***
August
New York City
***
"That's some headline," C.J. said as she pushed the newspaper toward Andrew.
"Obviously a slow news day over at the Times."
Andrew looked from C.J.'s face to the paper. "'Practical Politics or Personal
Preference?' Perspicacious, positively."
Groaning, C.J. poked holes in her empty styrofoam coffee cup with the red
plastic stirrer. "Seriously. You think this is going to be a thing?"
"I doubt it." He turned the headline face down. "Look, there's not much going on
in the world this week, and you've got a face that sells papers. You're friends
with the hot Presidential hopeful - whose face doesn't exactly turn readers'
stomachs, either - and it's a story."
"You know that, and I know that. Do you think the suits will be able to figure
it out?"
"Maybe if we did it in a pie chart." Andrew peered at C.J. over his wire-rimmed
glasses. "Joke. You're supposed to laugh, boss."
She tried to oblige, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't let
her. The New York Times - she made a mental note to cancel her home subscription
and only read it in the office - had all but accused her of being unable to keep
her partiality for Sam's causes under wraps.
"I never said anything on the air that could be construed as biased," she said.
"And you'll notice that I never said you did." Andrew maintained his cool, which
was what made him such an outstanding director. "You might want to re-think
appearing in public for him, though."
"Why the hell should I? Since when did I lose my rights?"
"You didn't lose--"
"I did! You're telling me I can't campaign for the candidate of my choice!"
"C.J." Andrew took the stirrer out of her hands and threw it into the trash can
before C.J. could do any more damage. "Give the D.N.C. money. Get Toby to write
copy for Sam. But please, for the love of everything holy, do not make public
appearances supporting him. It gives the impression that you're biased."
"I am biased, and I'm allowed to be biased as long as I don't try to present the
bias as fact. Although Sam is the best possible candidate for the job, and that
is a fact." C.J. scowled, looking around the table for something to demolish.
Andrew handed her a paper napkin, and she started shredding it into long, jagged
strips.
"I'm just saying that you might want to lighten up a little on the glowing
praise in your personal segments. And maybe find something good to say about
Seth Gillette."
"Not in a million years. The man was a thorn in our sides for, you know, ever.
He's a pompous jackass with no moral center and the social graces of a deranged
hyena."
"Okay. I give up." Andrew flung his hands in the air. "Now, how about we discuss
the guest list for the Labor Day show?"
"Kill me now," C.J. moaned. "Why did we agree to do that, anyway? I was going to
New Hampshire for the long weekend."
"Get Toby to come here."
"Yes, because Manhattan in September is such a pleasant place to be." The
weather was always wretched at that time of year, oppressive on a level that
left C.J. feeling flattened by the time she walked from the cab to the front
door. "I know, I know, we're trying to bring the holiday back to its roots, and
we're going to talk to people who actually do the jobs that C.E.O.'s get paid
for. I just wish--"
The door to Andrew's office flew open and one of the interns came in, flushed
and breathless. "Ms. Cregg, we're getting reports about a helicopter leaving the
Bartlet place in New Hampshire."
"That's not unheard of - there are people who don't like the drive from the
airport--"
"Ms. Cregg, it was a Care Flight. One of the neighbors saw it, and 911 records
confirm. And I know you're friends with the family, so I wanted to make sure you
knew right away."
She didn't even thank the boy, just leapt to her feet and started running toward
her office. "Someone get me whatever you can find on a Care Flight helicopter
leaving the Bartlet farm." As various assistants dashed off to do her bidding,
C.J. pulled out her cell phone and dialed Toby's number. The answering message
was curt: "You found me, but I don't want to talk to you right now. Leave a
message."
No help. And there was surely no point in calling the house.
Damn, damn, damn.
Next in line would be Sam, who was probably in a committee meeting and wouldn't
have any more information than she had, herself. Plus, he'd get worried -
scratch that, he'd get frantic - and that was a visual C.J. could do without
seeing on the nightly news.
Josh? Please. Who went to Josh in an emergency? No, you'd go to Donna.
Donna was number three on the speed dial, just behind Toby and C.J.'s oldest
brother. "Hello, Mai, this is C.J. Cregg. Is Donna available? It's urgent."
"Yes, Ms. Cregg, she'll be with you in a moment."
C.J. paced the room, picking up books and ornaments and not looking at them as
she tossed them into a strange pile on her desk. "Donna!" she cried when there
was an answer on the other end. "A Care Flight helicopter took off from the
Bartlets' a while ago. I don't know what's wrong."
"Toby didn't answer his cell?"
