POV: Zoey
Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "Commencement;" "25"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine. They belong to John
Wells, I suppose now.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Seven: She Knows You Like to See Her Strong A West Wing Story
by MAHC
It was one thing she had never doubted in her entire life. One thing that never caused her the anxiety or concern that some of her friends had to face. Her parents loved her and they loved each other. They loved each other so much that it never occurred to her that anything could ever even crack their commitment to each other, much less split it wide open.
If anything, she frequently found herself making excuses about why her parents seemed to be all over each other. It was on more than one occasion that she and a couple of girlfriends had come into their living room only to find her folks making out on the couch. She professed great embarrassment, but deep down it gave her security and warmth to know that the two people she loved most in the world loved each other so much. No, for twenty years she never questioned the strength of her parents' marriage.
But at 21, doubt had blindsided her with unexpected fury.
Dawn was just threatening to break as the motorcade entered the city. Zoey Bartlet caught her mother's stoic profile in the flashes of light that popped in and out of the limousine. She was seated upright, no longer needing to lie with her head in that comforting lap, protected from the arm that grabbed at her in her dreams. The dreams still came, but her body sensed the safety now, subconsciously knew that she was in danger no longer. Not physically, anyway.
It was over, and it was probably good that she had no really clear memories of the ordeal. The doctors said the drugs in her system kept her senses dull. But the fear remained, as well as the harsh flashes of scenes that could have been real or from some action thriller she had once seen. They had all tried to help. Her sisters, her doctors, her parents. Charlie. And things were better, even if they might never be the same again.
She had wanted it to be all right, had wanted to leap right back into the old Zoey. She wasn't afraid of anything, wasn't that what her father had always bragged? But she was. She was afraid of arms in the night, and she was afraid of assassin's bullets.
And she was afraid of losing the one thing that had always been certain in her life.
The most obvious clue was the sudden lack of touching. Her parents had always been tactile, had been drawn to each other anytime they were together. If they were in the same room, they were holding hands, or brushing shoulders, or sitting with thighs together, or even, on informal occasions, allowing those near them to witness a tender kiss or two.
But they didn't touch anymore. They hadn't since she came back. No holding hands, no brushing of shoulders, no sitting anywhere close. It didn't take a genius to see what was happening, and Zoey had graduated Magna Cum Laude.
She knew her mother blamed her father. She knew he blamed himself. What she couldn't figure out was how they couldn't see that they were both wrong. How they couldn't see the very obvious. It was her fault.
She had caused it all. Falling for Jean-Paul, going to the bar, taking a drink. Her fault. Molly dying. Her father giving up the Presidency. Her parents' marriage disintegrating.
Her fault.
Her eyes followed the lines of the Washington Monument, the beacon to Americans and foreigners alike to the capital city of the most powerful country in the world. Sometimes it seemed so unreal, so unimaginable that her father ran that country, that he wielded such influence and power over the entire globe. He was just her father, after all. The same goofy man who had accompanied her on Halloween dressed like the first Josiah Bartlett, knee britches and all. The same man who sat cross-legged in the floor and provided the voice of Ken or any other male dolls that she wished to interact with her Barbies. The same man who had yelled at the referees when she got fouled in her soccer games and it didn't get the call. The same man who never missed a horse show, even if it meant flying back from his duties as a U.S. Congressman to see her. The same man who fairly bubbled with pride when he threw a White House chile party to welcome her to Georgetown for college. The same man who looked at her with such love and pride during her graduation that she thought her heart would just leap out right there in the middle of the crowd.
The same man who had lain on a stretcher in the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital, a bullet wound in his side, joking and assuring her that he was fine and that everything was going to be all right. She had told him how brave he was and how well he had done that night. She meant it. She was so proud of him.
And now look what she had done. Now he lay there again, no bullet felling him this time. Only the intensity of his own pain and guilt, pounding at him with no one to deflect it, no one to hold him up. And it was her fault.
