Coping Universe I: To Strive (3/4)
Jun. 27th, 2004 07:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
waldos_writingsCoping Universe I: To Strive
By Waldo.
Part 3/4, See Part 0 for notes and disclaimers
When I came back into the waiting room,
Toby had left and C.J. was on the t.v. giving the
first press conference. She looked… awful. I
knew we all did. We'd been in the same clothes
for more than twenty hours and we'd all ended up
on the ground at some point. Because I knew
where to look, I could see a slight bump on the
side of her head, but no blood. That was good.
Her speech was hesitant and halting. She
consulted her notes dozens of times, like this
was a complex economic deal the President had
made with a dozen Nobel Lauriates, and not a
shooting she'd been in attendance for. I sighed.
I'd be even worse. I could barely talk. I was
getting better about answering questions put
directly to me, but starting a conversation was
still hard.
The press was being as considerate as
they could, I realized. The questions were all
phrased carefully if it had anything to do with
any of us, and rather harshly when about the
shooters. From what I could see, no one was
pressing her on issues she either couldn't
comment on or didn't have the answers for. I
knew that that would change, but we'd have to
take our breaks where we could get them.
She'd just stepped off the stage when my
name was called by a nurse at the door. I
jumped up and ran over, hoping it was word on
Josh.
"Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield have
asked the hospital to check over everyone who was
in Roslyn. Would you come with me?"
"I'm fine," I snapped, suddenly not wanting to go with her.
"Yeah," she said softly, smiling at me.
"Probably, but I tend not to argue with Secret
Service Agents with guns, so it'd make my life a
whole lot easier if you'd let us do this. It'll
be quick, I promise."
I had to smile at her then. She had her
marching orders and she was going to follow them,
but she wouldn't be an ass in the face of my
reluctance if she didn't have to. "Okay."
She led me into a room that had way more
equipment than I was comfortable with. I was
fine, what the hell did we need all this stuff
for?
"This is an ER trauma room, but we're
using it as an exam room for now, since it's
closer to the waiting room. We've already
checked on C.J. Cregg , Toby Ziegler, Charlie
Young and Zoey Bartlet. Everyone's fine." She
kept talking about things that I would have sworn
were covered under doctor/patient
confidentiality, but it was nice to hear that
everyone would be okay. C.J. had a bump on her
head, some road rash on one hand and a scratch on
her neck. I didn't volunteer that I knew where
the scratch came from. Toby and Charlie got away
completely unscathed and I was grateful. Zoey
had taken an elbow in the stomach, which was
making her a little nauseous and gave her a
good-sized bruise, but nothing that wouldn't fade
in a day or two. I began wondering what they'd
notice about me. And who would be told.
Maggie, the nurse, kept talking as she
rolled my sleeve up and took my blood pressure.
When she was done, she leaned me back against the
bed and had me swing my feet up. She checked my
pulse and pupils and asked me if I hurt anywhere.
I just shook my head. She told me I was a little
shocky, a little dehydrated and 'just generally
shaken up.' Either she deduced from the
dehydration or Leo had told someone about how I'd
thrown up when we first arrived. She told me a
doctor would be right in to check me over one
more time and decide if I needed to be put on an
I.V. for a few hours.
She was gracious enough to turn off the
bright florescent lights when she left the room
and I closed my eyes. Fatigue was warring with
adrenaline and I really wasn't sure which would
win. When I closed my eyes, bright lights
flashed across my eyelids. Police cars from the
motorcade, muzzle flashes, camera flashes… they
all blurred into a bright red, blood red, swirl.
I leaned back into the pathetically thin hospital
pillow and tried to quell the nausea and spinning.
I was still trying to get a grip on the
axis of the room when a doctor came in. He
introduced himself as Dr. Norris and instead of
immediately poking at me, he pulled a chair up to
the edge of the bed and sat next to me. "Feeling
sick?"
"A little," I admitted.
"It's shock. I'm going to give you a
little compazine for the nausea. And I'm going
to have Maggie get you some juice or ginger ale
after that. If you can hold the juice down, we
won't put you on an I.V. But I've been in
communication with Leo McGarry and I know the
next few hours, probably the next few days, will
be more than just a little hectic for you and if
you start this marathon dehydrated, you're going
to find yourself right back here."
I nodded and squeezed my eyes shut as he
prepared a shot. I've known people who react to
needles worse than I do, but not many. I never
figured out how to do that cool-stoic-guy thing
when I know that someone's about to put a hole in
my skin. Dr. Norris must have noticed because he
swabbed my arm and told me to count back slowly
from ten. At eight he stuck me and by three it
was over. I lay back, letting the room spin
around me again, this time knowing that most of
the vertigo was from the shot. Not what was in
it, just that I'd had one.
It made me think of Josh. Of all the
I.V.s and shots and therapies and stitches that
would itch and everything else that was in store
for him. Then I found myself praying that he
would be stuck and prodded and poked. Because
then he'd be alive to complain about it.
Dr. Norris asked me again if I'd hurt
myself in the commotion, but I honestly didn't
feel anything. It would be more than twelve
hours later, when I'd finally get so damn sick of
the clothes I was wearing, when I'd sent Cathy
over to my place to get me some clean ones, when
I'd changed and seen the bruise on my knee.
Funny how I don't remember it hurting until I'd
actually seen it. Then I felt like my knee was
swollen to six times its normal size and I'd
limped for four days. But at that point, the
dizziness and nausea was drowning out anything
else my body might be telling me. And my head
was actually doing a pretty good job of drowning
out most of that, because I had Josh to worry
about and would eventually have to go back to
work and help deal with this whole disaster.
Everyone was being exceedingly kind by letting me
stay for as long as possible - probably on Leo's
orders - but I knew that wouldn't last forever
either.
I knew the minute the medicine hit my
system. It wasn't more than two or three
minutes, but suddenly the halos around lights
that I hadn't noticed before seemed to clear up
and I didn't have a white knuckled grip on the
sheets to keep myself from falling off the wildly
tilting bed. That was the moment fatigue lost.
I was still worried and scared for Josh and the
President, but I wasn't feeling that I was going
to fall asleep or pass out or whatever it'd felt
like before.
Maggie came back and asked me what I
wanted. I got some ginger ale and drank it
slowly, as per her directions. I hadn't realized
how dry my mouth had been, the cool fizzing of
the soda felt way too good. I finished it and
they let me up with instructions to keep very
strict track of when I ate and drank over the
next few days to avoid any kind of hypoglycemic
or dehydration problems. I was also supposed to
come back if I threw up again.
Not long after I went back to the waiting
room, a nurse came to get Mrs. Bartlet and
announced that the President was out of surgery
and that everything was looking good. I called
over to the West Wing and told C.J. I made it
very clear that I was calling to tell her and not
the press and that until I was able to meet with
someone from the medical staff and get her some
notes that she should keep a lid on it. She said
she'd gather up Toby and come back to the
hospital and we could all talk to the medical
staff. She kept repeating that it wasn't that
she didn't trust me to brief her, but that she
wanted to be here and ask her own questions. I
had to keep repeating that I never thought that
was what she meant and that I would have wanted
to come back too, if everyone hadn't been nice
enough to let me stick around the whole time.
