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PART TWO 
***

My hands look like hell. Jagged cuticles, the corner of one
thumbnail ripped off from trying to open a soda can with it,
scars where IVs have been.

I have to say something, do something.

But I can't move. I can't stop looking at my hands. People
always said I had Mom's hands.

Leo's weight leaves the sofa and somehow, amidst the sirens
and screams in my head, I hear him call for Margaret. I
smell the bourbon in the glass Margaret presses into my
palm. But I still can't move.

"Should I get him?" Margaret asks, and out of the corner of
my eye I see Leo nodding.

Seconds later, there's another pair of hands on my
shoulders, and there's a different fragrance in the air -
fine wool mixed with a hint of leather and some expensive,
unidentifiable men's cologne. That combination belongs to
only one man.

"Josh, I am so, so sorry," President Bartlet murmurs.

I try to get up, but the synapses connecting my protocol to
my knees refuse to cooperate and I sort of crumple back onto
the sofa. "Sir...I..." I can't talk, I just sit with one
hand covering my eyes and the other letting some very costly
bourbon spill like bittersweet tears.

"It's all right, son, it's all right." The President of the
United States is calling me 'son' and taking the glass away,
saving Leo's carpet from my shaking hands. He says it again.
"It's all right," but it's softer, and he's patting my back.

I want to cry, to expel the acid flooding my body and brain,
but not here, not with this man's arm around me. My hands
are shaking so badly that I can't even cover my face
anymore, so I control my breathing as best I can, will my
fingers to be still, and sit up. He's looking at me with
concerned, compassionate eyes.

"What can we do for you?"

"I...do?" I curl my fingers into my palms and knock them
against each other. "I don't know. I don't...where's Donna?"

Where did that question come from?

He understands the non sequitur. "She's over at your
apartment with Sam, packing a bag. We had to book you on
commercial air since this is personal business and we
have...well, you know about the press peering over our
shoulders. Best I could do was to have us buy out First
Class so you'll have the section to yourselves."

"Ourselves?"

"Well, Sam and Donna were arguing about who should go with
you, so in order to keep the peace I'm sending them both.
The First Lady's brother and sister-in-law have a place in
Palm Beach. They're out of town, but their staff knows
you're coming and they'll be ready when the three of you get
there."

"That's...kind of you, sir."

"Well, I always say that if you're going to do something,
then you might as well do it right." He smiles and places
his hand on my arm. It's just like the night of the Illinois
primary, and, oh, God, it's for the same reason.

"I can't go with you myself," he continues, turning away
from me to give me a second of privacy. "Some nonsense about
running the country, I don't know - but this is the next
best thing." He takes in a breath and looks up into my eyes.
"Let me do this for you, Josh."

It's hard to remember that, once upon a time, I did not love
this man.

I find my voice, grainy and uncertain. "Thank you, sir."

"You'll be leaving in an hour or so - the flight's at eight.
I hope you don't mind, but Leo took the liberty of calling
your mom's lawyer back in New Haven, and he told us your
mother made very specific arrangements. You don't have to
worry about anything."

"Good. That's...good." I rub my eyes but it feels worse.

Leo joins us, sitting on the small chair next to the sofa.
"The President told you about the house, I take it?" he
asks. "You'll want to stay with Sam and Donna there - I
mean, you wouldn't want to stay at your mom's, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks." I'm exhaling and talking at the same time.
There's a fist around my heart, squeezing, and I try to
remember to breathe deeply so the panic will dissipate. "Oh,
man, the condo. She just moved there last year. I'll have
to, I dunno, sell it, or something...I can't think about
that right now."

"Of course you can't," the President murmurs. "Tell you what
- I'm going to ask the First Lady to comme down and have a
few words with you, is that okay?"

He's sending a watchdog. Oh my God, this is what he thinks
of me.

"Sir, I'm not going to..." I draw a nervous pattern in the
air.

"I know that. But I'd like for her to have a look at you."
He gets up and pats Leo on the arm. "We'll be back in a few
minutes. Oh, and Toby's waiting outside, if you're up to
seeing him."

"Yeah, that's fine, that's good." I lean back, making a
bigger mess out of my hair by running both hands through it.

Toby, master of the written word, is appallingly inept at
interpersonal communication. He walks over to me but he's
looking at his shoes while his face registers a variety of
uncomfortable emotions. "I'm so very sorry for your loss,
Josh." I've seen Toby look like this before, when he came to
see me in the ICU. For all his bluster and prickliness, he
has the softest heart of any man I've ever known.

