The Luck of the Draw (Part 5/?)

Rating: PG-13/R

Disclaimer: See Part One

Warning: This piece deals with drug addiction. It's not very explicit, but if it bothers you, don't read!

Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please!!! I just got back to school and am already fiendishly busy; I'm proud I got this done, finally, and feedback would make my day! Have pity! I'm going to be stuck reading chemistry!

Jesus Christ. I don't know what to do. What do I do? What can any of us do?

I have never seen a person, a soul, have such a sense of bleakness, of desolation. He's pale, his entire body seems to be shivering, and his hands are shaking badly.

Pills. Why didn't I guess, why didn't anybody? I know it's crazy around here, that Sandy's always been a private, secretive sort of guy, but Dad and Donna make a point to keep up with all of us, spend time with us. I can't believe they haven't spotted this. I'd have thought that Dad, with his history, might have recognized... And Donna! She's the one that figured out what was wrong with Dad after the shooting, why didn't she...

Shit. He's crying; I doubt he realizes it. He looks like he's shattering, slowly imploding, and suddenly he's on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees, rocking.

Poor kid. I know I should be pissed, but I'm too sad, too sorry. He's going to have enough people pissed at him, anyway, so I do what a big brother should do: I sit with him and rub his back till he quiets, and then I go and call Dad.

Adi decided to stay behind in case Josh, Donna, or Sandy needed anything. CJ came and took Liza to Sam's (what a euphemism for the White House, huh?), where a doctor will look at her arm and she can spend the night with Jen, Sam's stepdaughter, who happens to be her best friend. It was pretty clear none of them needed us around, so Nora and I took off. We're heading for Virginia Beach. I know it sounds crazy, for November, but I wanted to be by the ocean. It helps me to think; I would always go to the beach when I had a problem back home.

I know Norah likes the ocean, too. Actually, that's all I've said since we left, that we were going to the ocean. She just nodded, then looked out the window. Since then it's been silent. For once I'm leaving her in peace.

When we finally get there, I let her out and go park the car. She's already down by the water when I get back. I join her, and the soothing, lapping lull of the waves begins to relax me and remind me of home.

Suddenly, she speaks. I snap out of my reverie. "Sorry?"

"Why do these things always happen to us? First Dad gets shot, then Mom's in an explosion, then I come along and almost die on them, and now it's Sandy's turn to go through hell. What did he do to deserve this? Underneath all the anger and shit he's just a sweet kid who really, really screwed up, and now...I wonder what's in store for Liza? We've got most of the bases covered, it seems, let's see... teen pregnancy? Date rape? Car wreck? Paralysis?"

I've never seen her like this, ever. She's always been ready with a joke, a smart comment, sarcasm, but now she's teetering on the edge of losing it. I grab her wildly gesticulating arms in an effort to calm her.

"Norah, stop! NORAH!!! You'll make yourself sick, love, calm down. Please, calm down." I wrap my arms around her and feel her shaking, so I guide her to a nearby rock and sit her down. She curls up into a ball, her hands around her knees, and I feel a pang in my chest. All I want to do is hold her, but just as I've made up my mind to approach her, she begins to speak in short, snuffling breaths.

"Please, Phil, could you leave me alone for awhile? Please?"

I stop short. "Sure. Of course. I'll just go get us a coffee. Be back in a bit." I start off in the direction of the shops. When I turn around, her back is towards me.

Well, things are just peachy keen down here at the Lyman homestead. Donna's been doing a lot of yelling, Dad's been doing a lot of staring at the floor, Sandy's been doing a lot of slouching, and I, well, I've been doing a lot of standing just at the edge of the firing line.

"Sandy, what in God's name... I cannot believe this. Pills? Are you completely dense...my God, I..."

I've never seen Donna like this. She's the reasonable one, the one who calms and teases us all out of our tempers. But now...

"Well, I'll tell you something, mister. Your freedom is a thing of the past. From now on you'll do what we tell you to do and go where we tell you to go. This is unbelievable...I never thought you could be so foolish."

