MUCHO thanks to Evelyn for helping me get back on track with her great
suggestions. Hope you enjoy.
POV: Donna
Spoilers: ITSOTG,
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine, although I
did create Dr. Egris and J.T.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Nine
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"– was rushed to George Washington University Hospital, to the same trauma room, we are told, in which he was treated for wounds suffered in the unsuccessful assassination attempt outside the Newseum in Rosslyn four years ago. So far, no word still on the President's condition."
The rather frazzled field reporter stood before the emergency entrance of George Washington University Hospital, looking hard into the camera, covering, perhaps, the story of her life, Donna Bartlet thought. She couldn't remember seeing her before.
"Press Secretary C.J. Cregg has not yet appeared for any sort of briefing and speculation is rampant. We have reports that President Bartlet's injuries are serious and the Vice-President has been brought to the White House. But I stress these are not substantiated reports. I should also add that there is information from witnesses that claim the President was talking with medics as they administered first aid to him. Until the White House chooses to make a statement –"
The White House won't make a statement until they know what the hell is going on, Donna figured bitterly. She glanced across the private waiting room. They all waited, wondering, frightened. C.J. and Toby, sitting silently, heads close. Josh and his assistant, her hand on his shoulder in comfort. No jealousy now. Donna only felt gratitude that someone could offer him that. She surely couldn't. Liz and her family, putting on brave faces for the world, but hurting inside just as much as the others. Charlie and Zoey, thigh to thigh, their anguish over a father and a man who might as well be a father painfully visible. And Ellie. Alone, as usual. Brooding – like her father. But tearless, strong – like her father.
They waited with Donna, apart but there, if necessary. She turned back to stare at the doors that led deeper into the hospital, to where Jed was, to where her life now lay.
Finally, Leo pushed away from his position near that door and sat beside her.
"You need anything?"
Already answered that question. "No."
"How about some water? Or a Fresca?"
She smiled, surprised. How did he know –
"Jed told me you liked it," he said, answering the question she must have asked with her face.
She tried not to flinch when Leo used her husband's name, tried not to wonder if he would ever be able to tell his best friend anything again.
"Donna, it's going to be –"
"Don't say it, Leo," she warned, a flash of anger whipping over her. "Don't say it's going to be all right."
He didn't argue. They sat for a moment, and she fought the impulse to leap to her feet and run away from the walls that even now pushed in on her. It had been too long since the last update, too long since she had stumbled in behind the ambulance, following a trail of blood down the hall. Presidential blood. The nation's blood.
But the moment passed, and she managed to drag her irrational urge back under control before she embarrassed herself. She thought of J.T., in the arms of Margaret, who had volunteered to keep him so that Ellie could come listen with her doctor's ear. Did he want his mother? At this age, could he tell the difference? But she knew he could, had experienced the way he calmed as soon as her hands touched him. The same way he did for his father.
His father.
Would she one day be telling him about the man he never knew? Would she show him pictures, and fill his mind with memories he had never experienced? Or would Jed help him make his own? She ached to know what was happening, to have some news, any news –
"We've got something." Ron Butterfield's abrupt entrance drew everyone's attention.
"Jed?" she asked, hopeful, but terrified at once.
His eyes flickered with brief regret. "No, ma'am."
Leo was on his feet before she could ask more. "What?"
"Let's move over here, sir." The others fell back, somehow understanding, even with their need to know, that this was not for their ears. Not at the moment, anyway. The three of them stepped deeper into the room, away from the doors.
When they felt removed enough, Ron said, voice low, "Tony Fahrwell."
"The dead photographer?"
Ron nodded. "FBI confirms he was a sort of 'celebrity' photographer. Good enough at it to be invited to take photos of 'royal' families all over the world."
"Such as?" she asked.
"The King and Queen of Sweden, Japan's crown prince and princess, and –" He lowered his eyebrows for emphasis. He need not have bothered. He had their attention. "– the President of North Korea."
They digested this for a moment. Finally, Leo, ever the cautious one, noted, "Could be a coincidence."
"I don't think so," Ron said, and that meant he was certain.
"Ron, are you saying – " Leo glanced around at the others in the waiting room and lowered his voice. "Are you saying that North Korea tried to assassinate the President?"
