The Number 1 Thing.
Wednesday June 1, 2004.
"Everything looks fine," Dr. Williams says, pulling the thin sheet back over my knees.
While I extract my feet from the stirrups, Dr. Williams pulls off her latex gloves and makes some notes on my chart. Leaning against the countertop, she raises her eyebrows at me.
"Now, what's the real problem?"
"I just wanted to make sure everything had healed is all," I answer truthfully. I have a plan, see, and implementation of said plan requires Squarepants to be 100 good to go.
Dr. Williams just snorted at me.
"Last time we started having sex again a little too early and there was a thing," I try to explain without blushing.
"By thing, you mean you and Josh had a misunderstanding about sex?" Dr. Williams attempts to quantify the ever-ubiquitous 'thing.'
Except she's not so good at it.
"Actually we had a misunderstanding about…" Okay, maybe she is good at it. "Something that happened while we were having sex," I finish lamely.
"That's fairly normal," the good doctor advises.
"Since when have Josh and I ever been normal?" It's a rhetorical question.
Dr. Williams just laughs and shakes her head. "Is there anything else?"
"Nope," I reply cheekily.
"Then go ahead and get dressed. You have my blessing to resume sexual relations with your husband. I cannot, however, be held accountable for the consequences."
With that disclaimer, the Dr. Williams leaves me to get dressed. After I check out at the desk, I enter the packed waiting room to find Josh pacing under the bemused glances of the room's predominately female denizens, trying to calm a squalling Elijah.
David, meanwhile, is sitting on a chair crying at a slightly higher decibel level than his little brother.
"What's the matter?" I ask, picking up his backpack, the diaper bag and David.
Josh had to take Boo-Boo to the pediatrician for shots, so I understand the problem there and I've got a pretty good idea of what David's issue is.
"Your son poked Elijah in the eye." Josh opens the door and ushers us out.
I fix him with a look of mock disbelief. "My son? I believe he has a stronger attachment to you. Which seems to be the problem."
I'm only half-kidding.
David cannot abide Josh focusing his attention on Boo-Boo and since he's only 11 months old, there's no reasoning with him. Most parenting magazines say children under 18 months don't experience the same sort of sibling rivalry that say a two-year-old does. But, as I pointed out to Dr. Williams, Josh and I are not exactly normally – why would our kid be?
I admit to being amused when the whole thing started. In the first couple weeks, David screamed endlessly if his daddy so much as held his little brother. Josh then tried sitting David next to him when he had the baby in his arms. David's reaction to that compromise has been to crawl on top of Elijah and sit on his head.
To his credit, Josh is working very hard to not reinforce David's behavior. But, being the disciplinarian is not Josh's strong suit. Sure, he can browbeat Congress and intimidate Cabinet secretaries, but when it comes to our kids, my husband, Bartlet's Bulldog, is a pushover.
According to his mother, Josh gets that from his father. The phrase "wait until your father comes home" was never a threat in the Lyman household. To be honest, it didn't hold much sway in the Moss household either – my father was spineless when it came to Pat and I – so I always figured I'd be the disciplinarian in our family anyway.
What keeps the situation with Bear and Boo-Boo from continuing to be humorous is that it's elevating Josh's stress level, which has already reached new heights at work.
Two weeks ago, Palestinian terrorists in Gaza blew up a Congressional delegation that was touring the area. Two Congressmen were killed along with the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Fitzwallace, and a congressional staffer named James Holtman. One of CJ's deputy press secretaries was seriously injured.
Leo and the President and most of the senior staff spent last week up at Camp David hammering out yet another peace agreement between the Palestinians and the Israelis.
Josh stayed home to mind the store.
He spent his time fielding increasingly vitriolic complaints from both sides of the aisle. It's safe to say a majority of Congress wants to see the Middle East turned into a parking lot, which is a course action President Bartlet is not prepared to take.
I, personally, think the death of James Holtman is affecting Josh more than he's willing to admit. I know the loss of Admiral Fitzwallace was hard for him, too. The Admiral was always understanding and never condescending of Josh's pacific tendencies, and losing Congressmen Korb and DeSantos isn't a small deal either, but Holtman is a different story. He was a legal aide to DeSantos and was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not unlike Josh at Rosslyn.
His emotional state has been worrisome enough for me to concoct a plan to get him away from the office and away from DC. Granted, I need the complicity of the leader of the free world at a time when he's busy with bringing peace to the Middle East, but hopefully, he'll agree that heading off Josh's impending nutty is equally important.
"Walken and the House delegation are in the Roosevelt Room. They've been waiting for almost an hour. The blue folder is what OMB thinks we can give up to make the peacekeepers revenue neutral, the red folder is what they think the Republican leadership is going to ask for." My assistant, Chris, scurries beside me as we stalk through the corridors.
"Are they pissed?" I ask. Part of me wants this to be over and done with, while another part wants to vent my spleen on them. I can't seem to make it through the day anymore without wanting to rip someone's head off.
Chris waits until we reach the Roosevelt Room to answer. Peering over his shoulder into the room, he hands me a pair of folders. "Yeah, Josh. They're pissed."
I take a deep breath and steel myself to sell a plan I support only because the President does.
"Let me apologize for the confusion," I begin, attempting to be conciliatory since we did keep them waiting so long. "Leo was supposed to take this meeting, but he got hung up at the Pentagon and I had an appointment I couldn't move."
The Majority Leader, Congressman Jeff Haffley, leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. He flashes an ingratiating smirk around the table. "I would think Bartlet would be a little more… considerate of our time. Seeing as we're the ones he's asking to fund his little Middle East misadventure. I doubt whatever appointment you had was more important than giving us the respect we deserve."
