April 15, 2019
Elizabeth stands tall, looking back into her office—well, Susan's office. Her photos, books, and awards are already packed away in the motorcade. It's been a whirlwind of a year. Ever since January, she's been on overdrive. This moment is surreal. To know she is walking out of Foggy Bottom, having fulfilled her journey here but on her way to an even greater one, is hard to wrap her mind around.
Time didn't stop when Tom Kincaid walked into her life and brought the storm of the trauma he gave her back with him. For four months, she has had to heal while planning her campaign, writing her policy platform, and running the State Department. She is exhausted. She wants to do nothing but take a long, hot shower and fall asleep. As much as she is thrilled to be leaving the Department of State, the anxiety she's feeling is overwhelming her. The stress, the excitement, the fear, and the unknown all hit her at once.
"Ma'am?" Blake says quietly from behind her. He's packed up his own office today. Jay and Daisy have as well. They are all ready to hit the road as soon as she and Henry return from their post-resignation-pre-campaign vacation.
She turns to him with a small smile, "Closing one door to open another." She nods toward the door, and he nods back, understanding.
"That's it," she tells him as she pulls on her coat and picks up her briefcase.
He follows her out, and the staffers that have gathered to watch the Secretary of State's final moments in the office cheer and clap.
Elizabeth walks through, shaking hands and thanking each person for their service. At the door of the SUV, before she gets into the DS motorcade for the last time, she looks back at Blake, Jay, and Daisy. "I will see you three bright and early in eight days," she orders. Now go enjoy your downtime!"
They smile and nod, and Elizabeth climbs into the car. The door closes, and the motorcade moves forward. She watches as the Truman building slips by the window. Her time here is done, but there's so much work ahead of her.
She lets out a small laugh, seeing that Henry has prepped the suitcases and car bags for their road trip down to Rodanthe, North Carolina. Now that Anguilla is a security concern due to the UN Security Council murders, Henry is giddy at the thought of a small road trip with his wife to a quaint little house on the beach. He's not sure they'll be able to do it again once she is in the White House.
"Hey, baby," Henry smiles, looking up at her from the stove as she walks into the kitchen, "How was your last day?"
"Weird," she shrugs, "bittersweet. It really was the best job I've ever had. And while I'm ready for the challenge of getting elected and I have fully framed what it will mean to be the President, I'm going to miss being the Secretary of State."
She looks down at the floor and swallows. The idea of holding the biggest office on Earth isn't what intimidates her. The campaign, however, terrifies her. The scrutiny, the constant media, the people who want her to fail—that's what scares her the most. She has no desire to become a public spectacle, especially if Tom Kincaid is the person who tries to do it. He remains a threat to her ambitions. Sure, mutually assured political destruction works, and she knows Blake has the confession recording in his office safe, but Tom Kincaid has the power to destroy her before the election. He will if given the opportunity, she is certain.
Henry turns off the burner and walks to her. His hands grip her shoulders. "Are you okay, Elizabeth?"
"Should I tell the kids?" she blurts at him in a quick breath.
Henry's face twists in confusion, "They know we leave for the beach tomorrow," he says, not sure why she wouldn't remember the whining when they said they weren't taking them on this trip with them even though they all have school and are over the age of eighteen.
"No, I mean," she steps back and sits down at the kitchen island. "Should I tell them about," she waves her hand in the air, "about the rape?"
Henry leans back against the counter, his eyes noticeably flicking to the stairs to check for listening ears as if their children are still toddlers who cannot hear about or process the harshness of the world, "I maintain that who you tell is your decision and only your decision, but out of concern for you as your husband and them as their father, may I ask where this is coming from?"
Elizabeth rolls her engagement ring around her finger: "Mike is always talking about where campaigns go wrong—that's his job as my campaign manager, and I know that. But having him in my ear about all of the dos and don'ts, profiles, and oppo research, it's hard not to think that every single thing I've ever done wrong will be out there soon. I just..."
She trails off, her gaze falling onto the floor.
Henry takes a step toward her, "Okay, first let me remind you that being a victim of a violent crime is not something you did wrong. You didn't do anything wrong. It was not your fault, babe."
She doesn't look up from the floor. It turns out that three-ish months of therapy do not suddenly untangle thirty years of self-blame. She can't look him in the eye, and she doesn't feel she deserves to have him look at her like she is perfect when she has never been.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to meet her eyes, "Elizabeth, look at me."