"No, I got the machine. Listen, can you poke around for me? Maybe find out
something I can't?"
She had a vague idea of how ridiculous that sounded, given that she was one of
the most influential people in a vast media organization.
"Wait, hold on - I have a number for one of the neighbors. I'll call, then I'll
call you right back."
Not so ridiculous. Donnatella Moss, fastest contact person in the West, able to
leap tall Rolodexes in a single bound.
"Thanks - God, I hope the President's okay."
Relapsing-remitting could turn into Secondary-progressive...
"Me, too." Donna's voice was small. "You're on your cell, right? I'll be right
back."
Another intern knocked on C.J.'s door. "I got this from a wire - the helicopter
was bound for Boston, but there's bad weather so they're coming here."
"Which hospital?" C.J. gasped.
"I'm waiting for them to tell the pilot. But I'll be right back."
"Thanks, Cindy."
"Mindy. And you're welcome."
Donna kept her word, and the phone rang again. "C.J., I'm on a conference call
with Stephen Pierce - he lives not too far from the Bartlets and he's willing to
talk to you."
"You're wonderful. Hello, Mr. Pierce? I'm C.J. Cregg. You're very kind to talk
to me this morning."
"Not at all, glad to help." He had the laconic, flat-voweled voice C.J. usually
found amusing. "I was driving home from the store when I heard the copter
overhead. About frightened me out of my wits. I pulled over when the police and
ambulance guys came by, and I saw them bring him out of the house."
C.J.'s heart began to pound and her palms were sweating. "Was he walking, or did
they have him on a stretcher?"
"Oh, he was on a stretcher."
"The President was on a stretcher," C.J. repeated, writing as well as she could
with her clammy hand.
"Oh, no, ma'am. Not the President."
C.J. heard Donna gasp on her end of the line.
"Who was it?" C.J. asked, but she already knew.
"It was that fella who lives with them, the guy with the beard."
She didn't remember much of what happened in the next twenty seconds. Something
about Donna thanking Mr. Pierce and hanging up on him, then telling C.J.
repeatedly that everything was going to be all right.
C.J. half-stumbled out of her office. "Get Andrew," she said. She caught a
glimpse of herself in the window. Her face was deathly white. "Tell him it's
Toby."
"Oh, C.J.," murmured one of the secretaries as she got up and went to deliver
the message.
It's Toby. It's Toby. He's in the air somewhere over this city and I don't know
where he is, or if he's alive...
"NYU Medical Center!" shouted Mindy. "They say the e.t.a. is ten minutes."
"Can I get there in ten minutes?" C.J. asked. "Can someone get their trauma
center on the phone?"
"Working on it," Mindy said, holding the phone to her head with one hand and
covering the other ear.
"Should I call a cab?" asked one of the secretaries, but Andrew burst in before
C.J. could answer.
He grabbed her and hugged her, then stood with his hands on her upper arms. "I'm
so sorry. What's the news?"
"I don't know. Lindy, over there, is trying to get someone from the N.Y.U.
trauma center on the phone. We don't know anything. I don't know anything."
Andrew squeezed her arms gently. "I think...Mindy," he said, exaggerating the
name slightly, "will have someone shortly. Then, when you have more information,
you and I are taking a cab ride together."
"I'm fine," C.J. said weakly, but then her knees buckled and she leaned against
Andrew for support. "Oh, my God, what's taking so long? Wouldn't they at least
let me know if he's alive?"
"You don't know what happened. He could've fallen down and broken an arm or
something."
"They don't Care Flight for a broken arm - Manchester's not that backward!"
Mindy handed her phone to C.J. "It's a nurse. Her name's Shalini."
"Thanks. Excuse me, this is C.J. Cregg. I understand you have a patient coming
in via Care Flight - his name is Toby Ziegler, white male, 51 years old. Can you
tell me why he's coming in?"
"I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "We're not allowed to divulge that information
to the media."
"I'm not media!"
"You are to me - I watch your show on my nights off."
Damn. Damn. Damn.
"I appreciate the situation, but it's not the way it looks. I worked with Mr.
Ziegler for many years, and we were friends for years before that. So any
information..."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, there's a stretcher coming in - I can't talk now. Please
excuse me."
The phone went dead.
"This is not happening to me," C.J. groaned. Mindy took the phone back and began
asking the hospital for various administrative offices.
"Dr. Stephens, you're the director of Trauma? Please hold for C.J. Cregg."
C.J. snatched the phone. "Dr. Stephens? Please, can you tell me about Toby
Ziegler? He's either en route or already at your facility."
"I can confirm that Mr. Ziegler is in the hospital. But I can't tell you any
more unless you're family."
