Chapter Text
One of the unexpected benefits of motherhood has been watching Molly's complete delight whenever she and I are reunited. Not that I've ever spent more than one night separated from her, but my presence in the room is Molly's idea of an event. I swear, I can go to the store for an hour; and when I get back, my daughter will come bounding into my arms with so much emotion that you'd think we'd been separated for months.
Today is no exception. She bounces out of her chair and flings herself into my arms before I have a chance to say hello to CJ. Or, you know, kiss Josh. Molly is a big fan of the idea of Mommy and Daddy kissing. I think it makes her feel secure or something.
Never mind that Mommy and Daddy aren't generally the sort of people who engage in major public displays of affection.
So I get a minute or so of being hugged by my daughter with many variations of "I missed you so much, Mommy." (The unspoken message here is usually some variation on "Did you buy me a present?" Luckily, Molly is still at the stage where a pack of stickers from the drugstore will provide hours of amusement.) And then Molly looks up from her new treasure to sigh, "Mommy, you haven't said hello to Daddy."
This is a Lyman family ritual, and I give my standard response: "Your father and I have already met, Molly."
Molly, on cue, laughs uproariously. "Kiss him," she shouts.
"Molly Jordan, use your indoor voice please."
"Kiss him already," Molly whispers impatiently.
So I'm turning several shades of red here, while CJ and Evan look way too amused. I turn to He Whose Job It Was to Make Sure His Daughter Behaved Today. He, unfortunately, also looks way too amused.
I mutter something distinctly unflattering to the object of my affection and give him a quick peck on the cheek.
"They kiss much better at home," Molly stage-whispers to her Aunt CJ.
Yeah, so one of the disadvantages of being a mother? Having a child whose mission in life seems to be causing you public humiliation.
***
Every time I glance over at Molly -- which, given my ridiculous proud father routine, is quite often -- she's got another sticker somewhere on her body. Donna chose horses today, and right now there's a sparkly Clydesdale galloping across Molly's forehead and a Palomino standing on her chubby little hand.
CJ, the favored aunt, was presented with a pony, and Evan got a speckled horse. Usually, anything with polka dots is the most beloved of its peer group -- which means Molly keeps it for herself. I haven't quite figured out why she gave the spotted sticker to Evan; but before I can puzzle it out, CJ and Donna finish up the pleasantries. (CJ, if you're wondering, is quite happy with her job at the Feminist Majority Foundation, and Evan's book just got nominated for a National Book Award.)
Now we can get down to business. You see, Donna and I have a little wager on the outcome of her doctor's appointment -- whoever loses has to pay for lunch. And, yes, it's a ridiculous wager, considering we have a joint checking account, but it's the principle of the thing.
I turn my expectant gaze to Donna, who's helping Molly apply what looks like one of those miniature horses to her t-shirt. "So," I start, "who won?"
Donna rolls her eyes and tells CJ and Evan, "Allow me to apologize in advance for this."
CJ looks apprehensive. "For what?"
Pursing her mouth the way she does when she's deciding how to phrase something, Donna finally says, "Josh and I sort of bet on, you know, the thing."
Molly looks up, instantly curious. "What thing?"
Donna flushes an adorable pink. "Daddy's and my stamp collection, honey."
Molly nods solemnly. "Mommy and Daddy love their stamp collection," she tells CJ.
For her part, CJ chokes on a sip of water. "You bet on--"
"When exactly we acquired our latest stamp," I interrupt before she can finish the sentence. "Yes."
Evan looks a little lost. "Wait -- Are we talking about--"
"Yes." CJ rubs her forehead. "I told you they talk in code."
Molly frowns. "What's code?"
I glare at CJ. "Yes, Aunt CJ, would you like to explain code to Molly?"
Evan smirks and leans back in his seat. "Go for it, my dear."
CJ thinks for a moment, then takes Molly's hand. "Sometimes, when people love each other, they have a special way of talking. Your Mommy and Daddy don't want anyone to know that they say sweet things to each other, so they speak in code." She flashes me a superior look. "How's that?"
"Not bad," I grudgingly admit.
Molly's eyes are very wide. "Can I speak in code?" She turns to Donna. "Mommy, I wanna speak in code with you and Daddy."
Donna brushes Molly's blonde locks out of her face, pausing to unstick a few strands from the Clydesdale. "You already do, sweetheart."
"I do?" Molly asks, amazed.