Slowly, she lifts her gaze. He smiles and brushes her hair behind her ear. "It wasn't your fault,"
She swallows, "It wasn't my fault."
"That's right," he says.
"You don't think I should tell the kids?"
Henry shakes his head, "I'm not telling you what to do. It is your decision and yours alone. If you decide to tell the kids, they will still love you and support you. I want to make sure all of you are protected. You are still healing a lot of internalized trauma, and I think that might be a big reason you are thinking about telling the kids. However, I do think the campaign is a bigger part of why you want to talk about it. It's not a bad idea. We could tell the kids, but," he pauses, "you have to decide whether or not you are ready. There is no guarantee that it will come out in the course of your campaign."
"There's no guarantee that it won't come out either," she whispers. "We don't know what Kincaid is going to do. I mean, we prepped them for so many things—the whole behind-the-scenes story of the bombing in Iran and my deployment in Iraq. I never want them to hear this thing that is so deeply personal from anyone who isn't me. It's so ugly."
She wipes a tear away and looks up at Henry. He smiles reassuringly at her and pulls her into his arms, "It sounds like you know what you want to do," he tells her.
Elizabeth nods, "I want to tell them, and I want to do it tonight. I want it all out there now so it isn't hanging over my head, and they have some time to process it before I announce it. But is it unfair to drop it on them and then leave tomorrow?"
"No," Henry says, "The fact is we don't have a lot of time before the campaign. You're not going to have a lot of time to comfort or parent over the next year. We all already know and are prepared for that. The kids are prepared for that. And yes, they are our babies, but that doesn't mean they aren't young adults. We raised them, and we did a good job. They can handle this. As you reminded me when Dimitri was looking for Stevie, our kids are equipped to handle a lot. You will have to be okay with not being there for them every step of the way because the reality is they will have to take a lot of steps on their own."
She takes a deep breath, nodding. She knows he's right, and she's thankful he is always here with her to help her through things like this. As the kids grow into adulthood, she finds herself worrying about them more instead of less. Maybe it's the lack of control over their lives and actions or the fact that they aren't with her at every second and can't protect them the way she used to.
She leans into him, seeking something she can't quite put her finger on—more than comfort but less than peace. She breathes him in, allowing herself to be held for a few moments before standing tall. "You're right," she tells him.
He gives her a sad smile, knowing this conversation and what is coming next isn't going to be easy for any of them.
"At dinner?" She asks, wanting just twenty more minutes before she has to share what she still perceives as her shame.
"That sounds good," Henry answers, giving her a small kiss.
He starts to walk away, but she grabs his hand and holds him in place. She looks up at him, "Thank you. You have really made all of this easier. I know that this hasn't been easy for you to learn and process. But you have gone out of your way to help make it easier for me. And I'm grateful for it. I love you more than I could ever verbally express."
He swallows thickly as he stands with her words for a moment. Elizabeth has always been one to show her love in small, subtle ways- softly hitting his chest, laughing at his bad jokes, listening to him rant, and being there for him when the day is over. She's never been the person to sit down and talk openly about her emotions, even with him. He's always been the sentimental one, with big words and long letters and romantic gestures. While her subtlety has always been more than enough for him to feel secure in their relationship, when she does take the time to express her love so directly, it always surprises him and touches him.
He looks at her now, standing before him with her hand in his. He sees her, really sees her. He doesn't see a powerful and important secretary of state, an accomplished academic, or a candidate for president. In this moment, he sees the woman who has loved him fiercely, trusted him, and has stood by him through this journey they call life.
"I love you, too, Elizabeth." He whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his love and emotion.
They stand there, staring at each other, both afraid to move for fear of breaking the bubble of the moment. However, the oven timer does that for them.
"I have to pull dinner out," Henry finally says.
"Okay," Elizabeth smiles, squeezing his hand before letting go.
"You're sure you're okay? We don't have to do this tonight. If you need more time or aren't ready to tell them, we can wait."
"No," she shakes her head, "no, I'm okay. I'm going to set the table. You finish up," she tells him and then kisses him on the cheek before heading out to the dining room.
Elizabeth walks to the cabinet and pulls out the dishes and glasses. She hears her family walking down the stairs. Jason and Alison are laughing instead of fighting for once, and the sound is like music to her ears. She has no idea how she is supposed to see them only every two weeks for a year—she had to argue with Mike about those scheduled times.
