January 6, 2019

She cocoons herself in their office—closing both sets of pocket doors and sitting on the bay window bench, holding a pillow in one hand and her cell phone in the other. Her hand shakes as she looks through her personal phone's contact list. This call feels harder than the one she made after Iran. She wants to know why that would be. Post-Iran was her first time in therapy; having been raised with the American outlook on mental healthcare, she was afraid of seeming too crazy. But she knows better now. The only thing she can figure out is that her subconscious is scared of what it means to deal with this deeply buried thing.

She hits the call button to the woman who Elizabeth is sure is the crisis therapist to too many public officials in this town and holds her breath.

"Dr. Kensie Sherman,"

Elizabeth nearly loses her nerve when she hears the familiar greeting. She can feel her heart beating against her ribs, and her breathing starts to hitch. But she knows what's good for her- whether she's ready to face it or not.

"Hi, it's Elizabeth, uh, McCord. Do you have time to fit me in this week?" The words come out in a purposeful, quick flash. She's worried about backing out.

"Hey, Elizabeth, I'll make the time. Is everything okay?"

Elizabeth's eyes begin to burn, "No. Not at all, but I can't discuss it over the phone,"

Elizabeth is sure Dr. Sherman is no stranger to that request. What person in Washington, DC, can afford the risk of their very personal business getting exposed?

"It sounds to me like you really need to talk about something. Can you meet today at 11?"

"Absolutely," Elizabeth is grateful for the prompt response.

"Good, I'll see you at 11,"

Elizabeth ends the call and exhales the breath she's been holding.

She finds herself alarmingly falling into old habits as she gets ready to leave her house. She changes her clothes four times, unable to decide what looks more unassuming—and as Henry always reminds her when she's anxious, she takes it out on her clothes. She tightens her belt past practical and then past comfortable. She finally settles on a new sweatshirt of Henry's—wanting desperately to wear the old Steelers one—over a turtleneck. She applies a layer of tinted sunscreen and some mascara, wishing she was back in a time when she didn't have to think about the possibility of being photographed every time she left her house.

She watches Henry for a few moments as he finally sleeps. He has the blankets kicked down around his feet. His glasses are on the nightstand next to his abandoned book on Pope Alexander VI. His face is serene, and he is breathing deeply. She wishes she could stay here and curl up in bed next to him and maybe get some sleep of her own. But she knows it would continue to elude her.

"I love you," She whispers, bending down and kissing his forehead, "I'll be home soon,"

He doesn't stir, and she is thankful.

On her way out the door, she pours some coffee into her travel mug and writes Henry a little note on the coffee maker—just in case.

She steps out, and not unlike when she got Lady she feels relieved when her DS agents fall in line around her. She lets them know where they're going and takes a breath before climbing into the SUV.

She climbs the spiral staircase to Dr. Sherman's office. She's always respected the almost clandestine nature of the office—residential neighborhood and building, the spiral staircase, and the door with the small, discrete sign. There was a large part of her that was concerned when she first came here that every word she said would be printed in the Chronicle or Times. It's the same concern most politicians have when they start to seek therapy. But her visits were kept private, and in turn, Elizabeth grew to trust the woman.

"Hey, Elizabeth," Dr. Sherman greets her with a smile, "Come on in,"

"Hi," Elizabeth- always the diplomat- offers a polite smile. Her eyes flick to the fish tank on its stand as she takes a seat on the couch.

Dr. Sherman watches her client for a few moments as Elizabeth stares at the tank. Her gaze is distant. Her jaw is clenched. Her hands are fiddling with the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

"Are you comfortable telling me what brought you here today?"

Elizabeth looks up at her and sighs, "Do you remember, um, like four sessions in after Iran... You asked me if a man had ever hurt me. And I told you no. Well, uh, I lied."

Elizabeth is surprised when Dr. Sherman doesn't seem shocked. Instead, the older woman nods, "I know,"

Elizabeth's brow furrows in confusion, "How?"

"I'm an experienced clinician, Elizabeth. Your experience in Iran was triggering something deeper. But I also knew I couldn't push you on it. I was hoping you would come to me on your own time. And here we are,"

Elizabeth is silent, and the room is filled with the sound of the fish tank's air pump. She looks to the floor as she wonders if she's doing the right thing. She can feel the anxiety bubbling up, and her stomach twists. Her mind is suddenly racing with doubt.

"Elizabeth," Dr. Sherman prompts softly, "Are you ready to talk about it?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah," She looks up, her voice a little shaky.

"What happened?"

Elizabeth takes a deep breath. Her mind is suddenly flooded with the memories, and her eyes tear, "Back in 1991, I was raped while out for my morning run,"

Her words are concise, which surprises her. She's barely been able to think about it in such a harsh way, and the fact that she's able to speak it aloud is an immense shock to her. She can hear Dr. Sherman exhale, and when Elizabeth looks up, the woman's face is soft.

"I'm very sorry that you went through that, Elizabeth,"

"Me, too," She breathes.

"Did something happen that brought this to the surface?" Dr. Sherman asks, trying to keep Elizabeth talking.

Elizabeth nods, "I saw him," she whispers as her throat is too tight to do anything else. She wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"Where?"

"At the White House," She manages, "What was he doing there?"