"Thanks," I manage to reply.

Toby takes a black satin ribbon out of his pocket. I must
look as bewildered as I feel, because he says, "It's one of
Ginger's hair ribbons. It was the only thing we could come
up with."

"Did you at least, you know, ask her?" I'm forcing a smile
and Toby smiles back.

"No, Josh, I stole it from her very head and hoped she
wouldn't notice. Actually, I told her what I needed and she
made me take it. Wouldn't let me have a minute's peace until
I brought it to you. She says...well, you know."

I imagine she gave him that wet-eyed, drowning kitten look
that Toby claims makes him want to strangle her. Toby
grimaces as he tugs hard enough to rip the satin into a
small, jagged strip, and he puts the raw ends into my
buttonhole, above my heart. His hand rests there for a long
time, and he looks at me with those fierce, dark eyes as if
he can see into my soul.

"May the father of peace send peace to all who mourn, and
comfort all the bereaved among us," Toby murmurs, and we say
"Amen" together.

Bereaved. I'm bereaved. I press my lips together hard,
hoping to keep the tears at bay. One betrays me, skidding
down my cheek to the corner of my mouth, and I lick it away.
The salt feels hot and comforting.

"I appreciate this, Toby."

"You're welcome. I hope you don't mind, but I sent a list
with Donna and Sam of things you should have with you - I
didn't know if your family was...is...was..." Toby stumbles
over the tense, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips as
he shifts from foot to foot. "I didn't know if you're
observant. If you needed a yarmulke, or some shoes that
aren't leather."

"We re-reformed the Reformers, Toby." That hadn't always
been the case, but in the years after Joanie's death our
faith had been shaken. Eventually it had crumbled, as had
our house and our hopes, into ash. I finger the ribbon. It's
surprisingly soft. "We're sort of...cultural Jews. This is
even more than they'd expect me to do. But thanks for
asking."

"Okay, then." He takes a step backward, and I realize how
close he had been standing and how much strength I'd been
drawing from that nearness. "So. Call us if you need
anything. Or...just call us. We'll be around."

"Yeah." I lower my head so I don't have to watch Toby leave,
his shoulders slumped. He says something to someone in the
Oval on his way through there. I look up just in time to see
Abigail Bartlet standing in the doorway, her arms extended.

"Oh, Josh, this is just awful," she says, beckoning me
toward her. She has to stand on tiptoe to put her arms
around my neck but she hugs me, then pulls back and pats my
cheek. Her tone becomes brisk and professional. "Jed's going
nuts, he's so worried, so I told him I'd take a look at you.
Give me your hand." She puts her forefinger on the pulse
point at my wrist, nodding as she looks at her watch. "Your
heartbeat is a little fast, but that's probably the shock.
How's your chest? Does it feel tight?"

"A...a little." I blink at her. "Ma'am..."

"We're off the clock, Josh. It's Abbey."

I can't seem to call her that, so I avoid calling her
anything. "This isn't really necessary, I'm fine." I have to
choke off the "ma'am" that wants to spill out of me.

"If you feel panicky or you're having trouble breathing,
then I can write you--"

"I'm going to be okay. But thanks."

"Let's sit down for a minute." She motions to Leo's couch
and takes a seat at my side. "I talked to Dr. Armand
Ballantine at Bethesda - he was on call when your mother was
brought in. From what he told me, it seems that your mother
had a stroke at home while a neighbor was visiting. The
neighbor called 911, she did everything right, but there was
too much damage and your mother slipped away peacefully. Dr.
Ballantine wanted me to stress that to you; she didn't
suffer. She probably had no idea what happened to her, it
was that fast and it was that painless."

That fast and that painless, and she's gone. Mama.

"I know that doesn't mean much to you right this minute,
Josh," Abbey continues, stroking the back of my head and
leaning close so that I don't have to meet her eyes, "but
eventually you'll take comfort in that."

"I know. They said that about my dad, too." And they had.
"You know, those were the first words Mom said when I made
the phone call from Chicago: 'Your father didn't suffer,
thank God.' I can hear her voice. I can hear it, in my right
ear just like that night, but she's gone, she's never
speaking to me again, she's gone." I clear my throat. I
can't let the First Lady watch me break down. I conjure up a
weak smile. "I'm actually okay, you know."