"I had to take my son to the doctor, Congressman," I retort, feeling control of my temper slip a bit. Flipping the blue folder open, I glance over what OMB came up with. Everything looks reasonable – the money is all coming out of programs we only grudgingly support. Closing the folder, I push it across to Walken. "These are the cuts President Bartlet is offering to make the commitment of peacekeepers revenue neutral."
"You forget how fast they grow when you get to be my age," observes President Bartlet. He's sitting behind his desk holding Elijah. It's the first of the month and the tradition of bringing David in to see the President has been expanded to include Elijah. David was at senior staff this morning and is presently being entertained by Margaret.
"He's already bigger than David was at eight weeks." I can't help smiling proudly.
"Too bad he looks so much like Josh," the President jokes, giving me an in.
"Speaking of Josh, Mr. President, I wondered if I could talk to you about something?"
"Hmm?"
"Well, Sir, to be honest, I'm worried about him. Ever since the Gaza thing, he's… he's been on edge, snapping at every little thing… and we're having some problems with David and… I'm… I'm concerned it's going to be a… thing. Sir." It all comes out in a rush, making zero sense.
My last statement, however, grabs the President's attention. "Have you tried talking to him about it?"
"There hasn't been any time to talk, Mr. President," I explain. "With the hours he's been working and the boys both being up all night, we haven't had any time to ourselves."
"What are you thinking?"
"I was wondering if you would let Josh have Friday, Saturday and Sunday off? His mother can come up to watch the boys and I can get reservations at a bed and breakfast on Tilghman Island in Maryland. If we can get away, I think we can sort everything out and it'll be best for everyone."
President Bartlet doesn't need to know my plan involves copious amounts of sex as a cure-all.
"I'm surprised you support this cockamamie plan, Josh," Speaker of the House, Glenallen Walken remarks. He's playing good cop to Haffley's bad cop.
I could kill Leo for leaving me to deal with these sanctimonious jackasses. I was NOT supposed to take this meeting.
We've been at this for almost twenty minutes and have made zero progress. My head is pounding and what little emotional control I had when I walked in is nearly gone.
The thing is Walken's right – I don't support the peace plan. However, I work for the President and I have a job to do – sell this plan to Congress. To fail to do so would imply I let my personal feelings get in the way, something I promised Leo I wouldn't do.
"I've given the President my private counsel, Mr. Speaker, and whether or not he chose to accept it is none of your business. This plan has been agreed to by the Palestinian Authority, the Israeli Prime Minister and the President of the United States. It is a compromise in the name of peace from all parties." My reiteration of the White House's position is firm.
"You mean to tell me you support the Palestinians' demands that the Israelis abandon their settlements?" This question comes from Representative Coburn, an ultra-conservative from Oklahoma. He and Mary Marsh have dinner at least once a week.
"Let me make sure you understand what's happening here," I snarl, giving into my anger and frustration. "President Bartlet has chosen a path toward peace and stability in the Middle East. I support that goal and it is in this nation's best interest to do so as well. If we can provide alternative solutions to the Palestinians' concerns while maintaining Israeli security, it becomes one less grievance against us in the Arab world. I suggest you gentlemen get on board, otherwise you're going to look damn stupid when this works."
"Are you threatening us?" Haffley scoffs, looking at his colleagues with mock amazement. "Let ME make sure YOU understand what's happening here. The House of Representatives will not allocate a damn dime for this grandiose misadventure. I think we're finished here."
He and the others gather their things in preparation for leaving.
Speaker Walken lingers, toying with the blue folder.
"I'll take that back," I state, coldly holding my hand out of the OMB projections.
Walken studies the grain of the table before looking up. "Josh, we cannot simply roll over on this. Two congressmen were killed and the President didn't so much as attempt a show of force. An eye for an eye, it says in the Bible."
"You're right, Mr. Speaker. He didn't fight back. He did something better. He turned the other cheek," I fire back, livid that on top of them playing to my personal religion sympathies – I'm on the receiving end of a lecture about the finer points of Christian fundamentalism
The Speaker favors me with a slight smile before changing tacks. "You don't believe in this, Josh. Why fight so hard for it?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe in. The President of the United States believes in it and my job is to make what he wants to happen, happen."
Walken nods slowly as if he's come to the conclusion I will not be swayed from supporting the President. This time he picks up the folder and places with his own papers. "Call my office tomorrow. I'll pull Haffley and Coburn in. Whatever is in here will be fine."
"Give me the folder, Mr. Speaker."
"You don't want to have this fight with me, Josh. Eventually one of those peacekeepers is going to get killed and we'll hang it around your neck for failing to properly fund them."
"You won't get the chance, Mr. Speaker."
Walken chuckles, almost condescendingly. "What are you going to do? Introduce a funding bill? We control Ways and Means, Josh. You can't and you know it."
His eyes lock with mine for what feels like an eternity. When he finally looks away, he nods and drops the folder on the table and leaves the room. I stare at the folder, not entirely sure what I've just done other than lost my temper and fucked up by the numbers.
"Do you think it's reached a point he needs to talk to someone?" Bartlet asks, forcing me into a bit of a corner.
After that Christmas, Stanley Keyworth referred Josh to a local psychiatrist who specializes in the long-term management of PTSD. For over a year, Josh saw Dr. Marstens at least weekly. After our relationship changed and the election-cycle heated up, he didn't go as often and to the best of my knowledge, Josh hasn't seen him since before we got married.
All the President or Leo or anyone else knows is Dr. Keyworth diagnosed Josh with PTSD and Josh successfully manages his condition. I'm hesitant to reveal anything about Josh's history with Dr. Marstens without his consent, so I sidestep the issue.