Her mother sighed suddenly and she cut her eyes toward her, but the expression had not changed. Zoey wondered what would happen when she saw her father, wondered if the rift would close. She had never seen her mother so mad before, had never seen them so ripped apart that they didn't even argue. But since she had left the White House, she was certain that they had not spoken with each other. Her father called occasionally, checking on her, but her mother never answered the phone and therefore never had to say anything to him, never had to hear his voice.
The cars pulled up to the new emergency entrance to GW and their agents quickly opened the doors. Without a word, her mother slid out, chin up, face composed, always conscious of the press, the attention. She followed, not looking anywhere but forward, toward the doors, toward where he was.
She had not seen Charlie since they had left, but now he met her at the door, taking her hand simply and squeezing it. Abbey walked past him with a nod, intent on finding someone who could give her the most precise information. Zoey took a moment to smile bravely, like her father would want her to do.
"Hey," she murmured, eyes cast down for a moment before they found his again. In those dark depths she saw a strange mix of joy, weariness, and pain.
"Hey," he returned. "You okay?" The question covered a variety of levels.
"Yeah." And she was, at least for the main thing he needed to know about. "Dad?"
The shadow that crossed his expression did not encourage her at all. He tried to be upbeat. He didn't succeed. "He's - I don't know, Zoey. I don't think he's - I don't think he's awake, yet. Leo's been back, but - "
Her mother had given her the basic information. He had collapsed in the Oval Office and was taken to GW. Other than that, she knew little. Maybe it was time to find out. "What happened?"
As Charlie recounted the late hours her father had spent, the sleepless nights, the overwork, she closed her eyes. He had worked himself into this, had disregarded his own health because no one was there to hold him accountable. And again it was her fault. She had taken her mother away from him, had allowed them to send her away when he needed her, needed them both.
"Zoey," her mother called and motioned her back toward the double doors.
"Go," Charlie told her. "I'll be here." And she knew he would.
They followed Ron and the doctor, her mother asking questions that she only vaguely heard. But 21 years of having a physician as a parent had given her some knowledge and she recognized a few references. Facial laceration requiring stitches. Bruising, perhaps a slight concussion. Stress and sleep deprivation exhaustion. Possible optic neuritis. His glucose metabolism was low. The blood levels of immune cells and some kind of proteins called cytokines, had been altered, making him even more susceptible to infections. He was running a low grade fever. None of these things sounded good to her at all. She glanced at her mother, trying to see a reaction, but she was in full doctor mode and simply nodded as the attending physician recounted the symptoms.
He had been placed in the same room as before, the ICU unit that allowed constant monitoring, both for medical and safety reasons. Leo stood over him, his face drawn and haggard. He stepped back when he saw them.
"Abbey," he greeted simply. His eyes softened a little when he saw Zoey. "Hiya, Kid," he said and hugged her.
Her mother gave him only the curt nod that courtesy dictated before he took his cue and left, head down. Zoey wanted to go to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the need to see how her father was outweighed the gesture.
Now she looked toward the bed and saw him really for the first time. Even after Rosslyn, after being shot, he had maintained his spirit and humor. This time, though, the color had drained from his face, leaving a chalky, pale hue in place of the usual healthy ruddiness. He lay on the bed, perfectly still, no movement except the regular rise and fall of his chest. An IV ran into his left arm, carrying the clear fluids to replenish whatever nutrients his body had been denied the past weeks.
His left cheek was swollen and discolored, marred by black stitching that tracked across it. She cringed at the flecks of blood that still lingered on his face, despite the attendants' efforts to clean it off. It was hard to watch him lying there, such a contradiction to her image of him, strong and in control. She watched carefully as her mother stepped close to the bed.
Abigail Bartlet didn't say anything, didn't call out his name, still didn't touch him. But she was there. That was a start, at least. Zoey couldn't stand by and just watch, though. She reached over and laced his fingers in hers, remembering the times he had done the same for her, folding her small hand in his larger one, pushing his strength to her. Maybe it was time for her to send some of that strength back.