C.J. came and got briefed by the First
Lady and then the medical staff. She had to go
straight back to get ready to do the next
briefing - they were scheduled almost hourly
while the surgeries and investigation were going
on. Toby and I stayed, waiting on word from
Josh's doctors.
About two hours after C.J. left, she
called to say that there were some issues with a
memo that didn't get signed. I knew I'd have to
go back eventually and deal with some of this…
this stuff. But I'd been gearing myself up to
write a press release or briefing notes for C.J.
or something. I hadn't anticipated needing to
sit in with White House Council and Nancy McNally
while we figured out, now in retrospect, what we
would have done if Canada had suddenly decided
they wanted Minnesota back.
The meeting only lasted about forty
minutes, but it seemed to drag on for days. I
knew we needed someone from the senior staff
there, but the council and Nancy seemed to do
ninety-five percent of the talking and I
desperately wanted to get back to the hospital.
At the end of it all it was finally
decided that if something had happened, gut
reaction from everyone in the room said they
would have turned to the Vice-President. Nancy
also added that if the memo had been written,
power would have been handed to him anyway. So
they said they'd check a couple of other acts and
laws and precedents and whatever and take that to
the press.
My one truly brilliant moment of the
meeting was telling them that in the
technological age we now live in, we need to have
a contingency plan. When the 25th was enacted,
most people didn't survive gun shot wounds and
the kind of split second decisions to move
military troops over seas or launch a nuclear
warhead weren't even conceived of. Which left us
with this nebulous place where the President
wasn't planning to be out of commission, but very
well could survive an ordeal like this but
couldn't sign the damn letter.
Council said they'd get someone right on that.
Day late and dollar short, folks.
When it was over I went down to the mess
and got some more ginger ale and a couple packets
of saltines. I didn't want to chance anything
more exotic than that for a while, but I was
starting to think the doctor was serious when he
said I could end up being hospitalized myself if
I didn't eat.
I took things back to my office to try
and get a few minutes of peace and quiet. I
needed to close my eyes for ten minutes and
regroup before I could head back out to G.W.
I found about fifteen folders and papers
dropped on my desk when I got back upstairs. I
set the soda on the shelf behind my desk and
began to sort out some of the reports that had
been put on my desk. There was a summary of the
Secret Service investigation so far, a report
from the hospital spokesperson and a few things
that some of the press had started assembling
already. I had tried reading through things
without my glasses, with my glasses, with the
room lights on and the desk light off, with the
desk light on and the room lights off. None of
it was settling in. And then Leo was standing in
my doorway looking uncomfortable as hell. I
stood up to greet him and felt weak in the knees.
I have no idea what kind of face I made or what
kind of sound, but suddenly he was rushing up to
my desk saying, "No, no, no, I haven't heard
anything new. It's not Josh." His hand was on
my arm squeezing tightly, as if he could get a
grip for me.
"What's going on then?" I asked slowly.
"We need some help. C.J.'s been doing
the press briefings all night and we're all a
little wired now. I was wondering if you could
help her out and tackle the morning news shows in
a few hours? Let her get a little rest?"
I remembered thinking how much I didn't
want her job earlier, but what was I going to
say? No, I'm sorry Leo, that's her tough luck.
She's the public face, make her suck it up?
"Yeah, I can do that. I guess. Is there someone
who can brief me on what Secret Service is
releasing and how all this is going to be set up?"
"I'll have Jeff come down and talk to you
as soon as he's free. We're going to give each
of the three major networks, CNN and MSNBC ten
minutes each, by remote, in the Mural Room. Do
you want a break between each one or would you
rather just run them all back to back and get it
over with?"
I nodded. It's a good thing I didn't
hedge, because Leo had already started organizing
all this as if I'd agreed before he asked me.
"There's going to have to be a break as each
station sets up and breaks down, right?"
"Yeah," Leo agreed, "Maybe ten minutes."
"That's enough. I want to get back to
the hospital." I knew Josh would be pissed, that
my job should come first, that the people and
their right to know because we live in a free
society should come first, but at that point
nothing came before him. I was terrified that
one of two things would happen. Either they'd
finish the surgery and he'd wake up alone, or… or
he wouldn't wake up and I'd never get a chance to
say good-bye.
"Yeah. I'll tell Jeff to stop by and
give you some notes and stuff. Other than that,
just tell them what you know." Leo squeezed my
shoulder before heading for the door. "I'll ask
C.J. or Toby to prep you after your briefing."
"Yeah." I flopped back into my chair. I
didn't want to do this. I didn't want to explain
that by some miracle I'd seen the impossible and
that I was able to sit there and chat with them
about it while my best friend had his lung
reconstructed in what I was starting to feel was
a vain hope of getting him breathing again.
I thought there was more time. I thought
I'd have some time to psych myself up for this.
To let C.J. or Toby prep me. But all of a sudden
Jeff was in my office listing what I could say,
what I couldn't and how to best redirect if
asked. He handed me a paper with two columns on
it, one marked 'Classified', and the other
'Public' as he left as if he knew that I wouldn't
be able to retain much right now. Then Leo was
there saying that MSNBC was first and that there
was someone there to get me ready.
He walked me to the Mural room but hung
back by the door as I went in. "Hey Sam, you'll
be okay. "
There was an interviewer whose name I
couldn't remember sitting in one of the two
leather chairs in front of the camera set-up. I
was ushered into the other one by a producer or
news director or someone, where they began
adjusting the lighting and experimenting with
camera angles and distances. Just as someone
yelled "Five minutes!" I was pulled aside by yet
another person I didn't know and asked if I would
be averse to a little make-up so I wouldn't look
so washed out on-screen. I knew damn well that a
coat of latex paint wouldn't make me look any
less worried or haggard or exhausted, but I
nodded and let her suffocate me with a make-up
sponge and powder puff. She seemed to spend a
very long time trying to cover up my the circles
under my eyes, only giving up when someone yelled
"One minute!"
I sat next to the news anchor, who
introduced herself as Melissa, the cover reporter
for D.C. while the regular was on vacation. "Is
there anything you'd particularly like me not to
ask about?"
She had an odd sentence structure and
style and it took me a minute to understand. I
realized that if we couldn't even start the
interview understanding each other that it was
going to be a very, very long ten minutes.
"There are some things Secret Service won't let
me talk about, but I can just say that if you go
there," I answered and took a deep breath,
blowing it out slowly. I'd practically become a
regular on "Capitol Beat" and other political
talk shows, so I was no stranger to the camera,
but this was so, so different than arguing
hypotheticals and numbers and party lines.
"Ten seconds!"
I took another breath. Held it.
"Tap the arm of the chair a few times if
you need me to go to a break," Melissa told me
and I nodded gratefully.
We both watched as he counted down with his fingers. Five. Four.
Three.
Two.
