Boston, Massachusetts
The funeral home was far too dark to hold the light that was once illuminated Nicholas Bennett's body. Full of life and joe de vivre, Nick didn't deserve to wait alone in a shadowy, silent funeral parlor. His widow had retreated, unable to bear the sight of his lifeless body. Two of his daughters, the oldest and the youngest, had been taking care of the paperwork and the trivial details that were required in order to officially end a life, in the eyes of the government and the church. The middle daughter, however, had yet to arrive. The middle daughter sat in the back of her limosine, ruminating quietly. The middle daughter could not work up the courage to face her father.
Dressed in a stylish black suit with her dark hair tied loosely out of her face, Abigail Bartlet stretched one shapely leg out of the limo and lowered it until her heel hit the concrete. Seconds later, the other leg followed suit. She poked her head out the door and then lifted her body out of the car until she stood squarely on her feet. She nodded to her agents, and they instinctively understood. As she meandered toward the building, they kept their distance behind her, though their eyes never left her petite body. When she reached the ominous door that would undoubtedly grant entrance to her emotional demise, the agents surrounded the area so that the First Lady could have her privacy inside.
The building remained both dark and silent when she entered, no one came to greet her. Her eyes instantly locked upon the open casket ten feet away from her. The shiny wooden casket was ingrained in her mind from that second on, threatening her sanity with its mere image. She moved one tentative foot ahead, and stopped abruptly.
Déjà vu. Almost exactly forty years earlier. She had walked into that very funeral home, with the very same emotions- a mixture of despair, confusion, and dread. Although, it hadn't been quite as shocking when her father died as when her mother had. Her father had been eighty-three when he died four days earlier of a heart attack, and her mother had been a mere forty-one when she succumbed to the ovarian cancer that had ailed her. Abbey, then only seventeen years old, had approached her mother's casket with a nervous caution she hadn't exhibited before or since. Now, slowly advancing on her father's casket, what she demonstrated was far from nervous caution. It was more along the lines of paralyzing terror. She took her time approaching her destination, for the longer it took her to see his colorless face, the longer she could believe he was still alive and laughing with her as he always did.
She took another step, and remembered her seventh birthday. She had begged him for a pony, as all seven-year-olds did. He had said no. Countless times he had said no. Then, in the middle of her party, he pulled up the driveway in a pick-up truck that was not his own, dragging along a trailer. Inside it was not the pony she so desperately desired. It was a horse. She wanted to call him Ike, after President Eisenhower (she had always had a strange, unexplainable bias toward him even at the impressionable age of seven), but Nick would have none of that. "FDR, you'll call him," Nick announced. "Franklin, if you must." Abbey didn't complain. He had just given her a horse.
Another step, and it was Christmas of 1955. Her mother, Alexandra, had been in the hospital during Christmas, after having one of three miscarriages. The four Bennett children, Julia, Michael, Abbey, and Michelle, didn't have the faintest idea of what was happening. They had spent the last two days in the hospital waiting room, living off cafeteria food and listening to the radio in the corner. On Christmas morning, they expected nothing. They realized, despite their cloudy confusion about the whole situation, that their father hadn't the time to go Christmas shopping for them. There were more important things to be taken care of. However, six o'clock that morning, Nick woke the four children up and guided them to the door of the hospital and brought them outside. The snow had begun to fall during the wee hours of the morning, at a time when only he had been awake. He sat with them, no words neccesary, on the concrete steps, as the snow danced over their bodies. Not one of them noticed the cold. They, of course, noticed the sneezing, coughing, and running noses that plagued them a day later. But it hadn't mattered at all then. Not a bit.
One more step, and she was nineteen years old and was sitting in church, between her father and stepmother. It had been two years since her mother's death, a fact she never let her father forget, especially since his marriage to Joanne Walter, an editor at Random House. She was a radical feminist, the bra-burning type who preferred not to shave her legs as a form of protest. Every Sunday, she would attend church with her family and her father would force her to sit beside Joanne, who, thanks to her younger sister's unfortunate mishap in addressing her new stepmother at their wedding, they had dubbed 'Nan.' Abbey would smile and pretend she adored Nan above all things in this world. But she would close her eyes as the minister presented his sermon and cry silent tears, praying that no one would notice, and, if they did, that no one would care.