"Dad?" she whispered. He didn't answer, didn't respond at all. It didn't matter. She would talk anyway. "Daddy, it's Zoey. I'm here. Mom's here."
Her mother shifted a little, but didn't say anything.
She bent over him, brushed the hair away from his forehead. It seemed grayer than it had been just a week ago. "Listen, Dad, I need you to wake up, okay?"
No response, no indication that he heard her at all.
"I want you to know it wasn't your fault," she told him, and hoped that her mother was listening, too. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't want me to go with Jean-Paul in the first place. You and Charlie. I should have listened. You've warned me for years. I should have - "
"Zoey." Her mother's hand rested gently on her arm and those eyes held pity. But that was not what she wanted right then, not what she needed.
She shook off the touch. "No, Mom. I'm talking to Daddy right now." That was rude and she could feel her mother's grip tense.
"Zoey, he can't hear you."
"How do you know?" she snapped before she could stop herself. "Just because you don't hear him."
That face hardened, braced and Zoey knew she had done it, had opened up the subject they had been tip-toeing around. "What are you talking about?"
Well, she had started it. Might as well finish it. "You don't hear him. He's talking, but you're not listening."
She shook her head, frowning. "Zoey, I don't know what you are saying. Your father and I haven't even spoken since - "
"I know how long it's been. I may have been a little out of it for a while, but I'd have to be blind and deaf not to know what's happening to you two." The words spit out of her, carrying all the disappointment and fear she harbored.
"Zoey, nothing's happening. It's just - we just need some time - "
"No. You blame him for this, I know. Everyone knows. You blame him. Don't you know he blames himself? Don't you see what this has done to him?"
That famous temper flared. Usually Zoey tried to avoid it. This time she welcomed it. "Zoey Patricia Bartlet," her mother said, voice tight, warning. "You don't understand everything that has happened - "
"Yes, I think I do, Mom. Dad had a Qumari terrorist killed and they took me in retaliation and you blame him for it all."
Her mother stared at her, unable to contradict the simple synopsis.
"Don't you know that he feels the same, that he blames himself what happened? That you have just heaped the coals on his head when he had already dumped the entire furnace there?" It was risky, confronting Abigail Bartlet like that, but Zoey figured her ordeal had earned her a few liberties.
"Do you see him?" She glanced back toward the bed and saw that her mother did the same. "Is that what you want? Mom, we don't know what's going to happen in the future. We don't know how long - "
"Stop it!" The voice broke, whether in anger or pain she couldn't tell. "You have no idea - I didn't know what was happening to you - I didn't know if they were - what they were doing to you - I couldn't bear to think that they might be - "
"Mother - "
The façade had cracked, and her mother worked to hold it together. "And he knew - he knew all along that it was because of what he did. He didn't tell me. He didn't even let me know that - Don't you see? It was his decision that caused - " She stopped abruptly, voice strained and harsh, shoulders shaking.
"Wait outside," her mother ordered, but the tone lacked its usual sharpness.
"But - "
"Please," she added, with effort.
Frightened by the emotion she had just witnessed, Zoey nodded and eased into the hall after giving her father's hand one more squeeze. She hoped he felt it. Charlie met her, eyes questioning. She shrugged and led him to a hard couch, realizing as she sat that her entire body trembled.
"Hey, you okay?"
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "I don't know," she said, smiling slightly in that nervous way she had of coping with unpleasant things.
"Zoey?" His hand covered hers, tried to still the tremors.
With another quick smile to acknowledge his concern, she explained, "They don't - they aren't talking anymore, Charlie. They don't - touch anymore. And they always touched."
He didn't need to ask who. She knew he must have seen it himself. Instead, he gripped her hand harder. "They will," he said, and she hoped the confidence in his voice was warranted. "It's been - hard. Your dad feels that - he thinks he - "
"I know what he thinks."
Charlie cleared his throat, as if he weren't sure of what he was about to say. "Your mom thinks - "
"I know what she thinks, too. She blames him."
