Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine
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Feedback: Yes please. Don't make me beg.
Spoilers: Two Gunmen.
Summary: Ginger thinks about her childhood heroine.
Notes: Response to the Challenge on The West Wing Women List, where you had to do a post-ep, from one of your favourite women character's POV, making reference to a well known female literary figure (either author or character) and a piece of jewellery with sentimental value. If you don't know the author L.M. Montgomery and her creation, Anne Shirley, you're going to be lost. And there are copious spoilers in here for the books in that series, most notably "Anne of Green Gables", "Anne of Avonlea", and "Anne of the Island".
I hated my hair when I was growing up.
It was always long, because my mom loved my hair long, and she never wanted me to cut it. She'd never allow me to cut it, no matter how much I begged and pleaded and cried. She told me that it was beautiful, that it was one of my best features and that when I was older that other women would be jealous of the length and the colour.
You try telling that to a girl who's heard every possible catcall and nickname related to red hair.
It was my godmother who knew how much the teasing was getting to me. And she did something that I've always been grateful to her for.
She gave me a set of books for Christmas.
I was sceptical when I ripped the paper and saw what was underneath. Even though I was a good student, somewhat of a bookworm (just another thing for the other kids to tease me about) I'd never heard of these books. But it was Christmas in New Jersey, it was freezing outside and inside, our kitchen looked like the aftermath of an explosion in the food aisle. So I did what any sensible girl would do - put my head down, and got the hell out of the way.
My mother found me two hours later, curled up by the fire, having already been called for Christmas dinner umpteen times, engrossed in the adventures of Anne Shirley and her Avonlea friends, a scene that would be repeated time and again that Christmas.
Anne was the kind of girl that I would have wanted to be friends with, the kind of girl that I wanted to be. I was shy, quiet, the kind of girl who'd sit quietly by while the world went on without her. Anne was brash and outspoken, while managing to be kind and well meaning. She was popular. She was clever. She had a sassy, spunky attitude.
And red hair.
Which she hated.
Now you see why my aunt gave me those books.
I laughed when she tried to dye her hair, but ended up turning it green. Come to think of it, that was my mother's cautionary tale whenever I mentioned dying my own hair. Maybe the books were a little my mom's idea after all. But I do know that I never considered dying it again after reading that section.
I cheered when Anne cracked the slate over Gilbert's head. He was teasing her, and she didn't respond. She didn't like Gilbert you see, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he was getting to her. That is, until he called her "Carrots." They were at school at the time, and she picked up her writing slate and cracked it in two, right over his head.
Not that I used writing slates at school, but you get the idea. I knew what it was like to be teased, and the idea of violence against some of those people - well, I never would have done it, but it was a nice daydream.
Even though no-one's called me "Carrots" in many years, where I work, with what I have to put up with, it's still a nice daydream.
I loved those books. I read them over and over again. And when they made the TV show in the 80s, I watched them, taped them, and watched them over and over. And when they brought out the videos to buy, I ended up buying two. One to watch, and one to keep in reserve, in case the repeated playing wore out the originals.
Anne Shirley was my hero.
But there was something about her that I could never figure out. Even now, now that I've read all the books over and over, I never understood how she didn't realise that Gilbert was the one for her sooner.
It was obvious to me, from the moment that she cracked the slate over his head that they were meant to be together. All the times he tried to make up for what he did and she refused to forgive him, even after he rescued her after she nearly drowned on that leaky dory and he took her back to shore, even though she wasn't talking to him at the time. And what about when he gave up the Avonlea school for her, so that she could teach there, all the times that they studied together - how could she have been so blind? She even dated that stuck-up idiot Roy Gardner, she was all prepared to marry him. I mean -hello?
Gilbert Blythe was funny, handsome, considerate, kind, clever…he was the perfect man, and the perfect man for Anne.
She nearly had to lose him before she realised that. He got sick with typhoid fever, and they didn't think that he was going to make it. There was a scene in the film where she went to his sickbed, and showed him the book that she wrote, dedicated to him, but that's not in the book. In the book, Anne stayed up all night after little Davy let slip his news, and that's when she knew that she loved Gilbert. "There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonised vigil through the hours of storm and darkness." Even after all these years, I can remember that quote. The storm only ebbed after Pacifique Buote told her that Gilbert had taken a turn for the better and was going to be fine. She remembered a Biblical quote then, that "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
"Anne of the Island" is my favourite of the books. But I never really understood that part before tonight. Last night. Whenever.
I was sitting at home, watching whatever was on TV. I can't even remember what now, that's how much attention I was paying. But my attention went straight to the TV when they broke across the programme with a special news bulletin. One that ripped my world right down the middle.
They were saying that shots were fired at the President and his entourage as they left a meeting at the town hall in Rosslyn.
I knew all about that meeting. Toby had me typing up answers for the President all week, changing a word here, a word there, rewriting whole answers altogether. There had been strategy meetings all week, I'd even been in on some of them.
Earlier today, they were debating if he should take his jacket off.
And now they'd just been shot at.
My President. My boss. My friends.
I don't know how long I sat there, praying, too shocked to even cry, just staring at the TV set, waiting for news. The first phone call came minutes after the broadcast went on air; I let the machine get it. There was no-one that I wanted to talk to then.
Not that there was much news coming through. First of all, they said the President was fine. Then that he was shot, but that it wasn't serious.
Then came the news about Josh.
Once I didn't hear any other names that I knew, I knew they had to be ok. Or at least not hurt. Not shot. And I did spare a moment to think of Donna, and how she must be feeling right about now.
Which, I'm ashamed to admit, was tempered with the thought, "Thank God it wasn't him."
L.M. Montgomery was right. There is a book of Revelations in everyone's life, and I read mine tonight, in that time that I was immobilised in front of my TV.