"I think if we can take a couple days away from here and hash out a strategy for handling the boys, then every will fall into place, sir. I'm just concerned he's going to do something stupid…"
"GOD DAMN IT!" Leo's bellowing proves Donna prescient. "MARGARET, GET JOSH IN HERE RIGHT NOW!"
"Why don't you go ahead and…" I give Donna the baby back and get up out of my chair.
The young woman gives an understanding nod and leaves through the door to the secretaries' anteroom. Whatever it is Josh has done this time will be between Josh and Leo and I. Granted, I'll take Donna's concerns under advisement, but if this is what I think it is, I'm going to kill him.
His opinion of the peace accords is well known amongst the senior staff, especially since his preferred course of action is so radically out of character. Josh is best described as a dove: a man who eschews military intervention unless absolutely necessary. Until I tasked him to supervise the restructuring of the Department of Homeland Security, his experience in military and international relations was minimal, to say the least.
In the year since then, he's made tremendous strides in foreign policy – mostly by pestering Admiral Fitzwallace into explaining the 'why' behind decisions to him. Thus, when he came out in vocal support of Miles Hutchinson's plan to carpet-bomb Gaza in retaliation, he shocked a lot of people.
Joshua Lyman is the consummate political operative, however.
Thus, it was no surprise when I made the decision to exercise diplomacy instead of military might, Josh diligently suppressed his opposition and did everything I asked of him. My keeping him at home for the duration of the peace talks had everything to do with his family situation and nothing to do with his political opinions and Josh knew that. He never wavered in his public support for my actions, even under the barrage of constant Congressional criticism, and in every conference call Leo had with him, he offered constructive advise for bringing the parties together on issues.
In other words, he performed his duties exactly as I expected him to.
It's clear from the yelling coming out of Leo's office that is no longer the case. I ease the door between the offices open and watch quietly as my Chief of Staff dresses down his Deputy.
"Haffley just called me and said there's no way they'll allow a funding resolution to even be introduced in committee?" Leo is foaming at the mouth. He wanted to deal with Congress because he felt Josh's ambivalence about the peace accord would be too easily detectable and we'd end up having to give away too much to pay for the peacekeepers. "God damn it, if you couldn't keep your personal opinions to yourself, then you shouldn't have been in the damn room!"
"I…" Watching Josh stand before Leo's desk and take his verbal whipping, I can see clear evidence of what Donna is so concerned about. A barely controlled tension radiates off Josh's body.
"There is not an excuse you can come up with to get you off the hook, Josh. God damn it! I don't want you anywhere near these discussions. You are not to have any interaction with any member of Congress until I inform you otherwise, do you understand me?" Leo rails.
"Leo, I…"
"I asked if you understood me?" Leo interrupts Josh's attempt at an explanation.
"Yes, sir," the younger man replies.
"Get out."
Josh hesitates for a breath as if he has something to say, but in the end turns and leaves the office without noticing my presence in the opposite doorway.
"What happened?" I ask, moving fully into the office and closing all the doors.
Whatever Josh did, it can't be good. He looks like something the cat dragged home, ate and then vomited back up.
"What happened?" I ask, following him into his office and closing the door.
He doesn't reply, choosing instead to take Elijah from my arms. David is in the Communications bullpen being fawned over by Bonnie and Ginger.
"Josh…" I begin.
"Don't, Donna," he shakes his head and sits on the front edge of his desk. "I thought I could keep my feelings out of it and I couldn't. I overcompensated."
There's a sharp rap on the door before I can say anything. Josh nods, but goes around his desk to stare out the window, leaving me to deal with whomever is at the door.
"Come!"
My assistant, Debbie, sticks her head in.
"Charlie just came by with a message. The President says your plan is approved with the following modifications." She stops and looks down at her notepad to read the revisions. "It starts today and something about a guy named Stanley. I didn't quite get what Charlie meant."
"What did he say?" I hope the President didn't order Josh to call Stanley, because if he did, that means either the President or Leo is going to call Stanley and tell him to expect Josh's call. Which is going to make Josh very unhappy. Josh isn't fond of being told he has to talk to a therapist.
"Charlie said to think about Stanley. Whatever that means."
Debbie's been here for nearly two years, you'd think she'd be used to cryptic messages by now.
"Okay."
"Also, He wants to see Josh."
I look back over my shoulder at Josh. He's leaning against the window with Elijah draped over his shoulder, staring aimlessly outside.
"Josh?" I call, interrupting his brooding. "He wants to see you."
There's no doubt who He is. You can hear the capital H.
Josh inhales deeply and steps around his desk, surrendering Elijah to me as he passes. His feet drag him toward the Oval Office in a pale imitation of his normal, cock of the walk swagger. Once he's out of sight, I corral both Debbie and Josh's assistant, Chris, in their shared cubicle.
"Josh is going to be out for at least the rest of the week. Reschedule everything. If anyone asks why, he had a family emergency – I'm sick and he needs to stay home with the boys. If you get a question about Josh being in trouble or about there being an altercation with Congressional Republicans in the Roosevelt Room, you tell them you know nothing and refer them to the Chief of Staff's office. Do you understand?" I meet both their eyes conveying the importance of what I just said.
"When do we anticipate he'll be back, ma'am?" Debbie asks.
"I'm due to return from maternity leave on Monday and as far as you know, that's when Josh will be back as well."
He knows why he's here and therefore Josh doesn't so much enter the Oval Office as he drags himself before my desk to accept whatever punishment I've decided to dole out for his fuck up in the Roosevelt Room.
I let him stand there for long moments, taking in his appearance under the guise of contemplating his sentence. What I see is worrisome and I feel a pang of regret for not having noticed the dramatic change on my own.