Suddenly, Sandy snaps. He goes from lethargy to fury so quickly it's frightening. "What the hell do you care?" he screams. "You don't need me around here! You've got Norah and Adi and Liza! Aren't they enough? I'm worthless anyway, I'll never do anything to make you happy, so why fucking bother? There's no point." Silence. "God, you're all so fucking superior, it makes me sick."

Donna is deathly pale, trembling visibly. "Don't you dare ever say anything like that to us again, Samuel. Ever. We almost lost your sister, there is no way we're losing you. Got that? And if you don't like it you can just...". She breaks down. "Josh," she whispers brokenly.

He gets up and goes to Donna. Sandy's still standing there, unreadable. "Go on up to your room, Sandy. Just go."

Sandy turns abruptly and runs up the stairs.

Donna's asleep, worn out. I start Adi on making the right phone calls and go up to check on Sandy.

He's asleep, too, with Dusty stretched across his legs. One arm is flung up over his head, and there are tear tracks drying on his cheeks. I sit carefully on the bed and look at him.

Sandy. A thousand images and sensations from the last sixteen years crowd into my mind. The feel of his tiny hand in mine, the look of wonder in his eyes as a ladybug tickled across his palm, his delighted glee as I would whirl him around and dump him in a big pile of leaves.

Later, his afternoons of intense, intent scrawling, so lost in his own world that he wouldn't notice as I snuck up behind him and watched, the sunlight bright on his hair. His Bar Mitzvah, expertly chanting the Hebrew, and then his voice cracking and all of us freezing in horror, only to look up and see that wonderful crazy, goofy grin plastered across his face. Taking him out driving and almost dying, yelling at him in exasperated frustration while he sat there howling with laughter, only to eventually grin and start chuckling myself.

That was only last year. What happened? Where did he go? What did I do?

I smooth a hand gently over his hair, noticing that it's still as soft and golden as it was when he was a baby, when I used to run a hand over his hair and watch him sleep.

What did he ever do to deserve this?

I found hot apple cider. Donna would make that every Christmas, and it was Norah's favorite tradition. She used to love mixing in the spices and letting it simmer, while the aroma filled the entire house. If it won't cheer her up, maybe it'll at least make her think about happy times, and that things will be that way again, eventually. Maybe.

When I reach her, though, everything flies out of my head. Blood is pouring out from a sizeable gash in her foot. "What in God's name happened?" I ask as I strip my upper body; I'll need the shirt for a bandage.

"I was running around, jumping, kicking, trying to work off some frustration. All of a sudden my foot came down on this huge piece of glass that was hidden in the sand."

"What possessed you to take off your shoes, you idiot? You know you have to be careful of infection! And what the hell were you jumping about for? Were you trying to turn yourself into a bloody kangaroo?"

"Listen, you jackass! I did not injure myself on purpose! I'm in pain, my family is in the midst of yet another crisis, and now, worst of all, in my hour of need, I am dependent upon an oaf of a disagreeable Mick Dundee, who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have a didgeridoo thrust up his rectum!"

"Feel better, there, my lovely?" I inquire sarcastically.

She clears her throat. "Yes, actually, thank you."

"Good. Just keep hanging on to that thought until we get to the hospital."

Jackass! I told him over and over again that I didn't need or want to go to the hospital, but here I am. He didn't let me walk in, or even hop! Nope, he just had to carry me, like a damn sack of potatoes.

I hate hospitals. I really hate them. People often tell me I should be grateful for them, since one saved my life, or barring that, that I should at least feel comfortable in them.

But I don't. I hate them. They make me nervous. And now I'm in one, alone with this idiot. And I'm going to have to talk about my cancer, and he'll hear every word and I don't want that. I don't want that!

I really want my mom and dad.

I'm not going to cry.

I am NOT going to cry.

Okay.

I can do this.

I think.

Seeing her clutch that pillow when the doctor came in to talk to her made me want to punch myself in the nose. How could I have been so insensitive? Adi's told me how much she hates these places.

She's still got a death grip on that pillow, and she's hunched up again. It seems like this place has the power to turn her from the articulate, confident woman who walked in the door yesterday into the frightened little girl she once must have been. It must feel horrible to have a place hold such emotional power over you. I wish I could make it go away.

