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Title: That Only I Remember
Author: Marguerite
E-Mail: marguerite@swbell.net
Classification: Angst, Josh POV. Death of character who's
been mentioned but never seen. 
Spoilers: Let's assume everything up to "War Crimes."
Timeline: Takes place between "The Indians in the Lobby" and
"Bartlet for America." In my megalomaniacal cosmology, "The
Women of Qumar" didn't necessarily happen. Could work either
way.
Distribution: Please link at:
http://4dw.net/marguerite/remember.html
and let me know where it ends up. The story will be posted 
in its entirety by Friday, 2/1.

Summary: Whatever the news is, it's unspeakably bad,
because Leo's sitting beside me and his hand is on my knee.

Disclaimers: As if anyone might be confused - ABS, et al,
own "The West Wing" and its characters. Original characters
belong to me.

Beta Worship: With heartfelt thanks to Jill Kirby and Ryo
Sen for coming down on opposite ends of the "Josh Rules!"
debate, and for their kindly-worded corrections. I'd be in
the tall grass, ladies, without you.

Location notes: I'm relatively familiar with Palm Beach,
since a number of my elderly relatives have moved there.
(Originally the story was set in CT, and *tons* of research
was done, only to have it all get blown to hell by the line
about Josh's mother moving to FL. Such is life.) The
Dorchester is a real building. Temple B'nai Israel is not.
The Barrington's home is one I've seen while driving around,
and the restaurant where Sam, Josh, and Donna have lunch is
Charley's Crab. I wanted to work Levenger into the story
(www.levenger.com - Disneyland for readers and writers, and
JUST down the road from Palm Beach), but it didn't fit.

And finally...
Author's notes: When I realized that I just couldn't seem to
work on anything other than this story, I started calling it
my "Isaac and Ishmael" - and it'll probably get about the
same critical reception as that episode even though the
subject matter is radically different. This may not be
anyone's cup of tea but mine, or its themes may strongly
resonate with some readers. I really can't predict the
outcome. All I know is that it's something I needed to say.
Thank you for bearing with me.

The United States House of Representatives 
4:45 p.m.


Six hours into my testimony, and I'm ready to jump out of
this chair and climb the walls.

My full name is Joshua Jacob Lyman, and I am the White House
Deputy Chief of Staff.

I had no prior knowledge of the President's condition.

I was not in the Oval Office until after the President
allegedly collapsed, so I cannot comment on a probable
cause.

I was told he had the flu.

I am not a physician.

That would be conjecture on my part.

I had no prior knowledge.

There's an aide slipping a note to Babish. He moves his lips
when he reads, and if he weren't so big - and if he weren't
the only thing standing between me and certain disaster -
I'd probably mock him for it. Babish lets my lawyer read it,
then hands the paper over to Congressman Bruno.

My eyes are stinging. My head feels as if it's going to fall
off my neck and roll around the floor for a while.

"Mr. Lyman?"

Bruno's talking to the guy next to him while handing the
note over to Cliff Calley, who glances at me with those
earnest damn eyes and then turns away again to take his
seat. What the hell...?

"Mr. Lyman, you are excused, " Bruno says into the
microphone. "You're needed in Leo McGarry's office as soon
as possible."

This can not be good. "What time should I return tomorrow?"

They're looking at each other, but not at me. My hands are
cold.

"We'll let you know when you need to come back for further
testimony. Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a
recess until tomorrow morning at eight."

The gavel makes me jump, and my fight-or-flight response
brings me to the edge of a panic attack. Damn, I was getting
so much better before all this happened. I get up as if
there's nothing weird going on around me, as if my only
worry is straightening my tie and smoothing out the wrinkles
my suit acquired during eleven hours of sweat and regret.

"What's going on?"

Babish shrugs and adjusts some papers. Why won't he look me
in the eye? "Just go to Leo's office. It's something he
needs to talk to you about. You won't have to come back here
tomorrow. Go."

"You don't have to tell me twice." I stuff folders into my
backpack and stretch. My muscles are so tight you could
bounce arrows off of me. "Call my office when I have to come
back in again."

"I'll do that." For an instant, he looks at me with
something other than aggravation, or maybe it's a trick of
the fading light.

I shift the backpack around on my shoulder. You'd think that
a container made of canvas and nylon should shred or
something under this kind of weight. Donna packed sandwiches
and decaffeinated sodas, some papers, and possibly a load of
bricks. I'm bent over like a little old man, shuffling out
of the Senate chamber.

"You think Babish told him?"

I whirl around - almost twice, given that the backpack adds
to the swing of my body, but I can't see who said that.
Can't ask him what he means. But I don't like the way it
sounds.

So, what was it Babish might or might not have told me?
What's so bad that Bruno and Calley decided I could go play
outside for recess? What went on in the White House today? I
know it didn't stop just because I've been giving testimony
for endless, grueling hours. I wander through the bullpen.
No one's there but a couple of junior aides and they scuttle
away, heads down, avoiding eye contact.

Where the hell is Donna? And why won't anyone look at me?

"The bitter taste in your mouth - it's the adrenaline,"
Kaytha Trask said last Christmas, when I'd foolishly thought
things couldn't get any worse. Right now my mouth is flooded
with it, a Dead Sea of trepidation.

I say hello to Margaret. She flinches and looks
away--Margaret, who's never flinched at or looked away from
anything as long as I've known her.

The bitterness is deep in my teeth, like decay.

"Someone sent a note to Babish saying Leo needed to see me,
so..." Margaret's face turns white, then pink. "Margaret,
what's going on?"

"Just go on in, Josh. Leo's expecting you." She gets up and
opens the door, calling to Leo: "He's here." As I go from
the anteroom into Leo's office Margaret's hand brushes my
shoulder.

Oh, God, I can't breathe.

"Josh." Leo's got his Serious Face on. "Let's sit down for a
moment so we can talk, okay?"

I'm babbling. Wheezing. "Leo, just spit it out, whatever it
is. Whatever I did, I'll fix it, I promise, but please,
please--"

"Josh, let's just sit down. Margaret, would you...?" He
pantomimes pouring something into a glass. He thinks I need
a drink. No. Oh, no. Margaret nods and heads for the Oval
while Leo points to his couch. "Here. Put your stuff down."

My backpack hits the floor with the sick thud of a blow from
a blunt instrument. I don't so much sit as perch, wary,
feeling the sweat beading on my upper lip and my palms and
wondering if it has the same acidic taste that's corroding
my mouth. Whatever the news is, it's unspeakably bad,
because Leo's sitting beside me and his hand is on my knee.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he begins, and in all
my life I've never heard him sound so gentle, "but we got a
call from Bethesda Hospital in West Palm Beach. It's your
mom, Josh."

I shake my head, not so much in denial but to get the damn
sirens out of my ears so that I can hear Leo.

"She had a stroke."

"Ah, Leo, no..." A creeping, familiar numbness takes hold of
me. "I gotta get down there. I need to see her. Will they
let me go on one of the President's--?"

Leo's eyes are glittering and his hand moves to my forearm.
"Josh."

I put up a warning hand, trying to keep his words from
coming out, because it won't be real until he says it, I
still have one last moment before the earth opens up to
swallow me.

But Leo knows what he has to do. "Josh, she's gone."

***
END PART ONE
***