dressed," Josh quips from beside me. I pinch his side and smile as he yelps.
"I'm just going to take your temperature, blood pressure and heart rate," she explains as she walks further into the room, smiling shyly at Josh.
Minutes later I am laying on my side with an IV in my left arm and thinking up suitable punishments for the designer of hospital gowns. Josh tucks several strands of hair behind my ear and smiles.
"You nervous?"
"I am about to have a large needle inserted into my ass, Josh. What do you think?" But the sedative has made me mellow and so I smile at him widely.
"Your posterior iliac crest hipbone, not your ass," he corrects as he gently kisses my forehead.
"Details."
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Doctor McCloud announces as she shuts the door behind her.
"You've done this before, right?" I question as she pushes the gown up around the curve of my naked hip.
"Many, many times," she assures me as she gently swipes an alcohol pad across my skin. "I'm going to inject some Xylocaine into your hip. It'll just be a little pinch."
I try not to wince, but I fail because Josh takes my hand and squeezes comfortingly. "You're doing great."
"Yeah, well that was the easy part."
Hours later with only a bandage and dull ache to remind me of the procedure; Josh kisses my forehead and draws me out of my slumber by gently rubbing my hands together between his own. His breath is warm and damp against my ear and I smile when he pulls away, bringing me with him.
"How do you feel?"
"Starving."
"Well you're in luck. Sam's bringing food."
"They're all on the way over?"
"Yeah."
"Kay."
"Are you ready for this?"
I peer into his eyes and cup the side of his face with my palm. I see the fear, and just behind it, the pure determination. He is tenacious and persistent, and he is my strength. Only he doesn't know it, yet. He presses his lips to the inside of my wrist and I melt at the tenderness in his caress.
"Yeah, I'm ready," I reply. And I am.
TBC...
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita. And also to Lin.
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.
The first drink burns, and the second one soothes. The third takes the edge away, and by the fourth, my grasp of language is tenuous at best. It must be after the fifth glass of vodka that I lose count, because at this point, I can't remember how many I've had. But the bottle is half-empty, and the room is spinning dangerously, and so it's time to stop.
I notice a run in my nylons, and with an idle curiosity, trace it with my index finger. The sound of a key in the lock barely registers, and I am only vaguely aware of the door opening from my place on the kitchen floor. There is something fascinating, and almost mystical, in the constant beating of rain against the window, and so I close my eyes to concentrate.
I know it is him before he even speaks, because his step is heavy on the carpet, and there in an impatient cadence to his stride. He doesn't wear cologne, but I detect the faintest hint of aftershave, the same scent that has branded itself into my sheets and pillowcases. And sometimes my skin, I think.
His voice is low and oddly detached, as Josh kneels in front of me. "You fucked up today, CJ."
"Maybe."
"What are you doing? You seem hell-bent on self-destructing, and you may not realize it, but you're taking the rest of us with you."
I finally open my eyes to meet his dull gaze, and it burns me that this is what we have come to. I know that I should argue, or at the very least, explain myself. But there is some truth in his words, and I am a little ashamed.
"Sorry."
"That's it?" he asks incredulously.
"What more do you want me to say?"
He looks at me in something akin to disgust as he gets to his feet, and I suddenly realize that I have just killed something inside of him. I mentally add this to my list of crimes, and wonder what the penalty will be. Maybe I know already.
"Bruno wants to send you on a leave of absence," he says coldly as he leans against the counter top.
"Is that the general consensus?"
He sighs and bows his head for the merest of seconds before studying the wall. "No one really knows what to do with you, quite honestly."
I want to tell him that I don't know what to do with myself either, but the words die on my lips because his eyes are unforgiving. And so instead I shrug, and climb to my feet as gracefully as possible, which isn't very graceful at all. The alcohol has robbed me of dignity and coherent thought, but this job has robbed me of so much more. And it hits me like a cold wind.
"Why don't you have me taken out back and shot?"
"Don't."
"I'm just saying."
"Look, I just came over to give you a heads up, and maybe grab some things."
"Yeah. Listen, I don't know if I'll be in tomorrow, but-"
"Are you insane, CJ?" he interrupts, his face an alarming shade of red. "If you don't go in tomorrow, you're finished. And there's nothing Toby, Sam, or I can do to protect you."
"Your job is to protect the President, not me."
"No, CJ. Your job is to protect the President," he says harshly, and I hear the accusation in his tone as surely as if he'd spoken the words out loud.