It wasn't supposed to be this serious. It was a once-off thing we told ourselves, a drunken stumble on the campaign trail. The fact that it reoccurred every so often meant nothing. There was no pattern to it, no rhyme or reason. Sometimes, after a state dinner, he'd arrive at my door. Or after a successful vote. After the Mendoza confirmation. Or sometimes, we'd just be working late in the office, we'd order a take-out dinner, and we'd go home together. And somewhere along the line, it became a habit, usually once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less.
I stopped questioning a long time ago why Toby Ziegler ended up in my bed, and just enjoyed the times that he was there.
So when I saw that special bulletin, all I wanted to know was what had happened to Toby.
When his name wasn't mentioned, save the fact that he was there, I finally forced myself to move. I answered the phone before I left; it was the fifth time my mom had called, she told me, and she was hysterical. I calmed her down, told her to ring everyone and tell them that I was fine, and got in my car and drove to the White House.
I had to turn when I was halfway there because I realised I'd forgotten my ID badge.
I've never seen the West Wing like that. Under siege from police, and Secret Service and reporters, and people holding a candlelight vigil outside. Inside, people were running around everywhere, people were standing talking quietly, some were taking time out to sit in the corner and cry quietly.
And I was wandering around the Communications bullpen in shock when I heard the most beautiful sound that I've ever heard. It's a sound so familiar to me that I've never realised just how much I love it.
Toby and CJ talking as they walked down the hall.
He strode into the bullpen as though it was just another day, telling whoever was listening that he needed Section 202 of the National Securities Act of 1947, and while normally I'd scurry off to get him that, I found myself immobile again. All I could do was look at him and thank God that he was there, in front of me, that he was giving orders, that he wasn't hurt.
Somewhere between hearing his voice and seeing him, I began to shake, and I couldn't stop it, even though I tried. I also couldn't take my eyes off him. He went to go into his office, but then he stopped and turned.
And then he looked at me.
I could tell that he knew everything I was thinking from the look on my face, and suddenly I found myself in front of him, and I don't think I'll ever know how I got there. In as gentle a voice as I've ever heard him use at work he said, "Hey Ginger. I didn't know you were here." I know him well enough to read between the lines and know what he was really asking me: How did you find out? Why are you here? Are you ok?
I managed to nod, and stutter out something about how I just turned on the TV, but he was standing so close to me, and he looked so worried about me and so concerned, and he'd just been shot at and I couldn't stop shaking, and my voice was all wobbly, and he told me that it was ok. And then he did something that I'd never have thought Toby Ziegler would do in the West Wing of the White House.
He hugged me.
And I closed my eyes and hugged him back, and he told me again that it was ok.
I pulled back quickly, no sense in giving anyone grist for the rumour mill. He asked me if I was all right, and I lied and told him yeah, managing to smile, because he knew that I really wasn't, but that I would be. And he smiled, and asked me if I was ready to go to work. That's the Toby Ziegler answer to everything; work to numb the pain, work to distract you, work to help you forget. I've become quite the convert to that plan.
And I told him that I was, because what 's what we do, Toby and me, when we're in the White House.
We work.
And when he got sick of working, or when he couldn't stand the hospital anymore or when he got ordered home to change, to get some rest, he came to my place.
He knocked on the door, even though he's had his own key for months now. I fairly dragged him over the threshold and into my bedroom, kissing him for all I was worth, trying to forget this nightmarish day that's already gone on forever and isn't over yet.
And that's where we are now. In my bed, with his arms wrapped around me, my head resting on his chest. He sleeps, and I think about Anne and Gilbert and Revelations.
I could have lost him tonight. If he'd left a little earlier, a little later, walked a couple of inches this way or that…he'd be gone.
More sudden than typhoid fever, but no less painful for those who wait and watch and worry.
I always thought that my ideal man would be just like Gilbert. He'd be handsome and intelligent, witty and strong. He'd adore me and wait for me, and then we'd be married and live happily ever after.
I was wrong.
My Gilbert is none of those things.
My Gilbert is older than me, with a prickly, cynical exterior that conceals the soft heart beneath. My Gilbert has a middle age paunch, is bald with a beard that leaves stubble rash on my sensitive skin. My Gilbert has a short fuse and barks orders at me at work and uses his rapier sharp tongue to flay the skin off anyone who dares to cross him. My Gilbert rants and raves and lectures me about very bad luck and tempting fate. My Gilbert has a wedding ring given to him by another woman that he refuses to take off because he says that it has sentimental value to him. It was his grandfather's wedding ring, but he was younger and slimmer when he put it on, and now the only way to get it off would be to cut it off and he doesn't really want to do that, to destroy the ring, although he's offered because he thinks it makes me uncomfortable.
You see, my Gilbert is a romantic, sentimental, although he'd never admit that to anyone. My Gilbert is a curmudgeon yes, but he is loyal to a fault. He's going through hell right now because of an act of madmen, and he's trying to come up with a way to blame it on himself. He cried in my arms earlier before falling into a peaceful sleep, but his main concern was for me, for how I was doing.
My Gilbert might not be a doctor, but he writes speeches that can move me to tears with their eloquence and beauty. And while there will never be "diamond sunbursts and marble halls" on a government paycheque, I now know what Anne meant when she told her Gilbert "I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want you."
I don't care about other people's reactions. I don't care about my job. I don't care about all the reasons why I shouldn't be with him.
I just want Toby.
Light is already starting to filter through the blinds, and a quick glance at the clock assures me that he'll be waking soon, and we'll start another day. A day where we have to pick ourselves up and try to make some sense out of what's happened, both at Rosslyn and in this room.
I'm not going to think about that now.
I'm going to enjoy being here, in my own little House of Dreams, in the arms of my Gilbert.