Chapter Text
My older sister is fond of telling people that she married well. That's the actual phrase she uses -- "married well." Hard as it is to believe, she actually speaks that way. Of course, she also explains what that phrase means in terms of material possessions -- their five-bedroom house, his six-figure income, last summer's trip to Europe. Never once in the eight years she's been married have I heard her describe her husband in terms that would make you think she values the man more than the stuff he provides.
Not that I can personally see anything to value in my brother-in-law. He is a singularly unintelligent man. He has no sense of humor, unless you think his constantly reminding me that he did not vote for President Bartlet is a real knee-slapper. (On the other hand, I thought my response last time was rather clever: "Yes, Steve, I get it. My boss is in the White House, and your boy is on TV hawking pills for erectile dysfunction." Well, Josh thought it was funny when I told him about it.)
Last Christmas Eve, I got home to discover that Steve and my sister had had a colossal argument. Don't ask me what it was about; I try not to pay attention to these things. Frances (which is short, by the way, for Francesca Caprice -- my mother points to her children's names as proof that you should make these sorts of decisions before the epidural is administered) -- well, my sister Frances is a classic passive-aggressive type. She was sulking, while Steve tried every possible method of apology known to man.
It made me long for the sort of person who would resort to hostility, blackmail and, if all else failed, bon mots along the line of "Oh yeah? Well, you kissed me back." After an hour or so of Frances and Steve, I went a little passive-aggressive myself, retiring to my bedroom to unpack and do a little reading. One hour and a half-dozen readings of a certain note accompanying The Art and Artistry of Alpine Skiing later, I emerged to discover Frances still sulking and Steve nowhere in sight. It did cross my mind that maybe Frances was divorcing him; it would have made a really nice holiday gift for the rest of us. However, I realized that with the lousy luck I was having that day (you may recall the earlier incident involving the mistletoe Margaret hung in Josh's office), this was unlikely.
Sure enough, Steve showed up around midnight. He brought with him candy, flowers, expensive perfume, a cashmere sweater and a truly garish diamond necklace. It seems he'd been driven to a last-minute shopping binge in the interest of keeping the peace.
My sister forgave him on the condition that he go back after Christmas and buy earrings to match the necklace.
Frances spent much of the following week explaining how I needed to find a man just like Steve. I spent most of the week explaining that a Steve clone would drive me crazy.
"Well, what kind of man do you want?" she asked.
I knew exactly the kind of man I wanted, but since I didn't want to say as much -- not even to myself back then -- I simply said, "Someone who'll apologize sincerely. Not try to buy me off."
Like I said, I have no idea what the quarrel between Steve and Frances was about. Maybe Frances thought he'd said something unforgivable, something capable of destroying their relationship. I can empathize with that. But as for myself, right now I'd settle for a simple admission of guilt. I don't expect or want flowers or candy. I just would like to hear that he didn't mean those things he said.
Not that it matters. Clearly, this whole marriage thing was a mistake, and we're well out of it.
It would be nice to think he didn't mean those things, however.
It would be nice to know where he is.
Hell, forget the apology. Forget the marriage. I just want to know that Josh is all right.
I keep thinking about the last time I saw him -- how he was shaking, how much weight he'd lost, how there was this tortured look in his eyes.
I need to know he's all right. That's all I really need right now.
***
When I left the federal courthouse, I went straight to Stanley's.
He'd expected me, apparently, because he'd already cancelled his entire afternoon. And believe me when I tell you I used that time and then some.
I'm pretty sure I was there for about seven hours. While dismantling and reassembling my twisted psyche, Stanley confirmed for me that, yes, I have a spectacular case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Apparently, I have PTSD to blame for the nightmares and panic attacks, and those lovely personality quirks I've noticed lately. Quirks like withdrawing from group situations, and, you know, being a total asshole to my wife.
I find being able to name the enemy, so to speak, is less helpful than I'd been led to believe. My image of PTSD is a Vietnam Vet twitching in a rocking chair in the psychiatric wing of a state-run hospital, so you'll understand that it's a bit of an ego-check to realize I have an actual, nameable, treatable mental disorder.
Of course, Donna's been telling me that for years.
Donna.
I can't really talk about that yet. About why I turned my anger on her.
Stanley tells me it's natural, it's human nature, and that the old cliche "you always hurt the ones you love" is actually quite on point. It doesn't help; I still feel like an asshole.
I still am an asshole.
And so I am taking my cruel self away for a while. Self-imposed exile.
Stanley thought I should stay in D.C. and see him daily. I disagreed. It's not that I don't see the value in that, but I can't be there right now.
Avoidance behavior? Probably. But I left anyway.