He pointed at us.
"Good morning. As many of you heard in
our recap of the evening's events, last night,
President Josiah Bartlet, Deputy Chief of Staff
Joshua Lyman, Secret Service Agent Ron
Butterfield and Pennsylvania resident Stephanie
Abbott were all injured in an assault in Roslyn,
Virginia. We're at the White House this morning
with Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director
for an update. First of all Sam, what's the
latest on everyone's condition?
The fact that she didn't focus her
attention solely on the President relaxed me a
lot more than I thought it would. "The
President's surgery went very well. It was an
exploratory to confirm what doctors initially
assessed - which is that his wounds were minor.
For a gunshot wound," I amended quickly. Just
because the President wasn't hurt as badly as
Josh didn't mean he wasn't still shot. "He was
hit in the side, but there was no organ damage or
serious tissue damage. They expect he'll be back
in the White House in just a few days."
"And everyone else?" Melissa prompted.
"Ron Butterfield will have surgery on his
hand in," I looked at my watch, "Oh, he's
probably either in now, or done. When they say
the job of the Secret Service is to take a bullet
for the President, they aren't exadurating. He
was hit in the hand while trying to get the
President in his car. Stephanie Abbott, a young
woman who just happened to be in the crowd was
shot in the thigh. Unfortunately, I don't have a
great deal of information on her condition, but I
did hear that she'd had surgery to remove the
bullet and is in good condition." It was
actually remarkably easy to talk about this as
long as I was talking about people I didn't know.
Or at least didn't know well.
"And Josh Lyman? My understanding is
that he's been a friend of yours for a long time."
"Yeah, Josh and I go back…" I had to
think. "At least ten years now." I almost
started with the whole car crash/ambulance thing,
but decided against it. No one else would care.
I took a deep breath. "Josh is still in surgery.
He's on a heart/lung bypass machine while they
reconstruct part of his lung. He went into
surgery at about midnight and they say it's going
to be a twelve or fourteen hour surgery."
"So he's still in surgery?"
I thought that's what I just said.
"Yeah." I wanted to rub my eyes, but I wasn't
sure how to do that without smudging my make-up.
I fleetingly wondered how and why women did this
to themselves every day.
"Is there anything you can tell us about who was responsible for this?"
I took note of her wording. 'repsonsible
for this.' This. No one would call it an
atrocity on t.v., at least not yet. No one
seemed to be able to use the mundane word
'shooting', like it was a bar brawl on the South
Side of Chicago, the sort of thing that happens
at least once every weekend. So we just called
it 'This.' "The Secret Service are the best
armed guards the world has ever seen. They took
down two shooters in Roslyn. They haven't been
identified yet. We've had a few phone calls from
people and groups claiming responsibility, but
the Secret Service is fairly certain they've been
bogus. So we don't have anyone in custody at
this point, but that's not to say that we won't
if investigations discover a larger conspiracy
behind this." There was that 'this' again. And
I wanted to shoot myself for being the first to
say 'conspiracy' on the news. C.J. was going to
have my ass for that one.
"Can you tell us what happened? What you saw, what heard?"
I wish like hell I could remember what I
said then. I must have retold my story. I
remember stopping myself from saying that I
pushed C.J. down, but I fumbled it and barely
covered. "I heard the first shot, looked up… I
could see a muzzle flash or a glare off metal or
something. When I realized there was going to be
another shot, I headed for the ground. C-" I
started saying C.J.'s name, but caught myself
after the first sound and amended it to, "Someone
was in front of me, so I pushed them down too."
I knew using 'them' when referring to one person
was ungrammatical, but English doesn't have a
gender-neutral singular pronoun for referring to
people, and I really, really needed one. I
plowed on, trying to deflect away from that part.
"There was a police car behind us. The window
was shot out."
I must have gone on to explain how we
found Josh, how we heard about the President once
we were at the hospital. Someone had briefed
Melissa fairly thoroughly and she asked me about
rounding everyone up. I really wished that would
get left alone. I wasn't any kind of hero or …
or whatever. And with this coming out in the
first of five rounds, I was fairly certain I
could look forward to four more iterations of, "I
didn't do anything anyone else couldn't do,
wasn't doing. I just needed to know where my
friends were."
Mercifully, it was over soon after that.
Carol came down with a bottle of orange juice
with instructions from C.J. to drink it and to
not use the word 'conspiracy' any more. I was
somewhat relieved that she'd sent Carol, that I
didn't actually have to come back with a
response. Then Carol added that I should eat
something. I wasn't sure if that was from her or
C.J.
After MSNBC was ABC. It went very much
like the first one, but I avoided saying the
c-word this time. It just happened to be that
the spokesperson from the hospital was available,
as well as the President's surgeon, during my
segment, so I didn't even have to say as much the
third time around with CBS, since I shared it
with them. After that one Toby showed up in the
doorway with a donut and more orange juice.
"Ginger needed to get out of the office
for a few minutes, so I asked her to pick up some
food for everyone," he explained as he stood and
watched me take a few bites from the donut. I
realized that I was finally hungry and that felt
wrong. Wasn't I supposed to be too torn up about
my best friend being in surgery to be able to
eat? That's what happens to all the survivors in
cop shows and novels and soap operas.
"Tell her I said 'thanks'."
"Sure. You're doing really well, Sam."
I nodded around another bite of donut.
"Thanks. C.J.'s only had to send Carol down to
yell at me once for saying something stupid."
"Someone was bound to say it. And if she
gives you too much grief, just remind her about
the word 'subpoena' and the drug thing last
winter." He smiled at me and I was surprised to
find myself smiling back. It wasn't often that
Toby sided with me. I realized then how much
we'd all need each other through this. I had the
closest glimpse I ever hope to get of the
solidarity, the brotherhood formed by soldiers in
battle.
"Two more. Just two more and then you
should lay down somewhere and rest for a few
minutes," he told me quietly.
"I'm… I can't rest yet, Toby. Come on.
Can you?" I wadded up my napkin in my hand and
cast around for a trash can, not finding one.
"No," Toby answered succinctly. "I'll go
call the hospital. I'll have an update for you
by the time you're done, okay?"
"Thanks, Toby, I'd appreciate that," I
said and then CNN was steering me over to the
chair again.
I'd just gotten done with NBC when Toby
came back into the Mural room, giving me a high
sign even as they were unclipping the microphone.
"They think they'll be taking him off by-pass in
the next hour or two."
I sighed loudly, "Thank god. Then they
have to hope they can restart his heart, right?"
"Right, Toby said, steering me out into
the hall. "But the guy I talked to seemed pretty
optimistic about that. You heading back?"
"In a minute. I want to scrub this crap
off my face and gather up some of the memos and
stuff that was dropped on my desk earlier." I
stopped and hiked a thumb at the nearest men's
room.
"Okay, I need to go … I have to deal with
Secret Service and the thing with the canopy.
Call me with news, okay?"
I nodded before ducking behind the door.