The tone was so incredulous that Donna almost laughed. Sure, there was no love lost between the U.S. and that communist country. Sure, Jed had made them toe the line with their nuclear revelations, had stood by his guns and insisted they dispose of all ability to create nuclear weapons before he would agree to continuing the humanitarian aid. But a sovereign nation plotting the demise of a sitting President? It was incomprehensible.
Wasn't it? Then again, the Bay of Pigs crossed her mind. And their own dirty business with Abdul Shareef. Maybe it wasn't.
"Where does Fahrwell fit in?" Leo asked. "He's dead. He couldn't have shot the President."
"He already shot the President," Ron reminded them. "And the First Lady. His weapon was a Nikon F-100."
She colored at the reminder of those photos. "He could have killed us if he had wanted, from where he must have been outside the Oval Office."
"No, ma'am," Ron said.
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, the windows are bullet-proof."
Ah. That was right.
"But even if they weren't, he still couldn't have done it."
Donna frowned at him, not following. "What do you mean?"
"Tony Fahrwell took the Thanksgiving portraits of you, but I don't think he is responsible for the photos in the Oval Office."
Her mind reeled. What was he saying?
Leo stepped closer. "Why not?"
"He's a photographer, Leo. We found six cameras in his apartment, all of them professional pieces of equipment. Nikons, Minoltas, even one Hasselblad. Do you remember what kind of photos were those from the Oval Office?"
"I dunno. Looked sort of like an instamatic," Donna recalled. A little grainy, thank goodness, and obviously not the quality of one of the cameras Ron named.
"Yes, ma'am," the agent agreed. "Why would a professional photographer use a cheap camera? I don't believe Tony Fahrwell took those photographs."
"But they were found in his apartment," Leo reminded him.
Ron nodded again.
"Then he was in on this with someone else?"
"Or someone planted them to try to set him up," Donna offered, strangely glad for her brain to have something else to focus on, even for a few minutes.
"But for what reason?" Leo wondered. "And how are the threats against J.T. and the First Lady connected to the attack today?"
"I don't know, yet, but I will." The assurance was contagious. Donna knew that the man who had not been able to take the bullet for the President would damn well find out who had shot it.
There must be one in the building somewhere, but Donna hadn't found a clock yet that seemed to keep accurate time. Surely they had been there for days or maybe weeks. Surely their lives were being stripped away from them as time passed. But with every glance at those stubborn hands, she saw that only a few minutes had gone by. She sat alone again, stoic in her solitude. Even Leo avoided her now. There was nothing to say, anyway, until someone knew something.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
Donna raised her head and found herself looking into the dark eyes of Josh's assistant. What was her name? Vicki? Nicki? "Yes?"
"Do you mind if – I mean, would you like some company?"
She started to refuse, to continue in her lone vigil, but some deep need surfaced as she looked into the questioning face. "Yes," she decided. "I would."
The woman's almond eyes blinked, almost surprised, but she sat. "I'm sure you know how saddened we are by what has happened."
Nice sentiment, but Donna thought she could really do without the condolences right then. They sounded too fatal. She needed to talk about something else. "Thank you, Nicki."
"Mikki, ma'am."
"Mikki. Sorry."
"Josh is sending me back to the West Wing to get some papers for Mr. McGarry. Can I do anything for you?" She seemed so eager, so concerned, and Donna was grateful for the chance to discuss more business-like activities, to remind her that the world was still spinning.
She smiled. "Just remind him about his sensitive system occasionally."
A strange expression flickered over the woman's delicate features. She reminded Donna of someone, some actress she had seen in a recent film. "Ma'am?"
"Nevermind. Is it going all right?"
The face smoothed. "Yes, ma'am. This has been an invaluable experience." She was pleasant enough, but Donna wished, for Josh's sake, that this girl had some personality.
Something Josh had told her about his secretary popped into Donna's mind. "Josh tells me you were at Annapolis at one time," she said.
A fleeting shadow passed across Mikki's face, but it was gone before Donna could be entirely sure it had really been there. "Yes, ma'am."