I clear my throat and try to swallow the lump suddenly obstructing my speech. "Yes, well, all that aside, you need to arrange a meeting with Henry's people. The Republicans are going to be hit just as hard by all this."
"Now you're trying to dictate strategy? Now, when-"
"For now Simon can say 'no comment', but I'll draw up a statement and deliver it in a day or so," I continue over him. "We have to play defense on this."
"No way."
"Excuse me?"
"The White House doesn't comment on the personal lives of staff, remember? We all decided that it would be best to let Shallick handle this himself."
"You're all wrong. If we weren't going into the campaign with the MS and grand juries, then-"
"There aren't going to be any more grand jury hearings."
"What?"
"Leo cut a deal with the committee."
"This just happened today?"
"You've missed a lot," he says quietly.
"What...what kind of deal?"
"The committee is handing down a Censure, but..."
"Yeah."
I feel as though we should be celebrating, as though we should be sighing in relief and gratitude that we won't have to testify, that our relationship won't be dissected. But right now I can honestly say that I would rather be facing a panel of hostile senators than cancer and chemotherapy. I don't know what his excuse is.
"The campaign is still going to be the toughest anyone has ever had to run," I finally say when the silence has become unbearable.
"No doubt about it, but at least we won't have this hanging in the back of our minds."
"Right. I still think-"
"It's already been decided. We're not touching this story." His voice is tinged with finality, and so I nod my head.
He must know what it will be like in the press room for me, he must know how I will be hounded, how nothing important will be written if I am delivering the statements. I am finished. But I accept this calmly because even something as important as my career fades to the background in lieu of what I might be facing.
"We're going to bench you for the next few days," he says almost apologetically. "Just until this story blows over."
I chuckle bitterly. "You need to get a new Press Secretary, Josh."
"What?"
"If you don't let me go in there and clarify things, defend myself, I'm no good to you."
"I disagree."
"Well, I'm not going to subject myself to those vultures to prove a point to you. I'll have my resignation to Leo by tomorrow evening."
"You can't be serious," he whispers.
"Why not?"
"Because...because, damn it, CJ!" He pounds the counter top in frustration, and it is only then that I notice the various pamphlets spread haphazardly across the surface.
Oh Shit.
He follows my gaze because my body has tensed in apprehension, and the color quite literally drains from his face as he runs two fingers down the glossy cover of 'Chemotherapy and You'. He shuffles through the three other booklets with trembling hands, and more than five minutes pass before he looks at me again.
"What is all this?" his asks, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"Look, maybe-"
"Loss of appetite and weight loss, easy bruising, joint pain...oh God, this is...I mean, you...this can't be happening."
I approach him cautiously and gently pry the leaflet from his grip. There are so many things I want to say to him, things that I've left unsaid for too long, but the disbelief in his eyes, coupled with my own, is somehow debilitating, and I only nod my head.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why can't you trust me?" he shouts as he pulls away from my outstretched hands, pacing the length of the kitchen.
"I just found out today," I answer quietly.
"But you must've had suspicions...you knew you were sick."
"I didn't want to worry you."
"I give you everything, CJ, every part of me. And I get nothing in return."
"I've given you what I can. It might not be enough, but-"
"It's not," he interrupts. "I can't...I can't believe you would keep this from me."
Anything I say now would be wrong, so I don't say anything at all. But he has become good at reading my silences, and when he grabs his keys from the table, he looks at me in disappointment and remonstrance.
"You don't think you did anything wrong."
"No." I won't soften the truth because I owe him more than that.
"And you would do the same again."
"Yes."
He sighs and in it, I hear 'goodbye'. "I can't live like this, CJ. I can't always be the one making concessions."
"I understand."
"Do you? Do you really?" he asks, his tone bordering on desperation.
I feel like the world has tilted off its axis in a matter of minutes, and it is almost as if the wind has been knocked out of me. He hasn't been happy in quite some time, and I wonder why I've never noticed. I guess I was too wrapped up in myself, in press releases, in MS, in lawyers. In life.
"Yes."
"I don't know if I can handle this. I don't think I'm strong enough," he admits quietly. "I love you so much, and I can't...I can't watch you die. I can't go through it again. I need time to think."
He doesn't wait for my response as he hurries out of the apartment and into the street. I don't follow him because the slamming of the door convinces me that I'm not what he needs right now. Maybe I never was.
Instead of thinking about my shattered life, I walk to the bathroom and remove my contacts, carefully avoiding the mirror. I all but rip the ruined nylons off, throwing them to the floor in disgust. The skirt proves a little trickier, as does the blouse. I fall into bed, spent, clad only in my underwear because I don't have the energy to change into pajamas.