The words came out with a bitter snap and she suddenly realized how angry she was at her mother, even though she knew how distraught she had been. But the connection between youngest daughter and father was strong. She was her father's child in so many ways. He could never fall from the pedestal she put him on. She could tease, she could complain about his protectiveness and doting, but Josiah Bartlet was a king in the eyes of his daughter. Nothing could change that, not even his wife's wrath on her own child's behalf. Perhaps especially not his wife's wrath.
"Zoey, I can't even imagine what you went through. I don't really want to. It hurts to consider what they did or what they might have done." His voice broke and she raised a hand to cup his cheek. "But your parents. Your mother is always so in control, but that first night when she walked into the press room - "
Zoey stared at him. No one had mentioned this before. "What are you talking about?"
Realizing she didn't know, he tried to back away, but she pushed until he told her about the frantic First Lady, desperate to appeal for her daughter's safe return, plunging into C.J.'s press room, blinking at the barrage of flash bulbs until the press secretary and her own chief of staff pulled her out. Zoey choked back tears in astonishment, never having seen her mother like that, never having imagined that reaction. In truth, Charlie told her, it was her father who had remained calm, who had kept his head throughout the entire ordeal. Her father, whom she would have pegged as the one to go off the deep end if something happened to his little girl.
"I didn't know," she murmured, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes closed. "I didn't know."
His hand rubbed her arm gently. "Zoey, I'm so sorry I told you to go to the club. If I hadn't - if I had stayed with you - "
"It was my fault, Charlie." Couldn't he see that? Couldn't any of them see that? "My fault. And because of me my father is lying in a hospital bed and my mother hates him."
"Zoey, it's not your fault," he urged, the pain evident in his eyes. "It's not your fault. It's - "
"Miss Bartlet?"
They both looked up at the nurse's call and he fell silent.
"The President is awake. Would you like to see him?"
As she stood, Charlie's hand still holding onto her, she decided not to respond by observing how stupid that question was. Instead, she nodded, took a deep breath, and followed.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Seven: She Knows You Like to See Her Strong A West Wing Story
by MAHC
It was one thing she had never doubted in her entire life. One thing that never caused her the anxiety or concern that some of her friends had to face. Her parents loved her and they loved each other. They loved each other so much that it never occurred to her that anything could ever even crack their commitment to each other, much less split it wide open.
If anything, she frequently found herself making excuses about why her parents seemed to be all over each other. It was on more than one occasion that she and a couple of girlfriends had come into their living room only to find her folks making out on the couch. She professed great embarrassment, but deep down it gave her security and warmth to know that the two people she loved most in the world loved each other so much. No, for twenty years she never questioned the strength of her parents' marriage.
But at 21, doubt had blindsided her with unexpected fury.
Dawn was just threatening to break as the motorcade entered the city. Zoey Bartlet caught her mother's stoic profile in the flashes of light that popped in and out of the limousine. She was seated upright, no longer needing to lie with her head in that comforting lap, protected from the arm that grabbed at her in her dreams. The dreams still came, but her body sensed the safety now, subconsciously knew that she was in danger no longer. Not physically, anyway.
It was over, and it was probably good that she had no really clear memories of the ordeal. The doctors said the drugs in her system kept her senses dull. But the fear remained, as well as the harsh flashes of scenes that could have been real or from some action thriller she had once seen. They had all tried to help. Her sisters, her doctors, her parents. Charlie. And things were better, even if they might never be the same again.
She had wanted it to be all right, had wanted to leap right back into the old Zoey. She wasn't afraid of anything, wasn't that what her father had always bragged? But she was. She was afraid of arms in the night, and she was afraid of assassin's bullets.
And she was afraid of losing the one thing that had always been certain in her life.
The most obvious clue was the sudden lack of touching. Her parents had always been tactile, had been drawn to each other anytime they were together. If they were in the same room, they were holding hands, or brushing shoulders, or sitting with thighs together, or even, on informal occasions, allowing those near them to witness a tender kiss or two.
