Chapter Text
"I'm so lonely."
Molly sighs dramatically, leans back in the tub and gives her best "pitifully neglected urchin" look. This look is, of course, undercut by the tubful of what she refers to as her "bath friends" -- various rubber duckies, books and toys guaranteed to keep a squirming four-year-old occupied while you attempt to wash behind her ears.
"And why are you lonely?" I ask absently while pondering how one small child can acquire so much dirt in the course of a day. I suspect today's visit to her best friend's house may have included too much time playing with Crista's dogs.
"I miss Daddy," Molly explains.
"Yeah," I agree. "I miss Daddy too."
"How come Daddy has to go to 'Sylvania so much?"
"Because he's helping the Governor."
Molly nods solemnly. "Gotta get mean old Baker out of my playhouse."
"The White House," I correct her, trying to undo the spin Josh puts on bedtime stories. "And that's a long way off yet."
Molly looks up at me, horror clearly written on her face. "Daddy's staying in 'Sylvania a long time?"
I give her a quick hug. "No, Daddy's coming home next week."
"We should go to 'Sylvania with Daddy."
I briefly wonder if Josh has been planting ideas in her head. Wouldn't it be just like him to use my own child to play me?
"We have school," I point out. I am intractable on this point. When I first discovered I was pregnant with Molly, my initial reaction was panic. I was completely convinced that I was going to have a girl, and I did not want my daughter's primary female role model to be a college dropout. So, with surprisingly little grumbling from Josh, I cut back on my hours as his assistant and I went back to school. Graduation and Molly's first birthday fell on the same week.
At any rate, I am keeping to a strict schedule this time around: I finish up my M.A. coursework in May, start gathering the data for my thesis over the summer and write the darn thing during my third trimester. This may seem like I'm trying to accomplish too much during my pregnancy. At least that's what Josh says, but I think his objections are based on the fact that he's going to have to break down and hire an actual assistant.
However, I think the schedule I'm working from is preferable to trying to write a master's thesis while caring for a toddler and an infant.
Plus Molly loves going to campus with me. I'll sit in the library taking notes while Molly -- face scrunched up, brow furrowed, lips pursed -- "studies" her storybooks, holding out a hand every few minutes and declaring, "I need the purple index cards!" Then she scribbles a series of lines and squiggles that she assures me are her notes on what she's reading. The notes are lovingly placed in her backpack and carefully filed away in a special drawer in her bedroom.
Is this child mine, or what?
All this, however, is explanation as to why we can't up and follow Josh every time he makes a trip to Pennsylvania to consult with Governor Douglas-Radford. Lord knows I want to. The man's been gone for five days so far, and to say I miss him is an understatement of massive proportions. This is pitiful. I am, according to the nice people at Georgetown who gave me my degree, an educated woman. Hell, I'm an educated woman with a degree in women's studies. And yet here I am, pining for my man.
CJ assures me this is not a betrayal of the sisterhood, as long as my man pines for me too.
Based on the fact that he calls home three or four times a day, I'm thinking my membership in the sisterhood is safe.
My main problem at the moment, however, is a squirming, overtired, opinionated four-year-old who misses her father.
"Don't we have a 'cation next week?" she asks.
"Vacation," I correct. Give her a break here: "Vacation" is not a word you normally find in a Lyman's vocabulary. "And I have Spring Break, yes. Your preschool, however, meets just like normal."
Molly gives me an appraising look. She's sizing up how far to push this. "All we do is play," she finally says. "It's very fustating."
"Frustrating. And why don't you like playing?" Good. She's concentrating on her argument. With any luck, I'll have her hair washed before she has time to squeal. The people who came up with that "no more tears" slogan never met Molly at bath time.
"I like playing," she explains while I lather, rinse and repeat. "But I'm ready to read and write, you know."
"I am very much aware of that." I really am. Molly took an aptitude test earlier this year. Verbal skills through the roof, I'm telling you. Plus she can already write the alphabet and her full name. Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is a rather long name, and I'm very proud of this accomplishment.
But I don't want to be one of those parents who rushes her child into lessons and such too early, thereby taking all the joy out of learning, so I'm trying not to push.
