By Ginny
Reviews are always appreciated.
I walk through the halls of the West Wing like a woman on a mission. And I am on a mission. A mission to find my wayward husband. The very husband who promised to wrap things up at a reasonable hour tonight.
It's almost 11, about 2 hours past my idea of reasonable.
"Charlie, is my husband still working?" I ask as Charlie wearily rises to his feet.
"He's still in there. I don't know that he's working. Last time I checked he was playing chess with CJ."
"CJ doesn't play chess," I point out as I motion for him to sit back down. "Did he tell you that you had to stick around until he was done playing chess?" I ask with my eyebrows raised and my blood pressure rising.
"No ma'am. I was just getting some things out of the way," Charlie assures me as he makes a sweeping gesture across his desk which does look much neater than usual.
"Good. I'm telling you now, go home."
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin as he reaches over to shut down his computer. "Could you tell him I'm on my way out?" he asks, clearly wanting to make sure Jed knows he's leaving for the night. This poor boy really needs a new job.
"I will tell him. Congratulations again, Charlie," I say over my shoulder as I push open the door to the Oval Office. Even after 7 years of this place it's still a little awe inspiring to walk into here. I don't see anyone in the room at first glance but as I step in I see a hand holding a chess piece wave over the back the couch.
"Hey," Jed calls from the couch in a voice that tells me he should have gone to bed hours ago. He tosses the chess piece onto the coffee table. Probably not a good sign. CJ couldn't have beaten him. Or could she?
I lean over the back of the couch to assess what kind of shape Jed is in.
Uh oh.
He's kicked off his shoes, lost his jacket, vest and tie and pulled his shirt tails out of his pants. His hair is flopped over his forehead and he has that vague brooding look about him that I've become well accustomed to over the years. I lean over a little further and brush his hair back before planting a kiss on his forehead in a not so subtle move to check his temperature. He gave himself a Betaseron shot this morning and probably forgot to take the second dose of Advil earlier. He's had some trouble with side effects from the shots lately, not sure exactly why. He is a little warm but I don't mention it. I'm sure he knows it already and mentioning it will only make him accuse me of hovering.
"How was the game?" I ask. Not sure exactly why I asked that question. The fact that he just tossed his King back on the table and the other one is still standing pretty much answers my question.
"No, CJ did not beat me on her own," he mutters, answering the next question that popped into my head. "She had help, some guy from...from somewhere, I don't remember" he explains as he reaches up to take my hand. I take his hand and he pulls me to the other side of the couch. He scoots over a little, leaving me a few inches on which to perch.
"Jed, are you ok?" I ask quietly as I rest my hand on his chest.
"Fine," he snorts, clearly nowhere near the vicinity of "fine". I just give a little roll of my eyes to let him know that I know he's lying but I'll give him some time to get his thoughts in order before insisting that he tell me what's bothering him.
I leave him on the couch as I get up and grab the box to the chess set off of his desk. He watches as I put the pieces back in. Now I don't know a whole lot about chess but it looks like he got beat pretty badly. And that's not a common occurrence for him.
"Leo told her to play with me," he mutters from the couch as he rolls over onto his stomach.
"Huh?" I ask, not exactly following the conversation.
"CJ," he explains. "Leo told CJ she had to play chess with me, but she doesn't know how to play."
"OK," I mutter, still a little confused.
"So I got someone to help her."
"And he beat you?"
"Yeah," Jed mutters as he rests his chin on his crossed arms. With his shirt tails hanging out and his feet kicking against the arm of the couch he looks more like a little kid than the President of the United States. I close the lid to the chess set and kneel next to the couch.
"And you're mad that you got beat?" I guess.
"Yes...no...I don't know," he whines. "Do you know why Leo plays chess with me?"
"Because you both like it?" I'm really struggling to follow the conversation at the moment. I must be more tired than I thought.