I realized I should have asked if anyone in the
Mural Room had that stuff they use to get the
make-up off on the political shows. That oily
stuff that makes you feel like you need to wash
your face to get off the stuff they washed your
face with. Water and liquid soap weren't cutting
it, so I tried scrubbing it off with paper
towels. By the time I was done I was red and my
face felt as raw as my brain. One or two more
hours, I kept telling myself. They'd take him
off bypass in one or two more hours, shock him
and he'd be back among the world of the living.
No. Nononono! I corrected myself. He's still
among the living, even now. He's not dead. He
was never dead. They were just giving his heart
and lungs a rest. His brain never died, wasn't
even totally deprived of oxygen. He's alive and
he's going to stay that way. Dammit.
I dried my face and went back to my
office. I started putting the papers I'd want
with me in order and in my briefcase. I stopped
to roll a kink out of my neck and when I looked
up C.J. was in my doorway. Oh hell.
"Hey Spanky, come take a walk with me."
Oh come on, I didn't say 'conspiracy'
again after you yelled at me. I was really,
really careful after that. My inner voice was
starting to sound like three-year-old. "Oh god,
what'd I do?" Okay, so was my outer one.
Could I have made that conversation any
more awkward for either of us? I should have
felt better after it, but I didn't. I just felt
nausous. Finding out where my friends were after
a shooting doesn't make me a hero. Pushing
someone down to the ground so hard they loose the
memory of what is probably, to date, the most
memorable night of our lives does not make me a
hero. There were no heroes last night. Maybe
the Secret Service sharp shooters who took them
down. "This." "Them." We didn't have names, we
didn't know what to call 'this'. I leaned my
head against the cool window of the Suburban,
willing the driver to get us there now.
I think I thanked him as I ran for the
doors. I'm not sure. It occurs to me that I
can't remember a lot of what I said during this
whole time. In some respects it was easier when
I couldn't talk. Then there was nothing to
remember. I know that anything I say, no matter
who I think I'm talking to, could very easily
make it's way back to the press. And while I
doubt that The Post gives a damn if I thanked the
Secret Service guy who drove me over here, not
everything I say is so innocuous. I should
really get a grip. It's been almost sixteen
hours since hell broke loose. I figure that by
this point I should have either gotten a grip or
collapsed. And since I haven't I guess I'm stuck
in some sort of weird adrenaline fueled limbo
that's sapping away my brain-power.
I found myself back in the waiting room.
Donna was there, biting her nails, Charlie and
Zoey were talking in one corner and when I passed
them Zoey pulled herself away to come give me a
hug. "It looks good. My mom said they've
started taking him off the bypass machine. She's
in with my dad now, but as soon as she comes back
I'm sure she can catch you up. I saw you on Good
Morning America," she added almost as an
afterthought.
"How bad did I look?"
"Well, you looked like you'd been up all
night worrying about your best friend and your
boss. You know… kind of pale… but you sounded
good. Leo made a good choice to put you up
there. You're so humble."
She actually pinched my cheek.
"Zoey, dammit, don't." I pushed her hand
away and headed back for my chair to wait for an
update by either the First Lady or the hospital.
As I fell into it and looked up, I saw
Charlie standing over me. "With all due respect,
Sam, Zoey didn't deserve that."
I blinked, looking up at him. One of the
few things I'd absorbed from the briefing notes
I'd been reading before the morning shows was
that the guy they caught at that diner said that
Charlie was the intended target. This guy who
just found out that some of the biggest assholes
in the world were quite literally gunning for him
for dating Zoey, was standing here lecturing me,
defending her.
"Charlie?"
"No, listen. Zoey's telling you that
she's proud of you. That after all we went
through tonight, you had the composure to face
the nation and talk about it. I couldn't have
done that. I'm guessing C.J. and Leo couldn't
either or they would have. But they sent you,
because you could. And while you don't think it
was a big deal that you rounded us all up, I
think it was a big deal. No one else asked about
me, Sam. I'm not Senior Staff. I'm a dime a
dozen kid who gets the President a can of Coke or
tells him when his next meeting starts. I'm
totally replaceable. I'm also totally responsible, but you still asked Toby where I
was. It means a lot to Zoey that someone gave a
damn, so please, when she's strung out enough,
like she is now, don't blow her off."
I wasn't sure if I'd just been yelled at
or thanked and I had no idea what to say to any
of that. Well, almost any of it. "Charlie… you
aren't responsible. The shooters are
responsible. And you are not, in any way,
replaceable. Don't ever think that."
He just nodded solemnly and went back to sit with Zoey.
I was grateful when the First Lady came
back in and gave me something else to think
about. As she explained what would happen now -
that his lung and artery were repaired and now
they had to shock his heart to start it again and
then close him up - I was able to redirect my
focus from Charlie's lecture back to Josh. It
was amazing how simple the First Lady made the
rest of the procedure sound. Just send several
hundred volts of electricity through his heart to
bring him back from the clinically dead, wire his
breastbone back together and sew his chest up.
No problem.
It was another hour and a quarter before I heard a quiet, "Sam?"
Leo was at the door talking with a
doctor. I hadn't even realized he'd come back
here. Last I'd known he was still at the White
House. I stood and joined them. We were
informed that restarting his heart hadn't been a
problem and that his heartbeat was strong and
steady, but that he was on a respirator to help
him breathe. I'd choked when they said that and
everyone turned at looked at me. The doctor
explained that it was the next step after
by-pass, that it was helping to re-expand the
collapsed lung. He told me - us - that it was
just temporary and it looked good for taking him
off it soon.
"They're going to wake Josh up for a few
seconds. I thought you might want to be there."
Leo's voice was soft and gentle, like I was still
in that weird shell-shock phase I'd been in when
we'd first gotten here, what seemed like forty
years ago instead of eighteen hours.
"Yes. Thank you." I smiled my first
real smile since all this chaos had begun.
Knowing that Josh was still breathing - albiet
with help - literally made me breathe easier.
I had assumed Leo would be going with us,
but he clapped me on the shoulder and squeezed
past me into the waiting room to update the
others.
I followed the doctor who was telling me
a lot of numbers, and while I understood that
B.P. meant blood pressure and PO2 meant pulse
oxygen level, I didn't know what a good number
was versus a bad number, so the numbers
themselves meant very little to me. What I
gathered from him was the same thing I'd seen
when Josh had been in surgery - the doctor was
calm, he seemed positive and upbeat about the
outcome of the surgery. I knew that Josh had a
long way to go, but for someone who'd just been
shot in the chest, it sounded like he was doing
as well as could be hoped. As we reached the
recovery room door he put out a hand to stop me
from going in.
"He's still on a lot of monitors and
I.V.s. He has a tube that's draining fluid, air
and blood from his chest cavity so that the lung
has space to re-expand. There's a tube down his
throat helping him breathe. He can't talk
because of that, and even when it comes out his
voice is going to be hoarse and his throat sore
for a little while. We just want him to wake up
for a second; start coming out of the anesthesia.
It's often helpful and comforting for the patient
to have a familiar face around when he wakes up.