If you looked 'haggard' up in the dictionary, there would be a picture of the present state of Josh Lyman.
The dark circles under his eyes are far more pronounced than they were a month ago and they give him a hollow look, accentuating the angles of his face. His suit hangs off his shoulders as though he hasn't eaten in months. And if you dare to look into his eyes, you notice the mischievous sparkle is gone, replaced by sheer exhaustion.
"You look like hell."
Whatever he expected, a non sequitur wasn't it.
"It's been a long couple of months, Sir," Josh allows, fidgeting slightly and looking confused. I've never opened an ass chewing with a statement about his appearance.
"Not just for you. Everyone in this building has been working day and night on this peace accord," I growl, getting down to business. My annoyance doesn't need to be feigned. "Yet, you're the only one who couldn't keep his mouth shut and toe the party line. You managed to jeopardize everything we worked for at Camp David. If we can't get funding for the peacekeeping mission, the entire agreement will fall apart and then it really will have all been for nothing!"
I let him stew on that for a moment, half-wondering if he'll make any move to defend himself.
When he remains mute, I continue, delivering the punishment.
"Spend this afternoon getting Sam up to speed on the rest of the week's agenda. He can staff me. You can spend your time contemplating whether you can keep your damn personal opinions to yourself in the future!"
"Sam, Sir?" Josh repeats faintly.
Josh Lyman thrives on being the guy I count on. Kicking him out of the room was the most effective way I could come up with to express my displeasure with his behavior. Plus, it enabled me to fulfill Donna's request to give him some time off.
"It's time Sam moves up to the big leagues," I remark as casually as I can. "After you get him up to speed, I want you out of the building. Someone will call you and tell you when to come back to work. You are to spend your spare time writing a position paper explaining, in detail, how you plan to keep your damn mouth shut in the future. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," is all he says, but his horrible poker face gives away his despair.
I didn't think it was possible for Josh to look any worse than he did when he walked in, but as he mutters a reflexive 'thank you, Sir' and turns to go, I can see the additional damage I've inflicted written as plain as day in his expression.
Donna is nowhere in sight when I return to the bullpen.
"Chris!" I bellow, losing my internal struggle to not take out my frustrations on my assistant.
"Yes, sir?" He whips his head around from the copy machine he's operating.
"I need you to pull all the briefing packets for the rest of the week and send them over to Ginger for Sam." It comes out as a bark and is followed by the slamming of my door.
The reverberations of which knock several pictures off my wall, including the one of my grandfather and I. In a testament to how my day is going, it slips between the wall and my desk, forcing me to get down on my knees to retrieve it. Reaching my hand into the cramped space, I grab the frame and pull it out.
"Shit!" I curse when I gouge a finger on one of the glass shards sticking out of the edge of the frame.
I reflexively stick the injured digit in my mouth like I'm still the six-year-old in the old photograph. The blood tastes tangy, like sucking on a copper penny and before I can stop it a sweet smell overwhelms me. I struggle to take deep breaths and fight to not hear the sirens.
When I'm able to get it under control, I discover I've clenched my hand so tightly around the picture frame that there are pieces of glass now embedded in all of my fingers.
Tossing the photo onto my desk, I use my uninjured hand to dig into my back pocket for my handkerchief. Awkwardly wrapping it around my right hand, I quickly realize it's like trying to plug a leaking levee with a wooden shoe. Short of presenting myself to the on-duty Naval medical officer, an act which will no doubt land me on the next flight to San Francisco to see Stanley Keyworth, I have nothing to staunch the bleeding with.
The thought of Stanley reminds me of the last time I shredded my hand with glass. That night, I wrapped it up in an old undershirt. Looking down at myself, I figure I can wear my suit jacket the rest of the day and nobody will notice my lack of undershirt or the damage to my hand, as long as I don't go flailing it around. I mean, the only person I'm seeing the rest of the day is Sam and he'll be so flustered at the opportunity to staff the President he'll never notice.
The first thing I notice when Josh arrives home at the insanely early hour of 5 pm is his bandaged hand. Granted, I had a tip off call from Sam. His thoughtfulness enabled me to put the boys down later than normal for the nap and be prepared to give my husband my complete attention.
"What happened?" I demand, far more shrill-ly than I meant to.
Josh flinches at my tone, but haltingly explains what happened to his hand as he follows me through our bedroom and into our bathroom.
"Sit," I order, pointing at the toilet.
I kneel between his legs and tenderly unwrap his hand. Most of the damage is confined to his fingers, which I pick glass shards out of using a pair of tweezers. Josh grits his teeth and suffers my ministrations silently. His docility concerns me, but I decided on a course of action after Sam's phone call and I'm sticking to it.
"I don't think you need to see a doctor," I say when I'm finished cleaning him up. I took the time to dress each finger individually.
Josh nods once and then resumes his study of the floor tiles.
There's no containing my sigh of frustration. He's clammed up like an oyster since the Gaza Incident and his coming home with a bloody hand is too reminiscent of the last time he got like this. There isn't time in my life for Josh to suffer a complete breakdown. We have two babies who need us 24/7 and I can't do it by myself.
"Okay, that's it," I hiss, closing the bathroom door and keeping my voice down so as not to wake the kids. "This little pity party you've got going on needs to end. Now. I don't know where the hell your head's been lately, but I need you here," I jam my finger toward the floor. "You can't just keep going through the motions, Josh. I can't manage this family by myself."
Donna storms out of the bathroom; leaving me sitting on the toilet with her words echoing in my ears.