She carries the stack of dishes to the table. She feels Henry walk up behind her and set the silverware down. His hand rests on her lower back, and the heat radiating from his hand seeps into her skin, helping her calm and relax.
She goes around the table, moving each water glass to the left side of the plate directly after Jason and. smiling as he mutters that the correct way makes no sense for right-handed people. She then takes her seat across from Henry.
Once everyone has sat down, the family begins dishing up their food. Elizabeth listens to her kids as they talk about their days, mostly complaining about tests, friends, Professors, and, of course, Russell Jackson.
She takes a sip of her water. Her eyes flick around the table. She has no idea how she's supposed to do this, what the hell she is supposed to say, or what reaction her children will have. She wonders for a moment if she should destroy this last dinner before the chaos of the campaign and the White House. Her eyes meet Henry's, and he looks at her in a way that is both reassuring and encouraging.
"Hey, guys," she interrupts, and the table falls quiet. She looks at each of them and then begins, "I want to say how grateful I am for the level of maturity the three of you have shown as I begin this journey. You have always managed to amaze me with how smart, strong, and independent you are, and I am proud of the people you have become,"
Henry listens to her stall in the same way she did before she told them she was going to run for president—her tone is half political and half maternal. He watches the way her eyes flit between her kids and her hands as she wrings them under the table. He wishes he could tell her not to worry and that she doesn't need to do this, but he knows that is not true. He also knows how much she needs to be the one to tell her kids.
"In that vein, the way you have all stepped up and listened to Mike B and Jay about campaigning and have patiently sat through lectures. And I know the five of us have had to have some tough conversations about the reality of how my becoming the President will affect our family, but it is important for me to acknowledge and thank you for it all. I know this isn't easy and not what you signed up for. It is not something any of you asked for. But I wanted to let you know that I am so thankful for all of your help, patience, and support."
For a moment, Henry believes she's decided not to tell them. He looks at her as she looks at each kid. He watches her eyes, the way her shoulders hunch, and the slight tremble of her lip.
"Now, with all that said," Elizabeth takes a deep breath, "I have another conversation I want to have with you guys tonight."
The table is silent. Everyone can tell this isn't just a pep talk. They are waiting for her to say what she wants to say, but none of them are sure what is coming next.
Elizabeth looks at the faces of her children, and for the first time, she realizes just how much they are not kids. They are all still young: Stevie still has a year of law school, Allie two years of undergrad, and Jason graduates from High School next month. But, looking at them, it hits her just how old they are, how independent they are, and how much their lives are their own.
"As you know, I'm running for president," she continues, "and part of this campaign is going to be a lot of attention and a lot of people talking about me. And while I know that's not something new or unexpected, and I hope you're ready for the scrutiny—I hope we all are. There is one thing that I want to tell all of you on my terms. It's not the kind of thing I want any of you blindsided with by a reporter or a tweet—if that were to happen. It's hard enough for me to tell you and for me to talk about, but I don't want any of you finding out or hearing about it from someone else."
"What's up?" Allison pops the P sound at the end but does check her phone to monitor the time.
Elizabeth takes a deep breath. She doesn't really have a plan, and she has no idea what the right thing to say is, so she lets the words tumble out: "In 1991, I was attacked while I was out on a run."
Henry notices her word usage—the self-censor of the word rape. He can't tell if it was intentional or subconscious, but he can see the tension in her body. She's gripping her hands under the table. He's sure her knuckles are white, and the stress and tension in her back, shoulders, and neck are evident.
"Attacked?" Jason asks for clarification. She notices that her daughters don't. There are always things that are unspoken among women, and she imagines this is one of those things.
"I was," Elizabeth pauses. This is the hardest part, the words stuck in her throat, "A man pushed me off the trail and forced himself on me,"
Again, the word eludes her—as if she can protect what's left of their innocence.
"Oh, my God," Allison mutters. Her eyes are wide, and her voice is shocked.
Stevie's eyes flick around the room. She can see how her parents are acting and how the information is affecting her sister and her brother. Her gaze lands on her dad, and he gives her a slight nod. She takes a deep breath and turns her attention back to her mother.
"But I survived, and I'm okay." Elizabeth continues, the words are hollow. She knows the reality is far more complicated than the simple sentence.
The room is silent. Everyone is trying to understand. Elizabeth looks at Jason, her only son and her youngest. His brow is furrowed, and she can see him running through all the implications, the what-ifs, and whys. His mouth moves as if he is trying to come up with a question, but he is having trouble.