It wouldn't be surprising if he doesn't remember
what happened and how he got here, but if he
does… well, he was pretty confused and scared
when he went under."
I nodded. The last time I'd seen him all
his vital organs had been on display. I figured
short of seeing him in the morgue, even all the
machines would be a step up.
The doctor let me in and I moved slowly
to his side. I decided that I was glad for the
warning after all. Josh is a big guy. But with
all the machinery beeping, buzzing and hissing
around him he seemed… dwarfed.
There were two nurses in with him. One
was adjusting one of the machines and the other
was tucking one of those horribly short hospital
issue blankets around his legs. I wasn't sure if
I was supposed to touch him, but I figured
someone would yell if I wasn't. His left hand
had two needles in it. One from an I.V. bag with
several bags of what I assumed were medication
running into the main line, the other transfusing
a pint of blood. I remembered that I'd planned
to give blood and hadn't. Maybe when I wasn't
about to fall over as it was. I took his right
hand in both of mine, stroking the back of it
softly with my thumb. His skin was cool and
papery.
The doctor and the nurses seemed to be
waiting for me to do something, but I wasn't sure
what, so I just looked at him, tried to block out
the machines and tubes and monitors, tried to
will some of my own warmth into his cool fingers.
"See if he'll respond to your voice.
Remember, he can't talk, but let's see if he can
open his eyes," the doctor told me.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself
like I was about to do something much, much
harder than say Josh's name. I shifted his hand
from both of mine to one and reached the free one
up to stroke his hair back. He worries about his
hairline, and maybe his forehead is a little
bigger than it was when I met him, but with Toby
and Leo around, no one really notices. He has
wonderfully soft hair. I ran my fingers through
it and squeezed his hand. Please, please do
this. Please look at me, I thought to him
desperately. "Josh. Josh, come on. Come on,
buddy, open your eyes. I'm here, Josh. Open
your eyes for me, okay?" I held his hand tight
and kept stroking his hair.
There was nothing for a long moment and
then I felt his fingers tighten just slightly on
mine. "He squeezed my hand." I knew I had the
stupidest grin. As I watched, he pulled his eyes
about half open, obviously with supreme effort.
Suddenly his heart monitor started
beeping wildly and he tried to pull away, but was
too weak. The doctor stepped up. "Josh? Josh,
you're on a ventilator, it's helping you breathe.
You're all right. Relax and don't fight it and
you won't feel like you can't breathe. You won't
be on it long. In fact the next time you wake
up, it'll probably be gone. Just don't fight it."
As the doctor spoke, Josh relaxed and the
rapid beeping of the heart monitor slowed. His
hand tightened on mine as the adrenaline faded
and his eyes drifted shut again. "I'm still
here," I whispered. "Just rest. You're going to
be okay. You're going to be just fine. Close
your eyes and rest…" I kept up the litany and
the gentle touches until one of the nurses told
me that he'd fallen asleep again and would be out
for a while.
I nodded and they went back to their
work. When no one was looking I placed a gentle
kiss on the back of his hand and tucked it back
under the blankets.
I went back to the waiting room and as
soon as I opened the door, all eyes were on me.
Time to be spokesboy again. "He woke up for a
few seconds. He was a little scared by the
ventilator at first, but he's going to be okay,"
I told them.
_________________
End Part 2, To Strive
Completed in Part 4
By Waldo.
Part 3/4, See Part 0 for notes and disclaimers
When I came back into the waiting room,
Toby had left and C.J. was on the t.v. giving the
first press conference. She looked… awful. I
knew we all did. We'd been in the same clothes
for more than twenty hours and we'd all ended up
on the ground at some point. Because I knew
where to look, I could see a slight bump on the
side of her head, but no blood. That was good.
Her speech was hesitant and halting. She
consulted her notes dozens of times, like this
was a complex economic deal the President had
made with a dozen Nobel Lauriates, and not a
shooting she'd been in attendance for. I sighed.
I'd be even worse. I could barely talk. I was
getting better about answering questions put
directly to me, but starting a conversation was
still hard.
The press was being as considerate as
they could, I realized. The questions were all
phrased carefully if it had anything to do with
any of us, and rather harshly when about the
shooters. From what I could see, no one was
pressing her on issues she either couldn't
comment on or didn't have the answers for. I
knew that that would change, but we'd have to
take our breaks where we could get them.
She'd just stepped off the stage when my
name was called by a nurse at the door. I
jumped up and ran over, hoping it was word on
Josh.
"Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield have
asked the hospital to check over everyone who was
in Roslyn. Would you come with me?"
"I'm fine," I snapped, suddenly not wanting to go with her.
"Yeah," she said softly, smiling at me.
"Probably, but I tend not to argue with Secret
Service Agents with guns, so it'd make my life a
whole lot easier if you'd let us do this. It'll
be quick, I promise."
I had to smile at her then. She had her
marching orders and she was going to follow them,
but she wouldn't be an ass in the face of my
reluctance if she didn't have to. "Okay."
She led me into a room that had way more
equipment than I was comfortable with. I was
fine, what the hell did we need all this stuff
for?
"This is an ER trauma room, but we're
using it as an exam room for now, since it's
closer to the waiting room. We've already
checked on C.J. Cregg , Toby Ziegler, Charlie
Young and Zoey Bartlet. Everyone's fine." She
kept talking about things that I would have sworn
were covered under doctor/patient
confidentiality, but it was nice to hear that
everyone would be okay. C.J. had a bump on her
head, some road rash on one hand and a scratch on
her neck. I didn't volunteer that I knew where
the scratch came from. Toby and Charlie got away
completely unscathed and I was grateful. Zoey
had taken an elbow in the stomach, which was
making her a little nauseous and gave her a
good-sized bruise, but nothing that wouldn't fade
in a day or two. I began wondering what they'd
notice about me. And who would be told.
Maggie, the nurse, kept talking as she
rolled my sleeve up and took my blood pressure.
When she was done, she leaned me back against the
bed and had me swing my feet up. She checked my
pulse and pupils and asked me if I hurt anywhere.
I just shook my head. She told me I was a little
shocky, a little dehydrated and 'just generally
shaken up.' Either she deduced from the
dehydration or Leo had told someone about how I'd
thrown up when we first arrived. She told me a
doctor would be right in to check me over one
more time and decide if I needed to be put on an
I.V. for a few hours.
She was gracious enough to turn off the
bright florescent lights when she left the room
and I closed my eyes. Fatigue was warring with
adrenaline and I really wasn't sure which would
win. When I closed my eyes, bright lights
flashed across my eyelids. Police cars from the
motorcade, muzzle flashes, camera flashes… they
all blurred into a bright red, blood red, swirl.
I leaned back into the pathetically thin hospital
pillow and tried to quell the nausea and spinning.
I was still trying to get a grip on the
axis of the room when a doctor came in. He
introduced himself as Dr. Norris and instead of
immediately poking at me, he pulled a chair up to
the edge of the bed and sat next to me. "Feeling
sick?"