Truth be told, I don't know what's wrong. Yes, I'm exhausted from working 18 hours a day and then being up the rest of the night with my sons. Yes, I'm angry over Admiral Fitzwallace's death at the hands of Palestinian extremists. Yes, my pride is stung because the President wouldn't consider my advice in the aftermath of the incident. Yes, I feel slighted because I was left in D.C. during the peace talks. Yes, I'm furious with myself because I let the House Republican Leadership bait me. Yes, I feel humiliated because I've been kicked out of the room and replaced by Sam.
The thing is, I've suffered through these indignities before – singly and in combination with one another. Why would they be affecting me like this now? Why is my temper constantly simmering just below the surface, just waiting to burst loose and inflict damage on someone? Why can't I seem to make any of the coping skills I learned in therapy work? Why do I feel like my friends are conspiring against me?
It's like I've been following a light down a dark tunnel and all of a sudden the light went out and now I'm wandering around, lost in the dark.
It doesn't feel like a PTSD episode. Believe me when I tell you I've been paying attention, waiting for the signs to manifest themselves.
With a deep breath, I heave myself off the toilet and head out to face my wife. With any kind of luck, David will still be sleeping – giving me a reprieve to spill my guts to Donna. Exactly what I should have done when I started to feel overwhelmed.
She's in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair holding my old teddy bear with the shades drawn. In the shadows cast by the Winnie the Pooh nightlight, I can see tears on her cheeks.
I sit at her feet and rest my head against her leg.
"I don't know what's wrong," I admit in a whisper. "Everything I touch explodes in my face. I can't get anything right."
My hand reaches down to stroke his hair of its own accord. I had every intention of being pissed off at him until he figured out what the problem was, but it's clear he has no idea. Maybe the President wasn't so far off the mark earlier today.
"Do you need to talk to Dr. Marstens?" I broach the topic with no small amount of reservation.
He pulls his head away from my leg and sits quietly for a moment.
"I'm not sure," he finally replies. "I don't think it's… that, but I don't know for sure."
"It could just be one of those times in your life when you need to just step away and come back at it fresh." I haven't noticed any of the overt signs of PTSD either, and trust me, I've been paying damn close attention.
A humorless chuckle escapes Josh. "Well, that won't be hard to accomplish since I've been kicked out of the White House indefinitely."
"What?" I fake my shock, curious to know how the President decided to fulfill my request.
"I blew the funding meeting." His admission comes with a shaky sigh. "Haffley called Leo and swore there would be no supplemental appropriations bill. Leo thinks I let my personal opinions get in the way."
"Did you?" It is a possibility.
"No!" he nearly shouts, glancing at the crib to make sure he didn't wake David.
"Then how did you blow it?" This could be good.
Josh tilts his face upward to stare at a higher point on the wall. "I overcompensated."
He did what?
"You did what?" I'm incredulous. I can't imagine Josh delivering a smackdown on behalf of the peace accord. I know better than anyone how much he deplored the idea of giving in to terrorists.
"I overcompensated," repeats Josh. "I told them they didn't have a choice, they had to appropriate the funding for the peacekeepers."
"And you're in trouble for that?" I have to keep up the charade of not knowing why he suddenly has time off.
"Leo and the President don't know why the meeting crashed and burned. They just know it did."
"Why didn't you tell them?"
"Does it matter why? I couldn't handle it. I let them get to me."
Under normal circumstances, Josh would be pacing a hole in the floor, gesticulating wildly and running his hands through his hair. This sitting at my feet wordlessly is as troubling as the glass shards I just picked out of his fingers.
"So?" I prod.
"So what?"
"So, what did the President say?"
"Sam's staffing Him for the rest of the week and I have to write a position paper on how to keep my mouth shut."
"That ought to occupy every moment between now and at least Monday," I joke in an attempt to lighten the black mood that's descended over us.
From hurt in his voice when he replies with a clipped 'yeah,' it's clear my humor wasn't appreciated. Before I can make amends, he gets to his feet. "I'm going to go check on Elijah."
"Josh!" I call softly, but he's gone.
Elijah is fussing quietly in the cradle next to our bed. I gently lift him out and lay down against the pillows, nestling him to my chest. He's quieter than David. Whenever David wanted anything at this age, he screamed his lungs out – something he still does, by the way. Elijah is more like Donna, quietly waiting for someone to notice him.
"It's okay, Boo-Boo," I whisper, running my hand over his fine curls. "Daddy's here."
The way he nuzzles his face insistently against my chest makes me smile in spite of the darkness smothering me.
"Hey, I said Daddy was here. Daddy doesn't have those. You're looking for Mommy. Let's go get Mommy, shall we?"
Before I can even sit up, Mommy appears in the doorway.
"He wants you." I jut my chin toward Elijah.
Once she gets comfortable beside me, I hand him over. Lying there peacefully with Donna while she feeds Elijah somehow makes the troubles at work seem very far away and very inconsequential. I relish the brief respite from the chaos that has so recently dominated my life.
Now, if only I could figure out a way to make it last.
"Let's go away for the weekend," whispers Donna out of the blue.
"What?" I ask, sitting up to look her in the face.
"Let's you and I take a long weekend. Just the two of us," she repeats.
"Who's going to watch the boys?" I ask, still flabbergasted at the suggestion. As much as I'd love to get away, just the two of us, I don't see how we can. Not with an eleven-month-old and an eight-week-old.
"Maybe your mother can come up. She'd love to spend a couple of days, just her and her grandsons. She can spoil them rotten." Donna reaches out with her free hand and strokes the side of my face. "I really think we just need to take a step back, recharge ourselves, regroup and come back to all of this fresh."
She plunges ahead, taking my sigh as agreement. "We can leave on Friday morning. That gives your mother some time to get here, plus it gives you a chance to figure out a way to keep your mouth shut."