"Oh, God, please, not that again!" She had difficulty catching her breath, and
hot tears were rolling down her face. "I'm not calling to put this on the news!
I know Toby, and I love him, and please, please can you at least tell me if he's
alive?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Dr. Stephens? Hello? Hello?"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cregg..."
Oh, God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead...
"...I had to check the board. Mr. Ziegler is alive - but that's really all I can
tell you. Even that's going a bit too far. I hope you understand."
C.J. collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she could fold her arms over
her knees, then she began to weep aloud. Alarmed, Andrew knelt beside her. "C
.J.? What is it?"
"He's alive," C.J. sobbed, "but that's all they can tell me."
"It's a good start, honey, it's a good start." He sat cross-legged on the floor
opposite her. "I've got Tom sitting in for you tonight, and someone's calling a
cab right now. Don't worry about anything but Toby, you understand?"
"Of course I'm not worrying about anything but Toby! God, don't you get it?" She
lifted her tear-streaked face. Wet mascara stung her eyes as much as the tears
did. "He's the only thing that matters - he's the only one I love..."
"Ssh, ssh, honey, it's all right, it's all right." Andrew put his arms around
her and rocked her back and forth. "What's taking that damn cab so long?" he
snapped.
"There's a police cordon or something," Mindy informed him, covering the
receiver of the phone with one hand. "They're calling up from downstairs...no,
wait, it's Secret Service."
"Secure the area!" came a booming voice, and everyone was removed from the
office but Andrew and C.J. "Clear!"
Through a haze of fear and terror, C.J. saw the familiar figure of Abbey
Bartlet.
Andrew nearly dropped C.J. to the ground in his haste to stand up, but C.J. was
too shaken to move. Abbey held out her hands for C.J. to grasp. "It's okay, C.J.
I wouldn't be here if I thought it wasn't safe to leave him." She turned to
Andrew. "I'm Abigail Bartlet," she said, although the introduction was
unnecessary. "You are?"
"Andrew Wang. I direct 'Practical Politics.'"
"Andrew, would you help me get C.J. off the floor? There's a car waiting for us
downstairs, and I don't think it'd look too good if you had to carry her."
"No, ma'am." Andrew put his hands on C.J.'s shoulders, guiding her to her feet.
"There you go. Should I come with you?"
"That's very kind, but it won't be necessary. I'll have someone call you from
the hospital. And thank you for your help."
"You're welcome. C.J., you hang in there, okay?"
She nodded at him as Abbey linked arms with her. "They wouldn't tell me anything
except that he's still alive."
"It looks as if he had a mild heart attack."
"Abbey!"
"Ssh, ssh. Mild. He's conscious, and he's plenty pissed off. Mostly because he
threw up in the helicopter. Does that sound like someone who's at death's door?"
C.J. had to admit that it did not. She recognized the two agents who accompanied
them to the car, but she was too busy trying to keep from crying to say anything
to them. Abbey held her hand for the interminable cab ride. "They gave him
nitroglycerin, and now they're running some tests."
"Where's the President?"
"President Schiller is in Washington. Jed's with Toby." Abbey bumped C.J.'s
shoulder, trying to get her to smile. "He refused to leave Toby's side. I think
he's remembering Leo."
Fresh tears, and Abbey's handkerchief, and the dark-suited arms of the agents
opening the car doors. That was all C.J. understood, just little things, not big
pictures, nothing concrete. "I want to see him," she whispered as they took
their seats in the waiting room. She put her head on Abbey's shoulder as if she
were one of the Bartlet daughters or granddaughters, and Abbey stroked her hair
as if she were, as well.
"How long will it be before Ms. Cregg can see Mr. Ziegler?" Abbey asked one of
the nurses.
"I'm sorry - are you family? Because, otherwise, I can't let you in. We just now
had to ask Mr...President...Bartlet to leave, as well."
That set C.J. off into another spasm of sobs. She heard Bartlet's angry voice
getting closer and closer. "I've tried and tried to explain to you people, but
you simply do not get it! I don't get thrown out of hospital rooms, ever!" He
stalked over to the two women and kissed each of them on the cheek. "Abbey, can
you explain to these yahoos that, as the former leader of the free world, I'm
not supposed to be subject to some ridiculous hospital policy? Claudia Jean,
please don't cry, because if you keep crying, then I'll start, and then I'll
look and feel like a complete idiot."
"Okay, Jed, stop talking now, please." Abbey rose and shook hands with the
nurse. "Hello, and I'm sorry my husband is being such a jackass."
