And Now The World Is Ours

Chapter One: Stomach and Summit

We're on Air Force One when it starts. We're going to the G8 summit in Germany, we're somewhere over Maine and I'm explaining to the First Lady why she needs to be especially friendly with her new French counterpart, and not ask her if her decision not to leave her husband halfway through his campaign was motivated by his polling numbers (although we're all desperately curious), when I suddenly feel like someone's grabbed my stomach and put it into a blender.

I barely make it to the bathroom. As I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth and splash cold water on my face, I remember the sushi we had night before last, and roll my eyes at myself. That piece of Sashimi did look positively fishy, but I had to have it. It had something to do with proving a point to Josh, unsurprisingly enough. I shake my head at my pale reflection, drink some more water and go back to work.

The weird thing is, it happens again. Seven hours later, as we're about to land, the captain flies a rather rough curve to humor the President, who would probably be flying this plane himself if we let him, and my stomach protests violently. When I return to my seat this time, wiping my face and popping three pieces of gum into my mouth at once, Helen Santos throws me an eyebrows –raised look. "I'm never getting Sushi from that place again, that's for sure," I tell her. She nods quickly, and lets me quiz her on the seven other first ladies (six ladies, one first husband, actually) without further comment. But then Josh comes out of the President's office and waves me over with a most Josh-ish expression on his face. I excuse myself from Mrs. Santos and hurry over to him.

"Are you okay?" With a frown.

"Josh, I'm fine," I try to assure him, violently chewing my gum. "I must have caught a bad piece of sushi the other night, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's happened before, I guess I'm sensitive to that sort of thing." Okay, that's sort of a lie, but the last thing he needs to be worrying about is my stomach instead of this summit.

"Okay." He gives me another frowning, searching look. "Are you okay about… where we're going? Landing, particularly." Yes, I fail to mention- the summit's being hosted in picturesque Nuremberg, home of the current chancellor, which means we'll be landing at Nuremberg Air Force Base. Yes. But I'm fine with it- I actually did get PTSD counseling after… Gaza, and I called Stanley last week and talked it over with him. I'm fine. Not Josh-fine. Donna-fine. Perky.

Except for the stomach thing, but whatever.

I give Josh a reassuring half-hug, and because he looks like he's still about to say something, I add the only foolproof way to shut up Josh Lyman- a quick kiss. As we break apart, I repeat "I'm fine," gently swat him on the nose, and hurry back to my seat.

I busy myself with first lady flashcards for the remaining forty-or-so minutes of the flight, while every one else crowds around the windows to catch a glimpse of the picturesque landscape outside. The loud laughter and squealing around me remind me more of a tour bus than Air Force One sometimes. I catch Josh's eye, and we exchange a nostalgic smile, thinking of the days of President Bartlet, when a flight on Air Force One was a chance to breathe and think freely, be poets if we must, but certainly not an excuse to act like a bunch of Middle Schoolers on their end-of-year fieldtrip to Jamestown. I know Josh still sometimes longs for Leo to walk into the door and laugh his hoarse laugh and take the weight of this administration off his shoulders, though he'd kill me for putting it like that. But it's tough for him, being one of the oldest, most experienced staffers in this White House, and having to act like it all the time. The problem with being likened to the Kennedys, other than it getting old after a while and Mrs. Santos not approving for obvious reasons, is that youthful energy comes from youthful people- sometimes it feels like Josh and me are the old hats. Which is just so absurd.

Anyway. Everyone around me eventually gets over themselves and into their seats as we prepare for landing. And I truly am fine, about landing here and the Air force Base and everything. Because nothing that happened here was really so bad- scary and surreal, but it worked out well in the end. Josh with that stupid scrub cap on his head, the antiseptic smell, the feeling of being plunged into deep water and then pulled out again at warp speed after surgery. Josh, lying next to me when I woke up.

I remember that hospital so clearly- I could describe that room to you with the accuracy of a photograph, could tell you what the nurses looked like and what their names were. I remember everything as clearly as if it was yesterday. The trade-off, I suppose, is that I remember nothing at all about the attack. I remember Fitz turning back to say something to me, and the next thing I know, I'm on an airplane on my way to Germany. I found this concerning at first, and quit my first therapist when she told me it was not totally unheard of for the human brain to just not save traumatic memories, but Stanley told me the same thing.

"It's just gone," he said, "it was never there, actually. You never hit the save button, so to speak, and now it's just gone."

I tried to argue, "But how can it just be gone? Josh, Josh remembered about the shooting even if he thought he didn't, and he was a mess. How am I just fine?"

"You're not fine," Stanley pointed out. "You may not be suffering from PTSD as a result of the attack in Gaza, but you're a mess, too. Whatever happened in that hospital in Germany, that your brain seems to have wanted to save." Josh, grabbing my hand tight, looking at me like I was the most perfect thing in the world, as I lay on that operating table. "Think about that."

That conversation, in the end, played a big role in my decision to quit.