The way her eyes light up sells me on the idea. It wouldn't hurt to get away – just the two of us. I lean in to kiss her, silently thanking her for always knowing what to do when the world comes crashing down around me.
"I can think of plenty of ways to keep my mouth shut," I whisper, tempting fate by even hinting at engaging in adult activities – something we haven't done since before Elijah was born.
I should have knocked on wood. The words no more than come out of my mouth, than David starts crying.
"Can you teach a few of them to your son?" Donna chuckles.
I flash her my dimples and then go to the nursery to check on our oldest.
With Josh home, David's behavior improves immensely, leading me to wonder if some of our problems were caused by Josh not being able to take time off when Boo-Boo was born – an observation not lost on Josh's guilt complex.
He spends most of Wednesday at the kitchen table writing his position paper, breaking periodically to play with one or the other of the boys or talk to Sam on the phone and offer his opinion and advice on whatever topic Sam was struggling with.
Elisa arrives on Thursday afternoon and immediately sets about pampering her grandsons. By the time we're ready to leave on Friday morning, Grandma's got things well in hand.
We take the Mustang, leaving Elisa the Trailblazer with the car seats in it, in case she wants to go anywhere. Josh reluctantly hands me the keys to his baby, but since I refuse to tell him where we're going, he has little choice.
After some whining and an admonition from me that he's going to relax this weekend if it kills him, Josh settles back into the passenger seat and succumbs to the warmth of the sun streaming into the convertible.
He waits until we clear the beltway to again ask where we're going.
"Maryland," I reply, being intentionally vague.
I doubt his snort means he's satisfied with my answer.
Casting a quick glance at him, I can see he's got his eyes closed and is least pretending to relax.
Donna's circuitous route to our mystery destination makes me think she's been talking to my mother. When I was a little boy and I got too wound up to handle, Dad would plop me into the car and drive in circles until I fell asleep. It worked like clockwork then and even now, if I'm tired enough, I can't stay awake for more than 30 minutes in the passenger seat.
I wake up with a start when the car stops moving.
"Where are we?" I ask, turning my head back and forth to take in our surroundings. Donna's already out of the car.
There's a light blue colonial house on our left and a sprawling, lightly wooded yard to our right.
"Afternoon!" We're hailed by a grey-haired man walking up the driveway with a golden retriever at his heels. "You must be the Lymans."
My wife favors him with one of her beautiful smiles and introduces us while I shake the cobwebs out of my head.
"I'm Donna. This is my husband, Josh."
"I'm Terry." He offers me his hand. "Arlene is putting the finishing touches on the cottage for you. I'll show you the way back. It's a bit of a distance, though, you might want to just drive back there. Is this your first time to Tilghman Island?"
Terry hops in the backseat of the Mustang and talks non-stop as he guides us away from the main house to a small cottage with an expansive view of Chesapeake Bay. The dog, to whom we've not been introduced, trots along beside.
Arlene is a small woman with salt and pepper hair and an infectious smile. She gives us a brief tour of the cottage, explains how to work the fireplace, points out the hammocks down by the shore and tells us when breakfast is.
"If you need recommendations for dinner, just let us know. Otherwise, we'll leave you be," she finishes.
I carry in the luggage and Donna unpacks quickly. The closest thing to dress clothes she brought for either of us was a polo and khakis for me and a simple cotton dress for herself.
"How about we go for a walk?" Donna suggests when she's finished.
While I run and partake in physical exertion for my health, a pleasure walk is not on my list of things to do this weekend.
"Can I take a pass?" I have the good sense to feign a look of complete exhaustion – a feat that doesn't stretch my limited acting abilities. "I think I want to go investigate one of those hammocks."
I had hoped to use this weekend to reconnect with my husband, so I start to argue with him about the walk when I notice just how spent he looks. I know he thinks he's pulling one over on me, walks aren't on the top of his favorite activity list, but his horrible poker face gives away more than he's willing to admit.
He needs a nap in a hammock.
"Sure," I smile. Giving him a quick kiss, I start off, calling over my shoulder as I go, "Think about what you want for dinner."
The island is as beautiful and peaceful as I hoped it would be. As I explore the hiking paths, I'm reminded of the farmland around my grandparents', now mine and Josh's, home in Wisconsin. Not so much in a landscape sense, but in the feeling of renewal and hope I get when I spend time there.
During my pre-teen years, when the entire family would gather at the farm, it was inevitable that some of my more annoying relatives would set to teasing me about always having my nose stuck in a book. When I'd endured all I could, I'd set out for the small grove of trees bordering the fields where the dairy cows grazed. Grandpa had an old porch swing hung from gigantic oak tree out there and I'd curl up on it and devour whatever book I was in the process of reading.
Once I became a teenager, I became more interested in boys and music than books, but I'd still make my way out to the grove to play my flute for the cows. When I was done practicing, I'd sway on the porch swing and fantasize about Prince Charming coming to sweep me off my feet and end all my teenage angst.
Back then, I would have considered it a major let down that Prince Charming was taking a nap in a hammock while I was attempting to resolve his angst-issues.
Today, I consider it part and parcel of love and marriage.
As soon as Donna disappears up the path, I mosey over to the hammock and settle in with my hands behind my head. The dog that followed us over here whines once and then curls up under the hammock, as content as I am to simply stare at the bay.
I know it sounds completely out of character for me to be happy lying in a hammock, relaxing. Donna claims fresh air causes me to break out in a rash and I'm normally the sort of person who is only happy going 110 miles an hour, leaving conflict and chaos in my wake.