"How could somebody do that to you?" he whispers. Jason remembers being little and thinking his mother had superpowers. His mom was always everywhere, doing everything for everybody. There's never been a doubt in his mind that his mom would stand in front of bullets unafraid to protect him and his sisters. He never even thought of the possibility that someone could hurt her, but he knows that they can.
"I don't know, Jase. I was on the wrong trail at the wrong time," she shrugs. Academics, psychologists, and cops can write articles and give lectures about the sense of power, wanting control, or needing dominance that a rapist or abuser seeks. But none of those things allow her to wrap her head fully around why; all they do is remind her that he did it because he wanted to, and he loved every second of it. It doesn't matter that she knows in her head he's a coward who needs to commit acts of violence to feel like a big man. When she thinks about what he did, when the memory hits her, the only thing that matters is what happened—how he sounded when he laughed and the pain she felt when he moved against her body. He liked what he was doing, and she couldn't talk herself into understanding the reason he did what he did to her, let alone sympathizing with it.
"Are you okay?" Allie asks.
Elizabeth smiles. The concern and care in her daughter's voice touch her, and it means the world that she cares about her well-being. She loves that her children are so empathetic and loving. It is a gift she and Henry have tried to instill in them since the day they were born. All three of them, though different, truly are the best of her and Henry.
"Yeah, Noodle. I've lived with this for a long time," she says, leaving out the thirty years' worth of internalization and repression. The one thing she hopes that she and Henry didn't pass down to them is the well-practiced stoicism they've needed throughout their careers and the years together. She wants them to be able to express their feelings.
"Why are you telling us this now?" Jason asks.
"Because I want you to know," she says, "and, frankly, the campaign has me a little more in my head about the possibility of it being dragged into the open. And I want all of us to be prepared and equipped if that were to happen."
"So, I assume there is a paper trail of some kind—police reports, court transcripts, and stuff?" Stevie asks.
Elizabeth looks down at the table—and not for the first time—she wishes that were the case. She tries to be kind to herself, especially to that twenty-two-year-old kid who was alone, terrified, and traumatized. But she still finds it difficult not to wish that she would've had the presence of mind to call the police.
"I know you're in law school and that you've grown up with two parents who uphold these systems, and you think you know so much about the world at twenty-four. But the truth is, there is not a traditional paper trail because no reports were ever made. There are enough people who know about this that it's a risk it could come out, and I didn't want any of you blindsided by it."
"Wait, you didn't call the police?" Stevie exclaims, her voice containing hints of judgment.
Elizabeth opens her mouth, but no words come out. She has no idea how to respond to her daughter's reaction. She didn't expect Stevie to have such an issue with her decision or, more specifically, her lack of action.
"No, I didn't," Elizabeth answers slowly, unsure of the next question or how to answer it.
"Why the hell not?" Stevie says.
Elizabeth sits there, stunned, and has no idea what to say. She knows the world is so big and so complicated. She understands that Stevie is still so young and that she's always had a strong sense of justice and fairness. Elizabeth's always admired her ability to take a situation and break it down. But, at the same time, Stevie is so naive, and sometimes, that is frustrating.
"Because it's not as simple as you make it out to be, and I think you know that," Elizabeth finally answers.
"No. If somebody hurts you like that, you call the police. You press charges. You get justice," Stevie says, her tone matter-of-fact.
"I think it's very easy for you to sit there and judge Mom without ever having lived her experiences," Allison says, meeting Stevie's tone and attitude.
"She's our mother. What happened to her matters, and I'm not saying it doesn't, but—"
"Stop," Elizabeth's voice cuts through the conversation, silencing the debate. "We are not going to debate this,"
"Why not?" Stevie pushes. "You brought it up. Why is it wrong that I have questions?"
"It's not wrong that you have questions," Henry intervenes, "but it is wrong that you have judgments."
"Dad, it doesn't make sense not to call the police and press charges,"
"It's not that simple," Allison repeats her mother's statement.