Maybe she shouldn't go there, but Donna's curiosity prodded her a little further. "He said you did well until you – had to leave."
Again, she nodded. "Family problems," was all she offered.
"You joined the Marines, is that right? Special forces?"
The face tightened and Donna wondered if she had gone too far, had opened up painful memories.
"Yes. I was in the Corps for eight years."
"You just don't seem like the Marine type," Donna told her and immediately regretted that observation.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Bartlet," she said, sounding respectful, but very Marine-like, "what is the Marine type?"
Donna shrugged and chastised herself for being so un-feminist. "I don't know. I guess there's not a type anymore, except for someone who is skilled and task committed. Why did you leave, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I got a better job offer," she informed her, and before Donna could probe more, said, "Do you want me to check on the child?"
The child? "J.T.?"
"Yours and the President's child, ma'am. He is at the White House, isn't he? When I go back, I could see about him."
Thrown a little by the abrupt change, it took Donna a moment to remember who was keeping J.T. "Uh, no, that's okay. Margaret has – "
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Whatever strange tangent the assistant was headed toward took an immediate detour at the return of Ron Butterfield.
Donna turned her attention to him, instantly forgetting anyone else. "Yes?"
Then Leo stepped from behind him. "Donna?"
Oh God. The both of them standing there couldn't be good, couldn't carry just a casual greeting or reassuring word. The both of them standing there meant one of them needed support, back-up, for what he was about to say.
She stood, a trembling hand sliding up to her throat to hold back the scream. "Yes." So calm. Was that her voice?
"The doctor needs to speak with you." Their faces remained drawn, blank. No clue from them. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe she didn't want to know.
Ellie stepped from the shadows and joined them. "I'm going, too." It was as forceful as she ever got, but no one refused her the right.
Nodding numbly, Donna followed them back down a white corridor, allowing Leo's hand to rest at her back, to guide her gently through the halls. The room they entered was evidence of some attempt on the hospital's part to make a stark, functional room into something with warmth, comfort. They had been only partially successful.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
As she looked up, a haggard face tried to smile at her, its tightness evidence of his tension. His green scrubs looked like some macabre Christmas suit, doused in splashes of red. She knew whose blood that was. So much. Too much. An involuntary breath gripped her lungs, bracing her body for the blow he was about to deliver.
She hoped to stay on her feet after he gave her the news. Maybe Leo would catch her, or Ron.
"Mrs. Bartlet," the doctor repeated heavily, then acknowledged the President's daughter. "Doctor Bartlet, I'm Doctor Egris. I'm sorry – "
Oh God! Dear God, no! She closed her eyes and fought to stay upright.
"I'm sorry it took so long." He gave her the typical reassuring physician's smile. "We had to make sure – well, with the MS we wanted to be sure that the medications were not contraindicated."
Slowly, the implications of his words trudged through her brain. They were giving him medications. Dead people didn't get medications.
"The President is being moved to ICU as a precaution so we can keep an eye on him, but I'll take you back there."
"He's – he's alive?" Just say it once.
Egris' face flushed with chagrin as he realized what she was thinking. "Yes. Yes, of course he's alive."
"But he was shot in the head. I saw – " She gulped and fought back the nausea at the memory of that handsome face splattered with blood. Leo slipped a steadying arm around her waist.
"The bullet hit him at the precise angle to pierce the skin and muscle above his left eyebrow, then skim just along the skull. It exited here." He used his own head to demonstrate. "About three inches away from the entrance wound. There's a – dent, basically – in the bone, but the cranium is not compromised, although there is significant epidermal disturbance."
Not compromised? That meant – that meant –
"Internal swelling?" Ellie asked, voice clinical despite the paleness of her face.
"Some," the doctor admitted. "But it seems to be reducing."
"Internal bleeding?"
"Some."
"Pupils?"
"Reacting."
The middle Bartlet girl nodded, mouth tight. "Can we see him?"
"Sure. If you don't mind, two at a time, please. Doctor Bartlet, if you'd like to look over his stats – "
Ellie nodded again. "Thank you, I would." The habitually shy young woman had transformed into a confident physician. Donna wished Jed could see her.