The nurse blinked in surprise.
"What he means to say," Abbey continued smoothly, "is thank you for letting him
stay with Mr. Ziegler while we went and got his wife, and now she'll be taking
his place."
C.J. couldn't help but smile at the bald-faced lie and the ice-cool way Abbey
had delivered it.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ziegler. Please, let me show you Mr. Ziegler's room."
He wasn't in the emergency room or even I.C.U., just in a regular hospital room
with one bed, an I.V. stand leaking something clear into his arm, and a heart
monitor. His eyes were dark and a little cloudy from medication, and his smile
was a little goofy. "Hey. You came all this way?"
"All what way?" she asked, dragging a chair to the side of the bed and holding
the hand that didn't have the needle in it.
"To New Hampshire."
"You're not in...you're in New York, Toby. Helicopter, remember?"
"Yeah. I do." He cleared his throat, and his eyes became a little more focused.
"I threw up. Twice."
"So I hear." C.J. kissed his hand, kissed each precious finger, turned the hand
over and kissed the palm, then pressed it to her face and held it there. "How do
you feel?"
"Like someone dropped an anvil on my chest." He looked around the room. "I
thought Jed was here."
"He's in the waiting room with Abbey. They said he had to leave - family only."
"How'd you get in?"
She felt the blush spreading across her cheeks. "Abbey, uh, pulled some strings.
Actually, she lied, and if anyone asks, we're married."
Toby didn't seem to mind that. He looked at C.J., then up at the ceiling. "Did
we get married on the helicopter? 'Cause Josh got married on that battleship,
and look what happened to him."
Laughter was a sweet release after all the fear and crying. C.J. leaned over and
kissed his forehead. "Don't worry. What happened with Amy will not be happening
with me. My wiring's completely different."
Before Toby could react, the Bartlets came into the room with Toby's chart.
"Good news - it's not a heart attack, it's gastroenteritis."
"I have...a stomachache?" Toby said, his eyebrows arching.
"Well, it's a little more than that, but basically that's what you have. Stress,
fatigue, whatever, maybe a little bug. But they're just keeping you here to make
sure you're hydrated, and to run some more tests, so we'll see about springing
you in the a couple of days."
"Then we can drive home, right?" Toby asked, looking like an unhappy little boy
at the thought of more flying.
"Yes, we'll get a car and go that way. Meanwhile, we've taken a suite at the
Plaza, a couple of blocks from your place, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Since we have
trouble getting out and about, we'll expect frequent visits. Starting with
dinner tonight, once visiting hours are over." The agents are expecting you,
and one of them will be waiting by the reception desk."
God, these people had done so much for her, for so long, and she didn't know
where to start to convey her thanks. She looked up at them, hoping to convey by
her expression the words that failed her.
"I love you, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Don't ever forget that."
"I won't," she whispered. "Good night."
Abbey came over, smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and kissed her.
"Don't stay too late - you both need some rest."
C.J. didn't hear them leave, she was so wrapped up with looking into Toby's dark
eyes. He smiled at her just as his eyelids began to flutter shut, and she felt
his breathing getting deeper. Just as she thought he was falling asleep, she
heard him say something.
"What was that?" she asked, leaning over him.
"I said, since we didn't get married in the helicopter, how about we do it in
the car on the way home?"
"Go to sleep, Toby," she whispered. She put her arms on the bed rail and laid
her head down on them.
"I mean it, C.J."
"You're asleep, Toby."
"I'm awake enough to know that I never want them to keep us apart again." He
opened his eyes, and C.J. could see the spark in them that meant he was thinking
at full throttle. "We got lucky this time, and it was nothing. What if someday,
God forbid, something bad happened to one of us? We're getting to the age where
that's more than likely. The only reason we're here, together, right now, is
that Abbey pulled strings and, well, lied. What if she's not there when we need
each other?"
"Toby, I live in New York. You live in New Hampshire. Apart from the 'New,'
there's not a lot in common."
"Conjugal visits." He grinned. "We'd kill each other inside of six months if we
lived together, C.J., you know that. But...well, consider it."
"In the car, on the way home, tomorrow?"
"Okay, that's pushing it. Say, Labor Day weekend, at the farm? Just us and Abbey
and Jed and the local justice of the peace. We don't tell anyone, we don't make
a fuss."
The idea appealed to her. She adored Toby, she always had, and their
relationship had always been, to put it mildly, unconventional.
And, she thought as she watched Toby drift off to sleep, for real this time, it
would certainly give her a way out of that damn "Practical Politics" special as
well as provide something to talk about at dinner tonight.
