Part 3: The Thrill
Washington, D.C.
The past few days have been highly beneficial. The amount of progress the President is making astounds Dr. Adams. He had the President pegged as a late bloomer when it came to therapy, and he was proved wrong.
"How would you describe your wife to me, on her best day"
Dr. Adams had asked this question to many of his patients, and it had always been a subconscious indicator of their true, underlying feelings about their spouses. Jed considers the question for a moment, trying to decide how best to word his response. It's not long before he scraps his perfectly fabricated sentence, and speaks candidly, from his heart.
"On her best day…smart, charming, witty, feisty, passionate, caring, understand, and…breathtakingly beautiful"
As honest a response as any; Dr. Adams is satisfied.
"And on her worst day"
"Argumentive. Tempermental, occasionally dense, closed-minded, arbitrary, distant, and breathtakingly beautiful"
"So she's beautiful no matter what"
Jed nodded enthusiastically.
"She's just as beautiful when she's dressed to the nines as when she's just gotten out of bed"
Dr. Adams takes note of this to tell his wife someday.
"Have you told her that"
"Many times. You've seen her, Doc. The woman is simply stunning. I think she might be even more beautiful now than when I married her, if that's possible. There is not an unattractive bone in her body," Jed says.
The look in his eyes confirms the validity of his words. Dr. Adams is geuinely touched, but he doesn't let it show. No, on the contrary, he appears aloof, neutral, and completely unaffected.
"From the way you've been talking, it sounds like you're a good husband. If that's true, why did your wife you"
"I didn't tell her about the assassination of Abdul Shareef," Jed replies, sheepishly.
"The Qumari defense minister"
"Yeah"
Dr. Adams raises an eyebrow in surprise and disbelief.
"She didn't know"
"She found out on the news, like everyone else"
Well, that was certainly one for the notepad.
"I see," Dr. Adams says. "Why didn't you tell her"
"I don't know"
His answer is simple, direct, yet so incredibly vague and distant. It only makes Dr. Adams more determined.
"Was it a conscious decision? Did you decide you weren't going to tell her"
"I don't remember, to be honest. I just didn't"
"Maybe you'll be ready to tell me another time," Dr. Adams concedes.
"You don't believe me?" Jed asks.
"No, sir, I don't"
London, England Dr. Lawrence Hewson's wife, Ally, considers herself a big fan of Abigail Bartlet's. She likes to follow American politics and ignore Parliament as much as possible. When her husband informed her that the First Lady of the United States was now one of his patients, naturally it piqued her interest. She went on and on, talking her husband's ear off for well over an hour, boasting the First Lady's accomplishments.
Now, as Dr. Hewson sits before the First Lady, he remembers his wife's words. He recalls the feats she has achieved and the enthusiastic words that were used to describe her. She hardly seems like she embodies those characteristics now. She is frail, withdrawn, cautious with words, and evasive of his probing questions. She tries her best to be honest, and she is, but her answers always surprise her, as if they were lies. The truth startles her and sends her reeling. She wishes it would abandon her, leave her for dead, and let her lie. Please, just let her lie. Lies are easy. Lies mean nothing. Lies hold no weight with her. Therefore, the truth manifests in her and crawls its way out.
Dr. Hewson cannot keep his eyes off her. He is fascinated by the way her expressions change at random, without a single word said. She is in her own world, clearly, her thoughts swirling through her head at a pace faster than anything he has known. A few moments before, he had tried to get conversation going by asking her about her marriage. She'd been honest, but painfully vague. Though it made him feel like an inadequate psychiatrist, he found himself aching to hear everything and anything she was kind enough to tell him. Unfortunately, that's not much. Dr. Hewson, however, has a good mind to change that.
"Abbey"
She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent, unsuspecting.
"Are you ready to keep talking now"
She wants to say no, close her eyes and her ears, and turn her thoughts back on to repeat the swirling motion in her head.
"Okay"
"Good. I think we should continue discussing your marriage, as it's clearly at the roots of your problems. Is that all right with you"
No.