Their conversation had given Donna the moment she needed to take a deep breath and assess the situation. Now, she wanted definite confirmation. "He's going to be all right?"
But the anticipated smile did not come. "Well," Egris conceded, "it certainly looks better than what we originally thought, but he has a severe concussion from the trauma of the impact. We are obviously anxious for him to come out of the anesthesia to assess any effects that might have."
Well, one hurdle leaped, anyway. He was alive. It wasn't November 22, 1963, all over. She wasn't Jackie Kennedy all over. But what about the next hurdle? "Effects?"
Egris opened his mouth to answer, but Ellie beat him to it. "Headache, dizziness, confusion, ringing in the ears, nausea, visual disturbance, loss of balance, memory loss, difficulty concentrating."
The doctor nodded. "In severe cases, convulsions."
Hell, she thought bitterly, he's practically ready to run a marathon. "Those sound a lot like – "
"Like MS symptoms, yes," he agreed.
"How will we know – "
Again, Ellie answered. "A CT scan can tell if the brain is swelling."
"We did that," Egris told them, "and there is some swelling, as I indicated earlier to Doctor Bartlet, but I think it is going down. After that, we'll be able to assess any permanent damage that may have been caused."
Permanent damage?
"What do you mean?" She really didn't want to know.
The two doctors exchanged an uneasy look. Ellie answered. "Some memory loss might not be retrieved. If it's bad enough, a permanent weakness on one side of the body."
Were they serious? She forced herself not to scream. "Do you think any of those things will happen?"
Egris tried to smile, but the gesture fell a bit short. "I really can't tell you that, Mrs. Bartlet," he admitted, "but we are going to do everything we can to prevent it."
"I want to see him." It was a sudden, desperate need. She had to see him, to touch him, to let him know she was there.
"Of course." He turned, and she followed numbly.
He was alive. That was good. And the bullet wound itself had been contained mainly to skin and muscle tissue. Also good. But what had its effects left? What would they find when he woke? Who would she see? Who would he see?
Memory loss. What if –
The horrible thought occurred that he might not even know her – or J.T. What would she do if he didn't? Then an even more significant possibility shook her.
What would the country do with a President who didn't even remember he was President?
POV: Donna
Spoilers: ITSOTG,
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not mine, although I
did create Dr. Egris and J.T.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Nine
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"– was rushed to George Washington University Hospital, to the same trauma room, we are told, in which he was treated for wounds suffered in the unsuccessful assassination attempt outside the Newseum in Rosslyn four years ago. So far, no word still on the President's condition."
The rather frazzled field reporter stood before the emergency entrance of George Washington University Hospital, looking hard into the camera, covering, perhaps, the story of her life, Donna Bartlet thought. She couldn't remember seeing her before.
"Press Secretary C.J. Cregg has not yet appeared for any sort of briefing and speculation is rampant. We have reports that President Bartlet's injuries are serious and the Vice-President has been brought to the White House. But I stress these are not substantiated reports. I should also add that there is information from witnesses that claim the President was talking with medics as they administered first aid to him. Until the White House chooses to make a statement –"
The White House won't make a statement until they know what the hell is going on, Donna figured bitterly. She glanced across the private waiting room. They all waited, wondering, frightened. C.J. and Toby, sitting silently, heads close. Josh and his assistant, her hand on his shoulder in comfort. No jealousy now. Donna only felt gratitude that someone could offer him that. She surely couldn't. Liz and her family, putting on brave faces for the world, but hurting inside just as much as the others. Charlie and Zoey, thigh to thigh, their anguish over a father and a man who might as well be a father painfully visible. And Ellie. Alone, as usual. Brooding – like her father. But tearless, strong – like her father.
They waited with Donna, apart but there, if necessary. She turned back to stare at the doors that led deeper into the hospital, to where Jed was, to where her life now lay.
Finally, Leo pushed away from his position near that door and sat beside her.
"You need anything?"
Already answered that question. "No."
"How about some water? Or a Fresca?"
She smiled, surprised. How did he know –
"Jed told me you liked it," he said, answering the question she must have asked with her face.
She tried not to flinch when Leo used her husband's name, tried not to wonder if he would ever be able to tell his best friend anything again.