Even though she could kick some first-grade ass, academically speaking.
"So," she says, as I throw a towel around her hair, "why not go see Daddy 'stead of going to school?"
"Instead."
She looks up at me, and I recognize the cajoling look in those little brown eyes. It was, after all, a similar look in another pair of warm brown eyes that resulted in Molly's being conceived six months ahead of schedule.
"Please, Mommy. Daddy won't be home for weeks and weeks."
"One week. Daddy will be home in one week."
Actually, it's six days, four hours and seventeen minutes. But who's counting?
"One week." Molly sighs dramatically. "One whole week." Yeah, I know I'm being played, but I must say I understand her point.
"We'll talk about it when Daddy calls," I concede.
Josh makes a point of calling promptly at 8 a.m. (just as I'm getting Molly ready for school) and 7 p.m. (just before Molly's bed time) every day. Then he calls back once Molly's safely asleep. Irving and Viridis have renewed their acquaintance since Josh started working for the Governor.
My Master Politician, Junior Grade, stands up. I help her out of the tub and wrap her tiny body up in a towel. She claps her hands excitedly. "Daddy was right!" she exclaims.
Wait. What?
"Daddy was right about what?" I ask suspiciously.
"I can talk you into anything," she explains, throwing her little arms around my knees.
Irving, you sexy bastard, you are so not getting any relief from Viridis tonight!
***
Once upon a time, I really liked traveling. I enjoyed the hell out of each new hotel room. Donna will say that's because I knew I didn't have to clean it when I was through, but she's... well, yeah, okay. There may be a small kernel of truth. But free maid service aside, campaigning allowed me to see the entire country, hotel room by hotel room. And this country is an amazing place. Well, for the most part; there were some duds.
Like Boise. And Pierre.
Although the last time we were in Pierre, back during the President's re-election campaign, the hotel had this alcove not far from the ballroom, and Donna and I--
I think I've misplaced my point.
Traveling. I used to love it. But that was before Molly.
Now each night on the road means I sit alone in a hotel room and call home instead of coming home to the exuberant delight of my four-year-old daughter. While in another state Donna gives Molly a bath, I listlessly read the sports section of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, half-listening to CNN until the top of the hour theme music plays. Because that means it's time to call home.
"'Lo?"
My daughter is so damn cute. "Molly, it's--"
"Daddy!" she yells.
I pull the phone a little bit away from my ear. Donna claims that Molly inherited the happy-equals-loud trait from me, but you can guess my daughter's mood strictly from the decibel level.
Laughing, I settle back onto the bed, letting the mattress soothe my back. It's not sore, not really. It just... acts up on long days. Little twinges, a bit of stiffness, that sort of thing. I've told Donna repeatedly that my doctor recommends regular exercise, which requires us to be in the same city every night. But she's got school, and so does Molly.
I understand, I really do. I just wish she could do her coursework and travel with me. I miss my wife, and I miss my daughter. I don't think I'll ever forget the strangely fascinated look on Leo's face when I made a comment to that effect the time I visited him in Boston. I guess it makes sense; I never really thought I would get married, never mind reproduce. And if the dumbfounded looks on my colleagues' faces when Donna and I announced that we were going to be parents are any indication, nobody else really expected it either. And now here I am, happily married and a father to boot.
Yeah, I think I've crossed some sort of line.
"Daddy," my daughter says, "how's 'Sylvania?"
"Pennsylvania," I correct. "I'm in Pittsburgh."
She laughs. "That's funny."
"What'd you learn at school today, Molly?"
"Dinosaurs!" She's so excited, almost yelling. I can picture her, the way her big brown eyes get all wide, the way her little hands fingerpaint the air.
"Really?" I ask. "What kind of dinosaurs?"
"Big dinosaurs," she answers seriously, and I can't help but laugh. "They are big, Daddy," she tells me, a note of censure in her voice.
"Yes, they are," I agree. "They've got a dinosaur skeleton at the Museum of Natural History, Molly. I'll take you next weekend."
There's a moment of silence, and I can almost hear the wheels turning. "Daddy, how come dinosaurs are extinct?"