"Sure"
"Now, you said everything changed after a certain event. How would you describe your marriage before your daughter's kidnapping?" Dr. Hewson questions, ever anxious for the response.
"Fine, I guess. It was fine"
A good enough answer, she guesses. Honest, simple, boring. Dr. Hewson is not impressed.
"Would you like to expand on that a bit"
"Very fine?" She flashes him her most disarming grin, and it almost works. "No, I'm kidding. Um. I don't know. It was fine"
Abbey tries, but for the life of her, she cannot allow a different answer to pass through her lips. Dr. Hewson realizes this, and resorts to his favorite method of pestering inquistion- questions that are pointless to a mere observor, but incredibly vital and meaningful to the one asking them.
"Communication was good"
As much as Abbey desires to be more illustrative, it is still that one, single word that seems to perfectly depicts the circumstances.
"I'd say it was…well, fine"
Luckily, Dr. Hewson knows how to play hardball. And he does it well.
"How often did you talk"
She is quick to respond.
"In full sentences"
"Yes"
"Not often," she says. "It was difficult"
"Why was it difficult"
She mumbles something inaudible to herself, then glances around the room for distractions. Upon her failure to do so, she returns to the question, albeit reluctantly.
"It was hard to…get in step with each other. It was like some awful out of sync dance. He's on a trip, I'm on a trip. He's in the situation room, or in his study working 'till one in the morning. If I'm still awake when he comes to bed, I'm more concerned with him getting some sleep than with having a lively conversation"
"You didn't have meals together during the day at all?" Dr. Hewson asks, in a devious plan to further her insight on the subject.
"Rarely. I always found it a bit degrading having to schedule a lunch with my husband. I had to, essentially, make an appointment"
"When you did talk, what did you talk about"
"Our children, mostly. Small talk. Or maybe a quick argument about regarding politics. I think most of the conversations we've had happened while dressing for dinners and galas and parties. Both of us running around the bedroom, rummaging through drawers and fighting over the bathroom, which doesn't really leave much room for an intelligent tête-à-tête"
This fascinates Dr. Hewson; he cannot get enough.
"Was it always like that"
This time, she almost laughs. He believes it is the first time, an auspicious occasion indeed, that she has laughed, even slightly, in his intimidating presence.
"Oh, Lord, no"
Now she smiles, astounding him, and continues.
"Communication had never, ever been a problem for us. In fact, I think that was one of the strongest points in our marriage"
"Why do you think that's changed"
"No time for talking. Well, not much anyway"
"I see," he says, taking a moment to jott a few observations down on his notepad. "What about the physical aspect of your relationship"
"You mean sex"
If he had been drinking, he'd have spit the liquid out at that moment. Her candor and bluntness was unparelleled. Most of his patients had to progress through at least twenty sessions before they were comfortable speaking the word 'sex' outloud, especially in the presence of a doctor.
"Yes," he mumbles, with a gruff clearing of his throat.
"Somehow we always managed to find time for that," Abbey replies, wondering herself exactly how and why that came to be.
Dr. Hewson nods, as if by some stroke of a miracle, he understands her.
"So you say you had a healthy physical relationship"
"Oh, yes." She pauses, mending her answer. "You know, when we had time"
"How often would you say you had intercourse"
She looks him in the eye, and it startles him. He looks away from her, almost embarassed.
"During the Presidency"
She is not embarassed. She is perfectly calm, cool, and collected. Talking about intimate things doesn't phase her in the least. It's the trivial aspects of her life that boggles her mind.
"Yes"
"Well, when we weren't away on trips and such, I'd say…once a week. Maybe"
Her candor leads him to continue on the same path. He doesn't want to pass up this opportunity. He is learning things that most people in the United States would kill to know. He shakes his head at the thought and sighs. Americans.
"How about before the Presidency"
"Maybe…three times a week"
"That's a big difference," Dr. Hewson observes.