She hasn't been able to process that fact. The man who hurt her so deeply is now important enough or rich enough to have been invited to a birthday party for the President. The thought makes her stomach twist again. She keeps seeing him laugh- in his tux in the east room and on top of her in the woods. She closes her eyes as the tears fall freely.

"It's okay, take your time, Elizabeth. Take a deep breath,"

Elizabeth pulls her sleeves over her hands and rubs her face before pulling her arms back inside the sweatshirt. She takes a deep breath and wills herself to calm down.

"How did you feel when you saw him?"

Elizabeth sighs as she tries to put words to the emotion, "Shocked, at first I was shocked. But then... He was standing at a table, and he was laughing... And then he started talking. And I was taken back to that morning, and all I could think about... It was like he was surrounding me, and the walls were closing in,"

Dr. Sherman watches the woman intently. Elizabeth is clearly trying her best not to cry, but Dr. Sherman can see the tears threatening to fall. Elizabeth is fighting them. Elizabeth does a lot of that she knows. She holds it in. She buries it deep. While she may not let go and cry in this office today, to hear Elizabeth use descriptive language that eludes to her physically feeling her feelings is a huge breakthrough for the woman who tends to intellectualize everything.

"What did you do when you felt trapped?"

Elizabeth shakes her head, "I ran," she admits, "I asked Henry to take me home, and he did, no questions."

Dr. Sherman nods, "And then what happened?"

"I told him about it," Elizabeth answers quietly, "I didn't have the strength to hide it anymore. It's like seeing him has uncovered this wound only to find it's gangrenous and festering, and I can't get it out of my head."

Elizabeth takes a moment to catch her breath. Her emotions have caught up to her, and it's almost overwhelming. She doesn't like how this feels.

"Henry didn't know?" Dr. Sherman asks carefully. She knows them as a couple. She knows the ways in which they communicate and connect. She also knows the ways in which they hide from each other. She knows from their joint sessions and couple work that the two will go to extraordinary lengths to protect each other from their worst selves.

"No, I've never told him," Elizabeth admits.

"Why?"

"It's hard to explain, but..." She's silent as she thinks, "At first, it was because he was deployed, and I genuinely worried for his safety. But then... I just... I don't..."

Dr. Sherman notices the way Elizabeth is pulling at her sleeves again as if she wants to be fully covered. Her cheeks are blushing red, and her eyes are cast to the ground. She is obviously embarrassed.

"Elizabeth, are you ashamed of being raped?" Dr. Sherman asks softly, not wanting to scare her.

"Yeah," Elizabeth admits quietly, her eyes filling with tears again, "I know on an intellectual level I shouldn't be, but I just... I've always been so strong… I'm a fighter... and I still let this guy..."

"Elizabeth, I want you to hear this and listen,"

Elizabeth looks up.

"What he did was not your fault. You did not ask to be raped. You did nothing to deserve it. Rape is the fault of the rapist and only the rapist."

"I froze," she whispers, "I didn't fight him. I froze,"

"You survived," Dr. Sherman says with a tad stern tone, "You survived. The brain is designed to protect itself. Your body reacted in the best way it could. It's not your fault."

"It wasn't my fault," Elizabeth whispers as tears of relief threaten to fall down her cheeks. It's as if she's needed to hear those words her entire life, and yet she couldn't allow herself even to consider them.

"No, Elizabeth, it was not your fault,"

"It wasn't my fault," Her tears turn into sobs. She had only gone for a run. She had gone for a run, and a man had violated her. She had done nothing to deserve it. Nothing at all. She had existed in the wrong place at the wrong time.

…X…X…X…

Henry wakes up two hours after he fell asleep. He reaches for her and is met with cold sheets. Usually he would not be alarmed to wake up to an empty bed. It happens a little too frequently when you are married to the Secretary of State, but today, knowing what he knows, his heart begins to race. He needs to be near her to love her and protect her—because apparently, he's failed at that.

He pads quickly down the stairs, looking for his wife, only to be met with Allie and Jason yelling at each other over the TV remote.

"Cut it out!" He says much too harshly- at least much more harshly than he meant to. His teenagers look at him blankly, confused at their father's unusual Sunday morning mood.

"Sorry. Headache," He mumbles, "Where's your mom?"

"She left you a note on the coffee maker," Allison says looking at her dad as if he's a pod person. He has to admit his current mood is out of character.

He smiles at his daughter and mumbles his thanks. He grabs a mug before looking at the pale yellow Post-It. On it is her perfect script.

I had an OTR meeting. I should be home by 1:00. I love you.

-E

OTR—off the record—therapy. It's their code for it. The Secretary of State and hopeful presidential candidate could not be caught going to therapy. It would be career suicide- especially for a woman, no matter how hideous that double standard may be. He pours himself a mug of the coffee she left for him and hopes she's doing alright.

"Hey guys, I have some work to do in the office this morning," He tells the kids, who seem indifferent to that fact. He kisses the tops of their heads before walking to their office and closing the pocket doors.

He takes his seat at the desk. He opens the laptop. He does something he shouldn't—he really shouldn't. The ethicist in him knows better. But he sends the email to Russell Jackson asking for the guest list of the party under false pretenses anyway. He will get his hands on it. And when he does, he will find out which name on it belongs to the scumbag who raped his wife.