***
Part Four
August
New York City
***
"That's some headline," C.J. said as she pushed the newspaper toward Andrew.
"Obviously a slow news day over at the Times."
Andrew looked from C.J.'s face to the paper. "'Practical Politics or Personal
Preference?' Perspicacious, positively."
Groaning, C.J. poked holes in her empty styrofoam coffee cup with the red
plastic stirrer. "Seriously. You think this is going to be a thing?"
"I doubt it." He turned the headline face down. "Look, there's not much going on
in the world this week, and you've got a face that sells papers. You're friends
with the hot Presidential hopeful - whose face doesn't exactly turn readers'
stomachs, either - and it's a story."
"You know that, and I know that. Do you think the suits will be able to figure
it out?"
"Maybe if we did it in a pie chart." Andrew peered at C.J. over his wire-rimmed
glasses. "Joke. You're supposed to laugh, boss."
She tried to oblige, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't let
her. The New York Times - she made a mental note to cancel her home subscription
and only read it in the office - had all but accused her of being unable to keep
her partiality for Sam's causes under wraps.
"I never said anything on the air that could be construed as biased," she said.
"And you'll notice that I never said you did." Andrew maintained his cool, which
was what made him such an outstanding director. "You might want to re-think
appearing in public for him, though."
"Why the hell should I? Since when did I lose my rights?"
"You didn't lose--"
"I did! You're telling me I can't campaign for the candidate of my choice!"
"C.J." Andrew took the stirrer out of her hands and threw it into the trash can
before C.J. could do any more damage. "Give the D.N.C. money. Get Toby to write
copy for Sam. But please, for the love of everything holy, do not make public
appearances supporting him. It gives the impression that you're biased."
"I am biased, and I'm allowed to be biased as long as I don't try to present the
bias as fact. Although Sam is the best possible candidate for the job, and that
is a fact." C.J. scowled, looking around the table for something to demolish.
Andrew handed her a paper napkin, and she started shredding it into long, jagged
strips.
"I'm just saying that you might want to lighten up a little on the glowing
praise in your personal segments. And maybe find something good to say about
Seth Gillette."
"Not in a million years. The man was a thorn in our sides for, you know, ever.
He's a pompous jackass with no moral center and the social graces of a deranged
hyena."
"Okay. I give up." Andrew flung his hands in the air. "Now, how about we discuss
the guest list for the Labor Day show?"
"Kill me now," C.J. moaned. "Why did we agree to do that, anyway? I was going to
New Hampshire for the long weekend."
"Get Toby to come here."
"Yes, because Manhattan in September is such a pleasant place to be." The
weather was always wretched at that time of year, oppressive on a level that
left C.J. feeling flattened by the time she walked from the cab to the front
door. "I know, I know, we're trying to bring the holiday back to its roots, and
we're going to talk to people who actually do the jobs that C.E.O.'s get paid
for. I just wish--"
The door to Andrew's office flew open and one of the interns came in, flushed
and breathless. "Ms. Cregg, we're getting reports about a helicopter leaving the
Bartlet place in New Hampshire."
"That's not unheard of - there are people who don't like the drive from the
airport--"
"Ms. Cregg, it was a Care Flight. One of the neighbors saw it, and 911 records
confirm. And I know you're friends with the family, so I wanted to make sure you
knew right away."
She didn't even thank the boy, just leapt to her feet and started running toward
her office. "Someone get me whatever you can find on a Care Flight helicopter
leaving the Bartlet farm." As various assistants dashed off to do her bidding,
C.J. pulled out her cell phone and dialed Toby's number. The answering message
was curt: "You found me, but I don't want to talk to you right now. Leave a
message."
No help. And there was surely no point in calling the house.
Damn, damn, damn.
Next in line would be Sam, who was probably in a committee meeting and wouldn't
have any more information than she had, herself. Plus, he'd get worried -
scratch that, he'd get frantic - and that was a visual C.J. could do without
seeing on the nightly news.
Josh? Please. Who went to Josh in an emergency? No, you'd go to Donna.
Donna was number three on the speed dial, just behind Toby and C.J.'s oldest
brother. "Hello, Mai, this is C.J. Cregg. Is Donna available? It's urgent."
"Yes, Ms. Cregg, she'll be with you in a moment."
C.J. paced the room, picking up books and ornaments and not looking at them as
she tossed them into a strange pile on her desk. "Donna!" she cried when there
was an answer on the other end. "A Care Flight helicopter took off from the
Bartlets' a while ago. I don't know what's wrong."
"Toby didn't answer his cell?"