But they didn't touch anymore. They hadn't since she came back. No holding hands, no brushing of shoulders, no sitting anywhere close. It didn't take a genius to see what was happening, and Zoey had graduated Magna Cum Laude.
She knew her mother blamed her father. She knew he blamed himself. What she couldn't figure out was how they couldn't see that they were both wrong. How they couldn't see the very obvious. It was her fault.
She had caused it all. Falling for Jean-Paul, going to the bar, taking a drink. Her fault. Molly dying. Her father giving up the Presidency. Her parents' marriage disintegrating.
Her fault.
Her eyes followed the lines of the Washington Monument, the beacon to Americans and foreigners alike to the capital city of the most powerful country in the world. Sometimes it seemed so unreal, so unimaginable that her father ran that country, that he wielded such influence and power over the entire globe. He was just her father, after all. The same goofy man who had accompanied her on Halloween dressed like the first Josiah Bartlett, knee britches and all. The same man who sat cross-legged in the floor and provided the voice of Ken or any other male dolls that she wished to interact with her Barbies. The same man who had yelled at the referees when she got fouled in her soccer games and it didn't get the call. The same man who never missed a horse show, even if it meant flying back from his duties as a U.S. Congressman to see her. The same man who fairly bubbled with pride when he threw a White House chile party to welcome her to Georgetown for college. The same man who looked at her with such love and pride during her graduation that she thought her heart would just leap out right there in the middle of the crowd.
The same man who had lain on a stretcher in the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital, a bullet wound in his side, joking and assuring her that he was fine and that everything was going to be all right. She had told him how brave he was and how well he had done that night. She meant it. She was so proud of him.
And now look what she had done. Now he lay there again, no bullet felling him this time. Only the intensity of his own pain and guilt, pounding at him with no one to deflect it, no one to hold him up. And it was her fault.
Her mother sighed suddenly and she cut her eyes toward her, but the expression had not changed. Zoey wondered what would happen when she saw her father, wondered if the rift would close. She had never seen her mother so mad before, had never seen them so ripped apart that they didn't even argue. But since she had left the White House, she was certain that they had not spoken with each other. Her father called occasionally, checking on her, but her mother never answered the phone and therefore never had to say anything to him, never had to hear his voice.
The cars pulled up to the new emergency entrance to GW and their agents quickly opened the doors. Without a word, her mother slid out, chin up, face composed, always conscious of the press, the attention. She followed, not looking anywhere but forward, toward the doors, toward where he was.
She had not seen Charlie since they had left, but now he met her at the door, taking her hand simply and squeezing it. Abbey walked past him with a nod, intent on finding someone who could give her the most precise information. Zoey took a moment to smile bravely, like her father would want her to do.
"Hey," she murmured, eyes cast down for a moment before they found his again. In those dark depths she saw a strange mix of joy, weariness, and pain.
"Hey," he returned. "You okay?" The question covered a variety of levels.
"Yeah." And she was, at least for the main thing he needed to know about. "Dad?"
The shadow that crossed his expression did not encourage her at all. He tried to be upbeat. He didn't succeed. "He's - I don't know, Zoey. I don't think he's - I don't think he's awake, yet. Leo's been back, but - "
Her mother had given her the basic information. He had collapsed in the Oval Office and was taken to GW. Other than that, she knew little. Maybe it was time to find out. "What happened?"
As Charlie recounted the late hours her father had spent, the sleepless nights, the overwork, she closed her eyes. He had worked himself into this, had disregarded his own health because no one was there to hold him accountable. And again it was her fault. She had taken her mother away from him, had allowed them to send her away when he needed her, needed them both.
"Zoey," her mother called and motioned her back toward the double doors.
"Go," Charlie told her. "I'll be here." And she knew he would.