"No, because...because it makes me think...makes me concentrate...he uses it to gauge..." And with those words the proverbial light bulb goes off in my head. Leo uses chess as a way to monitor my husband's cognitive function. However, at this moment I seem to be lacking in the cognitive function area as it took me way too long to realize what Jed was getting at. "Yeah," Jed nods as the look on my face lets him know I've finally fully joined the conversation.
"It's not like it's the first time you've lost. Leo's beaten you before."
"Five times Abigail, five times," Jed snorts.
"You keep track?" I ask with a bit of teasing.
"Of course, I keep track." I really should have guessed that he kept track.
I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say at this moment. Jed's clearly over-tired and cranky. I just rub his back for a minute as he continues to kick his feet against the arm of the couch in frustration. In frustration over what, I'm not too sure right now. I think more than anything he's feeling helpless right now. Unable to fix the MS, unable to fix what's wrong with Leo, Donna, the car makers of America and any other group he can see fit to feel guilty or brood about.
"Jed, it's late, let's go up to bed."
"Not tired," he mutters as he turns his head so he's staring at the back of the couch. I really am not in the mood for this tonight. I thought we'd have a nice, relaxing evening, with wine, good food, "recreational" activities and getting to bed before midnight. Instead, it's 11 at night, I ate by myself and now I have a cranky husband who is doing his best to imitate a pouting 3 year old. Maybe I'll just raid his stash of liquor. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. I get up, leaving Jed where he is and cross the room. I pour myself a glass of Jack Daniels and water before sitting in Jed's chair with my feet on his desk. "Abigail, what the hell are you doing?" Jed asks as he rolls over enough to glance in the general direction of his desk.
"Drinking. What does it look like?" I deadpan as I hold up the glass in a mock salute.
"Why?"
"Why not? You seem like you're perfectly happy throwing yourself a little pity party so I decided to make myself a drink. Would you like one?"
"No," he mutters as he looks at me with that, "have you gone 'round the bend" look.
"Suit yourself." I go back to enjoying my drink while keeping one eye on Jed. He's still stretched out on his stomach, his left arm is now dangling off the edge of the couch and he's picking at invisible lint on the carpet.
"Have you noticed any changes lately?" he eventually asks, careful not to glance in my direction as he does. That's my cue, he's ready to talk. I get up and go over to him.
"What kind of changes do you mean?" I ask as I take a seat on the floor next to the couch so my eyes are level with his. I brush back his hair and kiss his forehead.
"MS changes," he sighs as he reaches for my hand.
"I understand that. But what in particular?"
"Mental, cognitive, whatever," he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
"I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary with you mentally," I answer honestly. "What have you noticed?"
"I don't know. I find myself struggling to pay attention in meetings, like I have to force myself to stay focused."
"You're under a great deal of stress Jed. You're exhausted," I say, pointing out the obvious. He just nods and closes his eyes for a minute.
"You said you haven't noticed anything mentally," he whispers as he opens his eyes a few minutes later. "I take it there's physical stuff you've noticed." My turn to nod. "What?" he eventually asks.
"You've had more side effects from the Betaseron. You tire easily. Your gait has been off lately."
"Yeah, and I thought I was hiding that behind my manly swagger," Jed snorts with just a hint of a smile.
"If you want the manly swagger you'll have to ask Josh for some pointers," I tease right back. "Seriously, I am worried and I had planned on talking to you about it. But then everything with Donna and Leo happened. It got pushed to the back of my mind."
"I keep trying to push it to the back of mine," Jed whispers wearily as he tucks his hands under his head and closes his eyes.
"I know," I whisper as I lean forward a little, resting my head on his shoulder.
"Why now?" he asks miserably. It's a question I can't answer. For all the medical training I have, I can't answer his two word question.
"I don't know," I whisper, giving the only answer I can give. "It's unpredictable. You're under a great deal of stress and..."
"Stress, that's the only thing you can offer me Abigail?" he snorts. The look on his face lets me know he's sorry for the tone he just used. He's tired, frustrated, feverish and if I know him, he didn't eat anything for dinner. Together those things make for a very cranky leader of the free world.