"Yup," I tell her. "When we talk about politics. I don't know any other four-year-olds who would understand."
Molly's little body puffs up with pride. "I'm smart."
"You see what I mean about the Lyman ego?" Donna murmurs to CJ.
CJ laughs outright. "And you want another--"
"Stamp," Evan interjects just in time.
"Thank you," I tell him. Then I turn to Donna. "Speaking of which, you still haven't answered the question of when we acquired this wonderful new stamp?"
Donna takes a sip of water, frowns, and says, "Seven weeks."
I give her a puzzled look as I do the math in my head. "Seven? Really? I could have sworn it was--"
"Josh!" Donna yelps, with a pointed look at Molly's fascinated expression.
"Right," I say, reaching over to ruffle my daughter's hair. I can't believe Donna's giving me another one. "So that means--"
"Early December, yes." Donna smirks at me. "So if we want to take that trip to Bali while I still look hot in a bikini--"
"Actually," CJ interrupts, clearing her throat.
My attention is immediately captured -- CJ is so relaxed and so comfortable these days that even the hint of trepidation on her part makes me incredibly nervous. "What?" I demand.
"Well," she hedges. "I'm not sure right now is the best time to mention this." She glances over at Molly, who is, thankfully, absorbed in drawing a pasture on the back of her placemat for her sticker friends.
"It's okay," Donna tells CJ.
CJ and Evan exchange looks. "I spoke to Abbey last week," CJ begins.
Donna brightens. "Oh, how is she?"
"Good," CJ answers. "Very good. The President is too. And the girls, though it seems odd to call them that considering that Zoey's twenty-eight."
"Zoey's twenty-eight?" I repeat, incredulous.
CJ nods. "I know. And Annie's twenty-one."
"Annie can drink?" Donna muses. "That's just scary."
"Yup," CJ agrees. "But what Abbey and I discussed, actually, is the possibility of a reunion of sorts."
I stare at her. "We left office three months ago. Isn't this a little early?"
"Yes," CJ answers, dropping her gaze.
I'm immediately suspicious. "Wait -- When is the reunion?"
CJ looks over at Evan, who looks at me and says, "May."
I glance reflexively at Donna, then at Molly, who's oblivious to us, concentrating instead on getting the sky a perfect shade of blue. She, like her mother, is very detail-oriented.
"No," I say.
"Josh." Donna takes my hand. "Why not?"
"A reunion?" I repeat. "That's bullshit."
Molly looks up, wide-eyed. "Daddy, you said a bad word."
"Yes," I tell her. "I'm sorry. And don't you repeat that."
Molly considers for a moment. "Okay, but I want two bedtime stories tonight."
"Done," Donna answers distractedly.
CJ chuckles. "She really is amazing."
"She is," I agree. "And I don't want her exposed to--" I shrug. "Darkness."
Donna looks over at CJ. "It wouldn't be dark, would it?"
"No," CJ agrees. "It's not about the--" She shrugs. "--the darkness, Josh. It's about the fact that we made it to the other side."
I reach for Molly. "C'mere, honey. You want some of my french fries?"
"Oh, sure," Donna jokes. "You offer them to her; I have to steal them."
I give her a weak smile and help Molly clamber onto my lap. "If you stopped stealing them, maybe I'd offer you some."
CJ takes a bite of her salad. "We don't have to make any decisions right now, Josh. I just wanted to float the possibility."
"I think we should go," Donna says. "I think it's a great idea."
"Go where?" Molly asks around a mouthful of fries.
"Don't speak with your mouth full," I tell her automatically.
Molly swallows quickly. "Sorry, Daddy. Where are we going?"
"I don't know," I tell Molly. Then I look over to CJ. "It seems... morbid."
"It's not," CJ insists. "It's a celebration, Josh. It's the perfect way to prove to ourselves that those--" She stops, looks at Molly, and chooses a new word. "--those people didn't hurt us. That we're stronger than their hatred."
"I have proof of that already," I tell her, hugging Molly closer.
Donna swallows hard, and I can tell she's on the verge of tears. Damn hormones. I hold Donna's gaze. She nods slightly. "It'll be good, Josh."
"You think?"
"I do."
"What about the new stamp?"
"Another reason to celebrate."
I think it over, my gaze settling on my daughter's upturned face. "Where are we going?" she repeats.
"In a while," I tell her, "we're going to see Sir Jed and Lady Abbey."