I don't know how long I lie there humming Beethoven's Fifth Symphony as I try to avoid thinking about the future. I don't know how long I lie there biting my lower lip to keep the screams inside. I don't know how long I lie there silently railing against God. I have lost all sense of time as I try to hold myself together.
I jump in surprise when Josh slips into bed beside me, but I quickly surrender to his touch. His hands and lips are everywhere, and I need him more than I've ever needed anyone. His kisses are urgent and bruising, and my fingernails dig into his hips and back. But he doesn't seem to mind. We both welcome the pain because it is life affirming. There is no tenderness in our lovemaking now, only basic human need.
There is something in the way she walks now that concerns me. She doesn't glide like she used to, doesn't float into the room. She is lumbering and awkward. She is weary and angry, sullen and quiet, bitter and resentful. She is not CJ Cregg. But there are military coups, and taxes, and political refugees. And so I don't have time to think about the woman who is left in her place.
She delivers her briefings as effortlessly as always, and even if the sparkle and trademark wit is missing most days, I can make myself believe that she is fine. She has to be, because we can't deal with a falling-apart Press Secretary. We're just starting to recover in the polls.
Jenny used to accuse me of burying my head in the sand, of ignoring glaring problems because I didn't want to deal with them. And she was right, of course. I know something is wrong with CJ, can see it written plainly in her face, but I don't know how to help her. She wouldn't let me, anyway.
She's been carrying this angry-at-the-world attitude around her like a shield for months now, and it, quite frankly, scares me. Josh assures us that she is fine, and I don't know whether he is saying it to convince himself or us. Maybe both. But Bruno is not fooled and wants to send CJ on a leave of absence.
He's a good man, but so intent on winning that he can't see the trees for the forest, and to him she is simply a liability. The politician in me thinks that maybe he is right. But the man thinks we can't afford to lose her heart. The President was strangely quiet during the meeting, and I know what was going through his mind.
He blames himself for her appearance, for the way she argues bitterly with Sam in staff, and the way she dismisses Toby's suggestions with a quick wave of her hand. He blames himself for the way she can't look into his eyes, and the way she dreads speaking to him.
It doesn't matter that everyone else has gotten over it, that the Press have stopped making MS the story, that we are starting to pull ourselves out of the ashes to build a strong campaign. He doesn't feel CJ is with us, and doesn't think we can make it without her.
But he won't talk to her because he is ashamed. Ashamed at not having told her face-to-face. Ashamed because he has failed to live up to her expectations. Ashamed because he is not the man she thought he was. And I don't know how to tell him that she will never forgive him unless he asks.
So instead I watch the progress of her anger, how it manifests itself in curt words and sour expressions. I watch how she sits stiffly and refuses to give an inch. I watch as she crumbles, and I am helpless.
I don't know how to ask for forgiveness either.
I have learned to accept that there will always be parts of herself she keeps hidden. The awkward adolescent desperately seeking approval, the graduate student struggling to maintain her GPA while traveling home every weekend to hold her mourning family together, and the thirty-something career woman in love with a married man.
I have only to look at the subtle clenching of her jaw, or the almost indiscernible tightening of her mouth to know that I am approaching something painful and untouchable. She has mastered the art of misdirection, and there are times when I wonder what she is so afraid of.
I have lost some kindness, I think as I span her ribcage with one hand. I don't like that I can feel every groove; don't like what it implies. And so instead, I take one of her hands in my own and gently trace the lines on her palm. But her delicate wrists are mocking too, and so I have nothing to do but pull her into my arms and close my eyes. Maybe I can pretend that...no, her bones are too sharp against my stomach and chest.
If I am honest with myself, I can admit that I knew she was ill. I knew there was something more to the hollowness of her stomach and hips than late hours and stress. But I ignored it because I wasn't strong enough to face the fact that she wasn't ok. We've all done it: Sam, Toby, Leo, even the President.
But they don't come home to her every night. They don't cook meals with her and they don't draw her bath. They don't hold her hand under the table in staff sometimes and they don't get lectured for leaving dirty dishes in the sink. They don't hear her gentle laughter in sleep and they don't share her bed. Allowances can be made for their denial, but none can be made for mine.
I plant a firm kiss on her shoulder and bury my face in the side of her neck. She is so precious to me, and I will never be able to forgive myself for walking out on her last night. She needed me and I failed her. But I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Or maybe I will only have the rest of hers. It is a depressing thought.