Except when it comes to water. Every year, my family would take a week-long summer vacation to a secluded spot on Cape Cod. It wasn't the country in the traditional sense of the word, but it wasn't the city. For one week every year, Joanie and I put away the acrimony that a six-year age gap caused and just had fun being playmates. We would spend all day, every day on the beach, building sand castles and swimming and being nagged by our mother to stay in her sight. Dad was always around, too, encouraging us in our every endeavor.
Even after Joanie died, it was the one trip we continued to make every year. I was less rambunctious without her, but I found the sea to be healing. The memories of Joanie I had from those trips were always happy ones of her teasing me while we built architecturally atrocious sand castles or of the hours we'd spent chasing one another up and down the beach. There were no memories of popcorn or fires or harsh words at the beach.
Today, just as I first did some 35 years ago, I inhale deeply of the salt-tinged air and exhale the bitterness infecting my life. The sea is the perfect antidote, reminding me of what is truly important.
Donna is important. David is important. Elijah is important. My professional ego is not important.
My family is the number one priority in my life and I need to stop falling back into old patterns. I need to get home by 7 o'clock most nights and spend enough time with my sons that they never question how much I love them. And I need to prove to my wife I'm worthy of her love and devotion.
That's something I plan to work on this weekend.
As soon as I wake up from my nap.
Josh is sound asleep in the hammock when I return from my walk. For the first time in two months, his face is unlined and his body is fully relaxed in sleep.
"Hey, sleepy-head," I murmur, bending over him and brushing his lips with mine.
"Hey," he mumbles in return, smiling without opening his eyes.
I take his hand and rub the back of it gently. "You wanna come inside and get ready for dinner?"
This time he opens his eyes and when he speaks, his voice takes on a timbre that I haven't heard in too long. "Not really."
"You wanna come inside and practice?"
"I'd rather stay right here and practice." Josh's grin defines mischievous.
He might be feeling better, but I think his imagination has run away with him.
"You want to have sex in a hammock?" I question with a cocked eyebrow.
"Why not? It could be fun." Josh pulls on my hand, trying to get me into the hammock.
I tug back in an effort to get him up. "Because with your luck, you'd fall out and break your back and I don't want you ending up in the emergency room on this trip. You're being punished by the President, how would CJ spin that?"
"Household accident?" smirks Josh.
"Yeah, 'cause that worked so well last time," I deadpan. "I'm going inside."
Donna lets go of my hand and takes off for the cottage. It takes a second and a half for me to consider my options and clamber out of the hammock.
"There's a coffee table!" I note loudly as I pass through the living room.
Along with a fireplace and a furry rug that may or may not be a real bearskin. Hmm… I've got a fantasy involving Donna and a bearskin rug.
"No coffee tables!" Donna calls back.
I follow her voice through the rustic cottage to the bedroom.
She's already naked, lying on the bed looking at me provocatively. Her body is as beautiful to me today as it was the first day I saw her naked. Thankfully, she no longer feels the need to cover her breasts; two children and breastfeeding have been most kind to her in that department. She's not as rail thin as she once was, but she's lost most of the pregnancy weight by taking long walks with Elijah every day.
"What happened to your adventurous side," I tease, stepping out of my shorts and boxers in one swift motion, leaving them lie in a pile on the blue carpet.
Donna shrugs one shoulder. "We're out of practice."
I stop with my shirt halfway over my head and laugh.
"Yeah, I guess we are. But I hear it's like riding a bike – once you learn, you never forget."
The polo lands on top of the shorts.
Josh crawls onto the bed, taking the time to prove he hasn't forgotten what he's doing by kissing his way up my body. Each faint white stretch mark gets special attention, causing a familiar tingling sensation to spread through me.
I sink deeper into the feather bed and relish his attentions. The reason I wanted to make love on the bed was because I didn't think either of us would last long and post-coital sleep is a near certainty.
It's easy to close my eyes and appreciate Josh doing his thing. His tongue in my belly button draws a sigh. The feel of his hands roaming my body is hypnotic.
The trill of his cell phone is the most invasive noise I've ever heard in my life.
It's probably Sam.
"Let it go," Donna moans.
The problem I have with letting it go is Donna customized the damn thing with different rings for different people.
Her cell phone is We Are Family.
Leo's office is the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.
My phone is presently butchering Hail to the Chief.
Yeah.
Even though it's probably Sam calling from Charlie's phone, I've got to answer it.
With an aggravated sigh, I climb off the bed and dig through my clothes to find the damn thing.
"POTUS for Joshua Lyman." From the new voice on the other end, I gather He's hired yet another personal secretary.
"This is he."
"Hold for President Bartlet, please."
Shit. What the hell did I do now?
"Josh." He sounds equal parts amused and annoyed.
"Yes, Sir?" I reply, suddenly cognizant of the fact I'm standing in the middle of a rented bedroom, stark naked.
"I just got off the phone with Glen Walken."
All I can do is choke out a strangled "yes, Sir" because Donna is KILLING me.
President Bartlet pauses a second before continuing. "Your extended absence has been noticed and is the talk of the gossip mill on the Hill. The Speaker called me to ask if I made it a regular habit to punish staffers who stridently supported my policies despite their own personal beliefs."
"Sir?" I croak out. I'm not really paying attention to what he's saying because I'm about to lose control all over the hardwood floors of the bedroom. The "oh God, Donna" slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
"I want to see you at 7 o'clock on Monday morning," He says, trying to sound stern and failing miserably. He's laughing by the time he tells me to say hi to Donna for him and to enjoy the weekend
"Donna!" Josh screeches, shutting the flip phone and dropping it on the pile of clothes.
I am evil. I freely admit it, but I want to say three things in my defense.
First, I was sure it was Sam because he's been calling from the phone in the foyer of the Oval Office all damn week!
Second, I wasn't listening to the conversation and third, I certainly didn't expect Josh to react quite so quickly.