Molly squeals with delight and claps her little hands, dislodging the Palomino. "Yay! Can we go now?"
"No, honey," Donna laughs. "We're going in a few weeks."
Molly frowns for a moment. "Okay," she says finally. "But Aunt CJ and Uncle Evan have to stay here until then."
***
"Ow!" Molly holds out one little hand, palm up. "Nickel!" she demands, and I fish through my purse, praying I have the correct change.
We started this little ritual during the Terrible Twos when Molly informed me that she didn't care what her hair looked like, brushing hurt. Is it my fault the child inherited my fine hair? I ask you, would she be better off with hair like her father's?
I think we all know the answer to that question.
At any rate, our solution is simple and elegant: We bribe her. She lets us brush her hair, and she gets a nickel every time we cause her pain.
Yeah, the child is making a fortune.
Dropping a nickel into my daughter's outstretched hand, I continue brushing and hope to distract her with conversation. (I'm running out of nickels, if you want to know the truth.) "So did you have fun today?" I ask.
"Tons of fun," she answers. "Daddy let me mock."
"Okay, Molly, for future reference, mocking is not nice."
She thinks that over for a minute. "Daddy does it."
"Yes, he does. However--"
"Don't you think Daddy is nice?"
I think Daddy is an overgrown child. An extremely sexy overgrown child, but that's not the point.
"Daddy's very nice. However--"
"You know who else is nice? Evan."
Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, the queen of misdirection.
"Evan's very nice. And he doesn't mock, which makes my point."
Molly considers this for a few minutes. Her forehead puckers up in an uncanny imitation of her father, making my heart turn over a few times.
"Evan likes Aunt CJ," Molly announces.
"Evan loves your Aunt CJ."
"Does Aunt CJ ever mock?"
When in doubt, lie. "No," I answer. "Never."
Molly gives a heartfelt, long-suffering sigh. "I s'pose I could stop if I had to."
"I'm sure you could."
"Daddy will be unhappy. Ow. 'Nother nickel, Mommy. He'll have to mock all alone."
"He'll learn to live with the disappointment."
Molly considers this for a moment. "Are you mocking Daddy?"
"Me? Never. I never, ever mock Daddy."
Molly swivels around. "'Ladies and gentlemen,'" she repeats, sounding a little too much like me for comfort, "it's Joshua Lyman and his amazing ego.' How come that's not mocking?"
"That's teasing."
"What's the difference?"
"I tease Daddy because I love him."
"Do you love him lots?"
"Lots and lots. And Daddy likes when I tease him. Mocking is for people you don't care about, and they wouldn't like it."
"Can I tease Daddy?"
"Knock yourself out."
"What can I tease him about?"
"How about the time he left his backpack on the roof of the car?"
Molly doubles over with laughter. "That was silly," she says.
"Yes, you have a silly Daddy," I agree.
"I'll call him Silly Daddy from now on. To tease."
"Sounds like a plan."
The Lyman sarcasm redirected, at least for the moment, Molly lapses into silence. Lengthy bouts of silence usually mean she's pondering some weighty question. Last night it was why dogs can't vote. And why we don't have one. I wait for tonight's question.
"Is Evan really my uncle?" she finally asks.
"He's sort of an honorary uncle by marriage."
"Can I marry an honorary by marriage uncle?"
Wow! Those Lyman hormones kick in early. "Molly, Evan's already married to Aunt CJ."
"They could get -- What's the word, Mommy? Like Uncle Toby and the nice lady from Congress."
"Divorced. But that would make CJ sad."
Molly thinks this over for a moment. It's a weighty philosophical problem. As taken as she is with Evan, Molly adores her aunt.
"I wouldn't want Aunt CJ to be sad," she decides. She sighs, clearly brokenhearted over giving up her dreams of becoming Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman-Drexler. But then she brightens up considerably. "Maybe by the time I'm grown up, Aunt CJ will be tired of being married to Evan."
"I don't think that's going to happen."
"It could," Molly insists. "I used to like playing Candyland, but I got tired of it."
"Being in love is a little more serious than that," I explain. "You don't get tired of the other person if you really love them."
"And Aunt CJ really loves Evan?"
"Yes," I nod. "Like I really love Daddy."
With one of those lightning quick change of topics that Josh erroneously claims she inherits solely from me, Molly switches tactics. "People get new boyfriends and stuff. Is that love?"
