January 7, 2019

She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. She finds herself cleaning up her mascara, which has run the slightest bit. Her eyes are a little red-rimmed and swollen. She takes a deep breath. She runs her fingers through her hair—putting every single strand into place. She spends some time straightening her blazer until she feels it sit just right on her shoulders. She stares into her own eyes in the mirror. They seem cold. They seem detached. But that's how she needs them to be. She takes a deep breath, straightens her back, and finally puts Elizabeth Away for a while.

Secretary McCord confidently strides into the Oval as she does every day. She gets a look from Russell as she sits in her normal spot, grabbing her copy of the brief off the table. Russell keeps his eyes on her as she exchanges her pleasantries with Gordon, Ellen, and Ephraim. She ignores him. She can tell he knows she's ignoring him.

"Alright, well, let's get started," Conrad says. He takes a seat in his normal spot and starts the meeting.

Russell keeps staring at her—every few moments, his eyes lift to look at her. She can feel his pity and it's embarrassing her for no real reason. She hates that he knows her deepest-held secret. She hates that Conrad knows, too. It was supposed to stay locked away forever. That was always her plan. She keeps her eyes focused on the brief in front of her. She listens to Gordon give the latest Defense report, and she follows along on the page.

Russell nearly distracts her when she's giving POTUS an update on the latest North Korean semi-diplomatic exploits with China. She can feel his gaze boring holes in her skull.

"Thank you, everybody," Conrad says, standing. Everyone else follows to their feet at his dismissal.

"Russell, you have a second?" She asks as she packs up her things.

"Of course, Bess," He tells her. His voice is quiet, and he shows no signs of frustration. That eats at her.

She follows him to his office and waits until they are securely inside before speaking, "You've got to quit looking at me like that,"

"Like what?"

"Like you know what happened to me." She says.

"I'm sorry." He says it quietly. The kind of quiet that cuts right through her and brings her to the brink of tears because Russell doesn't do that kind of sincerity.

She swallows the lump in her throat, "Don't be. It happened a long time ago. I'm fine,"

"Bess," He sighs

"I'm fine, Russell," She says a little too forcibly to be convincing.

"I didn't mean to imply you weren't," He says, looking down.

"Russell, you know something about me now that nobody knows. And I don't want to talk about it. So, can you please stop staring at me like I'm a wounded animal,"

"I'm not,"

"Yes, you are. I haven't done that to you," Elizabeth says, gently reminding him of that night in her kitchen when he told her about Kenny.

"I didn't mean to." He sighs, "I'll try to stop,"

She nods. She can tell by the look on his face that he's not sure what to say next.

"Campaign prep lunch tomorrow?" She offers.

"Sure, Bess." He nods, and then his head does a slight shake as if to remind himself to treat as he usually does, "And by the way, do your job and get China under control with that North Korean business," His voice doesn't hold its usual snark, but it's a good start.

"Will do," She says, giving him a small thankful smile.

She calls Blake on her way to her motorcade. She needs to work her mind and body hard today. She has many feelings and too much adrenaline coursing through her. It's an old coping mechanism—old habits die hard.

…X…X…X…

Henry has no idea what this meeting is about. He knows he should know. It is his job to provide his input as an ethicist and scholar. If the issue at hand didn't have a certain ethics question at play, he wouldn't be involved. But he can't focus. He's too angry, too worried—too everything. He can't leave the Roosevelt Room fast enough after the meeting concludes. He had offered nothing of importance and he walks back to his office feeling even more useless than he has for the last twenty-four hours.

He finds himself grabbing his coat and walking out of the White House at twelve-thirty. He walks aimlessly for a little while before ending up in St. Patrick's—he always falls back to God. He has always loved this church. He first went to mass here the first time his parents brought him and his siblings to DC. There is particularly grand art and imagery and he always feels as if the architecture is a perfect combination of grand and peaceful. There is a certain dram to it all as the strong mid-day sun shines through the opulent cacophony of colors in the stained glass window above the choir loft. He follows the stream of light to the grand crucifix with the porcelain Jesus and parchment INRI sign.

The sanctuary, usually bustling with people seeking solace, is empty. This rare sight only amplifies Henry's sense of urgency. He finds a pew, genuflects, and bows his head towards the tabernacle, its red candle symbolizing the sacred Eucharist. His belief in God, always present, now takes on a desperate edge. He can't bear the thought of God remaining silent in his time of need.

He takes the walk to the small alcove holding all of the candles burning bright with other people's prayers. For the first time since his father's suicide, he puts a dollar into the box and grabs a match. He lights the candle, but there are no words that come to him. He stares at the flickering flame and thinks of Elizabeth. He doesn't know what else to do.

"Henry?"

He turns to the voice, finding Father Frank O'Connor, a Jesuit who teaches philosophy at Georgetown. He and Henry had made quick friends, bonding over a mutual love of Augustine and St. Francis—so much so he received a line in the acknowledgments of Henry's book on St. Francis. They have joked with one another about their life choices, both being the same age with the same upbringing. When Henry was asked why he didn't become a priest, his answer was the simple truth: I met my wife, and I was called to her, not the church.

"Frank, can you hear my confession please?" Henry asks as he lets his self-hatred and guilt sit fully on his shoulders.