"What?" I try to act innocent and retreat coyly to the bed.
My husband stands before me flabbergasted.
I can't wait anymore.
"Joshua," I breathe.
When we finish, Josh collapses on top of me, his breath coming in great gasps.
Gasps which quickly turn into sobs.
"It's okay," I coo, holding him tightly while I rub his back reassuringly.
I have no idea why I'm crying. I certainly didn't intend to. It just feels so good to be surrounded by Donna, to be in her arms, to be the number one focus in her life right now.
"I love you," I mumble when I finally get my emotions under control.
"Feel better?" Donna asks, wiping away the moisture from my face.
I nod and roll off her, but snuggle close to maintain contact.
There's very little talking the rest of the afternoon. We spend it basking in the sunshine streaming through the windows, taking brief catnaps before waking up and making love again.
It reminds me of our first weekend together as a couple. The weekend we got snowed in and had our life-altering conversation.
Donna laughs when I tell her that.
"Did it turn out the way you thought it would?" I ask as the sunlight starts to fade.
"Better," Donna states unequivocally, her fingers tracing my scars. "I've got a wonderful husband, two beautiful children, a good job and a plan for the future. What about you?"
"I have more than I ever dreamed was possible," I reply, propping myself up on my elbow to look deep into her blue eyes. "I figured it out earlier while I was in the hammock."
"Figured what out?" I silently pray he figured out what's been bothering him.
"What's been wrong?" he whispers.
"And?"
Josh brushes a stray hair out of my face before he answers.
"I lost sight of what is really important. I let work consume me. I let it take over my life."
The look on his face is so earnest I think I might cry.
"I let it get in the way of the number one thing in my life. I let it get in the way of my family," he finishes.
"Don't cry, Donna." He runs his thumb under my eye, catching the tears before they fall.
"I can't help it," I sniffle.
Darkness has fallen before either of us speaks again.
"What are we going to do for David's birthday?" Josh asks.
"You know the President will want to make a production of it."
"Thanks a lot, by the way," chuckles Josh, referring to earlier. "You know he's going to ask what you were doing."
"We could have a Wiggles theme." I love the Wiggles. David usually crawls away when I turn them on, but Josh doesn't need to know that.
"The Wiggles?" Josh's eyebrows are somewhere near his hairline and his voice got all squeaky.
"You know the Wiggles. Four Australian guys," I begin.
"Yeah. In the big red car with the annoying song that always gets stuck in my head. No. Absolutely not. Our son is not having a birthday party with a Wiggles theme! He can have a Spongebob theme." Josh is adamant about the Wiggles.
"Spongebob, eh?" I reach down to touch the silky skin of my good friend. "We can discuss it."
"How about I build a fire and we discuss it on the bearskin rug," suggests Josh.
"I'm open to negotiations."
Actually, I've had this exact fantasy, except it's set in a ski chalet in the Swiss Alps.
Starting a fire is a hell of a lot easier when the flue isn't welded shut. Once the small pile of tinder is crackling and giving off heat, I scour the kitchen to see if anyone left marshmallows behind.
"Nothing," I announce when I return to the cottage's main room.
Donna is reclining against the coffee table, wrapped up in a quilt she brought from the bedroom.
"It's okay," she says, holding out one end of the blanket for me. "It would probably get stuck in the rug anyway."
"Do you think this thing is real?" I ask once we're snuggled together in front of the fire.
"I don't know. If it is, I wonder how often they clean it."
I can't help chuckling as I press a kiss to her bare shoulder. "Should we suggest it when we leave?"
Donna takes my injured right hand and runs her fingers over the quickly healing cuts.
"I was terrified when Sam called Wednesday," she says, changing both the subject and the tone of our conversation.
"It was an accident. I slammed the door to my office and a picture fell. I cut my hand when I grabbed it to pull it out from between the wall and the desk." I intentionally gloss over the part where I warded off a panic attack.
"I know, it's… you've been on edge ever since Gaza and it… All I could think about was watching Jim Holtman's wife at his funeral with those two little boys who aren't ever going to remember their daddy…" Donna collapses into my arms, sobbing as uncontrollably as I was earlier.
"It's going to be okay, baby," I murmur into her hair, rubbing my hands over her arms, comforting her as she comforted me.
The parallels between myself and Jim Holtman never even registered with me. Early 40's, wife, two kids…
Donna snuggles closer, her sobs easing, and we both slip into a reflective mood. The anticipation of acting out a fantasy on this rug might have to wait.
"What are we going to do about the boys?" I re-initiate conversation once Donna's breathing evens out and the fire begins to burn low.
"Wait for them to grow out of it, I guess," Donna replies. "David was fine while you were at home the past couple of days. He didn't scream and cry every time you played with Elijah."
I noticed the same thing and I'm going to stick to the decision I came to in the hammock this afternoon.
"I'm going to start leaving at seven again. I'll talk to Leo and the President once the funding for the peacekeepers gets approved and see if we can't redefine the phrase 'national emergency.' And things at work will stabilize some when you come back on Monday. I won't be doing both our jobs."
"Chris and Debbie still haven't filed a damn thing while I've been gone, have they?" Donna's psychic tendencies get better with each child we have.
"Every day, Donna, I swear to God. I yell at them every day. They are genetically incapable of filing."
"Much in the same way you're genetically incapable of putting your dirty boxer shorts in the hamper?" retorts Donna, using her skillful fingers to tickle my sides. "Tell me, Joshua, is that a dominant trait you've passed on to our sons? 'Cause if it is, you're picking up after them."
Maybe my rug fantasy won't have to wait…
Next: Movin' Out (Samuel's Song)
"Josh, I'm moving to Chicago."