"I suppose"
"Did that bother you"
"Not really. What I missed most was just being with him, and not neccesarily sexually. Just…spending time with him"
"Did you think the thrill of your marriage was gone"
She considers this for a moment before answering.
"Well," Abbey says, thoughtfully. "I don't think that's the right phrase. Something was certainly gone, but it wasn't the thrill"
"Did you express your concerns about your relationship to your husband"
"I'm sure I complained, just casually. I don't recall us ever having a serious conversation about it"
"Do you think he shared your concerns?" Dr. Hewson inquires, with a genuine interest that surprises even him, let alone her.
"Something tells me he did, yeah. I just don't believe he ever had the time to consider it, to really analyze what was going on and find a solution"
"He wasn't a very attentive husband"
She wants to be fair. There were times she thought so, and times she believed that couldn't be further from the truth. Often when her thoughts reached this point, it was at the mercy of anger and, occasionally, loneliness. But it wasn't the whole truth, in its unadultered, tortuous entirety.
"I'm not sure it's possible to be an attentive husband and be president at the same time"
"Was he forgetful?" Dr. Hewson asks. "Absent-minded"
"Sure. He actually…" It pains her to admit this. She feels her many inadequacies surround and haunt her as she does so. "…forgot my birthday, two months before Zoey was kidnapped"
"Was that the first time he'd forgotten your birthday"
"Yes"
"What happened"
"Well, when I woke up that morning, he'd already left. No note, no card, no gift, not even a message passed down by the staff. Nothing. So I waited all day for him to call, and he never did. Later, I waited in the Residence, thinking foolishly that he'd planned a surprise, or at the very least had a good excuse. By nine o'clock, he still hadn't come, or called. So I called up my best friend, Millicent Griffith"
Dr. Hewson raises one eyebrow.
"The Surgeon General"
"Yes. She was newly divorced and very bitter, to say the least. And by that point, I was feeling rather bitter as well. So I slipped into a little black cocktail dress and decided to go out with her. He showed up as I was on my way out the door."
The past few days have been highly beneficial. The amount of progress the President is making astounds Dr. Adams. He had the President pegged as a late bloomer when it came to therapy, and he was proved wrong.
"How would you describe your wife to me, on her best day"
Dr. Adams had asked this question to many of his patients, and it had always been a subconscious indicator of their true, underlying feelings about their spouses. Jed considers the question for a moment, trying to decide how best to word his response. It's not long before he scraps his perfectly fabricated sentence, and speaks candidly, from his heart.
"On her best day…smart, charming, witty, feisty, passionate, caring, understand, and…breathtakingly beautiful"
As honest a response as any; Dr. Adams is satisfied.
"And on her worst day"
"Argumentive. Tempermental, occasionally dense, closed-minded, arbitrary, distant, and breathtakingly beautiful"
"So she's beautiful no matter what"
Jed nodded enthusiastically.
"She's just as beautiful when she's dressed to the nines as when she's just gotten out of bed"
Dr. Adams takes note of this to tell his wife someday.
"Have you told her that"
"Many times. You've seen her, Doc. The woman is simply stunning. I think she might be even more beautiful now than when I married her, if that's possible. There is not an unattractive bone in her body," Jed says.
The look in his eyes confirms the validity of his words. Dr. Adams is geuinely touched, but he doesn't let it show. No, on the contrary, he appears aloof, neutral, and completely unaffected.
"From the way you've been talking, it sounds like you're a good husband. If that's true, why did your wife you"
"I didn't tell her about the assassination of Abdul Shareef," Jed replies, sheepishly.
"The Qumari defense minister"
"Yeah"
Dr. Adams raises an eyebrow in surprise and disbelief.
"She didn't know"
"She found out on the news, like everyone else"
Well, that was certainly one for the notepad.
"I see," Dr. Adams says. "Why didn't you tell her"
"I don't know"
His answer is simple, direct, yet so incredibly vague and distant. It only makes Dr. Adams more determined.