I stare at the overly neutral wallpaper for a minute, trying to frame a response that will satisfy her.
"Because a meteor hit the earth." Then I stifle a groan, because I know what's coming next.
"What's a meteor?" she asks.
Yup, there it is. Like I can explain this over the phone. I need charts and illustrations and possibly an astronomer. "A meteor is a big rock from outer space, and a long, long time ago, a meteor bounced off the earth."
"Like a baseball when they don't catch it?" she asks.
I nod, even though she can't see me. "Yes, like a baseball when they don't catch it. Just like that, only a little bigger. And it made the earth..." Um... "...shake a little, and the dinosaurs... got extinct." I can't imagine how I got that 'B' in Earth Science. Ruined my damn GPA, that class did.
Why can't she ask me to explain how a bill becomes a law, or about parliamentary procedure? I mean, yeah, she already knows that stuff, but -- dinosaurs? How the hell am I supposed to explain--
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"Why did God let the dinosaurs get extinct?"
Okay, well, I'm totally stumped. I briefly consider using the hideously expensive hotel phone to call Sam and see if theology is one of the things he geeks out about. Maybe he could field this question.
"Because..." I make some strange humming noise, buying time while I try to come up with an answer. "Because sometimes God does things that we can't understand." Like, you know, let some punkass kids point a loaded gun at you, even though you're just a guy standing there.
Molly sounds confused when she asks, "Like when God let Baker play in my playhouse?"
I run a hand through my hair until my knuckles hit the pillow, and then drape my arm over my eyes. "You shouldn't blame God for that, Molly. Blame the voters."
"Will God let it happen more?"
"'Will God let it happen again,'" I correct. "And you know that's why I'm in Pennsylvania, Molly. I don't want the voters--"
"No, the motor."
"Meteor."
"Will God let the meteor bounce on the earth again?"
I never understood my mother when she would talk about the love a parent has for a child. Then I met Molly. Now the thought of the world ending while she's living on it -- or even something as trivial as a hangnail or a scratch from an unfriendly cat -- sends me around the bend. I have never felt so protective of anyone in my entire life. And yet I am adrift here, with no idea how to reassure Molly. I can't lie to her, but I don't want her to obsess over the prospect of a meteor landing in the backyard either.
Finally, I say, "God loves us, Molly. He wouldn't let that happen again."
She sounds very disappointed. "Why doesn't He love the dinosaurs?"
There is really just no way I can explain this to a four-year-old. "He does. He--" Inspiration strikes.
"Molly, do you remember the story of Noah's ark?"
"Noah saved the animals!" Molly adores animals; after our first trip to the wildlife refuge -- Donna refused to take Molly to the zoo, because the animals are in captivity and apparently Sam lectured her one too many times on the pitfalls of captive breeding programs and mistreatment and small pens. What was I saying? Oh, yes. After we got home from the wildlife refuge, Molly asked very seriously if we could move there and live with the animals. It was really quite logical; after all, our reasons for not getting pets has always been that there's not room in the brownstone, and they'd be unhappy being cooped up. In Molly's mind, moving to the wildlife refuge would solve that problem.
She was a little disappointed when we told her no. So it makes perfect sense that she remembers Noah for saving the animals.
"Yes," I tell her. "He saved the animals." I frown up at the ceiling for a moment; how much detail will she be able to understand? "God knew there was a big storm coming, so he warned Noah and told him to build an ark."
"That's a boat," Molly tells me proudly. I can picture the look on her face, the excited flush on her cheeks when she knows she has the right answer.
I miss her with a sharpness that never seems to dull, no matter how much time I spend away from Molly and Donna.
"Yes, a big boat."
"And he put the animals on the boat," she continues. "Even snakes." Her tone of voice leaves little doubt that she's making that mildly disgusted face, where she scrunches up her nose and sticks out her tongue. Donna's soft laughter in the background confirms it.
See, Molly loves all animals, but she's quite scared of snakes. "Yes, even snakes," I tell her.
"Daddy, did the animals have their own rooms?"
Um... "Sure." The Bible's a little light on these details, but I'm going to assume it was a pretty damn big boat.
"Good," Molly decides. "They should all have their own rooms like I have my own room."
