Classification: Angst. Josh POV.
Summary: Whatever the news is, it's unspeakably bad, because Leo's
sitting beside
me and his hand is on my knee.
***
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."
***
To Part Two