"Donna, it's going to be –"
"Don't say it, Leo," she warned, a flash of anger whipping over her. "Don't say it's going to be all right."
He didn't argue. They sat for a moment, and she fought the impulse to leap to her feet and run away from the walls that even now pushed in on her. It had been too long since the last update, too long since she had stumbled in behind the ambulance, following a trail of blood down the hall. Presidential blood. The nation's blood.
But the moment passed, and she managed to drag her irrational urge back under control before she embarrassed herself. She thought of J.T., in the arms of Margaret, who had volunteered to keep him so that Ellie could come listen with her doctor's ear. Did he want his mother? At this age, could he tell the difference? But she knew he could, had experienced the way he calmed as soon as her hands touched him. The same way he did for his father.
His father.
Would she one day be telling him about the man he never knew? Would she show him pictures, and fill his mind with memories he had never experienced? Or would Jed help him make his own? She ached to know what was happening, to have some news, any news –
"We've got something." Ron Butterfield's abrupt entrance drew everyone's attention.
"Jed?" she asked, hopeful, but terrified at once.
His eyes flickered with brief regret. "No, ma'am."
Leo was on his feet before she could ask more. "What?"
"Let's move over here, sir." The others fell back, somehow understanding, even with their need to know, that this was not for their ears. Not at the moment, anyway. The three of them stepped deeper into the room, away from the doors.
When they felt removed enough, Ron said, voice low, "Tony Fahrwell."
"The dead photographer?"
Ron nodded. "FBI confirms he was a sort of 'celebrity' photographer. Good enough at it to be invited to take photos of 'royal' families all over the world."
"Such as?" she asked.
"The King and Queen of Sweden, Japan's crown prince and princess, and –" He lowered his eyebrows for emphasis. He need not have bothered. He had their attention. "– the President of North Korea."
They digested this for a moment. Finally, Leo, ever the cautious one, noted, "Could be a coincidence."
"I don't think so," Ron said, and that meant he was certain.
"Ron, are you saying – " Leo glanced around at the others in the waiting room and lowered his voice. "Are you saying that North Korea tried to assassinate the President?"
The tone was so incredulous that Donna almost laughed. Sure, there was no love lost between the U.S. and that communist country. Sure, Jed had made them toe the line with their nuclear revelations, had stood by his guns and insisted they dispose of all ability to create nuclear weapons before he would agree to continuing the humanitarian aid. But a sovereign nation plotting the demise of a sitting President? It was incomprehensible.
Wasn't it? Then again, the Bay of Pigs crossed her mind. And their own dirty business with Abdul Shareef. Maybe it wasn't.
"Where does Fahrwell fit in?" Leo asked. "He's dead. He couldn't have shot the President."
"He already shot the President," Ron reminded them. "And the First Lady. His weapon was a Nikon F-100."
She colored at the reminder of those photos. "He could have killed us if he had wanted, from where he must have been outside the Oval Office."
"No, ma'am," Ron said.
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, the windows are bullet-proof."
Ah. That was right.
"But even if they weren't, he still couldn't have done it."
Donna frowned at him, not following. "What do you mean?"
"Tony Fahrwell took the Thanksgiving portraits of you, but I don't think he is responsible for the photos in the Oval Office."
Her mind reeled. What was he saying?
Leo stepped closer. "Why not?"
"He's a photographer, Leo. We found six cameras in his apartment, all of them professional pieces of equipment. Nikons, Minoltas, even one Hasselblad. Do you remember what kind of photos were those from the Oval Office?"
"I dunno. Looked sort of like an instamatic," Donna recalled. A little grainy, thank goodness, and obviously not the quality of one of the cameras Ron named.
"Yes, ma'am," the agent agreed. "Why would a professional photographer use a cheap camera? I don't believe Tony Fahrwell took those photographs."
"But they were found in his apartment," Leo reminded him.
Ron nodded again.
"Then he was in on this with someone else?"
"Or someone planted them to try to set him up," Donna offered, strangely glad for her brain to have something else to focus on, even for a few minutes.
"But for what reason?" Leo wondered. "And how are the threats against J.T. and the First Lady connected to the attack today?"