"Was it a conscious decision? Did you decide you weren't going to tell her"
"I don't remember, to be honest. I just didn't"
"Maybe you'll be ready to tell me another time," Dr. Adams concedes.
"You don't believe me?" Jed asks.
"No, sir, I don't"
London, England Dr. Lawrence Hewson's wife, Ally, considers herself a big fan of Abigail Bartlet's. She likes to follow American politics and ignore Parliament as much as possible. When her husband informed her that the First Lady of the United States was now one of his patients, naturally it piqued her interest. She went on and on, talking her husband's ear off for well over an hour, boasting the First Lady's accomplishments.
Now, as Dr. Hewson sits before the First Lady, he remembers his wife's words. He recalls the feats she has achieved and the enthusiastic words that were used to describe her. She hardly seems like she embodies those characteristics now. She is frail, withdrawn, cautious with words, and evasive of his probing questions. She tries her best to be honest, and she is, but her answers always surprise her, as if they were lies. The truth startles her and sends her reeling. She wishes it would abandon her, leave her for dead, and let her lie. Please, just let her lie. Lies are easy. Lies mean nothing. Lies hold no weight with her. Therefore, the truth manifests in her and crawls its way out.
Dr. Hewson cannot keep his eyes off her. He is fascinated by the way her expressions change at random, without a single word said. She is in her own world, clearly, her thoughts swirling through her head at a pace faster than anything he has known. A few moments before, he had tried to get conversation going by asking her about her marriage. She'd been honest, but painfully vague. Though it made him feel like an inadequate psychiatrist, he found himself aching to hear everything and anything she was kind enough to tell him. Unfortunately, that's not much. Dr. Hewson, however, has a good mind to change that.
"Abbey"
She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent, unsuspecting.
"Are you ready to keep talking now"
She wants to say no, close her eyes and her ears, and turn her thoughts back on to repeat the swirling motion in her head.
"Okay"
"Good. I think we should continue discussing your marriage, as it's clearly at the roots of your problems. Is that all right with you"
No.
"Sure"
"Now, you said everything changed after a certain event. How would you describe your marriage before your daughter's kidnapping?" Dr. Hewson questions, ever anxious for the response.
"Fine, I guess. It was fine"
A good enough answer, she guesses. Honest, simple, boring. Dr. Hewson is not impressed.
"Would you like to expand on that a bit"
"Very fine?" She flashes him her most disarming grin, and it almost works. "No, I'm kidding. Um. I don't know. It was fine"
Abbey tries, but for the life of her, she cannot allow a different answer to pass through her lips. Dr. Hewson realizes this, and resorts to his favorite method of pestering inquistion- questions that are pointless to a mere observor, but incredibly vital and meaningful to the one asking them.
"Communication was good"
As much as Abbey desires to be more illustrative, it is still that one, single word that seems to perfectly depicts the circumstances.
"I'd say it was…well, fine"
Luckily, Dr. Hewson knows how to play hardball. And he does it well.
"How often did you talk"
She is quick to respond.
"In full sentences"
"Yes"
"Not often," she says. "It was difficult"
"Why was it difficult"
She mumbles something inaudible to herself, then glances around the room for distractions. Upon her failure to do so, she returns to the question, albeit reluctantly.
"It was hard to…get in step with each other. It was like some awful out of sync dance. He's on a trip, I'm on a trip. He's in the situation room, or in his study working 'till one in the morning. If I'm still awake when he comes to bed, I'm more concerned with him getting some sleep than with having a lively conversation"
"You didn't have meals together during the day at all?" Dr. Hewson asks, in a devious plan to further her insight on the subject.
"Rarely. I always found it a bit degrading having to schedule a lunch with my husband. I had to, essentially, make an appointment"
"When you did talk, what did you talk about"
"Our children, mostly. Small talk. Or maybe a quick argument about regarding politics. I think most of the conversations we've had happened while dressing for dinners and galas and parties. Both of us running around the bedroom, rummaging through drawers and fighting over the bathroom, which doesn't really leave much room for an intelligent tête-à-tête"
This fascinates Dr. Hewson; he cannot get enough.
