XVII

"Hey, mom."

"Hello, Zoey." Her mother's smile was tinged with weariness, and Zoey felt a stab of worry.

"Mom, what's wrong?" She sat down. "Why did you ask me to come see you?"

Her mother sighed softly, and wrapped her arms across her chest. "Zoey, this afternoon, CJ's going to get some questions in the briefing. It..."

"Did I do something wrong?" she interrupted worriedly. "Did Charlie? Are we-?"

"It's not about you, honey," her mother reassured her with a smile that appeared quickly and left even faster. "It's your father."

Oh, God. "Mom, is it-?"

"It's not that."

Neither of them needed to clarify which 'that'. Zoey hadn't even known about the recent terrible risk of her father's MS progressing until after her parents had found out for sure it wasn't happening. She hadn't been sure whether to resent them or thank them for that ignorance, and still hadn't decided yet. Since then, her father had been put on a new diet and exercise regime that was supposed to help him. She thought it had, at first, but lately he was looking even more stressed than ever.

But if this wasn't about the MS, then she didn't have the first clue what it could be. She settled for a hesitant "Mom?"

The First Lady looked down at her hands in her lap. "Zoey... you know there's a new biography of your father just being released."

"Yeah, I saw it advertised online." She hadn't investigated further; biographies of her family gave her a strange mix of pride and the creeps. She didn't like the thought of complete strangers reading avidly through all the cute little anecdotes her father liked to tell - and the least said about her baby pictures, the better. "It's not like that horrible Burkhalt book, is it?"

She'd wanted to give that guy such a slapping for suggesting her father had been disappointed she wasn't a boy. Even if she had giggled in a slightly disturbed way over all the stuff about special underwear.

Her mother gave a small, wry smile. "No, honey, it's... I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that."

She had absolutely no idea what this was, but she already knew she didn't like it. "Mom, please... what is it?"

Her mother touched her arm. "Your father never really talked much about his childhood around you girls, did he?" she said softly.

"No, I guess, I- I usually tune him out when he starts getting reminisce-y," Zoey admitted, her automatic smile feeling awkward, as if it was the wrong size for her face.

Her mother's expression subtly darkened. "Yes, well. He didn't have an awful lot to reminisce about from that period." She looked down. "Your father's youth was a very... troubled time for him."

"Dad?" She found it hard to believe. Every mental image she had of her father as a young man was a kind of miniature, less grey-haired version of him as he was now - complete with goofy grin and geekish tendencies. She just couldn't picture him in the tortured adolescent mould.

"The fact is, Zoey..." Her voice trailed into a sigh of regret. "The book includes some things about your father and your grandfather that he's not comfortable talking about... not really comfortable talking about.

"What kind of things?" She heard her own words tremble slightly. What was this? What about Grandpa Bartlet? Zoey had never met either of her father's parents - his mother had died when he was a teenager, and his father before she was born. It had only really been in recent years that she'd noticed the way he tended to avoid talking much about them, and the tone of wistful regret when he did. She'd guessed they'd had some kind of a falling-out - maybe about him turning away from the priesthood for mom, they'd all heard that story - and never had a chance to make it up, and that was why he always made such a big thing about family never parting angry.

Now her mother seemed to be hinting at altogether darker family secrets... and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear them.

Her mother sighed, and was silent for a long moment. "Your grandfather..." Zoey heard the restrained venom in her voice, and was startled by it. "John Bartlet was not a nice man. He was not a good man. In fact, he was a pretty poor excuse for a human being all round, not to mention a goddamn abusive son of a bitch. He put your father through hell through his whole childhood and a long way beyond it. He came out of it very... damaged... when I first knew him, and I still think it's a miracle he turned out the way he did."

Zoey was shaking her head mechanically, although the look on her mother's face was enough that she couldn't deny it. But... her dad? No. This wasn't possible.

"He was a very shy boy when I first met him." She made a small sound of amusement. "Very quiet, if you can believe it. Until you got him talking about dreams and things that mattered... oh, and then..." Her eyes took on a faraway look.