My favorite picture of my sister Joanie is from a family vacation when I was five and she was eight. Our parents took us to Nantucket for a week, and we spent our entire vacation in bathing suits building sandcastles and having sand-ball fights on the beach. I don't remember much about the vacation itself, but there's this great picture of Joanie in her frog-green bikini. She's laughing up at the camera, and she's got her arms wrapped around me. And I'm smiling at her in complete adulation.
I love that picture.
I haven't been to Nantucket since then, but I was bound and determined to go. Stanley didn't really comment, but I could tell you what he's thinking: Classic attempt to recapture past happiness by returning to an idealized geographic location, with a sprinkling of survivor guilt tossed in for good measure. That's only partially true. I mean, it's not like I expect to spend a lot of time building sandcastles on the beach or anything.
In fact, it's late fall, so I have to coerce the owner of a small hotel to open a room for me. He agreed, eventually. (Yes, I played the pity card, okay? I was desperate.) But the stubborn old goat refuses to turn on the heat.
I spend my nights huddled under several blankets, but I enjoy it, in a sick, twisted way that I don't want to examine too closely. My own private form of self-flagellation. I'm getting pretty good at it too. I tracked down the only place on the island that serves spicy food and got my ulcer to flare up until I was puking blood into the ice-cold porcelain toilet.
Donna would kill me if she were here.
But we all know that's never going to happen, right?
Some nights I wish I didn't have such a delicate damn system so I could get nice and hammered and maybe forget for a little while.
I've only had to call Stanley twice so far. I think that's pretty damn good.
And tonight, four days into my self-imposed isolation, I call Sam.
I can't call Donna, of course, but I can at least find out if she's okay.
He answers after only two rings. "Hello?"
"Sam?"
My voice sounds creaky from disuse.
"Yes?" He has no clue who I am.
I don't know what to make of that.
"It's Josh."
"Josh," Sam says, his tone warm and a little worried. "How are you?"
"Fine," I say.
We both know I'm lying. There is an awkward pause.
"I was just calling to check in," I say.
"Right," Sam answers. "Things are fine here. Donna's handling everything--"
"How is Donna?" I can't help it. I sound like a desperate man. I am a desperate man.
"She's fine, Josh," Sam says.
I am not altogether convinced. "She's not, you know, upset?"
"She's not drinking at her desk, if that's what you're asking."
"No, I mean--" What do I mean? Does she miss me? Is she sleeping? Does she still love me? "Forget it."
"Josh, I'm sure she'd love to hear from--"
"I can't call her."
"Tell me where you're staying; I can have her call you."
"No, Sam. Don't tell Donna where I am."
"Josh--"
"Sam, please," I say. I can't believe how pathetic I sound.
Sam is quiet for a minute. "Okay, Josh."
"I've got to go, Sam."
"Wait a second. Where are you?"
I hesitate. But, really, someone should know where to find the body in case I freeze to death in my unheated bed. "Nantucket."
"The island?"
I roll my eyes. "Yes, Sam. The island."
"Oh," he says. "Well, that sounds... fun. You know, with the beaches."
"It's a tiny island twenty-five miles off the coast of Massachusetts, and it's the middle of October. I'm not doing much sunbathing."
"Fair point."
"I should go," I say.
"When will you be back?"
Good question.
"Couple weeks, maybe," I answer. God, I hope I can rejoin the world of the living in a couple weeks.
"Okay," Sam says. "Well... be safe."
"Yeah," I answer. "Listen, tell -- Never mind."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I say miserably. I can't make Sam be the go-between. Donna deserves an actual apology.
I just don't know when I'll be able to give her one.
"I've got to go, Sam."
I disconnect, crawl into my cold, cold bed, and try to sleep. Alone.
***
The phone rings at 11 p.m.
There is only one person who calls me this late at night.
"Josh?"
I hate myself for sounding so damn excited. Especially when it's the wrong voice on the other end of the phone.
"No, it's Sam. But I bring tidings of Josh."
"You talked to him?"
"Just now. He called me."
"Is he okay?"
"'Okay' may be too strong a word. 'Better than last week' would be more accurate."
"How much better?"
"Marginally. But marginally is, you know, approaching the general neighborhood of steadily."
"Just how quickly is he approaching that neighborhood?"
"Well, you know, on the phone that's hard to tell."
That bad.
"Where is he?"
"The thing is, Donna, I got the impression he didn't want me to tell you."
"And you got that impression when?"
"When he said, 'Don't tell Donna where I am.'"
"Oh."
"On the plus side, you were the only person he mentioned by name."
"Did he say when he'd be back?"
"Another week or two. He was avoiding specifics."
"Is he going to call you again?"
"He didn't say."
"Well, if he does, tell him -- tell him--"
"Tell him what, Donna?"
It's a good question. What do you tell the man who said he doesn't want to hear your voice and that your marriage was a sham? There's "go to hell," but I said that already.