"I don't have the answers Jed. Nobody does."
"You know that sucks, right?" he smirks.
"Yeah, I do. So how about you haul yourself off the couch and let's go to our room, get you into your pajamas, get some Advil and something to eat." His response is what I expected, a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh. I pick up my shoes and stand over Jed until he rolls off the couch. He slips on his shoes and stands still for a minute before heading for the door, leaving me to grab the various pieces of clothing he's managed to toss around the room. He's quiet on the walk back to the Residence. He's also doing his best to try and walk as steady as possible which given his exhausted state is pretty futile. I toss all the clothes over my one arm and take his hand as we head up the stairs.
"Go in and change," I say, motioning towards the bedroom door. "I'll get you something to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Jed," I warn. "You need to eat." He stops short and turns around to face me. The look on his face causes me to backpedal a little. "Fine. How about something to drink?"
"Tea would be great, thanks."
Jed's sitting on the couch when I get back to our room. He's changed into sweatpants and a Notre Dame t-shirt and is wrapped up in an old quilt, flicking through the channels at close to warp speed. "Be careful, it's hot," I warn him as I put the mug on the table next to him.
"Thanks."
I get changed and grab the bottle of Advil from the bathroom. "Take these," I tell him as I shake 2 pills out of the bottle and hand him a glass of water. He eyes them with what can only be categorized as disdain but takes them without a word.
"There's nothing on," he complains as he flicks the television off and tosses the remote in the direction of the coffee table. His aim isn't the best and the remote skids off and under the chair. He lets out a frustrated sigh and I wave him off and I pick it up and toss it on the coffee table. Jed reaches for his tea and props his feet up on the coffee table.
After 20 minutes and more than a few futile attempts at starting a conversation later, I'm about to give up. I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth, leaving Jed on the couch, staring into space. I'm still not real clear on what's bothering him. I don't think it's one thing, it never is. He's always got at least 8 things running around in the brain of his, fighting for brooding rights. Retirement is looking more and more inviting as the months go by.
I take my time the bathroom in the hopes that he'll either fall asleep or get his thoughts in some kind of order so we can talk.
Neither happens.
When I get back out into the bedroom he's not there. Also missing is the hooded sweatshirt that was on the end of the bed and his slippers. A quick check of his night stand and I find the cigarettes he "hides" in there are also gone. Part of me wants to just let him be, go to bed in the hopes of getting a decent nights worth of sleep. The doctor in me wants to go out, toss the cigarettes over the balcony and throttle him. When I find myself grabbing my robe out of the closet it's clear which part has won out.
At the sound of me opening the French doors Jed takes one quick last drag on the cigarette and tosses it over the balcony.
"One of these days you're going to set the bushes on fire," I warn him as I hold out my hand for the pack and the matches. He wordlessly hands them over like a child who's been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
"I only had one," he whines. As if that really matters to me.
"That's one too many," I point out. He leans against the railing, hands clasped in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, just looking for a fight. But I refuse to play into his plan. It's too late and I'm too tired. For a fleeting second I contemplate walking back inside and going to bed. But as I take another look at my husband I see more than a guy who's mad because I took his cigarettes. I see the man I love losing his grip on emotional control. Not exactly what I expected tonight. I know he's brooding and frustrated but I didn't pick up on anything more than that. Maybe I should have.
"Jed, talk to me," I whisper as I cross over to him. I reach into his pocket and take his hands in mine.
"I lost at chess," he whispers as he drops his head down. His hair falls over his forehead and I make a half hearted attempt to brush it back. He looks up enough for me to see the pain and misery in his eyes.
"Oh, honey." I take a step closer to him, standing in between his feet. I wrap my arms around him and hold him for a minute. He's shaking and I can't tell if he's cold or crying or both. "Jed, come inside." He nods a little and straightens up a bit. He just stands there for a minute and I quickly realize why. Sometimes when he's still for too long his legs stiffen up and it takes him a minute to get his bearings before he feels he can walk without falling. I just nod letting him know I'm aware of what's going on and hold out my hand. With a sigh he grabs my hand and takes a tentative step towards me. I lead him inside and deposit him on the edge of the bed before returning the cigarettes to their "hiding place".