"That's dating. Which can lead to love, but not always."
"Did you have boyfriends before Daddy?"
Let's not delve into the quicksand here. "Yes, but I didn't love them."
"Of course not," a voice pipes up from the doorway. "They were all crosseyed." Josh is leaning against the door frame, looking entirely too pleased with himself. I'm guessing he didn't overhear the part about Molly's crush on Evan. He wouldn't be that smug if he'd guessed that another man had temporarily eclipsed him in his daughter's eyes.
"Irving," I say, "was not crosseyed."
"He was too," Josh insists. "And he lisped."
You know those tacky old drawings, the kind that were popular in the 1960s? The ones with those children with the enormous eyes? If Molly's fascination with her parents' discussion of the infamous Irving Seymour Hackenbush continues, that's what she's going to look like. "Who's Irving?" she asks.
Yeah, I was afraid of that.
"Your mother's old lisping, crosseyed boyfriend," Josh explains.
"Irving," I tell Molly, "is kind of a joke."
"I'll say," Josh mutters. Molly's eyes grow even wider.
"Your Daddy and I made Irving up. Irving was pretend."
"Oh," Molly says. "He was your imaginary friend."
Josh finds this hilarious. "That's exactly what he was, Molly. He was your mother's imaginary crosseyed friend."
You're paying for that one, Joshua Lyman. "And Daddy had an imaginary friend named Viridis," I add.
Molly is so delighted with this piece of information that she throws her arms around me. "That's you!" she announces. "Donnatella Viridis Moss-Lyman. Daddy's so silly that he named his imaginary friend after his own wife."
"I'm sadly obsessed," Josh agrees.
Molly sighs happily and rests her head against my neck. "That is so romantical," she says.
I glance over her head to notice how Josh is beaming at Molly and me. "Romantic," I correct Molly automatically. "And, yes, it really is."
"Romantic," Molly repeats dreamily. I think she may be well on her way to falling asleep when she looks up at me and asks, "Mommy, what is Evan's middle name?"
***
"Daddy?"
I don't exactly toss aside the briefing memo on the mine-districts of southern Pennsylvania, but... Yeah, okay. I toss it aside and give my daughter my full attention. I mean, Donna went to bed a good half hour ago, leaving me all alone with never-ending information on the horrendous mining conditions and the corruption of some of the unions.
Molly's standing next to my knee, an indistinguishable plush toy of some sort crammed under her arm.
"What've you got there, Molly?"
She blinks up at me with those big brown eyes that my mom swears are just as frustratingly guileless as mine were when I was young. My mother laughs uproariously when she says this. That fact alarms me.
Molly pulls the toy out and holds it up for my inspection. "Goofy."
I nod soberly. "Goofy, huh?"
Molly clambers up onto the couch beside me, her bare feet beating out a staccato rhythm against the seat cushion. "I like Goofy," she tells me. At four years old, Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is already a force to be reckoned with; when she likes something, she will be loyal to it until the end.
I look a little more closely at the stuffed... thingie. "What is Goofy, anyway?"
The fact that my daughter mastered her mother's best "you are a complete dolt" eyebrow lift before she hit three is utterly terrifying. One day this girl is going to -- You know what? Let's not even go there. I'm sure the President can suggest a top-notch convent.
I wonder if they have liberal Democratic nuns. Or, you know, Jewish nuns.
"Daddy." Molly's insistent voice derails my train of thought. "Goofy's a stuffed animal."
"I meant what kind of animal."
That stumps her momentarily, and I can't help but grin down at her blonde head. She really is luminous, my daughter.
Molly chews a little on her lower lip as she ponders the question, her expression eerily reminiscent of CJ.
"A dog," she decides, staring at the doll clutched in her tiny little hands.
"A dog?" I repeat, skeptical. Granted, I don't know much about Disney characters, but -- Wait a second. How did she get her hot little hands on a Disney toy? If memory serves, Donna banned "that corporate megalith, its misogynous cartoons, and its consumer-culture tools of indoctrination disguised as toys" from the Moss-Lyman abode.
"Yes, Daddy. A dog." Molly gives a decisive nod, considering the matter settled.
I'm not so sure; it doesn't really look like a dog. I hold out my hand in a silent request for the thing, but Molly tilts her head back and stares down her nose at me. Which is quite a feat, considering her diminutive size. "It's a dog," she repeats.