"Tell him everything's fine at the office. He can stay away as long as he wants."
"Donna, what happened with you guys? 'Cause at first it was very cute watching you and then it wasn't."
"Nothing happened, Sam."
"Well, whatever the nothing was that happened, I think he feels bad about it."
"He should."
"Yeah," Sam says, "I miss him too."
***
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Read Me
Donnatella--
I wouldn't blame you if you deleted this without reading it. My words to you recently have been filled with selfishness, anger and cruelty. You have every right to hate me. I said horrible, unforgivable things to you. Any apology I could give you would be inadequate. But I do apologize. I am more sorry than you'll ever know for what I said. I regret my hasty, hate-filled words every day.
You are an amazing assistant. You keep me on track, you keep me organized. Hell, you mastered my job yourself while I was recovering. You could easily be in my position, but I could never be even half the assistant you are.
As for the other, you were the most supportive, kind, giving, and loving person I could have ever hoped to be involved with. If I ever made you feel differently, I am truly sorry.
As things stand, I believe the agreement we made that night is the only sensible course of action. At the very least, I won't be able to hurt you anymore.
I'll be back in the office next week.
As Always,
Josh
***
Well, you see what's going on here, don't you? It's classic Lyman strategizing: "You're a good assistant, and I'll be back in a week."
Bastard.
Does he ever think about what he said that night? Is he aware of the actual words he used? Because, frankly, it's going to be years before I forget them, and it wasn't the part about whether I was a good assistant that hurt. It was what Josh refers to as "the other" that destroyed our marriage.
Which Josh said was never a real marriage.
Bastard.
But now he's apparently had a chance to think about it, and what's worrying him? Losing his assistant.
I know the man too well. Ironically, you know, I was always aware that if the choice were between me or politics, politics would win. So it doesn't surprise me, not in the least, that Josh thinks we should keep to the non-divorce divorce agreement. No, losing a wife doesn't worry him in the least. Losing the only person who can make sense of his schedule -- oh yes, that would terrify him.
Bastard.
I wonder if he's eating. 'Cause, you know, he lost weight during the trial.
And the nightmares -- have they stopped? He shouldn't be alone if he's dealing with that. I shouldn't have let him go without promising me he'd get help.
Please, God, let him be all right.
Stupid man.
I'm not falling for this. This is not a sincere apology. It's the Master Politician thinking he can manipulate me.
Bastard.
God, I hope he's all right.
***
I am pathetic.
I have been sitting here, staring at my laptop for the past hour.
Donna hasn't responded to my email.
Did I really expect her to? I'm not sure.
All I know is that I'm staying in a gorgeous hotel on the small, isolated island of Nantucket, and I don't seem to be able to do anything that doesn't involve communicating with Donnatella Moss.
It's been seven days since my hasty departure, and I've spent the entire week obsessing over how to apologize to Donna. Well, I've done other stuff, too. I walked the beach and contemplated whether or not I should ask for her forgiveness or merely offer my apology. I went sailing (bad idea for someone with a weak stomach) and stared unseeing at the surf while I debated the relative merits of email (instantaneous but impersonal -- not to mention monitored by the government) versus regular mail (very personal, but slow and sometimes unreliable). I even tried a bit of hiking. Didn't like that very much, but that could be because I kept tripping, engrossed as I was in deciding whether or not I should mention our non-divorce divorce agreement.
Was that a bing?
I stare at the computer for a moment. I swear it just binged at me.
I close the CNN website and access my mail program. There is new mail.
There is new mail from Donnatella.
I'm having a hard time working the tracking ball; my hands are shaking.
Finally, I get her email open:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Read Me
Which day next week?
Donna
That's it? That's all she wrote?
One sentence?
Shit.
Donna hates me.
***
I'm not sending a second email.
My reply was brief. To the point. Also professional.
I need to know when he'll be back. As his assistant.
Nothing personal.
Anyway, he hasn't replied yet.
I won't do anything else until he sends a reply.
It's been ten minutes since I checked my email. I can check again. You know, there might be something from my sister. Pictures of her kids.
That's all I'm expecting. Really. I'm not looking for anything from--
From: [email protected]
Well, you know, there might be something work-related he needs me to take care of. I really suppose I should open it first.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Read Me
Donnatella--
Monday.
And I really am sorry about everything.
Josh
"Sorry about everything"? What the hell does that mean? Sorry about what he said? Sorry we got married in the first place?
You can see why President Bartlet didn't give him a job in communications, can't you?
I should reply. I'm sure there's something else I need to know. As a good assistant.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Read Me
Josh,
What time Monday? Leo wants to know.
Define "everything."
Donna
What? I'm sure Leo will want to know at some point.