"I don't know, yet, but I will." The assurance was contagious. Donna knew that the man who had not been able to take the bullet for the President would damn well find out who had shot it.
There must be one in the building somewhere, but Donna hadn't found a clock yet that seemed to keep accurate time. Surely they had been there for days or maybe weeks. Surely their lives were being stripped away from them as time passed. But with every glance at those stubborn hands, she saw that only a few minutes had gone by. She sat alone again, stoic in her solitude. Even Leo avoided her now. There was nothing to say, anyway, until someone knew something.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
Donna raised her head and found herself looking into the dark eyes of Josh's assistant. What was her name? Vicki? Nicki? "Yes?"
"Do you mind if – I mean, would you like some company?"
She started to refuse, to continue in her lone vigil, but some deep need surfaced as she looked into the questioning face. "Yes," she decided. "I would."
The woman's almond eyes blinked, almost surprised, but she sat. "I'm sure you know how saddened we are by what has happened."
Nice sentiment, but Donna thought she could really do without the condolences right then. They sounded too fatal. She needed to talk about something else. "Thank you, Nicki."
"Mikki, ma'am."
"Mikki. Sorry."
"Josh is sending me back to the West Wing to get some papers for Mr. McGarry. Can I do anything for you?" She seemed so eager, so concerned, and Donna was grateful for the chance to discuss more business-like activities, to remind her that the world was still spinning.
She smiled. "Just remind him about his sensitive system occasionally."
A strange expression flickered over the woman's delicate features. She reminded Donna of someone, some actress she had seen in a recent film. "Ma'am?"
"Nevermind. Is it going all right?"
The face smoothed. "Yes, ma'am. This has been an invaluable experience." She was pleasant enough, but Donna wished, for Josh's sake, that this girl had some personality.
Something Josh had told her about his secretary popped into Donna's mind. "Josh tells me you were at Annapolis at one time," she said.
A fleeting shadow passed across Mikki's face, but it was gone before Donna could be entirely sure it had really been there. "Yes, ma'am."
Maybe she shouldn't go there, but Donna's curiosity prodded her a little further. "He said you did well until you – had to leave."
Again, she nodded. "Family problems," was all she offered.
"You joined the Marines, is that right? Special forces?"
The face tightened and Donna wondered if she had gone too far, had opened up painful memories.
"Yes. I was in the Corps for eight years."
"You just don't seem like the Marine type," Donna told her and immediately regretted that observation.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Bartlet," she said, sounding respectful, but very Marine-like, "what is the Marine type?"
Donna shrugged and chastised herself for being so un-feminist. "I don't know. I guess there's not a type anymore, except for someone who is skilled and task committed. Why did you leave, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I got a better job offer," she informed her, and before Donna could probe more, said, "Do you want me to check on the child?"
The child? "J.T.?"
"Yours and the President's child, ma'am. He is at the White House, isn't he? When I go back, I could see about him."
Thrown a little by the abrupt change, it took Donna a moment to remember who was keeping J.T. "Uh, no, that's okay. Margaret has – "
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Whatever strange tangent the assistant was headed toward took an immediate detour at the return of Ron Butterfield.
Donna turned her attention to him, instantly forgetting anyone else. "Yes?"
Then Leo stepped from behind him. "Donna?"
Oh God. The both of them standing there couldn't be good, couldn't carry just a casual greeting or reassuring word. The both of them standing there meant one of them needed support, back-up, for what he was about to say.
She stood, a trembling hand sliding up to her throat to hold back the scream. "Yes." So calm. Was that her voice?
"The doctor needs to speak with you." Their faces remained drawn, blank. No clue from them. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe she didn't want to know.
Ellie stepped from the shadows and joined them. "I'm going, too." It was as forceful as she ever got, but no one refused her the right.
Nodding numbly, Donna followed them back down a white corridor, allowing Leo's hand to rest at her back, to guide her gently through the halls. The room they entered was evidence of some attempt on the hospital's part to make a stark, functional room into something with warmth, comfort. They had been only partially successful.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
As she looked up, a haggard face tried to smile at her, its tightness evidence of his tension. His green scrubs looked like some macabre Christmas suit, doused in splashes of red. She knew whose blood that was. So much. Too much. An involuntary breath gripped her lungs, bracing her body for the blow he was about to deliver.