I decide to skip ahead before she starts asking if Freddie the polar bear had his own bookcase just like Molly. My daughter takes after her mother in a lot of ways; she likes to know the details of everything. Like why ice cubes are see through but snow is white if they're both frozen water. Yeah, I told her to ask Mommy.
"So the storm came," I tell her. "And it rained and rained and rained and rained--"
"Daddy!" Molly interrupts, laughing.
I'm grinning like a moron at this point. "And then it rained a little more."
"That's a lot of rain," she points out.
"Yes, it is. And then the rain stopped, and Noah's ark was floating around in the ocean, which was much, much bigger than it used to be."
"Big enough to reach Washington?" she asks.
I don't want to get into how the entire earth was flooded and have her stop obsessing about meteors just to obsess about giant floods, so I dodge the question. "This happened over in Israel and Palestine and Jordan."
"Uncle Toby's cousin lives in Israel," Molly tells me.
Really? Huh. "Yeah," I say. "So during the storm, it rained so much that the land was underwater. A few days later, Noah released a bird, who flew away and didn't return. So Noah knew there was dry land--"
"'Cause the bird went to live there!" My daughter is so damn smart.
"Right. And not long after that, Noah's ark landed, and all the animals got off, and there was a rainbow--"'
"Yay!" When Molly gets really excited, she claps her hands. Sometimes she forgets that clapping and holding onto things are mutually exclusive, and this is no exception. The phone clatters to the hardwood floor, and I yank the receiver away for a moment.
When I press it back to my ear, I can hear Donna's soft laughter as she rescues the phone and reassures Molly. "Daddy's right here."
Then I hear Molly scrabbling with the phone, and her anxious voice. "Daddy?"
"Did you just throw me on the floor?" I demand in my mock-angry tone.
Molly giggles, delighted. "I did!"
I try really hard and manage not to laugh outright. "Is that any way to treat your father?"
"Yes." I know exactly what look she's got on her face right now. It's the one Donna calls her Smartass Josh face. Obviously, Donna only calls it that outside Molly's earshot; but whenever Molly turns that particular expression our way, Donna sighs and glares at me.
I find that particular look to be quite endearing.
"Well," I tell Molly, "I guess you don't want to hear the rest of the story--"
"No!" she protests. "I wanna hear about the rainbow."
"You sure?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. The rainbow is the best part of the story. After it rained and rained and--"
"Daddy," Molly admonishes, "you already told that part!"
I cover the phone for a second so she can't hear me chuckle. "After the storm, the sun appeared in the sky and Noah saw the most beautiful rainbow. And you know what that rainbow was?"
Her tone is awed when she answers. "What was it, Daddy?"
"That rainbow was God's promise to Noah, and to all of us, that he would never let anything like that happen again."
"Never?"
"Never," I confirm. Please, God, prove me right. Don't ever let anything happen to this little girl, or her brother.
Which, incidentally, reminds me of God's other comment, the one about 'be fruitful and multiply.' I'm thinking we'll save that particular detail until Molly's, oh, fifty-five or so.
"Daddy?" Molly asks seriously.
"What, honey?"
"I love rainbows," she confesses.
***
This is the moment I've been waiting for all day. Molly is (finally!) sound asleep; I've done all the studying I can manage for one evening; the house is -- well, the house is pretty much a disaster, but I figure I'll have plenty of time to clean later (if by "later," I mean once Molly and her sibling are in college). Right now, I am ready -- more than ready, even -- for a private conversation with my old friend Irving.
I haven't talked to Irving for twenty-four hours. And we left off our conversation at a most intriguing spot.
Picking up the phone on the first ring, I whisper, "Hello, Irving," in my deepest, sexiest voice.
"Donna?" Josh asks, clearly puzzled. "Do you have a sore throat or something?"
"No," I answer in a normal, albeit irritated, tone of voice.
"Because you sound like you did that time you had the flu during--"
"That was my seductive voice."
"It really wasn't." The bastard sounds too damn amused.
"I was going for a Lauren Bacall quality. It was sexy."
"As the father of your one point three children, I'm pretty much the expert on your seductive voice. That wasn't it."