"Mmm...what time is it," she asks huskily as she shifts slightly in my arms.
"A little after seven."
"You're going to be late for staff."
"I talked to Leo earlier. I'm not going in today."
She bolts upright and her eyes are glittering dangerously. "What did you tell him? They're going to need you in the office today and I want to know what you said to-"
I cut her off abruptly as I capture her lips with my own. "I was very vague, but firm. I didn't tell him anything," I murmur as I pull away.
She searches my eyes for the truth and nods in satisfaction after a few seconds. She runs a hand down the side of my face and leans in for another lingering kiss. I thread my fingers through her hair and sigh because these are the moments I live for.
"We need to talk, Claudia Jean," I say against her lips even though I'm tempted to worship her body with my hands again.
She rests her forehead against mine briefly, and then leans back against the pillows. "I know."
"I read those pamphlets, and then did a little research on the Internet."
"How long have you been awake?" she asks in disbelief.
"A few hours," I admit sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep. I needed to know what we were facing."
"We?"
"Yes, 'we'," I whisper as I take her hand and bring it to my lips. "There's no excuse for my actions last night, and I can't apologize enough. I shouldn't have walked out when-"
"Shh...it's ok, mi amor. I understand," she replies softly.
"How can you understand, when I don't? I just...I was scared."
"Me too."
"Well, I'm telling you now that I love you, and that I'm not going anywhere. We are in this together."
"I'll be bald."
"Yes."
"And nauseous all the time."
"They have drugs for that, now."
"And I'll be pale, and tired and-"
"Why are you telling me all this?" I interrupt because she is growing more agitated with every statement.
"I'm not holding you to anything. And I just want you to know what it will be like if...when I undergo chemo."
"I've already read it. I know, CJ. And I'm not going anywhere. If I can live with your stupid Rod Stewart cds, then-"
"Hey, don't be mocking Rod."
I smile at her because this is what it used to be like between us before the MS. She squeezes my hand affectionately and snuggles into my side when I join her against the pillows. "When do you think I should tell the others?"
She is scared. If the trembling of her voice isn't enough, the look of near desperation in her eyes is. I have always taken my cues from CJ, and it is slightly disconcerting that we have reversed roles. She is looking to me for direction now.
"Have you made an appointment for a bone marrow biopsy, yet?"
"You really have done research," she grumbles. "I was going to call Kevin today to see if he could pull some strings...maybe get me in to see an oncologist as soon as possible."
"OK, well, I invited Leo, Toby, and Sam over tonight." At her panicked look, I continue. "Just for a strategy meeting."
"I thought you said-"
"You're right. If we don't let you defend yourself, you'll have no credibility. It makes it look like we think you're incompetent. You have to deliver a statement."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. So, listen, call Kevin and try to get that biopsy scheduled for this morning. The guys will come over later, we'll discuss your statement, maybe arrange a meeting with Shallick, or one of his people. And then you need to decide how to tell them."
"Tonight?"
"It's up to you, CJ. But I really think you should lay out all your cards tonight."
"But we won't get the results of the biopsy back until tomorrow, and that's only if I can get the appointment today. I don't want to worry them."
"It doesn't matter. I'm trying not to look at it politically, but we're going to have to announce your leave of absence to the Press and the reason behind it. I think you should disclose everything in one statement."
She smiles slightly and shrugs her shoulder. "Until you mentioned it, I hadn't even thought of taking a leave of absence. But I'm going to have to, I mean I can't work the hours I do and-"
"You have to concentrate on treatment, on yourself."
"Yeah."
"So, you'll tell them tonight?"
"I guess I have no other choice." She sighs and rests one cold hand on my chest.
"Call Kevin now."
"It's a little early."
"He won't mind," I assure her.
She rolls her eyes, but reaches over me to the phone. I kiss the top of her head and then slip out from under her. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Kay," she mutters distractedly as she flips through a worn address book.
I watch her for several moments from the doorway. The early morning light hits her highlights in the right places and her hair glows like a halo. I don't really listen to the one-sided conversation because I am concentrating instead on the expanse of her shoulders and the curve of her back as she lies on her side. I can't begin to contemplate a life without her.
"First, your skin will be swabbed with a betadine solution. Then, after receiving a local anesthetic, a needle will be inserted and the cells from the bone marrow will be aspirated. You may feel some discomfort, such as a pulling or drawing feeling down your leg."
"Wonderful," I sigh as I pat Josh's knee.
"You want me to stop reading this?" he asks as he waves the paper around.