"A little," I admitted.
"It's shock. I'm going to give you a
little compazine for the nausea. And I'm going
to have Maggie get you some juice or ginger ale
after that. If you can hold the juice down, we
won't put you on an I.V. But I've been in
communication with Leo McGarry and I know the
next few hours, probably the next few days, will
be more than just a little hectic for you and if
you start this marathon dehydrated, you're going
to find yourself right back here."
I nodded and squeezed my eyes shut as he
prepared a shot. I've known people who react to
needles worse than I do, but not many. I never
figured out how to do that cool-stoic-guy thing
when I know that someone's about to put a hole in
my skin. Dr. Norris must have noticed because he
swabbed my arm and told me to count back slowly
from ten. At eight he stuck me and by three it
was over. I lay back, letting the room spin
around me again, this time knowing that most of
the vertigo was from the shot. Not what was in
it, just that I'd had one.
It made me think of Josh. Of all the
I.V.s and shots and therapies and stitches that
would itch and everything else that was in store
for him. Then I found myself praying that he
would be stuck and prodded and poked. Because
then he'd be alive to complain about it.
Dr. Norris asked me again if I'd hurt
myself in the commotion, but I honestly didn't
feel anything. It would be more than twelve
hours later, when I'd finally get so damn sick of
the clothes I was wearing, when I'd sent Cathy
over to my place to get me some clean ones, when
I'd changed and seen the bruise on my knee.
Funny how I don't remember it hurting until I'd
actually seen it. Then I felt like my knee was
swollen to six times its normal size and I'd
limped for four days. But at that point, the
dizziness and nausea was drowning out anything
else my body might be telling me. And my head
was actually doing a pretty good job of drowning
out most of that, because I had Josh to worry
about and would eventually have to go back to
work and help deal with this whole disaster.
Everyone was being exceedingly kind by letting me
stay for as long as possible - probably on Leo's
orders - but I knew that wouldn't last forever
either.
I knew the minute the medicine hit my
system. It wasn't more than two or three
minutes, but suddenly the halos around lights
that I hadn't noticed before seemed to clear up
and I didn't have a white knuckled grip on the
sheets to keep myself from falling off the wildly
tilting bed. That was the moment fatigue lost.
I was still worried and scared for Josh and the
President, but I wasn't feeling that I was going
to fall asleep or pass out or whatever it'd felt
like before.
Maggie came back and asked me what I
wanted. I got some ginger ale and drank it
slowly, as per her directions. I hadn't realized
how dry my mouth had been, the cool fizzing of
the soda felt way too good. I finished it and
they let me up with instructions to keep very
strict track of when I ate and drank over the
next few days to avoid any kind of hypoglycemic
or dehydration problems. I was also supposed to
come back if I threw up again.
Not long after I went back to the waiting
room, a nurse came to get Mrs. Bartlet and
announced that the President was out of surgery
and that everything was looking good. I called
over to the West Wing and told C.J. I made it
very clear that I was calling to tell her and not
the press and that until I was able to meet with
someone from the medical staff and get her some
notes that she should keep a lid on it. She said
she'd gather up Toby and come back to the
hospital and we could all talk to the medical
staff. She kept repeating that it wasn't that
she didn't trust me to brief her, but that she
wanted to be here and ask her own questions. I
had to keep repeating that I never thought that
was what she meant and that I would have wanted
to come back too, if everyone hadn't been nice
enough to let me stick around the whole time.
C.J. came and got briefed by the First
Lady and then the medical staff. She had to go
straight back to get ready to do the next
briefing - they were scheduled almost hourly
while the surgeries and investigation were going
on. Toby and I stayed, waiting on word from
Josh's doctors.
About two hours after C.J. left, she
called to say that there were some issues with a
memo that didn't get signed. I knew I'd have to
go back eventually and deal with some of this…
this stuff. But I'd been gearing myself up to
write a press release or briefing notes for C.J.
or something. I hadn't anticipated needing to
sit in with White House Council and Nancy McNally
while we figured out, now in retrospect, what we
would have done if Canada had suddenly decided
they wanted Minnesota back.
The meeting only lasted about forty
minutes, but it seemed to drag on for days. I
knew we needed someone from the senior staff
there, but the council and Nancy seemed to do
ninety-five percent of the talking and I
desperately wanted to get back to the hospital.
At the end of it all it was finally
decided that if something had happened, gut
reaction from everyone in the room said they
would have turned to the Vice-President. Nancy
also added that if the memo had been written,
power would have been handed to him anyway. So
they said they'd check a couple of other acts and
laws and precedents and whatever and take that to
the press.
My one truly brilliant moment of the
meeting was telling them that in the
technological age we now live in, we need to have
a contingency plan. When the 25th was enacted,
most people didn't survive gun shot wounds and
the kind of split second decisions to move
military troops over seas or launch a nuclear
warhead weren't even conceived of. Which left us
with this nebulous place where the President
wasn't planning to be out of commission, but very
well could survive an ordeal like this but
couldn't sign the damn letter.
Council said they'd get someone right on that.
Day late and dollar short, folks.
When it was over I went down to the mess
and got some more ginger ale and a couple packets
of saltines. I didn't want to chance anything
more exotic than that for a while, but I was
starting to think the doctor was serious when he
said I could end up being hospitalized myself if
I didn't eat.
I took things back to my office to try
and get a few minutes of peace and quiet. I
needed to close my eyes for ten minutes and
regroup before I could head back out to G.W.
I found about fifteen folders and papers
dropped on my desk when I got back upstairs. I
set the soda on the shelf behind my desk and
began to sort out some of the reports that had
been put on my desk. There was a summary of the
Secret Service investigation so far, a report
from the hospital spokesperson and a few things
that some of the press had started assembling
already. I had tried reading through things
without my glasses, with my glasses, with the
room lights on and the desk light off, with the
desk light on and the room lights off. None of
it was settling in. And then Leo was standing in
my doorway looking uncomfortable as hell. I
stood up to greet him and felt weak in the knees.
I have no idea what kind of face I made or what
kind of sound, but suddenly he was rushing up to
my desk saying, "No, no, no, I haven't heard
anything new. It's not Josh." His hand was on
my arm squeezing tightly, as if he could get a
grip for me.
"What's going on then?" I asked slowly.
"We need some help. C.J.'s been doing
the press briefings all night and we're all a
little wired now. I was wondering if you could
help her out and tackle the morning news shows in
a few hours? Let her get a little rest?"
I remembered thinking how much I didn't
want her job earlier, but what was I going to
say? No, I'm sorry Leo, that's her tough luck.
She's the public face, make her suck it up?
"Yeah, I can do that. I guess. Is there someone
who can brief me on what Secret Service is
releasing and how all this is going to be set up?"
"I'll have Jeff come down and talk to you
as soon as he's free. We're going to give each
of the three major networks, CNN and MSNBC ten
minutes each, by remote, in the Mural Room. Do
you want a break between each one or would you
rather just run them all back to back and get it
over with?"