"How can you be sure?"
"I know."
Well, no one can ever accuse Donna and me of raising a child with self-esteem issues. Donna blames what she calls my overweening ego; I prefer to credit my stellar parenting skills.
I ruffle Molly's hair, just to see her do that adorable annoyed look. "Handing out degrees in veterinary medicine at your preschool, are they?"
Molly's forehead wrinkles. "Veterarin--" She frowns, knowing that's not quite right.
"Veterinary," I repeat a little more slowly.
"Veterin--" she pauses. "--nary."
I beam down at her. How smart is she? "Yes!"
"What does veterinary mean?" she asks, stumbling a bit on the unfamiliar word.
"A veterinarian is a kind of doctor who treats animals."
Her chubby cheeks dimple as she smiles. "Goofy can go to a veterinarian."
I give her a shrug. "Well, only if Goofy is actually a dog. And since that has never been conclusively proven--"
"Daddy!" Molly interrupts, laughing. She, unlike her mother, enjoys when I get all lawyeristic.
"Your Honor," I say to the armchair in the corner, "please admonish the witness for interrupting such a distinguished barrister in the middle of--"
"Uncle Sam says you're not a real lawyer," Molly interrupts, her tone mischievous. Already she understands the basics of political maneuvering, because her statement distracts me totally from the question of Goofy's lineage.
"Uncle Sam said what?"
Yeah, I know -- It disturbs me to call him "Uncle Sam" too, especially given the company he keeps. My daughter is not going to grow up with a conservative Republican for an aunt; not even an honorary one.
"When you were in 'Sylvania with the Gov'nor," Molly answers. Her pronunciation suffers when she's tired. "Mommy told Uncle Sam you were gonna advise on the Fourteenth Amendment, and then Uncle Sam laughed and made 'sparaging remarks about your legal expertise."
Yeah, only my daughter would rattle off phrases like "Fourteenth Amendment" and "legal expertise," then trip over "disparaging" and "veterinarian." I press a little kiss onto her forehead, just because. "He did, did he?"
Molly slips her little hand into mine. "Yeah. Daddy, I'm not sure Goofy's a dog."
"That's all right," I tell her, squeezing her tiny fingers. "What else did Uncle Sam say?" It sounds to me like Uncle Sam's gonna get a little bit of payback. Tell my daughter I'm not a real lawyer; only Donna's allowed to do that.
"Lots of stuff." Molly shrugs. "Maybe we should make sure 'bout Goofy."
"We can do that," I tell her. "But first, we should talk about Uncle Sam some more."
"Daddy." Molly tries to tug her hand away from me, but I hold on tight.
"Or we could discuss Goofy's genus and species right now, and worry about Uncle Sam later," I amend.
My daughter gives me a perplexed look. "Goofy's what?"
"Genus and -- Never mind. Ask your mother to explain the animal kingdom to you." I frown for a moment as a thought occurs to me. "Don't ask her about birds and bees, though."
"Okay," she agrees, far too quickly for my liking. I'll have to warn Donna so she's not blindsided by Molly piping up with "Daddy told me to ask you about birds and bees" at some inopportune moment.
I frown a little harder. I may have made a tactical error.
Molly gives my hand an impatient tug. "I wanna make sure Goofy's a dog."
"How are we going to do that?" I ask absently, still concentrating on Uncle Sam and the birds and the bees. And how maybe I shouldn't link those two things in my mind like I did just then.
"We have to ask him," Molly answers.
That sounds reasonable. I've talked to countless stuffed animals, inanimate objects, and imaginary friends in the past four years; what's one more? "Okay," I nod. "That's a good idea, Molly."
Her face positively radiates happiness. "Really, Daddy?"
"Of course," I answer automatically. I'm not going to be the one to make that expression of pure bliss disappear.
"We can really go ask him?"
"Yes, Molly, we can really go ask him."
Molly hurls herself at me, her arms winding around my neck, and it takes me a moment to realize -- "Wait; go ask him?"
"Yes," Molly mumbles happily into my shoulder. She's bouncing a little in her excitement, her little foot digging into my leg.
I have a very bad feeling about this. "Go where?"
"To Goofy's house," Molly answers, as if this answer should be patently obvious.
I close my eyes, bracing for it. "Where does Goofy live?"
Don't say Florida. Don't say--
"Florida!"
Oh, shit.
THE END
10.12.01