An additional step forward brought her, instead, back to the morning of her wedding. Just moments before the ceremony was due to begin, Abbey waited in one of the back rooms of the church, gazing at herself in the mirror. She wasn't entirely happy with her hair, and her makeup could use a little work, but all in all she deemed herself rather presentable, if not attractive. Her bridesmaids scurried around in the room in a frenzy, while she stood perfectly still. Her father tapped lightly on the closed door before letting himself in. Abbey saw his reflection in the mirror and smiled as he came closer, smiling at her adoringly. He told her how beautiful she looked, and she was startled by the tearful honesty that laced his voice. She, in return, professed her blatant self-loathing and discontent with her appearance. He shook his head in disbelief, and said, "You've never looked unattractive a day in your life, Cookie. You are, after all, my daughter. And today, especially, you look ravishing. In fact, you're positively glowing. And I know for a fact that there's a man waiting for you at the end of the aisle who agrees with me. You'll know him because he'll be standing next to the minister and mouthing a prayer to thank God for giving him such an incredible gift, just as I did the day you were born. Now. Grab your bouquet and let's boogy."
One final step reminded her of the last conversation she had ever had with her father, on the phone. At first, he had been compassionate and understanding, telling her to follow her heart. It wasn't long, however, before the volume of his voice had risen considerably, to the point of outright shouting. She was a fool, she'd lost her mind, she was going to ruin her life if she didn't pull herself together. She was acting like a spoiled brat, he'd said. No one had called her that since grammar school, and, as a result, she fired back at him, hitting him with criticisms about his marriage to Joanne, and how it had occurred so soon after her mother's death. He had told her that she had no right to criticize, considering the position she was in herself. After the conversation drew to a close, they had both apologized profusely for their behavior. She remembered him begged her to "go home. Go home, Abbey. He needs you. And more than that, you need him." But she hadn't gone back.
Abbey wondered if maybe her father prayed for his own death, knowing full well that his passing would be the only way to bring her home, the only way to repair what was broken in his little girl's marriage, in her life.
Now standing over her father's coffin and staring into his forever closed eyes, she thanked him. For taking care of her, for understanding her, for cherishing her, for helping her, for loving her. It was her turn to smile at him adoringly, and she did it without hesitation.
Her smile faded quickly when the sound of sirens filled the air. She heard numerous car doors slam the moment the sirens stopped. She stood erect, her eyes widened with horror. Outside the door, she heard the hushed voices of Secret Service agents speak in terse sentences. Just as she made out her husband's voice amidst the low whispers, the door flung open. She didn't need to turn around; she could sense his presence. She always could. But this time, it petrified her. She heard the door slam shut, blocking out the sound of the agents outside. The air was saturated by pure silence for a moment, then was penetrated by the sound of his footsteps, gradually moving toward her. When he reached her side, he did not look at her. Instead, his gaze fell to the casket, and remained there for a moment or two. She did the same, grateful that he hadn't tried to start right away what was sure to be an awkward conversation she would relive again and again in horror.
Abbey took a chance and glanced over at him, then quickly shifted her gaze back to the coffin. Then, he turned to her, ever so slightly.
"I'm so sorry about your father."
She allowed herself to look at him, look into his deep, blue, calming eyes. But one look at him and her own eyes began to tear up, leaving her no time to stop the tears. At the first sign of tears, Jed instinstively opened his arms to her, as he had done innumerable times since they had been almost forty years earlier. And, just as instictively, she fell into his embrace, relishing in his touch. He wrapped his arms around her, loosely at first. Then, as the tears poured out, tighter. It was their first touch since Zoey had been returned to them, over four months earlier. Neither one of them wanted to let go. He breathed in the familiar scent of her hair and she marveled at the memorable aroma of his aftershave. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so safe and secure, and knew it was the feeling that came with being in his strong, loving arms.
Moments passed, and neither of them dared to move. Then, it hit her. What was she doing? She couldn't…he couldn't…they couldn't…not now. There was too much between them. Gently, she untangled herself from his embrace, startling him somewhat. She gazed as him sympathetically, flashing him a melancholy half-smile. They locked eyes for a long, seemingly endless moment. A moment that was broken by the creaking sound of the door opening and then, an all too familiar British accent.
"Abbey."
Abbey whipped around suddenly, surprised by his appearance. He stood in the doorway and waited for her there. She took one last glance at her husband before slowly backing away from him, then turning and sauntering toward the man that waited for her across the room. Sir Anthony Prescott. It was then that he remembered. He remembered the wreck that now was their marriage. And as she left the building on the arm of another man, he felt his body shudder and made no effort to prevent the tears that followed.