"No, I got the machine. Listen, can you poke around for me? Maybe find out
something I can't?"
She had a vague idea of how ridiculous that sounded, given that she was one of
the most influential people in a vast media organization.
"Wait, hold on - I have a number for one of the neighbors. I'll call, then I'll
call you right back."
Not so ridiculous. Donnatella Moss, fastest contact person in the West, able to
leap tall Rolodexes in a single bound.
"Thanks - God, I hope the President's okay."
Relapsing-remitting could turn into Secondary-progressive...
"Me, too." Donna's voice was small. "You're on your cell, right? I'll be right
back."
Another intern knocked on C.J.'s door. "I got this from a wire - the helicopter
was bound for Boston, but there's bad weather so they're coming here."
"Which hospital?" C.J. gasped.
"I'm waiting for them to tell the pilot. But I'll be right back."
"Thanks, Cindy."
"Mindy. And you're welcome."
Donna kept her word, and the phone rang again. "C.J., I'm on a conference call
with Stephen Pierce - he lives not too far from the Bartlets and he's willing to
talk to you."
"You're wonderful. Hello, Mr. Pierce? I'm C.J. Cregg. You're very kind to talk
to me this morning."
"Not at all, glad to help." He had the laconic, flat-voweled voice C.J. usually
found amusing. "I was driving home from the store when I heard the copter
overhead. About frightened me out of my wits. I pulled over when the police and
ambulance guys came by, and I saw them bring him out of the house."
C.J.'s heart began to pound and her palms were sweating. "Was he walking, or did
they have him on a stretcher?"
"Oh, he was on a stretcher."
"The President was on a stretcher," C.J. repeated, writing as well as she could
with her clammy hand.
"Oh, no, ma'am. Not the President."
C.J. heard Donna gasp on her end of the line.
"Who was it?" C.J. asked, but she already knew.
"It was that fella who lives with them, the guy with the beard."
She didn't remember much of what happened in the next twenty seconds. Something
about Donna thanking Mr. Pierce and hanging up on him, then telling C.J.
repeatedly that everything was going to be all right.
C.J. half-stumbled out of her office. "Get Andrew," she said. She caught a
glimpse of herself in the window. Her face was deathly white. "Tell him it's
Toby."
"Oh, C.J.," murmured one of the secretaries as she got up and went to deliver
the message.
It's Toby. It's Toby. He's in the air somewhere over this city and I don't know
where he is, or if he's alive...
"NYU Medical Center!" shouted Mindy. "They say the e.t.a. is ten minutes."
"Can I get there in ten minutes?" C.J. asked. "Can someone get their trauma
center on the phone?"
"Working on it," Mindy said, holding the phone to her head with one hand and
covering the other ear.
"Should I call a cab?" asked one of the secretaries, but Andrew burst in before
C.J. could answer.
He grabbed her and hugged her, then stood with his hands on her upper arms. "I'm
so sorry. What's the news?"
"I don't know. Lindy, over there, is trying to get someone from the N.Y.U.
trauma center on the phone. We don't know anything. I don't know anything."
Andrew squeezed her arms gently. "I think...Mindy," he said, exaggerating the
name slightly, "will have someone shortly. Then, when you have more information,
you and I are taking a cab ride together."
"I'm fine," C.J. said weakly, but then her knees buckled and she leaned against
Andrew for support. "Oh, my God, what's taking so long? Wouldn't they at least
let me know if he's alive?"
"You don't know what happened. He could've fallen down and broken an arm or
something."
"They don't Care Flight for a broken arm - Manchester's not that backward!"
Mindy handed her phone to C.J. "It's a nurse. Her name's Shalini."
"Thanks. Excuse me, this is C.J. Cregg. I understand you have a patient coming
in via Care Flight - his name is Toby Ziegler, white male, 51 years old. Can you
tell me why he's coming in?"
"I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "We're not allowed to divulge that information
to the media."
"I'm not media!"
"You are to me - I watch your show on my nights off."
Damn. Damn. Damn.
"I appreciate the situation, but it's not the way it looks. I worked with Mr.
Ziegler for many years, and we were friends for years before that. So any
information..."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, there's a stretcher coming in - I can't talk now. Please
excuse me."
The phone went dead.
"This is not happening to me," C.J. groaned. Mindy took the phone back and began
asking the hospital for various administrative offices.
"Dr. Stephens, you're the director of Trauma? Please hold for C.J. Cregg."
C.J. snatched the phone. "Dr. Stephens? Please, can you tell me about Toby
Ziegler? He's either en route or already at your facility."
"I can confirm that Mr. Ziegler is in the hospital. But I can't tell you any
more unless you're family."