"I'm rolling my eyes here, just so you know."
The next thing I hear sounds remarkably like someone turning on his television.
"Josh, please tell me you're not watching CNN."
"I'm not watching CNN."
"C-SPAN then."
There's a click that sounds suspiciously like a television being turned off.
Smart boy.
"I can't help it, Donna. I'm going crazy here. I miss Washington."
"Because you are lonely and need the comforting, not to mention erotic, presence of the woman you love?"
"That too." He sighs, obviously contemplating everything he's missing -- which does not, I'm thinking, center on the joys of connubial bliss. "I was not made for state politics," he says. "I can't function at this level. These people, they go on and on and they make these petty demands that could hold up important legislation, not to mention damage the governor's re-election bid and--"
"This is different from the White House how? Because it all sounds pretty familiar to me."
"There may be similarities," Josh admits.
"But the stakes are lower, and you are not a patient man to begin with."
"I miss DC," Josh insists, choosing to ignore my trenchant analysis. "I miss Congress, I miss the White House. I miss the debates and the backstabbing and knowing what's going on and who's making the deals that will be dissected in the Post tomorrow. I miss the monuments and the cherry blossoms. Are there cherry blossoms yet, Donna?"
"Oh, for the love of god, Josh, you've only been gone five days!"
"God help me," he continues, again ignoring me, "I even miss the damn tourists."
"No, you don't."
"I could. I might. I'm sure if I'd thought about it before, I would have missed them."
"Do you want me to repeat everything you've said on the subject of tourists in the nine years I've known you?"
"I miss Molly," he says. There's a certain petulant quality to his voice that is not unattractive. He's probably doing that thing where his lower lip juts out, and I swear it's like he's begging me to nibble at it.
Yeah, it's clear what I'm missing.
"I hate being an absentee father," he continues. "I should be spending more time with her."
"Josh, honestly, you spend as much time with her as you can manage. Molly knows that."
"She keeps asking when I'm coming home."
"Well, of course she does. She misses you."
"Which proves my point."
"Josh, you spend as much time with her as you can. You certainly spend more time with her than my father ever spent with Frances and me, and his job was nowhere near as demanding as being Deputy Chief of Staff or running a gubernatorial campaign."
"Still--"
"You miss her. We've established that."
"I can't make it home for another week."
"I know."
"And I don't like you being alone in your condition."
"My condition? I'm pregnant, Josh; I'm not an invalid. And I'm rolling my eyes again."
"I don't like it," he repeats. "I tend to worry."
"Gee, really? I never would have guessed."
"See, a supportive wife would tone down the sarcasm."
He's smiling. I can tell.
Damn. I'm probably missing a classic dimples sighting.
"Why do I get the feeling I'm being tagteamed here?" I ask.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Molly's been putting quite a lot of effort into convincing me that we should go to Pennsylvania," I note.
"Well, she's a smart kid."
"Who said something along the lines of 'Daddy says I can talk you into anything.'"
The silence on the other end of the line is, in its own way, rather revealing. "I'm sure that if I made a remark of that nature, which I do not recall doing, Molly misinterpreted my intent and--"
"Josh, admit it. You're using our firstborn child for your own nefarious purposes."
"I wouldn't call them nefarious so much as... Okay, there's no way I'm going to win this one, is there?"
"No, but you're sexy as hell when you're flustered, so that works in your favor."
When Josh sighs over the telephone, it is not unlike having him breathe in my ear. I swear my body practically vibrates from the sensation. "I miss you," he says in what is definitely his seductive voice.
I can feel myself relenting. Also tingling.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take Molly out of school next week."
"So you're coming?"
You know, sometimes he just makes this too easy. Slipping back into my seductive voice, I reply, "Well, Irving, that's pretty much up to you, isn't it?"
By the time I hang up the phone, I swear that even my toes are tingling.
Yes, I can definitely afford to take some time off next week. Strictly for Molly's benefit, you understand.
***
As soon as I turn the water off, I can hear impatient knocking at the door of my hotel room. I hastily dry off and pull on my makeshift pajamas.
"All right," I yell, pulling the door open. Lucky for them, I'm still pretty relaxed after my extended conversation with Viridis. "What is the damn emergency?"