"I'm not stupid. It is exactly that simple,"
"I didn't say you were stupid, Stevie," Elizabeth says, her tone firm and authoritative, "But it's not black-and-white. After the bombing at the White House, you went to work two days after you were released from the hospital after having major surgery. I'm sure you know why you did that. I know why you did that. And it's not because the country or your job was more important than your recovery, but there are things we do to maintain our sense of normalcy when our worlds are turned upside down. We have to do the things that make us feel safe and in control. Sometimes, we have to put up walls or hide the ugly parts because it helps us maintain some level of equilibrium. It's a form of coping, though not a healthy one. And you did that, baby girl, surrounded by people who love you and support you. I was alone. I was traumatized. I was ashamed. I was scared. And the world is different now than it was when your father and I were your age. There were still things that people didn't speak of. I did what I needed to do to cope. And I did that by pretending like it didn't happen, which was not the healthy choice and I know that now that I'm thirty years wiser."
Stevie looks at the table, her cheeks reddened. Elizabeth wonders if she pushed too hard on a wound that's still too fresh for her baby girl. She's always tried to be honest and open with her children in age-appropriate ways. Her career choices have always made her question how to shelter their innocence best while raising them to be ready for the realities of the world around them.
"I'm sorry," Stevie mumbles, not looking at her mother.
Elizabeth looks to Henry with a desperate need for him to help Stevie and alleviate her guilt of using her child's recent and biggest trauma against her as if she were any debate adversary.
Henry nods, "I know this is hard for you to hear. You have been raised in a way where justice is always supposed to prevail. And that is your mother's and I's fault. We have always strived to raise you kids in a way that allowed you to believe in the system and the people within it. But sometimes, there are no right answers. Your mom was the victim of a crime, and while there are healthy and unhealthy ways to cope, coping in and of itself is never wrong. And Stevie, you didn't do anything wrong by going to work that day either. That was mom's point she didn't articulate that well because this conversation is hard for her too."
Stevie says nothing, but she nods, and Elizabeth is ready to break. She hates the tension and awkwardness. Her stomach twists as she watches her daughter sit quietly and uncomfortably. Complete silence washes over their dining room as Henry moves closer to Stevie, and Jason pushes what's left of his food around his plate.
Allison is watching her family, looking for a way to break the tension and return things to a semblance of normal. She glances at her mother and sees the sadness and defeat in her eyes. It breaks her heart because, no matter how bad her parents can be at expressing themselves and no matter how many mistakes they've made, the only thing they have ever wanted is to protect their family.
"Mom?" Allison asks, drawing everyone's attention to her. "What do you mean when you said the possibility of it coming out?"
Elizabeth is grateful for her daughter, and her question allows her to move past the conversation with Stevie and answer what is a much more straightforward question. "I mean the possibility. As I mentioned, the number of people who know this is not zero, and one of those people is the man who did it. He could have a motive for getting the story out there."
"You know who it was?" Stevie finally looks back at her mother.
"Yes," Elizabeth nods, "I found out his identity back in January. It's been... Um, it's been hard to deal with, and I'm trying."
Stevie nods and sniffles, "I'm sorry."
"Sweetheart," Elizabeth sighs, reaching across the table for her hand, "it's okay. You were reacting to something I dropped on you, and it's not fair of me to get upset with you or go at you like I did. I'm sorry, baby girl."
"No," Stevie shakes her head, "it's not okay. It's not fair for me to judge you when I've never lived your experience. It's not okay for me to push you or demand answers, and I'm sorry, Mom. And I'm sorry, Dad, for snapping at you. I shouldn't have said it was black and white, and I should have known better than to snap."
Henry looks at his family. Regardless of the tension and the fighting, he knows that he and Elizabeth have built something as parents and raised their children to be respectful, empathetic, and kind. His heart swells with pride.
"Well, now that the apologies are out of the way," Allison says, breaking the tension, "I want to say how proud I am of you, Mom."
"Me too," Jason says.
"You guys," Elizabeth whispers, her eyes filling with tears. I love all three of you more than you could even imagine. Thank you for being willing to let me upend your lives by running for president. I'm here to answer questions once you've processed or thought of any, and I want us to stay open and honest with each other about how this is affecting us—not just this—but the entire campaign. I'm your mom first, and I will always make time for you. That's not something that's going to change."
"You're going to be a good president, Mom," Stevie smiles at her with her forgiveness implied.
"She's already the best Secretary of State," Allison reminds them.
"And a great mom," Jason adds.
"Thank you, guys. That means a lot to me." Elizabeth tells them.
She spends the night with her babies in a way she fears she may never get to again. Just the five of them: ice cream, board games, and movies. It's her perfect evening with her favorite people.