She sees right through me. "I'm not a Congressman--don't
try and bullshit me. It's been rough for you. Your father,
then the shooting, then these damn hearings, and now this.
It's normal for you to feel like your edges are a little
blurry. Take as much time as you need. Don't try and rush
through this, Josh."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She shakes her head. "Abbey. But you know what? Your mother
trained you well. You gave her so many reasons to be proud."
She stands up and motions toward the door. "I'm going
upstairs to talk to my husband. Will you be okay for a few
minutes, or should I send someone in?"

"I think...I think I'd like to be alone, if Leo doesn't mind
giving up his office for a few minutes."

"I understand. Be careful on the trip, Josh. Don't overdo
it."

"I won't. Donna and Sam will be with me."

Abbey smiles. "Good. They'll keep you in line. You'll be in
our prayers, Josh." With that, she closes the door behind
her and leaves me alone in Leo's office.

My legs shake when I get up to walk around the room. The
light feels like an assault on my burning eyes. I flip
switches until the only illumination is the waning daylight.
Then I stagger back to Leo's couch and collapse into a
protective ball.

Mom.

Dad.

Joanie.

"Josh?"

It's CJ's voice this time, and I yank my heavy body upright,
groaning, grousing. "It's like Grand Central Station in
here," I complain even as I scoot over so she can sit next
to me.

But she doesn't. She leans halfway in the room with her hand
on the doorjamb. "I can come back."

"Nah, come on in. It's fine." I pat the place at my side and
she joins me. Her face is drawn, her eyes shimmering with
sympathetic tears. I need her, need the strength and
compassion and wit that makes her the backbone of our staff,
and when she opens her arms to me I go into them gratefully.
I need the sharp edge of her collarbone against my cheek and
she senses this as she holds me close and strokes my hair
with her strong, capable fingers.

"I don't know what to say," she whispers against my temple.

"There's nothing to say, really. I'm just glad you're here.
I have to go in a little while, whenever Donna and Sam get
back from my apartment."

"I wish I could go, too. But they're calling me to the Hill
in your place, starting tomorrow, and as much as I'd love to
blow them off--"

"Blow them off or tell them to--"

"Josh!" CJ chuckles. She squeezes me tighter and for the
first time since Leo dropped the bombshell I don't have the
terrifying sensation that I'm about to fly apart. "Sam's got
a statement for me to read to the press. He's pretty shaken
up, Josh, I gotta tell you. He and Donna, between the two of
them, may be operating on one shared brain cell."

"That's one more than I've got, so I'm happy to have them
along."

"Carol said they phoned and they're on their way back.
There'll be a car and driver waiting for you at the
entrance. No press. No one's going to know what's going on
until after you're airborne."

"I appreciate that." I rub my eyes, but it just spreads the
intolerable itchiness around. "Onerato and Bruno will find
some way to include this in his list of the administration's
many transgressions."

"That's why you're on Delta instead of--"

"Hold on a second, CJ. I just thought of something." I look
at her, my head cocked to one side. "Who's paying for this?"

"Josh, that's not--"

"I mean it, CJ. If this isn't government business, then who
pulled out a credit card--"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," she says,
giving me her best "face of the administration" expression.

"Ah, come on, you can't pull that press secretary crap with
me!"

"You just saw me do it, Joshua."

"You're playing hardball."

"And you love me for it." She smiles down at me, holding my
face in her hands. "Day or night, Josh, I'm here for you."

And it's gone, the momentary lightheartedness of our banter,
gone under a wave of sorrow. I find myself swiping tears
away with the back of my hand. "Dammit."

"It's okay. No cameras here."

"I think you're wearing a wire. I think I should search
you."

"In your wildest dreams." She turns to sit
shoulder-to-shoulder with me. Our arms touch, and CJ puts
her hand over mine.

"I know you've got stuff to do, so..." I say, sounding
hopelessly needy.

"Babish wants my lawyer to run me through a few more hoops
before the Circus Maximus tomorrow. Nothing I'm not very,
very willing to delay."

"Kick their asses, would you?" I run my thumb back and forth
over her hand, relishing the softness.

"With the greatest of pleasure. Hey, look who's back."

Sam and Donna stand in the doorway to Margaret's office,
looking for all the world like a pair of startled deer. I
lift my chin. "It's okay, come on in."