Toby and Toni Timian stand there, with matching sour expressions. "Finnigan," Toni says.
Why am I not surprised? Finnigan is a Pennsylvania state Senator, a conservative Republican, and Susan Douglas-Radford's toughest opponent for Governor. Finnigan also has the charming habit of choosing a sympathetic reporter to call late at night with inflammatory remarks. He seems to think that way the opposition won't have adequate time to respond.
That may have been true three weeks ago, but I coaxed Toby back into politics largely because of his ability to craft succinct, searing statements in ten minutes flat.
Well, that and because Sam told me Toby's publisher was pressing him to write a memoir about the Bartlet administration. And I really don't want that verbal acuity turned on me.
I wordlessly hold open the door. Thank God I sprang for a suite; we settle around the small sitting area, and I give them an expectant look. "What'd Finnigan do now?"
Toby shifts a bit, folding his hands carefully. "Finnigan's attacking us on clean elections. How hard do you want to hit back?"
"What'd he say?"
Toni glances down at her tiny notepad. "'Douglas-Radford's incessant demands for so called 'clean elections' -- as though the democratic process that has served us faithfully since the time of our Founding Fathers isn't quite good enough for her -- is the epitome of hypocrisy--'"
Toby makes a small, disgruntled noise, no doubt in reaction to the tangled syntax. Luckily, Toni's already learned to ignore him. She just keeps reading, "'--considering that Douglas-Radford herself is taking money from special interests with very narrow focuses.'"
I can't help but roll my eyes. "Right, because his corporate donors' interest aren't at all narrow."
Toby very nearly smiles. "Exactly. Besides which--"
"The voters of Pennsylvania passed a damn clean elections law," Toni interrupts, "with over sixty percent support. It's Finnigan and his damn cronies who are refusing to fund it. Which means--"
"She can't run a clean elections campaign without matching funds," Toby continues. "And coincidentally, it's her political opponent who's blocking those funds--"
"And then has the nerve to call her a hypocrite," Toni finishes.
I watch them for a minute, quite amused. "So do you guys need me at all, or--"
"Josh." Toby gives me a look. "It's still pretty early. I don't know that a full frontal assault--"
"Yeah." I frown, pondering our options. The election's not for six months, which is a long damn time, politically speaking. And Finnigan's our strongest opponent. Hitting back hard right now would just start a vicious cycle -- Finnigan incites us to pillory him in the press, which opens the door for insinuations that Susan Douglas-Radford is a hysterical, shrieking female.
I nod slowly. "Don't hit back so much as jab."
Toni groans. "Boxing metaphors? Really?"
I ignore her. "Let the press make the connections to the clean elections law."
"Say that she'd like nothing more than to run a clean campaign, but the people's will has been thwarted by the state legislature--"
"But," Toni frowns, "if we don't come back with a strongly worded--"
"Josh is right," Toby tells her. "It's too early to--"
"Stand up for ourselves?" she demands, obviously gearing up for a lengthy debate. "Look--"
"Hey," I stand up and gesture toward the door, because these two are quite happy to sit around and argue for hours on end, and I don't need any part of that. "Go talk to some reporters."
Toby rolls his eyes and stands. "If we start this now," he tells Toni, "we'll play this the rest of the campaign, and the press will begin to paint a picture."
"A picture of a female candidate who refuses to play the victim. Yeah, that would really suck," Toni scoffs.
I stand in the doorway, watching them bicker their way down the hallway. My shoulders are tense again.
I wonder if Viridis is up for a second round.
***
I am not a perfect mother. I am guilty on occasion of telling my child to amuse herself while Mommy studies. After three rounds of "I Spy," my head feels as though it will explode. Given the choice between Nickelodeon and C-SPAN, I think we all know which network the Moss-Lyman television will be turned to. And I couldn't bake a cake if my life depended on it.
I dare you, however, to find a woman who loves her child more fiercely than I love Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman.