They followed Ron and the doctor, her mother asking questions that she only vaguely heard. But 21 years of having a physician as a parent had given her some knowledge and she recognized a few references. Facial laceration requiring stitches. Bruising, perhaps a slight concussion. Stress and sleep deprivation exhaustion. Possible optic neuritis. His glucose metabolism was low. The blood levels of immune cells and some kind of proteins called cytokines, had been altered, making him even more susceptible to infections. He was running a low grade fever. None of these things sounded good to her at all. She glanced at her mother, trying to see a reaction, but she was in full doctor mode and simply nodded as the attending physician recounted the symptoms.
He had been placed in the same room as before, the ICU unit that allowed constant monitoring, both for medical and safety reasons. Leo stood over him, his face drawn and haggard. He stepped back when he saw them.
"Abbey," he greeted simply. His eyes softened a little when he saw Zoey. "Hiya, Kid," he said and hugged her.
Her mother gave him only the curt nod that courtesy dictated before he took his cue and left, head down. Zoey wanted to go to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but the need to see how her father was outweighed the gesture.
Now she looked toward the bed and saw him really for the first time. Even after Rosslyn, after being shot, he had maintained his spirit and humor. This time, though, the color had drained from his face, leaving a chalky, pale hue in place of the usual healthy ruddiness. He lay on the bed, perfectly still, no movement except the regular rise and fall of his chest. An IV ran into his left arm, carrying the clear fluids to replenish whatever nutrients his body had been denied the past weeks.
His left cheek was swollen and discolored, marred by black stitching that tracked across it. She cringed at the flecks of blood that still lingered on his face, despite the attendants' efforts to clean it off. It was hard to watch him lying there, such a contradiction to her image of him, strong and in control. She watched carefully as her mother stepped close to the bed.
Abigail Bartlet didn't say anything, didn't call out his name, still didn't touch him. But she was there. That was a start, at least. Zoey couldn't stand by and just watch, though. She reached over and laced his fingers in hers, remembering the times he had done the same for her, folding her small hand in his larger one, pushing his strength to her. Maybe it was time for her to send some of that strength back.
"Dad?" she whispered. He didn't answer, didn't respond at all. It didn't matter. She would talk anyway. "Daddy, it's Zoey. I'm here. Mom's here."
Her mother shifted a little, but didn't say anything.
She bent over him, brushed the hair away from his forehead. It seemed grayer than it had been just a week ago. "Listen, Dad, I need you to wake up, okay?"
No response, no indication that he heard her at all.
"I want you to know it wasn't your fault," she told him, and hoped that her mother was listening, too. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't want me to go with Jean-Paul in the first place. You and Charlie. I should have listened. You've warned me for years. I should have - "
"Zoey." Her mother's hand rested gently on her arm and those eyes held pity. But that was not what she wanted right then, not what she needed.
She shook off the touch. "No, Mom. I'm talking to Daddy right now." That was rude and she could feel her mother's grip tense.
"Zoey, he can't hear you."
"How do you know?" she snapped before she could stop herself. "Just because you don't hear him."
That face hardened, braced and Zoey knew she had done it, had opened up the subject they had been tip-toeing around. "What are you talking about?"
Well, she had started it. Might as well finish it. "You don't hear him. He's talking, but you're not listening."
She shook her head, frowning. "Zoey, I don't know what you are saying. Your father and I haven't even spoken since - "
"I know how long it's been. I may have been a little out of it for a while, but I'd have to be blind and deaf not to know what's happening to you two." The words spit out of her, carrying all the disappointment and fear she harbored.
"Zoey, nothing's happening. It's just - we just need some time - "
"No. You blame him for this, I know. Everyone knows. You blame him. Don't you know he blames himself? Don't you see what this has done to him?"
That famous temper flared. Usually Zoey tried to avoid it. This time she welcomed it. "Zoey Patricia Bartlet," her mother said, voice tight, warning. "You don't understand everything that has happened - "
"Yes, I think I do, Mom. Dad had a Qumari terrorist killed and they took me in retaliation and you blame him for it all."
Her mother stared at her, unable to contradict the simple synopsis.