I nodded. It's a good thing I didn't
hedge, because Leo had already started organizing
all this as if I'd agreed before he asked me.
"There's going to have to be a break as each
station sets up and breaks down, right?"
"Yeah," Leo agreed, "Maybe ten minutes."
"That's enough. I want to get back to
the hospital." I knew Josh would be pissed, that
my job should come first, that the people and
their right to know because we live in a free
society should come first, but at that point
nothing came before him. I was terrified that
one of two things would happen. Either they'd
finish the surgery and he'd wake up alone, or… or
he wouldn't wake up and I'd never get a chance to
say good-bye.
"Yeah. I'll tell Jeff to stop by and
give you some notes and stuff. Other than that,
just tell them what you know." Leo squeezed my
shoulder before heading for the door. "I'll ask
C.J. or Toby to prep you after your briefing."
"Yeah." I flopped back into my chair. I
didn't want to do this. I didn't want to explain
that by some miracle I'd seen the impossible and
that I was able to sit there and chat with them
about it while my best friend had his lung
reconstructed in what I was starting to feel was
a vain hope of getting him breathing again.
I thought there was more time. I thought
I'd have some time to psych myself up for this.
To let C.J. or Toby prep me. But all of a sudden
Jeff was in my office listing what I could say,
what I couldn't and how to best redirect if
asked. He handed me a paper with two columns on
it, one marked 'Classified', and the other
'Public' as he left as if he knew that I wouldn't
be able to retain much right now. Then Leo was
there saying that MSNBC was first and that there
was someone there to get me ready.
He walked me to the Mural room but hung
back by the door as I went in. "Hey Sam, you'll
be okay. "
There was an interviewer whose name I
couldn't remember sitting in one of the two
leather chairs in front of the camera set-up. I
was ushered into the other one by a producer or
news director or someone, where they began
adjusting the lighting and experimenting with
camera angles and distances. Just as someone
yelled "Five minutes!" I was pulled aside by yet
another person I didn't know and asked if I would
be averse to a little make-up so I wouldn't look
so washed out on-screen. I knew damn well that a
coat of latex paint wouldn't make me look any
less worried or haggard or exhausted, but I
nodded and let her suffocate me with a make-up
sponge and powder puff. She seemed to spend a
very long time trying to cover up my the circles
under my eyes, only giving up when someone yelled
"One minute!"
I sat next to the news anchor, who
introduced herself as Melissa, the cover reporter
for D.C. while the regular was on vacation. "Is
there anything you'd particularly like me not to
ask about?"
She had an odd sentence structure and
style and it took me a minute to understand. I
realized that if we couldn't even start the
interview understanding each other that it was
going to be a very, very long ten minutes.
"There are some things Secret Service won't let
me talk about, but I can just say that if you go
there," I answered and took a deep breath,
blowing it out slowly. I'd practically become a
regular on "Capitol Beat" and other political
talk shows, so I was no stranger to the camera,
but this was so, so different than arguing
hypotheticals and numbers and party lines.
"Ten seconds!"
I took another breath. Held it.
"Tap the arm of the chair a few times if
you need me to go to a break," Melissa told me
and I nodded gratefully.
We both watched as he counted down with his fingers. Five. Four.
Three.
Two.
He pointed at us.
"Good morning. As many of you heard in
our recap of the evening's events, last night,
President Josiah Bartlet, Deputy Chief of Staff
Joshua Lyman, Secret Service Agent Ron
Butterfield and Pennsylvania resident Stephanie
Abbott were all injured in an assault in Roslyn,
Virginia. We're at the White House this morning
with Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director
for an update. First of all Sam, what's the
latest on everyone's condition?
The fact that she didn't focus her
attention solely on the President relaxed me a
lot more than I thought it would. "The
President's surgery went very well. It was an
exploratory to confirm what doctors initially
assessed - which is that his wounds were minor.
For a gunshot wound," I amended quickly. Just
because the President wasn't hurt as badly as
Josh didn't mean he wasn't still shot. "He was
hit in the side, but there was no organ damage or
serious tissue damage. They expect he'll be back
in the White House in just a few days."
"And everyone else?" Melissa prompted.
"Ron Butterfield will have surgery on his
hand in," I looked at my watch, "Oh, he's
probably either in now, or done. When they say
the job of the Secret Service is to take a bullet
for the President, they aren't exadurating. He
was hit in the hand while trying to get the
President in his car. Stephanie Abbott, a young
woman who just happened to be in the crowd was
shot in the thigh. Unfortunately, I don't have a
great deal of information on her condition, but I
did hear that she'd had surgery to remove the
bullet and is in good condition." It was
actually remarkably easy to talk about this as
long as I was talking about people I didn't know.
Or at least didn't know well.
"And Josh Lyman? My understanding is
that he's been a friend of yours for a long time."
"Yeah, Josh and I go back…" I had to
think. "At least ten years now." I almost
started with the whole car crash/ambulance thing,
but decided against it. No one else would care.
I took a deep breath. "Josh is still in surgery.
He's on a heart/lung bypass machine while they
reconstruct part of his lung. He went into
surgery at about midnight and they say it's going
to be a twelve or fourteen hour surgery."
"So he's still in surgery?"
I thought that's what I just said.
"Yeah." I wanted to rub my eyes, but I wasn't
sure how to do that without smudging my make-up.
I fleetingly wondered how and why women did this
to themselves every day.
"Is there anything you can tell us about who was responsible for this?"
I took note of her wording. 'repsonsible
for this.' This. No one would call it an
atrocity on t.v., at least not yet. No one
seemed to be able to use the mundane word
'shooting', like it was a bar brawl on the South
Side of Chicago, the sort of thing that happens
at least once every weekend. So we just called
it 'This.' "The Secret Service are the best
armed guards the world has ever seen. They took
down two shooters in Roslyn. They haven't been
identified yet. We've had a few phone calls from
people and groups claiming responsibility, but
the Secret Service is fairly certain they've been
bogus. So we don't have anyone in custody at
this point, but that's not to say that we won't
if investigations discover a larger conspiracy
behind this." There was that 'this' again. And
I wanted to shoot myself for being the first to
say 'conspiracy' on the news. C.J. was going to
have my ass for that one.
"Can you tell us what happened? What you saw, what heard?"
I wish like hell I could remember what I
said then. I must have retold my story. I
remember stopping myself from saying that I
pushed C.J. down, but I fumbled it and barely
covered. "I heard the first shot, looked up… I
could see a muzzle flash or a glare off metal or
something. When I realized there was going to be
another shot, I headed for the ground. C-" I
started saying C.J.'s name, but caught myself
after the first sound and amended it to, "Someone
was in front of me, so I pushed them down too."
I knew using 'them' when referring to one person
was ungrammatical, but English doesn't have a
gender-neutral singular pronoun for referring to
people, and I really, really needed one. I
plowed on, trying to deflect away from that part.
"There was a police car behind us. The window
was shot out."