"Of course," Father O'Connor says, ushering them both toward the confessional.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Henry falls into his rehearsed habits, kneeling before the screen.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirt," Henry says quietly, crossing himself, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two and a half years since my last confession. These are my sins—" He starts simply enough, the words scripted and practiced and easy. Until the last sentence, "I've been a weak husband."

He feels that's his biggest sin of all, encompassed in a single five-word sentence. He feels weak. He feels useless. He feels as if he is doing nothing for his family.

"Can you elaborate, Henry?" Father O'Connor asks.

"My wife was raped. And I feel like I'm not doing enough to help her. To help her heal. To help her feel safe. Or feel loved. I feel as if I've been failing her at every turn." his voice is full of frustration as he speaks.

"What are you doing to help?" Frank asks, he doesn't see his friend being a weak husband. He has spoken with Henry about his love for his wife and he can hear how much Henry loves Elizabeth.

"I'm trying. I'm trying to be a good husband, to be there for her, but I'm just failing." Henry says, the tears welling in his eyes, "I'm trying to take care of her... It happened twenty-eight years ago. She never told me. I'm trying so hard not to be hurt by that. I shouldn't be mad at her, but I am. I'm also mad at myself for being mad at her."

"Do you believe she kept this from you intentionally to hurt you?"

"No, never. Never. I've spent so much time talking to her these last couple of days. I truly believe that she didn't know how to handle it, so she buried it and ignored it. But I could've done so much more for her. And it infuriates me that he's out there. He got away with it. She said he never said anything, and he got away with it," He stops speaking, appalled at his own words. It hits him then that the reason he feels so powerless is because there is nothing he can do. He can't get the guy arrested. He can't kill him—no matter how badly he may want to. He wants Kincaid to pay for what he did.

"You have a very strong sense of justice, Henry. It is an honorable trait, but it is also impossible to obtain in this situation."

"Elizabeth deserves justice," Henry grits through his teeth, "He took something from her. He made her feel unsafe. He hurt my wife, and he gets away with it? That's not fair. And the worst part is... it was my fault. I wasn't home. I wasn't there. She was hurt and alone. And when I got home, months later she was so afraid of my reaction she didn't or couldn't tell me. I knew something was wrong. I knew. I should have done something. I should have pushed, and I didn't."

"Henry, have you talked to Elizabeth about how you're feeling?"

"No, I can't. She doesn't need that right now. She doesn't need to see me hurt. She needs support. I should be her rock," He says, his voice cracking.

"Have you considered that you can be vulnerable with your wife and be her rock at the same time?"

Henry sighs and shakes his head, "I can't be. I need to be strong."

"But Henry, you aren't a strong husband when you aren't letting yourself be vulnerable. I know you've read enough philosophy to have read some Brené Brown. She defined vulnerability as uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. She went on to say in another book Vulnerability is about sharing our feelings and our experiences with people who have earned the right to hear them. Your wife was incredibly vulnerable with you when she shared her story. I believe the same thing goes for you. You need to be vulnerable with her. She has earned the right to hear you. To end my thought, I'll leave you with the simple idea from Dr. Brown: There is no intimacy without vulnerability. If you truly want to be there for her, and show her you love her, and give her the support she needs, then be honest with her."

"She doesn't need my anger," He whispers, "And I'm so angry. Perhaps that's my greatest sin—my anger. I don't want to take it out on her. She's done nothing wrong. It was never her fault. But, I am so angry."

"I'm not surprised that you're angry, but I also know that anger is a secondary emotion. Sure, you are angry your wife was hurt, and you are angry she didn't tell you as soon as it happened. But there would've felt something else first; what was it?" Father O'Connor pushes.

"I was upset," Henry says as he tries to pinpoint his initial emotional reactions, "I was holding her as she told me... and she wasn't shy with the details... I could picture her. I could picture her there and so helpless and so afraid. I pictured her face and I just saw fear and pain. I felt... I felt overwhelmed and hurt. I felt sick. I could feel her. I could feel her pain. I could feel the terror and the disgust. I could feel all of the shame and guilt. I could feel the weight of it all on her chest and how she felt so trapped. And I just felt so powerless." Henry ends with a sigh.

"You felt powerless, and that made you angry," Father O'Connor summarizes.

"Yes. Because I should've been there, I should've been able to protect her. And I failed her," He says, finally understanding the root of his anger.

"Has she told you that she feels you've failed her?"

"No," Henry shakes his head.

"So, your feelings of failure are unfounded. You are taking on unnecessary blame. The only person to blame in this situation is your wife's rapist, Henry. He is the only one to blame. You didn't cause this. You didn't let this happen. He is the only one at fault."

"I understand, logically, you're right, but I still feel as if I'm a failure," Henry tells him.

"Then your penance is to speak to your wife. Tell her how you are feeling. The two of you have made vows to share your lives with one another. This is what you're going to do. Share the load, Henry. Don't be afraid to be vulnerable with her."

"Okay. I will." Henry agrees, not quite believing he is getting off that easy.

"Are you sincerely sorry for the sins you have listed to me here?" Father O'Connor takes it back to the script.

"Yes," Henry nods.

"Do you promise to go forward in this life, striving to sin no more?"

"Yes," Henry nods again.

"God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," Henry whispers.