My Molly is, not to put too fine a point on it, a miracle. She is this unique combination of Josh and me, with all our traits jumbled up together into something greater than either of her parents. Even her unattractive qualities -- you may have noticed that my daughter inherited a smidgen of the Lyman ego -- enthrall me. There is nothing, not one thing, about this child that I don't adore. I have, therefore, made it my mission in life to guarantee that nothing ever harms her. As long as there is breath in my body, no one says or does anything to upset or disillusion my daughter.
Are we clear?
Molly's world is a joyous place, filled with family and friends who love her. Nothing that Josh would describe as dark has ever been allowed to enter that world. We have worked very hard at this. We have restricted what she can watch on television; we have instructed our friends and her teachers that there are subjects Molly isn't ready to deal with yet. We have, of course, a strategy for how and when she'll be told certain things.
And now some little jerk on the playground has ruined our carefully thought-out plans.
She's too young to understand. She's a bright child, but how in hell do you make a four-year-old understand all this? Especially when Josh is in Pennsylvania with Governor Douglas-Radford. The plan was to sit her down next to her father, so she could understand that he's all right. That it happened years before Molly was born, and everything's fine now.
We put her in this preschool with the explicit understanding that Molly needed to be shielded from this. They promised us that they'd help.
They screwed up. And now my child is inconsolable, and they can't make her understand.
All of which explains why I'm out for blood by the time I reach Molly's preschool. The principal, Mrs. Lau (a woman I normally like), greets me before I can close the door to the Toyota.
"Mrs. Lyman," she begins, "I am so sorry."
"Where is my daughter?"
"She's in my office. Sally's with her. You remember my aide Sally? Molly's especially fond of Sally, so we thought it would be wise--"
"Yeah, I don't really care what you thought right this minute." I'm walking as fast as I can toward the principal's office.
"I want to explain how this happened."
"Yes, I'd like to hear your explanation. So, I'm sure, would my husband. We'll schedule that meeting some other time. Right now, I need to take my daughter home."
"Of course." Mrs. Lau looks decidedly pale. She's been running a school that caters to the offspring of Beltway players for too long not to have heard a few stories about The Wrath of Lyman.
Good. Let her panic for a while. Suits me just fine.
Especially when I get my first glimpse of Molly.
Fearless, joyous Molly. Huddled in a ball, holding her little arms tightly around her body, sobbing and refusing to look at -- much less listen to -- Sally's attempts to comfort her. Molly's legendary verbal skills seem to have evaporated; the only word I can make out between her sobs is a plaintive "Daddy."
"Molly Jordan," I say quietly, "Daddy's fine."
Molly looks up, blinks back the latest round of tears, and recognizes me. With an agonized cry of "Mommy," she launches herself at me. I pick her up and hold her as tight as I can.
"Mrs. Lyman," the principal begins again, "we--"
"Get out," I order. I manage a curt nod of thanks to Sally as she walks past me, then settle a nearly hysterical Molly onto the couch once the others have gone.
"Daddy's okay," I tell her.
Molly shakes her head. "Isn't," she says.
"Is," I answer, reaching for my cell phone. "I'll prove it. We'll talk to Daddy right now."
***
I consider myself a good father.
I read stories to Molly until my throat is sore. I take her to the park, even though the sun bothers me. (I mean, really -- who wants to be outside sweating or shivering when there's a perfectly good central air unit in operation?) And I am always accessible.
Or at least I try to be.
But politics has never been a nine-to-five job, especially not when I'm running a campaign. Consequently, I'm not home enough. I don't get to spend as much time as I'd like to with my daughter. Donna knows how much it bothers me to be away from them, and so we devised a strict calling schedule -- I call home three times a day, and Molly can call me
anytime she needs to.
Molly's definition of "need" is, as you might imagine, quite different from Donna's and mine. Donna only calls after five (even though I don't keep office hours, she considers after five to be fair game). Phone calls from my daughter, on the other hand, come at any hour of the day. (And if she has a nightmare or wants a second bedtime story, any hour of the night as well.) So I'm not particularly concerned when my cell phone trills mid-staff meeting.
"Sorry." I check the display. "My daughter," I tell Governor Douglas-Radford. She looks unfazed, even though we're discussing strategy to deal with Finnigan and his minions. Obviously, she's used to my quirks already. I push myself upright and start for the door. "I'll just be a second."