***
Define everything?
I think the word is fairly self-explanatory.
And, really, what time does she think I'll be back on Monday? Ten at night? That is definitely an odd question. Which makes me wonder why she's asking it. That and the other. The everything thing.
Let's see if I can figure this out: On the plus side, we've got three full sentences. Sure, they're four words or less each, but it's better than "Which day next week." On the other hand, she spent seven words on work stuff and only two on the everything thing.
Should I reply likewise? Should I explain that, yes, I will be in on Monday morning, so that I can begin the work week with everyone else. I expect to be in the office before eight, as usual. Possibly as early as six, depending on how well I sleep--
Whoa, can't go there. "How well I sleep" implies that I'm still having nightmares. I am still having nightmares, but there's no reason to worry Donna.
Okay, so maybe just "Monday morning." Is that too short? I don't want her to think I'm being short with her.
As for the everything thing... I have no idea what to answer.
Does she really not know? Does she really think I'm not sorry for all the shit I put her through? The woman talked me through about seventeen horrendous nightmares, put up with my attitude for weeks, and... and do I really have the right to ask for her forgiveness?
Probably not.
Okay.
I can do this. I will just lay it all out there. Lay my soul bare with no expectations for a response from her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Read me
Donnatella--
Monday morning, usual time.
Everything: 1. Every particular of an aggregate or total; 2. Something extremely important; 3. Every single word I said the other night, every particular time I made you lose sleep, every thing I did that hurt you.
Josh
Shit.
I shouldn't have hit send.
***
I'm smiling.
When is the last time I smiled? Seriously, I mean. Not just to be polite. Not just so people won't think I'm missing Josh.
I'm smiling.
Stupid man.
I ask him to define what he means by "everything," and this is the answer I get.
Idiot.
I'm dealing here with a grown man who thinks his SAT scores are some kind of turn-on.
Okay, he's right. But still.
Wherever he is, he probably took a dictionary with him.
Idiot. "Hi, I'm Josh Lyman. I just walked out on my wife to have a nervous breakdown. Anybody know where I can find a thesaurus?"
Silly, stupid man.
"Every particular of an aggregate or total."
And I want this man to father my children?
"Something extremely important."
Okay, that's promising. Vague, but promising.
"Every single word I said the other night."
Oh.
This is the White House. I am not going to cry in the White House.
"Every particular time I made you lose sleep."
Josh, you idiot. I was only losing sleep because I worried about you losing sleep.
"Every thing I did that hurt you."
I'll just go into Josh's office and close the door. Nobody will see me cry in there.
And his computer is much nicer than mine anyway.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Everything
Joshua,
"Every particular of an aggregate or total" -- You had to look that up, didn't you?
"Something extremely important" -- No, I am not bringing you coffee on Monday. What? You didn't think I'd read between the lines?
As for the rest of it -- Well, all right. As long as you understand what a jerk you were, extenuating circumstances not withstanding.
Are you sleeping all right?
Donna
Why did I hit send?
***
I am grinning like a complete idiot. That's -- hang on -- 64 words! That's an increase of 611 percent! (Hey, my math SAT score was almost as high as my verbal.)
Okay, so what does that mean?
Conclusion number one: Donna might be experiencing feelings of non-hate towards me.
Conclusion number two: Donna is worried about me.
I am surprised by how good that feels. Just knowing she still cares about me.
Some of the burning guilt inside of me eases. Slightly.
Which is nice, but the purpose of this is not to make me feel better; I'm apologizing to Donna because I truly regret hurting her. I want her to feel better. I don't ever want to hurt her again. I don't want to cause her even a small irritation.
Yeah, I know -- not likely to happen. Still. I will endeavor to be humble, kind and solicitous.
So what am I supposed to say to her?
I am fighting the urge to pick up the phone and call her. While I could distinguish a lot more if I could just hear her tone of voice, I know I'm not ready to hear her tell me the truth.
It's stupid, I know. I have ruined this marriage (which, I should point out, was real and equal and healing), but the thought of hearing anger or hurt or, worse, disinterest in Donna's voice when she confirms that fact... I'm not ready for that.
I need to call Stanley.
These mood swings are getting ridiculous.
No, I'm not calling Stanley. Not yet.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Everything
Donnatella--
No, I did not have to look that up. 760 verbal, remember?
Second, I am not expecting coffee. I never expect coffee. Coffee is an unexpected -- but always appreciated -- gift.
Third, I freely admit I was a jerk. Am a jerk. Will probably always be a jerk. Circumstances are no excuse for saying things like the things I said. Especially to someone who is what you were to me.
Fourth, aside from the icy sheets and the not-very-frequent nightmares, I'm sleeping like a baby.
Josh
I've got to call Stanley.
***
END PART I