"Oh, God, please, not that again!" She had difficulty catching her breath, and
hot tears were rolling down her face. "I'm not calling to put this on the news!
I know Toby, and I love him, and please, please can you at least tell me if he's
alive?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Dr. Stephens? Hello? Hello?"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cregg..."
Oh, God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead...
"...I had to check the board. Mr. Ziegler is alive - but that's really all I can
tell you. Even that's going a bit too far. I hope you understand."
C.J. collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she could fold her arms over
her knees, then she began to weep aloud. Alarmed, Andrew knelt beside her. "C
.J.? What is it?"
"He's alive," C.J. sobbed, "but that's all they can tell me."
"It's a good start, honey, it's a good start." He sat cross-legged on the floor
opposite her. "I've got Tom sitting in for you tonight, and someone's calling a
cab right now. Don't worry about anything but Toby, you understand?"
"Of course I'm not worrying about anything but Toby! God, don't you get it?" She
lifted her tear-streaked face. Wet mascara stung her eyes as much as the tears
did. "He's the only thing that matters - he's the only one I love..."
"Ssh, ssh, honey, it's all right, it's all right." Andrew put his arms around
her and rocked her back and forth. "What's taking that damn cab so long?" he
snapped.
"There's a police cordon or something," Mindy informed him, covering the
receiver of the phone with one hand. "They're calling up from downstairs...no,
wait, it's Secret Service."
"Secure the area!" came a booming voice, and everyone was removed from the
office but Andrew and C.J. "Clear!"
Through a haze of fear and terror, C.J. saw the familiar figure of Abbey
Bartlet.
Andrew nearly dropped C.J. to the ground in his haste to stand up, but C.J. was
too shaken to move. Abbey held out her hands for C.J. to grasp. "It's okay, C.J.
I wouldn't be here if I thought it wasn't safe to leave him." She turned to
Andrew. "I'm Abigail Bartlet," she said, although the introduction was
unnecessary. "You are?"
"Andrew Wang. I direct 'Practical Politics.'"
"Andrew, would you help me get C.J. off the floor? There's a car waiting for us
downstairs, and I don't think it'd look too good if you had to carry her."
"No, ma'am." Andrew put his hands on C.J.'s shoulders, guiding her to her feet.
"There you go. Should I come with you?"
"That's very kind, but it won't be necessary. I'll have someone call you from
the hospital. And thank you for your help."
"You're welcome. C.J., you hang in there, okay?"
She nodded at him as Abbey linked arms with her. "They wouldn't tell me anything
except that he's still alive."
"It looks as if he had a mild heart attack."
"Abbey!"
"Ssh, ssh. Mild. He's conscious, and he's plenty pissed off. Mostly because he
threw up in the helicopter. Does that sound like someone who's at death's door?"
C.J. had to admit that it did not. She recognized the two agents who accompanied
them to the car, but she was too busy trying to keep from crying to say anything
to them. Abbey held her hand for the interminable cab ride. "They gave him
nitroglycerin, and now they're running some tests."
"Where's the President?"
"President Schiller is in Washington. Jed's with Toby." Abbey bumped C.J.'s
shoulder, trying to get her to smile. "He refused to leave Toby's side. I think
he's remembering Leo."
Fresh tears, and Abbey's handkerchief, and the dark-suited arms of the agents
opening the car doors. That was all C.J. understood, just little things, not big
pictures, nothing concrete. "I want to see him," she whispered as they took
their seats in the waiting room. She put her head on Abbey's shoulder as if she
were one of the Bartlet daughters or granddaughters, and Abbey stroked her hair
as if she were, as well.
"How long will it be before Ms. Cregg can see Mr. Ziegler?" Abbey asked one of
the nurses.
"I'm sorry - are you family? Because, otherwise, I can't let you in. We just now
had to ask Mr...President...Bartlet to leave, as well."
That set C.J. off into another spasm of sobs. She heard Bartlet's angry voice
getting closer and closer. "I've tried and tried to explain to you people, but
you simply do not get it! I don't get thrown out of hospital rooms, ever!" He
stalked over to the two women and kissed each of them on the cheek. "Abbey, can
you explain to these yahoos that, as the former leader of the free world, I'm
not supposed to be subject to some ridiculous hospital policy? Claudia Jean,
please don't cry, because if you keep crying, then I'll start, and then I'll
look and feel like a complete idiot."
"Okay, Jed, stop talking now, please." Abbey rose and shook hands with the
nurse. "Hello, and I'm sorry my husband is being such a jackass."