Jed makes absolutely no move to kick off his slippers or take off his sweatshirt. And I have to admit I'm starting to get pretty worried. I pull off his slippers and help him out of the sweatshirt. He curls up in a ball on top of the covers. "Jed, come on work with me for just a minute," I tease. The teasing falls flat but he does move a little so I can pull back the quilt. He curls back up and pulls the quilt up and over his ears as I turn out the lights. I put a glass of water on his night stand and climb in my side of the bed. A tug on his shoulder gets Jed to scoot over a little but he's still curled in a ball facing away from me. I prop my head up in my hand and lean over to kiss his cheek. "Sweetie, talk to me, please," I plead.
"It's more than just not being able to focus," he sighs as he reaches for my hand, tucking it in his and holding them over his heart. "I've been dizzy once in a while and obviously I'm having a little trouble getting going after being still for a while." I just nod against his shoulder, not wanting to disturb his confession. "And the weird pain in my thigh, the one that started this whole damn mess, I felt it this morning," he whispers. His voice is barely loud enough for me to hear. "When I made it past the 10 years mark I thought I was...I don't know....safe. I'd made it that far and it hadn't turned to secondary progressive. And now I don't know."
"Exactly. We don't know. You need to make an appointment, either with Dr. Browne at Bethesda or you can see Tom next time we go home to Manchester. It's been a long time since you've had an MRI. We should probably think about getting one done. Each day past the ten year mark is a gift Jed. Honestly, I thought things would be much worse by now."
"You thought that?" he asked with a sharp edge to his voice as he rolls onto his back to look at me.
"I did. The doctor in me, the part of me that knows more than I want to know. That part of me thought things would be worse by now. Every day is a gift Jed," I repeat. He nods as his tenuous grasp on control slips away. The tears start to flow and he does nothing to stop them. I pull him closer and he rests his head on my shoulder. Words don't seem to help, not that I can get anything coherent out at the moment with my own tears flowing. "Jed, take a deep breath," I eventually say when his breathing edges ever closer to hyperventilating. I don't think I have a paper bag in here. "Good, do it again and hold it." He gets himself under control much quicker than I thought he would. "Sit up for a minute and take a drink of water." He drinks a little and I grab a handful of tissues for us to share. "I want to check your temperature, you're a little warm."
"100.4," Jed mutters as he hands the thermometer back to me a minute later. "Any chance I just have what's going around?" he asks with a wry smile.
"There something going around?"
"No, not really," he sighs.
"It could be anything Jed, a reaction to the shot this morning, a little virus. You took Advil, worrying about it is not going to change anything. Get back under the covers and get some rest. It's late," I add as I glance at the clock. It's well after midnight. We settle down under the covers but by the way he's still shifting around he still has something to say. "What is it?"
"This isn't what I wanted," he sighs as he snuggles closer, throwing his leg over mine.
"What do you mean?" I ask, clearly not following this conversation either.
"We married for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health."
"Yeah, I remember, I was there," I tease. He chuckles a little.
"There's too much sickness and worse," he mutters.
"It's not an either or thing, Jed."
"Huh?"
"It's not just better or worse, sickness or health. It's all the things in between too."
"Is that what this is?" he muses as he gestures around the room, at what I'm not exactly sure.
"Yeah Jed, the Presidential bedroom is part of the "in between". Things will get so much better than this," I tease as I poke him in the ribs. He laughs for a second and with a deep breath I think he's about to settle down.
"For better or for worse. No syringe in the night stand."
"That's right, Jed. For better or for worse, and all the things in between."
As I feel him relax and nod off I can't help but wonder how much more time we have for those "in between" things.
Not enough.
That's for sure.
THE END