"Was it always like that"
This time, she almost laughs. He believes it is the first time, an auspicious occasion indeed, that she has laughed, even slightly, in his intimidating presence.
"Oh, Lord, no"
Now she smiles, astounding him, and continues.
"Communication had never, ever been a problem for us. In fact, I think that was one of the strongest points in our marriage"
"Why do you think that's changed"
"No time for talking. Well, not much anyway"
"I see," he says, taking a moment to jott a few observations down on his notepad. "What about the physical aspect of your relationship"
"You mean sex"
If he had been drinking, he'd have spit the liquid out at that moment. Her candor and bluntness was unparelleled. Most of his patients had to progress through at least twenty sessions before they were comfortable speaking the word 'sex' outloud, especially in the presence of a doctor.
"Yes," he mumbles, with a gruff clearing of his throat.
"Somehow we always managed to find time for that," Abbey replies, wondering herself exactly how and why that came to be.
Dr. Hewson nods, as if by some stroke of a miracle, he understands her.
"So you say you had a healthy physical relationship"
"Oh, yes." She pauses, mending her answer. "You know, when we had time"
"How often would you say you had intercourse"
She looks him in the eye, and it startles him. He looks away from her, almost embarassed.
"During the Presidency"
She is not embarassed. She is perfectly calm, cool, and collected. Talking about intimate things doesn't phase her in the least. It's the trivial aspects of her life that boggles her mind.
"Yes"
"Well, when we weren't away on trips and such, I'd say…once a week. Maybe"
Her candor leads him to continue on the same path. He doesn't want to pass up this opportunity. He is learning things that most people in the United States would kill to know. He shakes his head at the thought and sighs. Americans.
"How about before the Presidency"
"Maybe…three times a week"
"That's a big difference," Dr. Hewson observes.
"I suppose"
"Did that bother you"
"Not really. What I missed most was just being with him, and not neccesarily sexually. Just…spending time with him"
"Did you think the thrill of your marriage was gone"
She considers this for a moment before answering.
"Well," Abbey says, thoughtfully. "I don't think that's the right phrase. Something was certainly gone, but it wasn't the thrill"
"Did you express your concerns about your relationship to your husband"
"I'm sure I complained, just casually. I don't recall us ever having a serious conversation about it"
"Do you think he shared your concerns?" Dr. Hewson inquires, with a genuine interest that surprises even him, let alone her.
"Something tells me he did, yeah. I just don't believe he ever had the time to consider it, to really analyze what was going on and find a solution"
"He wasn't a very attentive husband"
She wants to be fair. There were times she thought so, and times she believed that couldn't be further from the truth. Often when her thoughts reached this point, it was at the mercy of anger and, occasionally, loneliness. But it wasn't the whole truth, in its unadultered, tortuous entirety.
"I'm not sure it's possible to be an attentive husband and be president at the same time"
"Was he forgetful?" Dr. Hewson asks. "Absent-minded"
"Sure. He actually…" It pains her to admit this. She feels her many inadequacies surround and haunt her as she does so. "…forgot my birthday, two months before Zoey was kidnapped"
"Was that the first time he'd forgotten your birthday"
"Yes"
"What happened"
"Well, when I woke up that morning, he'd already left. No note, no card, no gift, not even a message passed down by the staff. Nothing. So I waited all day for him to call, and he never did. Later, I waited in the Residence, thinking foolishly that he'd planned a surprise, or at the very least had a good excuse. By nine o'clock, he still hadn't come, or called. So I called up my best friend, Millicent Griffith"
Dr. Hewson raises one eyebrow.
"The Surgeon General"
"Yes. She was newly divorced and very bitter, to say the least. And by that point, I was feeling rather bitter as well. So I slipped into a little black cocktail dress and decided to go out with her. He showed up as I was on my way out the door."