Clarksburg, MD - October 2014
Henry watches her sleep. She's snuggled into the lounger in the living room—her hair in her face and her arms as sprawled out as possible. Some things never change. They've all let her sleep as the morning went on around her. The kids have been fed. Jay Whitman has introduced him to the media consultant and his father. Isabelle has consulted with Isaac Bishop on security needs and concerns. And Mike Hirst has begun making phone calls to his congressional allies.
It has taken every ounce of strength and courage Henry has to keep his head up. His head is spinning. He is so worried and scared and nervous for all of them. He knows she'll be up soon, and they'll begin the arduous task of getting her ready for her press conference.
"Elizabeth," He whispers. He doesn't reach out to touch her. He knows she must feel as fried as he does. He knows she hasn't slept, not really. He knows that she spent most of the night awake.
"Elizabeth, babe," he tries again, watching her stir. Her movements are so familiar—so her. He finds himself smiling. She had gone on and on about being different than she used to be, and he could see those changes. But the foundation of her, who she was, had stayed intact.
"Babe," He tries again, watching her eyelids flutter.
For a moment, Elizabeth feels like she is home. For a moment, Henry's calm and steady voice is in her ear, and his warm hand is on her shoulder. She had not felt at home in so long. She had forgotten what it felt like.
Her eyes fly open, and the moment is shattered. Henry is here, and his voice is steady and soft. But none of this is home- the home she had longed for and fought for. The home where the children were safe. The home where she and Henry were happy. The home she had missed so badly, she could feel it in her bones.
She moves to sit too fast, and her shoulder protests, "Oh, fuck," she whines.
Henry moves his hand, "Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she mutters, her brain is a fog of pain, exhaustion, and memories, "It's not your fault. I know better than to move that way. What time is it?"
"Almost nine. Take a breath," He tells her, helping her sit up slowly. "No rush. I told everyone to leave you alone for an hour to wake up and get ready,"
"How are you holding up?" Elizabeth asks him. She wants to reach out and touch him. She wants to wrap her arms around his middle and rest her head on his chest. But she can't.
"I'm fine," He says with a small smile.
"You sound as convincing as I do when is say that," she deadpans.
"I'm worried. About you. About the kids. About the country. But mostly about you." He says.
She nods, "You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine,"
"It's not that I don't believe you. I know you'll be fine, but it doesn't make it any easier to see you go through this. And I know this is nothing like the nightmares you have already been through, but I know it's not great," He says softly.
She smiles softly. His care for her is something she barely remembers. She has been so angry for so long that the good feelings are foreign. She isn't sure what to do with them. She doesn't think there's a right response.
"How are the kids," She says, deciding to stick to the practical.
"They're processing," Henry tells her. It's the only word he can come up with. The three kids the two of them share all seem to be in a fog. He knows that could mean a lot of things, and God knows teenagers are not always forthcoming with their parents.
"Yeah," she sighs, "We're gonna have to talk to a professional,"
"We will," He promises.
She looks up at him, "Sorry you asked me to do this yet?" She whispers.
"No," He says with absolute certainty, "It's more than time for you to be home,"
Their gazes lock a little too intensely. The feelings running between them remain silent. They can't acknowledge what they want to say. It will be too much too soon. They have no way of having the conversations that need to be had, let alone process the feelings that need to be processed. There will be time for all of that at some point, but not right now. Right now, they have to focus.
"I'm gonna take a shower and get dressed," Elizabeth says.
"Yeah," Henry nods, almost disappointed she's broken their moment.
...X...X...X...
Elizabeth lets the water run over her hands and arms, not yet ready to stand under the water. She hasn't been scared of having the water on her head in a long time. It was one of the first things she had pushed through. It had only lasted until she got George's apartment in D.C., but the fear had been paralyzing. She knows what it feels like to breathe and get nothing but water in her lungs. She knows the burn in her chest and the panic and fear. She knows what it feels like for her mind to race as the buckets of water continue.
She knows the sound the water makes hitting the bag over her head before it splashes on the concrete floor. She takes another deep breath and double-checks her bag, making sure her toiletries are all there. She grabs her shampoo and conditioner and steps under the hot stream of water. She tries to focus on the smell and feel of the shampoo. She usually finds that hyper-focusing on the act of bathing helps her not to focus on the buckets of cold water that nearly drowned her so many times.
It works a little today, but she can still feel the icy cold water running down her body and the heavy weight of the bag over her head.
"You've got this, Elizabeth," she whispers.
She takes Henry's advice and takes her time getting ready. She needs the time to calm and focus her nerves. She can't go into this press conference, a frazzled mess. She puts on makeup and curls her hair. For the first time since she darkened her hair, the chocolate brown feels wrong. She doesn't feel like Lisa anymore. The change was swift and maybe too fast, but Elizabeth is back.
She puts on her suit and stares at herself in the mirror. She's not ready. Not by a long shot. But she can't put this off any longer. It's time to face the music once and for all.
…X…X…X…
Elizabeth walks into the dining room and has the pleasant experience of everyone going from talking about her behind her back to being completely silent.
"Good morning," She says, feeling the anxiety building in her chest. She looks around the table; two new faces are sprinkled in their seemingly ever-growing team.