Donna enters first, after Sam gives her a guiding push at
the small of her back. She navigates Leo's office with
small, hesitant steps. Her quavering smile is about to
shatter my heart, and with CJ's help I get up to fold her in
my arms. Her hair, which is soft and slightly damp against
my cheek, smells like rain. "Don't cry," I whisper,
surprised to be saying that to her. "Donna. Really. It's
going to be okay."

"I'm sorry. I thought I was all cried out," she sniffles,
taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping her nose
with it. Sam's initials are on the Irish linen square. I
smile at him over Donna's shoulder.

"You're always prepared, Sam."

"Not for this, though," he whispers, looking at me with
sorrowful eyes. "God, Josh, I don't know what to say. She
was a terrific lady."

"I know." My facial muscles, stiff from trying to smile,
finally give out, and I hide my face in Donna's hair for a
moment. Please, don't let me cry, don't let me cry...

Her arms tighten around me, supporting me with their
surprising strength, and the gnawing, aching grief snaps my
control in two.

I'm surrounded, by Donna, Sam, and CJ, then by Leo and
Margaret, who come hurrying back into the office at my first
sob. Comforting hands, soft voices, but none of them is my
mother, my last link to a family. The last of my family,
lying cold and still in a Florida funeral home.

"Josh," Leo says in a raspy voice that reminds me that other
people mourn the loss of Marjorie Lyman, "it's time to go.
The car's waiting and we can only hold the press off for so
long."

"Okay. I'm fine, I'm...fine." I wave them all off, even
Donna, trying to give them a brave, reassuring smile, but
from the looks of utter desolation on their faces I know
it's a failure. "Thank you for everything you're doing,
Leo," I struggle to whisper.

"Get going or you'll miss your flight. And don't strain
yourself."

Surely I should say something else. But opening my mouth
brings me perilously close to fresh tears, so I just nod at
them all as I let Sam lead me into the hallway.

Several dress Marines gather at the door, helping us into
the waiting limo. Donna shares my seat, with Sam sitting
opposite.

"We don't need sirens, right?" I ask the driver in what I
hope is a controlled tone of voice, and the driver shakes
his head.

"Not for this. We're traveling under the radar - the
President was very clear that he doesn't want you tailed by
the press. Just try to relax as much as possible and we'll
be at National as soon as we can."

No one says anything for the first few minutes. Finally,
Donna turns to me and asks, "What's the ribbon for?"

"Rending our garments, only we use ribbon instead of tearing
up our actual clothes - it's part of the mourning ritual.
Nothing you need to worry about, Donna. Or you, Sam."

"Toby said that the best thing we can do is to stand back
and try not to be so conspicuously Protestant," Sam says
with a small, rueful grin at last breaking up the sadness of
his expression. "I think we could pass for Jewish, don't
you?"

The sudden image of Sam wearing a yarmulke, and Donna
standing a head taller - and a blonde head, at that - than
the little old ladies of Palm Beach, makes me grin. "Not a
chance."

Donna pouts a little and Sam shakes his head. "Toby told me
the same thing, actually," he says in that mild, slow
pattern he uses when he wants to say three hundred things
but is settling for one instead. "I just wish there was
something more helpful we could do than just stand back and
be, you know, a couple of WASPs."

"You're doing everything I could possibly hope for. More
than I deserve."

"We're your friends, Josh." Sam sounds astonished that I
would accept any limitations on his friendship. Ah, Sam.

"I know that. I...know that." My voice cracks and I run my
hand through my hair again and again until Donna stills me
by wrapping her fingers around my wrist. I press my lips
together and squeeze my eyes closed as if to seal in the
tears, staying silent until the driver enters the airport,
presenting all sorts of paperwork to someone who leads us
straight out to the tarmac.

"Mr. McGarry arranged it so you'll using the pilots'
entrance," the driver says as if this is an everyday
occurrence. "They've got the rest of the passengers on
board, so you don't have to worry about cameras or
questions."

Leo's thoroughness is no surprise. I blink at Sam as we get
out of the car. "Leo arranged this, huh?"

"Well, Margaret did. 'In Loco Leo.' The President said for
him to take every measure necessary to ensure your privacy
and comfort, Josh." Sam pats me on the back, guiding Donna
with a hand on her elbow.

Two baggage handlers are taking our things out of the car.
Usually I carry a laptop on the plane. Under ordinary
circumstances Donna would have a satchel full of magazines
and file folders, and Sam would be sporting some thick,
leather-bound tome on a noble subject only he or the
President could possibly care about. But tonight we go on
board with empty hands.

***
END PART TWO
***