But anyway, that's thankfully all in the past. We're a year into the Santos Administration, and apart from the youthful-energy/lack-of-discipline thing, things are going pretty well. We don't screw up half as often as we did in the Old White House, as Josh and I have taken to calling those days, or maybe it just feels that way in retrospect. We didn't feel like we were screwing up back then, even when we were. This time around, we've pushed through Healthcare reform already, and some education stuff is in the making. The best part is how much I get to help. I guess the fact that, once we join forces, the First Lady and I can get the President and Josh to pretty much do anything has helped, because the East Wing and the First Lady's office have really become a forum for policy. It's amazing, to see the work we're able to do, the way we –I- get to shape policy and make people's lives better. Josh teases me about what he calls my wide-eyed farm-girl enthusiasm, but I don't care. My dad was an accountant for a car dealership and got up every morning wondering if he could call in sick. I'll never stop being grateful for the job I have.

I was talking about all this with CJ a couple of weeks ago, on the phone, and she said that it was the same for her. That she loved her job and couldn't imagine herself doing anything else and got a huge rush from it. And then she said, "But I'm doing something else now, and you know what? It's just as good. I get the same rush and I can't imagine myself doing anything else. Life changes, and that's good." And added, cryptically, "You'll see." To which I replied that I was happy with the life I was living and seeing right now.

The plane touches down, and as soon as we've slowed down, there's a flurry of activity as we make sure the First Couple looks presentable for runway greetings- new tie for the president, fresh make-up and an unwrinkled blouse for the first lady. "Chancellor Georg Finke and his wife Maria," I remind her over Josh's hasty policy reminders for the President. "Two teenage sons, they like horseback riding, she's a doctor."

"What does he do all day?" Helen jokes. "Donna, I'm fine. I'll see you guys at the hotel."

The Santos's exit the plane, all smiles and waves, to be greeted by the German chancellor and his wife. Josh and I linger in the doorway of the plane, and unexpectedly, while everyone's eyes are somewhere else, he pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. I wiggle around to look him in the eye- PDA's are definitely not like him, not on Air Force One, anyway.

"Josh?"

He shakes his head. "I'm just… having a moment."

"A good moment?"

He grabbed my waist a little tighter, lips in my hair again. "Now it is." I'll say.

Then the motorcade pulls away and we're herding everyone into their respective cars, shouting out reminders and instructions about what to say and what not to bring up, setting up meetings and making sure everyone's on their best behavior –once again, the chaperoning seventh graders image comes to mind- before I can crash in a car. We're still a small office- me, my assistant Kerry, communications director Ishmael and legislative assistant Jordan, plus a couple of interns- and only Kerry and Jordan made the trip, so we've actually got room, which is nice. We talk some strategy during the drive, before arriving at the hotel. Here, I'm delighted to discover that scheduling was nice enough to give Josh and me a room together, a suite, actually, with a Jacuzzi, before heading off to my first meeting.

The next two days pass in a blur- especially for the first ladies, these summits are about

networking, being nice to each other's face and pushing through their agenda through the husbands. And not a little about upstaging each other in the fabulousness and taste of their dresses. Mrs. Santos complains it's a lot like High School, and she has a point. But while my boss is attending catfight arenas disguised as beautiful medieval castles and children's hospitals, I get to sit in on meetings and actually do stuff. The First Lady's left me in charge of "her" issues, so it's my responsibility to ensure issues like infant mortality, human trafficking and gender justice are heard as international power games play out. It's really not as glamorous as it sounds, because 90 of what we're doing has been decided in advance anyway, but the thrill is still enormous.

It also turns out the suite was a complete waste of the taxpayer's money, because by the time we come back we're both so tired we barely have the energy to talk to each other, let alone make use of the Jacuzzi. Josh hardly has it in him to tease me about the huge grin on my face when I come out of a meeting, he's that preoccupied about Russian missiles. Also, I throw up twice more- though I credit it to the amounts of Bratwurst Jordan dared me to eat at one of the receptions, and refuse to think about it more. And just like that, we're on the plane again, flying home. Josh and the President are in a celebratory mood –they won the fight on Africa, securing a promise to nearly double aid and work with the WTO to open the markets- and the mood is giddy and lighthearted. We're playing charades and Taboo, drinking beer and laughing at the First Lady's impersonation of Madame Gangaux, her stick insect of a French counterpart (by now we're all convinced she only came back to her husband because he was about to become Monsieur le President). Lou tells us, with equal hilarity and disgust in her voice, that the Japanese Prime Minister was quite obviously hitting on her, and I have to ensure Josh that he didn't try to get me. I wonder if we would be at war with Japan by now if I hadn't.

When we get into Andrew's it's nine PM there, which makes it something like 2AM on our screwed-up half-jetlagged inner clocks. The President sends everyone home right away, expressively forbidding Josh to go back to the White House. "I want you in shape, the midterms are coming up," he reminds us all. "So get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." I positively drag a very reluctant Josh into a car and get us home- home being a beautiful, tiny house in Georgetown behind a bright turquoise door- CJ's house, incidentally. When she and Danny moved out west, she offered it to us, and became something like our landlady. Although I think we pay a lot less rent than our neighbors.

Yawning and blinking, we find our way into bed. "How'd you like your first try at international powerbrokering?" Josh asks as I'm already falling asleep. When he sees my huge grin, he laughs. "Thought so."

I scoot closer into his arms, and my eyes fall shut. The last thing I feel before I drift away are Josh's fingers on my elbow and his soft, regular breathing on my hair.