"I could always see he had such a powerful soul in him, but he always acted like he didn't expect anyone to see it. He could never stop himself from speaking up, but he never expected anyone to listen to him." She smiled sadly. "It took him a long time to learn that people really did listen to him, and they really did like him, and that he had this incredible talent for... for selling ideas to people, for making them believe in things. I never really understood how one boy could be so different in himself, so incredibly confident and yet so shy and withdrawn. Until I met his father."

She was silent for a while, but Zoey just watched her face, afraid to interrupt or even to breathe too heavily.

"His father was... a very cold man. He didn't approve of Jed, or anything he did. He didn't like that he was so smart, that he wanted to be different. He didn't-" She shook her head. "I never understood it, not then and not now. I don't know why he could ever be so-" She broke off again, rubbing her eyes tiredly, and finally looked up at Zoey.

"I don't know very much at all about what happened between them, but it left your father very scarred and very mixed up for a long time. I talked to your uncle a few times, but he doesn't really like talking about it either, and I don't think he knows a lot of the story. It's something your father would rather consign to the past and not spend any more time dwelling on."

"And then along comes this book," Zoey said shakily.

"This is going to be a very hard time for him, Zoey," her mother told her softly. "And I know it's difficult to take in something like this, but it's very important that you try and treat him like you always did; he needs his family around him now, and he's never been a man who's comfortable with being pitied."

"I know," she said, her voice a near-absent whisper. When her mother and father had first sat the three of them and Annie down and explained what multiple sclerosis was, he'd taken refuge in her company. Liz and Ellie's tearful concern had been painful to him, and he'd sought comfort in the pre-teen daughter who didn't get most of the big words, and who didn't really understand much more than daddy was sick but he was going to be okay. The public revelation had been that times a million, but at least then he'd had the group of them around him to shield him with their understanding.

And at least, then, he'd had people to battle with. If unsolicited sympathy disturbed him, angry outbursts he positively relished. He was never happier than when he was locked in a battle of wills. She wondered now if maybe that was because-

No. No, she wasn't going to do this. She wasn't going to be that girl, taking him apart like he was one of the case studies in her psych course. He was just her dad, like he'd always been. Nothing different.

Her mother smiled faintly at her. "You okay, babe?"

She took a deep breath, and held it a moment before letting it out and nodding. "Yeah, I... yeah. I'm okay."

"You want to see your father before you go? Or not; you don't have to, if you-"

"Mom," Zoey cut her off by gripping her arm. "Actually, I- I'm not sure this is the best time, but... I kinda have something I need to tell you, too."

"Hey."

"Hey." Josh smiled up at her softly from where he was leaned so far back in his chair it was almost tipping over. It looked as if one swift nudge would have sent it over.

On another day, Donna would have tested that theory. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he nodded shortly.

"You're too quiet," she objected.

"You like me quiet."

"For like the first thirty seconds. Then it's, like, totally unnatural, and I get scared."

Josh smiled and pushed himself upright, letting out his air in a whoosh as the chair groaned in protest.

"You're gonna need a new chair if you keep doing that," she chided him.

"I'm just thinking," he shrugged.

"Well, stop it!"

She was relieved when he chuckled at that. "It's just, you know." He shrugged. "Things. In my head. That I'm thinking about."

"See, normally that doesn't happen. 'Cause the things in your head usually just come out of your mouth without mental intervention."

Josh locked eyes with her, and smiled slightly to remove any perceived sting from his next words. "I'm okay, Donna."

"Okay," she agreed quietly.

Silence fell, but she didn't leave, and he didn't ask her too. After a moment, he looked back across at her.

"Did- can you find out about Naomi Henderson's funeral?"

"You want to go?" she asked uncertainly.

"No, I, uh- no. It's not- No."

"Send flowers?" she said, understanding. Whatever resonance it might have had with him, he didn't have any personal claim on the life or death of Naomi Henderson.

Josh nodded at her suggestion.

"From you?" she checked. "I mean, not... Not the White House Deputy Chief of Staff."

Josh shut his eyes in something like a grimace and shook his head. She waited for him to marshal his thoughts. "Don't-" He pulled a face. "She doesn't... She doesn't need to have my name stamped on it. She doesn't need 'Compliments of the White House'. Just... just send them. This shouldn't be a Hallmark moment. She doesn't need to know who they're from."

Donna nodded, and gave him a tender smile. "Okay."