The waiting room is unusually empty for this time of morning. The only other occupants are an elderly man grumbling something about punctuality, and a young mother, cradling a small child against her breast. We've been waiting for almost an hour and Josh is getting anxious.
"No, no, continue."
"Ok, well, it says here that the entire procedure should only take about fifteen minutes. After that, they'll put a bandage on your hip, and I'll take you home. You might feel a little pain after the anesthetic wears off, but walking usually helps." I chuckle and he looks at me appraisingly. "What?"
"It's just, whenever we were kids, and we'd fall off our bikes, or otherwise injure ourselves, my dad would always tells us to walk it off. I mean, we could have a broken leg, and he'd say, 'don't cry now, just walk it off'."
Josh smiles and leans back in his chair, placing his arm around my shoulders and hugging me close. "How are you going to tell him?"
I sigh and put my head on his shoulder. "I haven't really thought about it. I just want to get through this and find out exactly what I'm dealing with before I call him."
He nods thoughtfully. "Maybe he could come and stay with us for a few weeks. Your brothers, too."
"My father maybe, but my brothers both have families to worry about."
"You're their family."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, still, I'd like to meet them."
"What, threats over the phone aren't good enough for you anymore?"
He is saved from responding when a petite woman with owlish glasses walks into the hallway. "CJ?"
I exchange a glance with Josh and get to my feet. She doesn't seem intimidated by my height, and smiles warmly as I say, "Thank you so much for squeezing me in today."
"I'm a sucker for Doctor Byrne," she admits candidly. "Doctor McCloud," she says as she sticks her hand out.
I grasp it firmly in my own and squeeze. "Doctor McCloud, would it be at all possible for-"
"Bring him along," she smiles past me at Josh and he graces her with his legendary dimples.
"Thank you."
Josh places one hand on the small of my back as we follow Doctor McCloud down the confusing hallways and into one of the private rooms. "Why don't you go ahead and get changed into the gown. A nurse will be in shortly to take your vitals, and then she's going to insert an intravenous sedative."
I wait until she closes the door behind her before grimacing at Josh. "Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn around, I'm changing into the gown."
He laughs incredulously and steps closer. "Are you kidding me with this, CJ?"
"My naked body might prove too tempting and I don't want Nurse Ratchet walking in at an inopportune moment."
Josh grins and makes a great show of turning around, whistling off-key as I quickly strip down and pull the thin gown over my head. "You can turn around now," I call as I hop onto the paper-covered bed.
"That's a nice look for you."
I roll my eyes and shift uncomfortably on the bed. Before I can think of a suitable smart-assed reply, there is a tentative knocking on the door and a young blonde woman pokes her head around the door.
"Are you decent?"
"No, but she's dressed," Josh quips from beside me. I pinch his side and smile as he yelps.
"I'm just going to take your temperature, blood pressure and heart rate," she explains as she walks further into the room, smiling shyly at Josh.
Minutes later I am laying on my side with an IV in my left arm and thinking up suitable punishments for the designer of hospital gowns. Josh tucks several strands of hair behind my ear and smiles.
"You nervous?"
"I am about to have a large needle inserted into my ass, Josh. What do you think?" But the sedative has made me mellow and so I smile at him widely.
"Your posterior iliac crest hipbone, not your ass," he corrects as he gently kisses my forehead.
"Details."
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Doctor McCloud announces as she shuts the door behind her.
"You've done this before, right?" I question as she pushes the gown up around the curve of my naked hip.
"Many, many times," she assures me as she gently swipes an alcohol pad across my skin. "I'm going to inject some Xylocaine into your hip. It'll just be a little pinch."
I try not to wince, but I fail because Josh takes my hand and squeezes comfortingly. "You're doing great."
"Yeah, well that was the easy part."
Hours later with only a bandage and dull ache to remind me of the procedure; Josh kisses my forehead and draws me out of my slumber by gently rubbing my hands together between his own. His breath is warm and damp against my ear and I smile when he pulls away, bringing me with him.
"How do you feel?"
"Starving."
"Well you're in luck. Sam's bringing food."
"They're all on the way over?"
"Yeah."
"Kay."
"Are you ready for this?"
I peer into his eyes and cup the side of his face with my palm. I see the fear, and just behind it, the pure determination. He is tenacious and persistent, and he is my strength. Only he doesn't know it, yet. He presses his lips to the inside of my wrist and I melt at the tenderness in his caress.
"Yeah, I'm ready," I reply. And I am.
TBC...