A tear slips down her cheek, and I smooth it away with my thumb. "You all right, 'Roo?"

"So stupid," she chokes out. "I shouldn't be doing this. It was years ago, for God's sake."

I lean forward and embrace her gently, rubbing circles on her back. "You have every right," I murmur, "every right to cry. Don't be afraid of it. Cry. Cry, 'Roo. Just cry, sweetheart. It's fine."

After she's gotten it all out, she looks up at me and smiles. "What's with this 'Roo' business?"

I smooth back her tousled hair. "Well, you do want to be a kangaroo, don't you? At least, that's the impression I got from before."

"You just watch it there, Dundee." But she's smiling.

So, apparently, I'm a psychotic mess. I've been dragged to an unending stream of doctors, shrinks, social workers, you name it, over the past week, and they all say the same things: depression, anger management issues, low self-esteem, not to mention the big A, addiction, which we all knew anyway.

So the upshot is that I'm being banished. To Colorado. Colo-ra-do. To some like, treatment ranch, or something. I love how everyone keeps pointing out the "fun" things I'm going to do: horseback riding, rock climbing, camping. Hell, I even heard stargazing once. I think that might've been from Toby, even. Weird. When Toby says stuff like that, you know it's serious. Yeah, so I guess weird is the right adjective to use to describe life lately. I mean, I thought Dad would blow his stack, you know? But he's been quiet. Quiet. This is Josh Lyman we're talking about, here. But it's true. He really hasn't said much of anything of real importance, he just keeps looking at me with this unreadable expression.

Mom's the pissed one. I mean, I thought she'd be mad, and upset, and weepy, and she is all those things, but she's been irate, yelling at me, like, non-stop. She cried when we left, though, and hugged me, so I guess things will be okay eventually. Liza did, too, and I hugged her back; I know she doesn't trust me anymore, but maybe someday.

Anyway, I've still got a while before I'm imprisoned by the Rockies, so I might as well do something.

I glance at Sandy. He's tapping his foot and drumming his fingers incessantly on the armrest, but other than that he seems okay, at least.

I wish I could say the same. I did not want to do this, send him away, but it is the sensible thing, the best thing, the safest thing.

I hate those reasons.

I know that we couldn't keep him safe at home, that Donna and I are frankly both too busy and too high-profile to give him the surveillance and tight limits he needs right now. I know that Sandy has become the second Lyman to be barred from the President and his family because of "instability," and that situation would be pretty logistically impossible to manage during his months of treatment.

I hate those reasons too, though.

But this place is supposed to be good, they say, they do detox and provide all manner of counseling, help build self-confidence and keep the family closely involved.

I still hate it.

I hate that I didn't see this and stop it, I hate that I can't be with him every second of this in case he needs me, because if anyone close to him understands a bit of what he's going through, it's me.

There is something I can give him, though.

A story.

But the idea frightens me.

"Listen, Sandy. There's something you should know. After the shooting, after I had healed, physically, I started getting angry, short-tempered. More so than usual, enough so people noticed and worried. I couldn't stop thinking about the shooting, reliving it inside my mind, and it made me so sick inside I wanted to die. Instead, I put my hand through a window. I told everyone I hurt it putting a glass down. Luckily, they didn't believe me. Especially your mother, especially Leo, especially the trauma therapist Leo made me see. Stanley, the therapist, diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. I can get flashbacks, get panicky, start to shut down, really. I, um, just thought you should know. Everyone hurts, is fallible. Nobody's immune, safe from it. From our 'demons.' You're the only one who I've told, out of the kids. Adi probably has an idea, from stuff he heard when he first came to live with us, but you're the only one I've told. I just thought that maybe you should know."

Oh, God, I forgot. "Sandy, wait!" He turns, and I look at his escort. "Can you give us a minute, please?" He nods. "I, I forgot to tell you. There's something they told me, after, Stanley, and Leo too, in his way. We get better, okay? We get better.

He nods, biting his lower lip, and gives me the merest possible hint of a smile.

Then he walks away, down the hall.