The nurse blinked in surprise.
"What he means to say," Abbey continued smoothly, "is thank you for letting him
stay with Mr. Ziegler while we went and got his wife, and now she'll be taking
his place."
C.J. couldn't help but smile at the bald-faced lie and the ice-cool way Abbey
had delivered it.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ziegler. Please, let me show you Mr. Ziegler's room."
He wasn't in the emergency room or even I.C.U., just in a regular hospital room
with one bed, an I.V. stand leaking something clear into his arm, and a heart
monitor. His eyes were dark and a little cloudy from medication, and his smile
was a little goofy. "Hey. You came all this way?"
"All what way?" she asked, dragging a chair to the side of the bed and holding
the hand that didn't have the needle in it.
"To New Hampshire."
"You're not in...you're in New York, Toby. Helicopter, remember?"
"Yeah. I do." He cleared his throat, and his eyes became a little more focused.
"I threw up. Twice."
"So I hear." C.J. kissed his hand, kissed each precious finger, turned the hand
over and kissed the palm, then pressed it to her face and held it there. "How do
you feel?"
"Like someone dropped an anvil on my chest." He looked around the room. "I
thought Jed was here."
"He's in the waiting room with Abbey. They said he had to leave - family only."
"How'd you get in?"
She felt the blush spreading across her cheeks. "Abbey, uh, pulled some strings.
Actually, she lied, and if anyone asks, we're married."
Toby didn't seem to mind that. He looked at C.J., then up at the ceiling. "Did
we get married on the helicopter? 'Cause Josh got married on that battleship,
and look what happened to him."
Laughter was a sweet release after all the fear and crying. C.J. leaned over and
kissed his forehead. "Don't worry. What happened with Amy will not be happening
with me. My wiring's completely different."
Before Toby could react, the Bartlets came into the room with Toby's chart.
"Good news - it's not a heart attack, it's gastroenteritis."
"I have...a stomachache?" Toby said, his eyebrows arching.
"Well, it's a little more than that, but basically that's what you have. Stress,
fatigue, whatever, maybe a little bug. But they're just keeping you here to make
sure you're hydrated, and to run some more tests, so we'll see about springing
you in the a couple of days."
"Then we can drive home, right?" Toby asked, looking like an unhappy little boy
at the thought of more flying.
"Yes, we'll get a car and go that way. Meanwhile, we've taken a suite at the
Plaza, a couple of blocks from your place, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Since we have
trouble getting out and about, we'll expect frequent visits. Starting with
dinner tonight, once visiting hours are over." The agents are expecting you,
and one of them will be waiting by the reception desk."
God, these people had done so much for her, for so long, and she didn't know
where to start to convey her thanks. She looked up at them, hoping to convey by
her expression the words that failed her.
"I love you, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Don't ever forget that."
"I won't," she whispered. "Good night."
Abbey came over, smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and kissed her.
"Don't stay too late - you both need some rest."
C.J. didn't hear them leave, she was so wrapped up with looking into Toby's dark
eyes. He smiled at her just as his eyelids began to flutter shut, and she felt
his breathing getting deeper. Just as she thought he was falling asleep, she
heard him say something.
"What was that?" she asked, leaning over him.
"I said, since we didn't get married in the helicopter, how about we do it in
the car on the way home?"
"Go to sleep, Toby," she whispered. She put her arms on the bed rail and laid
her head down on them.
"I mean it, C.J."
"You're asleep, Toby."
"I'm awake enough to know that I never want them to keep us apart again." He
opened his eyes, and C.J. could see the spark in them that meant he was thinking
at full throttle. "We got lucky this time, and it was nothing. What if someday,
God forbid, something bad happened to one of us? We're getting to the age where
that's more than likely. The only reason we're here, together, right now, is
that Abbey pulled strings and, well, lied. What if she's not there when we need
each other?"
"Toby, I live in New York. You live in New Hampshire. Apart from the 'New,'
there's not a lot in common."
"Conjugal visits." He grinned. "We'd kill each other inside of six months if we
lived together, C.J., you know that. But...well, consider it."
"In the car, on the way home, tomorrow?"
"Okay, that's pushing it. Say, Labor Day weekend, at the farm? Just us and Abbey
and Jed and the local justice of the peace. We don't tell anyone, we don't make
a fuss."
The idea appealed to her. She adored Toby, she always had, and their
relationship had always been, to put it mildly, unconventional.
And, she thought as she watched Toby drift off to sleep, for real this time, it
would certainly give her a way out of that damn "Practical Politics" special as
well as provide something to talk about at dinner tonight.
***
Part Four