"Don't you know that he feels the same, that he blames himself what happened? That you have just heaped the coals on his head when he had already dumped the entire furnace there?" It was risky, confronting Abigail Bartlet like that, but Zoey figured her ordeal had earned her a few liberties.
"Do you see him?" She glanced back toward the bed and saw that her mother did the same. "Is that what you want? Mom, we don't know what's going to happen in the future. We don't know how long - "
"Stop it!" The voice broke, whether in anger or pain she couldn't tell. "You have no idea - I didn't know what was happening to you - I didn't know if they were - what they were doing to you - I couldn't bear to think that they might be - "
"Mother - "
The façade had cracked, and her mother worked to hold it together. "And he knew - he knew all along that it was because of what he did. He didn't tell me. He didn't even let me know that - Don't you see? It was his decision that caused - " She stopped abruptly, voice strained and harsh, shoulders shaking.
"Wait outside," her mother ordered, but the tone lacked its usual sharpness.
"But - "
"Please," she added, with effort.
Frightened by the emotion she had just witnessed, Zoey nodded and eased into the hall after giving her father's hand one more squeeze. She hoped he felt it. Charlie met her, eyes questioning. She shrugged and led him to a hard couch, realizing as she sat that her entire body trembled.
"Hey, you okay?"
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "I don't know," she said, smiling slightly in that nervous way she had of coping with unpleasant things.
"Zoey?" His hand covered hers, tried to still the tremors.
With another quick smile to acknowledge his concern, she explained, "They don't - they aren't talking anymore, Charlie. They don't - touch anymore. And they always touched."
He didn't need to ask who. She knew he must have seen it himself. Instead, he gripped her hand harder. "They will," he said, and she hoped the confidence in his voice was warranted. "It's been - hard. Your dad feels that - he thinks he - "
"I know what he thinks."
Charlie cleared his throat, as if he weren't sure of what he was about to say. "Your mom thinks - "
"I know what she thinks, too. She blames him."
The words came out with a bitter snap and she suddenly realized how angry she was at her mother, even though she knew how distraught she had been. But the connection between youngest daughter and father was strong. She was her father's child in so many ways. He could never fall from the pedestal she put him on. She could tease, she could complain about his protectiveness and doting, but Josiah Bartlet was a king in the eyes of his daughter. Nothing could change that, not even his wife's wrath on her own child's behalf. Perhaps especially not his wife's wrath.
"Zoey, I can't even imagine what you went through. I don't really want to. It hurts to consider what they did or what they might have done." His voice broke and she raised a hand to cup his cheek. "But your parents. Your mother is always so in control, but that first night when she walked into the press room - "
Zoey stared at him. No one had mentioned this before. "What are you talking about?"
Realizing she didn't know, he tried to back away, but she pushed until he told her about the frantic First Lady, desperate to appeal for her daughter's safe return, plunging into C.J.'s press room, blinking at the barrage of flash bulbs until the press secretary and her own chief of staff pulled her out. Zoey choked back tears in astonishment, never having seen her mother like that, never having imagined that reaction. In truth, Charlie told her, it was her father who had remained calm, who had kept his head throughout the entire ordeal. Her father, whom she would have pegged as the one to go off the deep end if something happened to his little girl.
"I didn't know," she murmured, dropping her head and squeezing her eyes closed. "I didn't know."
His hand rubbed her arm gently. "Zoey, I'm so sorry I told you to go to the club. If I hadn't - if I had stayed with you - "
"It was my fault, Charlie." Couldn't he see that? Couldn't any of them see that? "My fault. And because of me my father is lying in a hospital bed and my mother hates him."
"Zoey, it's not your fault," he urged, the pain evident in his eyes. "It's not your fault. It's - "
"Miss Bartlet?"
They both looked up at the nurse's call and he fell silent.
"The President is awake. Would you like to see him?"
As she stood, Charlie's hand still holding onto her, she decided not to respond by observing how stupid that question was. Instead, she nodded, took a deep breath, and followed.