She hoped to stay on her feet after he gave her the news. Maybe Leo would catch her, or Ron.
"Mrs. Bartlet," the doctor repeated heavily, then acknowledged the President's daughter. "Doctor Bartlet, I'm Doctor Egris. I'm sorry – "
Oh God! Dear God, no! She closed her eyes and fought to stay upright.
"I'm sorry it took so long." He gave her the typical reassuring physician's smile. "We had to make sure – well, with the MS we wanted to be sure that the medications were not contraindicated."
Slowly, the implications of his words trudged through her brain. They were giving him medications. Dead people didn't get medications.
"The President is being moved to ICU as a precaution so we can keep an eye on him, but I'll take you back there."
"He's – he's alive?" Just say it once.
Egris' face flushed with chagrin as he realized what she was thinking. "Yes. Yes, of course he's alive."
"But he was shot in the head. I saw – " She gulped and fought back the nausea at the memory of that handsome face splattered with blood. Leo slipped a steadying arm around her waist.
"The bullet hit him at the precise angle to pierce the skin and muscle above his left eyebrow, then skim just along the skull. It exited here." He used his own head to demonstrate. "About three inches away from the entrance wound. There's a – dent, basically – in the bone, but the cranium is not compromised, although there is significant epidermal disturbance."
Not compromised? That meant – that meant –
"Internal swelling?" Ellie asked, voice clinical despite the paleness of her face.
"Some," the doctor admitted. "But it seems to be reducing."
"Internal bleeding?"
"Some."
"Pupils?"
"Reacting."
The middle Bartlet girl nodded, mouth tight. "Can we see him?"
"Sure. If you don't mind, two at a time, please. Doctor Bartlet, if you'd like to look over his stats – "
Ellie nodded again. "Thank you, I would." The habitually shy young woman had transformed into a confident physician. Donna wished Jed could see her.
Their conversation had given Donna the moment she needed to take a deep breath and assess the situation. Now, she wanted definite confirmation. "He's going to be all right?"
But the anticipated smile did not come. "Well," Egris conceded, "it certainly looks better than what we originally thought, but he has a severe concussion from the trauma of the impact. We are obviously anxious for him to come out of the anesthesia to assess any effects that might have."
Well, one hurdle leaped, anyway. He was alive. It wasn't November 22, 1963, all over. She wasn't Jackie Kennedy all over. But what about the next hurdle? "Effects?"
Egris opened his mouth to answer, but Ellie beat him to it. "Headache, dizziness, confusion, ringing in the ears, nausea, visual disturbance, loss of balance, memory loss, difficulty concentrating."
The doctor nodded. "In severe cases, convulsions."
Hell, she thought bitterly, he's practically ready to run a marathon. "Those sound a lot like – "
"Like MS symptoms, yes," he agreed.
"How will we know – "
Again, Ellie answered. "A CT scan can tell if the brain is swelling."
"We did that," Egris told them, "and there is some swelling, as I indicated earlier to Doctor Bartlet, but I think it is going down. After that, we'll be able to assess any permanent damage that may have been caused."
Permanent damage?
"What do you mean?" She really didn't want to know.
The two doctors exchanged an uneasy look. Ellie answered. "Some memory loss might not be retrieved. If it's bad enough, a permanent weakness on one side of the body."
Were they serious? She forced herself not to scream. "Do you think any of those things will happen?"
Egris tried to smile, but the gesture fell a bit short. "I really can't tell you that, Mrs. Bartlet," he admitted, "but we are going to do everything we can to prevent it."
"I want to see him." It was a sudden, desperate need. She had to see him, to touch him, to let him know she was there.
"Of course." He turned, and she followed numbly.
He was alive. That was good. And the bullet wound itself had been contained mainly to skin and muscle tissue. Also good. But what had its effects left? What would they find when he woke? Who would she see? Who would he see?
Memory loss. What if –
The horrible thought occurred that he might not even know her – or J.T. What would she do if he didn't? Then an even more significant possibility shook her.
What would the country do with a President who didn't even remember he was President?