But when the sound registers, I freeze. My daughter is hysterical, wailing in between her sobs. I don't think I've been this blindly terrified in my entire life. "Molly? Molly, what's wrong?"
Even I can hear the utter panic in my voice. The Governor ushers everyone else out of the room, squeezing my arm as she slips past. I barely notice. "Molly Jordan? Where's Mommy? Are you okay?"
"Daddy," she sobs.
"I'm here, Molly," I tell her urgently, trying to get through to her.
"Daddy," she sobs. "Daddy's hurt."
My entire body is quaking from this rush of adrenaline, and I feel utterly impotent, hundreds of miles from my daughter when she needs me. God, I hope she didn't see the footage of the shooting. Damn CNN and their incessant retrospectives, anyway.
"Molly, I'm not hurt. I'm fine. Daddy's fine."
"Daddy?"
"Yes, I'm right here."
"Not here," she argues, her voice still soggy. But the sobbing seems to be dying down, and I can hear Donna's voice in the background, murmuring something comforting, no doubt. I relax the slightest bit. Donna's with her, so I know Molly isn't in physical danger.
"I'm talking to you, right?"
"Yes," she answers.
The phone is pressed so tightly to my ear that my knuckles will probably leave bruises on my cheek. Ask me if I care. "If I'm talking to you, then I must be okay, right?"
"Daddy," Molly says, her voice heartbreakingly quiet. "Can you come home now?"
I am a terrible father. I am a horrible, terrible person -- how dare I be in another goddamn state when my daughter needs me?
"Honey, I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Now?"
My heart hurts. I am experiencing actual pain in my chest. It nearly kills me to say no to her on a good day. But now? "I can't be there right now, Molly, but I will be there as soon as possible."
"Daddy, now!" she insists, still crying a little.
I rub a hand over my face. "Molly, can I talk to Mommy for a second?"
"'Kay."
There's the sound of her little fingers on the mouthpiece, and a beep as she accidentally presses a number. I can hear Donna's soothing tones, and then she's on the phone.
"Josh?"
"Donna, what the hell--"
"Not now," she tells me, her voice drawn tight. "We'll deal with Mrs. Lau later."
"Mrs. Lau? I don't--"
"One of her classmates saw the CNN piece."
"Some little punk told my daughter that--"
"Yes, Josh," Donna interrupts. "Next week."
I sigh, forcibly relaxing my tensed muscles. I can still hear Molly mumbling something. "Yeah. How is she?"
"A little better," Donna answers cryptically. "Today's Thursday."
I blink, trying to follow her unique logic. Even after six years of marriage, Donna's abrupt subject changes leave me lost. "Huh?"
"Today's Thursday," she repeats.
"All day."
"Josh." Good. She sounds exasperated, which is light years better than the ill-concealed anger and sorrow of a few minutes ago.
"I'm just saying."
"Listen, you wanted us to fly up anyway--"
My wife is a genius.
"Yes!" I tell her. "Absolutely. When will you be here?"
"I'm going to take Molly home to pack and--"
"Pack?" Molly echoes in the background.
"Yes, sweetie," Donna tells her. "We're going to go see Daddy."
"We are?" Molly asks, her tone awed.
"Yes."
Molly cheers, and I find myself smiling idiotically at the middle distance. "When are you coming?"
"I'll call the airline from the car--"
"We're still in Pittsburgh," I remind her.
"Yes, Josh, I actually can read an itinerary," she answers dryly.
"I'm just being helpful."
"Oh, is that what you were being?"
"Yeah." I take a deep breath. "So when you get here, we're going to have to talk to Molly."
"Yeah," Donna answers, her voice a little watery.
"Are you crying?"
"Shut up, Josh."
"Donna, we need to talk to her about it. We have to make her understand."
"I know."
I rub my forehead and stare absently at the wood grain of the conference table. "How do you explain hate crimes to a four-year-old?"
When she answers, Donna sounds uncertain and more than a little scared. "I don't know, Josh."
Problem is, I don't know either.
"Yeah," I say finally. "We'll figure it out."
We're going to have to.
***
End Part I