"Agent McCord," Jay stands to greet her, not one for dropping the formality, "This is Daisy Grant, the media consultant I told you about, and this is my father, ex-CIA, Luca Whitman,"
"Hello, Daisy, nice to meet you. Thank you, Jay. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitman," Elizabeth says, shaking both of their hands. She's not exactly thrilled about having Luca Whitman around. She's naturally suspicious of the man who worked with both Conrad Dalton and Samuel Rodriguez, but he gave George the files, which hat to mean he's not on Conrad's side.
"All right, so let's go over what we have planned—what the coming weeks are going to look like for you," Jay begins to lead a meeting. There's something weird about that for her—to have her deeply personal experiences boil down to a business meeting with a Congressman, a DC Staffer, a Private Security Consultant, and a PR specialist.
"I have arranged a press conference. It will begin promptly at two pm. We have a couple of hours of prep for you this morning. After the press conference, we will take questions from reporters for one hour, after which we will head to the House Intelligence Committee. The Congressman has spent the morning briefing the Speaker on your situation. You will have to go over a few details in person in a closed session first, and the Speaker has agreed to commence the Impeachment Inquiry Committee if the files and your story are corroborated."
Elizabeth nods.
"Mr. Bishop already has a team of investigators guaranteeing the authenticity of the files. We have testimony from my father to corroborate how you came into possession of the files. Mr. Bishop is legally and non-violently trying to convince Agent Jessica Richardson to testify as to her involvement in using visitation of the children as leverage—"
"Does Henry know that?" Elizabeth cuts him off. The redhead-Henry's wife's involvement has thrown her into a guilty panic. She has no idea how Henry will react.
"He does," Jay tells her.
She nods.
"After the hearing, we will have a few days of press coverage, and then the media will move on from you and begin to focus on the crimes of the President solely. But you most likely won't know complete anonymity again. There will be paparazzi, reporters, and journalists hounding you. And the only way to handle that is with a press strategy. We need you to be prepared to speak publicly. That's where Daisy comes in; she's going to give you a rapid-fire lesson in press training."
"Okay,"
"I'll also ask you to prepare a statement for the press conference and the hearing," Jay adds.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Elizabeth says, her mind racing. She takes a deep breath before sitting down, "So, um, that's all I have to do today? Just tell the truth, right?"
"Yes, "Daisy steps in, "You're not going to lie. But it's not as simple as telling only telling the truth. Conrad Dalton is an extremely popular president. His approval rating is 61.2 percent according to the latest Gallup and 59.9 according to Quinnipiac, that's extremely high for a sitting president. Frankly, you have the task of making sure America knows that a likable guy is a monster. Jay and your friend Agent Barnes briefed me on the content of the files, and I've already written a draft of a statement that we can go over,"
"You wrote it already?" Elizabeth asks, surprised.
"Well, it's just a rough draft, more like bullet points to hit. We'll need to tailor it so it sounds like you. We need to make sure you are the most likable person in the USA," Daisy says, "So, let's go over it,"
"You're going to read this at the press conference, and then we're going to walk you through answering the questions the reporters will ask you,"
Elizabeth takes a deep breath and nods, "So, um, how personal does this need to get?"
"In the congressional hearings, detailed. But for the public, it's a balancing act; you don't want to be so detailed. It freaks people out, but you don't want to leave people questioning the truth of your story. So, we're going to use the legal terms sexual assault, torture, and kidnapping. But we're going to talk about the things you went through, in general, not the specifics. Is that going to be a problem for you?" Daisy asks.
"No, um, I can handle that," Elizabeth says. She thinks back to laying it all out in Dr. Sherman's office, the purge of words that come from her so quickly and easily. She doesn't want the word vomit to happen now, though. She doesn't want the details, and she doesn't want the panic that could arise from the memories.
"I think a good tactic for this is to be vulnerable," Daisy suggests, "We want the world to know this was not an easy thing for you. And I hope you don't take offense to this, but we need people to know you are the clear victim in this. You are not an evil mastermind. You were kidnapped, assaulted, and tortured, and the man responsible for those acts is the current President of the United States,"
"Victim," Elizabeth repeats the word. She had never used it to describe herself. She's never used the word survivor either. The term had seemed too trite and meaningless, and she didn't think it applied to her.
"Bess, don't think about the word as a descriptor of your character," Isabelle steps in, "Think of it as the legal term of what happened to you. I know you hate it, and I understand why, but you were the victim of a heinous crime. This is a fact. It doesn't mean you're not a survivor or a fighter. But for the sake of the public, for the sake of making sure they don't see you as some conniving woman. She only means you need to be seen as the clear good guy,"
"Can we do that without publicly using the word victim?" Elizabeth asks, trying to find a compromise.
"Absolutely," Daisy assures her, "I was only using it to make a point. As Agent Barnes said, you need to be the clear good guy. So, let's write your statement. How do you want the country to see you, and what are the three most important points you want them to remember?"
Elizabeth looks down at the legal pad; the blank paper is staring back at her. She feels like the words have been trapped inside her for so long. She knows exactly what she wants the country to know. She wants them to know that Conrad Dalton is a liar, a criminal, a murderer, and a traitor—all the things he made up about her. But how does she write that?
"Iz, can you get Henry? I think I'm going to need his help,"