I must have gone on to explain how we
found Josh, how we heard about the President once
we were at the hospital. Someone had briefed
Melissa fairly thoroughly and she asked me about
rounding everyone up. I really wished that would
get left alone. I wasn't any kind of hero or …
or whatever. And with this coming out in the
first of five rounds, I was fairly certain I
could look forward to four more iterations of, "I
didn't do anything anyone else couldn't do,
wasn't doing. I just needed to know where my
friends were."
Mercifully, it was over soon after that.
Carol came down with a bottle of orange juice
with instructions from C.J. to drink it and to
not use the word 'conspiracy' any more. I was
somewhat relieved that she'd sent Carol, that I
didn't actually have to come back with a
response. Then Carol added that I should eat
something. I wasn't sure if that was from her or
C.J.
After MSNBC was ABC. It went very much
like the first one, but I avoided saying the
c-word this time. It just happened to be that
the spokesperson from the hospital was available,
as well as the President's surgeon, during my
segment, so I didn't even have to say as much the
third time around with CBS, since I shared it
with them. After that one Toby showed up in the
doorway with a donut and more orange juice.
"Ginger needed to get out of the office
for a few minutes, so I asked her to pick up some
food for everyone," he explained as he stood and
watched me take a few bites from the donut. I
realized that I was finally hungry and that felt
wrong. Wasn't I supposed to be too torn up about
my best friend being in surgery to be able to
eat? That's what happens to all the survivors in
cop shows and novels and soap operas.
"Tell her I said 'thanks'."
"Sure. You're doing really well, Sam."
I nodded around another bite of donut.
"Thanks. C.J.'s only had to send Carol down to
yell at me once for saying something stupid."
"Someone was bound to say it. And if she
gives you too much grief, just remind her about
the word 'subpoena' and the drug thing last
winter." He smiled at me and I was surprised to
find myself smiling back. It wasn't often that
Toby sided with me. I realized then how much
we'd all need each other through this. I had the
closest glimpse I ever hope to get of the
solidarity, the brotherhood formed by soldiers in
battle.
"Two more. Just two more and then you
should lay down somewhere and rest for a few
minutes," he told me quietly.
"I'm… I can't rest yet, Toby. Come on.
Can you?" I wadded up my napkin in my hand and
cast around for a trash can, not finding one.
"No," Toby answered succinctly. "I'll go
call the hospital. I'll have an update for you
by the time you're done, okay?"
"Thanks, Toby, I'd appreciate that," I
said and then CNN was steering me over to the
chair again.
I'd just gotten done with NBC when Toby
came back into the Mural room, giving me a high
sign even as they were unclipping the microphone.
"They think they'll be taking him off by-pass in
the next hour or two."
I sighed loudly, "Thank god. Then they
have to hope they can restart his heart, right?"
"Right, Toby said, steering me out into
the hall. "But the guy I talked to seemed pretty
optimistic about that. You heading back?"
"In a minute. I want to scrub this crap
off my face and gather up some of the memos and
stuff that was dropped on my desk earlier." I
stopped and hiked a thumb at the nearest men's
room.
"Okay, I need to go … I have to deal with
Secret Service and the thing with the canopy.
Call me with news, okay?"
I nodded before ducking behind the door.
I realized I should have asked if anyone in the
Mural Room had that stuff they use to get the
make-up off on the political shows. That oily
stuff that makes you feel like you need to wash
your face to get off the stuff they washed your
face with. Water and liquid soap weren't cutting
it, so I tried scrubbing it off with paper
towels. By the time I was done I was red and my
face felt as raw as my brain. One or two more
hours, I kept telling myself. They'd take him
off bypass in one or two more hours, shock him
and he'd be back among the world of the living.
No. Nononono! I corrected myself. He's still
among the living, even now. He's not dead. He
was never dead. They were just giving his heart
and lungs a rest. His brain never died, wasn't
even totally deprived of oxygen. He's alive and
he's going to stay that way. Dammit.
I dried my face and went back to my
office. I started putting the papers I'd want
with me in order and in my briefcase. I stopped
to roll a kink out of my neck and when I looked
up C.J. was in my doorway. Oh hell.
"Hey Spanky, come take a walk with me."
Oh come on, I didn't say 'conspiracy'
again after you yelled at me. I was really,
really careful after that. My inner voice was
starting to sound like three-year-old. "Oh god,
what'd I do?" Okay, so was my outer one.
Could I have made that conversation any
more awkward for either of us? I should have
felt better after it, but I didn't. I just felt
nausous. Finding out where my friends were after
a shooting doesn't make me a hero. Pushing
someone down to the ground so hard they loose the
memory of what is probably, to date, the most
memorable night of our lives does not make me a
hero. There were no heroes last night. Maybe
the Secret Service sharp shooters who took them
down. "This." "Them." We didn't have names, we
didn't know what to call 'this'. I leaned my
head against the cool window of the Suburban,
willing the driver to get us there now.
I think I thanked him as I ran for the
doors. I'm not sure. It occurs to me that I
can't remember a lot of what I said during this
whole time. In some respects it was easier when
I couldn't talk. Then there was nothing to
remember. I know that anything I say, no matter
who I think I'm talking to, could very easily
make it's way back to the press. And while I
doubt that The Post gives a damn if I thanked the
Secret Service guy who drove me over here, not
everything I say is so innocuous. I should
really get a grip. It's been almost sixteen
hours since hell broke loose. I figure that by
this point I should have either gotten a grip or
collapsed. And since I haven't I guess I'm stuck
in some sort of weird adrenaline fueled limbo
that's sapping away my brain-power.
I found myself back in the waiting room.
Donna was there, biting her nails, Charlie and
Zoey were talking in one corner and when I passed
them Zoey pulled herself away to come give me a
hug. "It looks good. My mom said they've
started taking him off the bypass machine. She's
in with my dad now, but as soon as she comes back
I'm sure she can catch you up. I saw you on Good
Morning America," she added almost as an
afterthought.
"How bad did I look?"
"Well, you looked like you'd been up all
night worrying about your best friend and your
boss. You know… kind of pale… but you sounded
good. Leo made a good choice to put you up
there. You're so humble."
She actually pinched my cheek.
"Zoey, dammit, don't." I pushed her hand
away and headed back for my chair to wait for an
update by either the First Lady or the hospital.
As I fell into it and looked up, I saw
Charlie standing over me. "With all due respect,
Sam, Zoey didn't deserve that."
I blinked, looking up at him. One of the
few things I'd absorbed from the briefing notes
I'd been reading before the morning shows was
that the guy they caught at that diner said that
Charlie was the intended target. This guy who
just found out that some of the biggest assholes
in the world were quite literally gunning for him
for dating Zoey, was standing here lecturing me,
defending her.
"Charlie?"
"No, listen. Zoey's telling you that
she's proud of you. That after all we went
through tonight, you had the composure to face
the nation and talk about it. I couldn't have
done that. I'm guessing C.J. and Leo couldn't
either or they would have. But they sent you,
because you could. And while you don't think it
was a big deal that you rounded us all up, I
think it was a big deal. No one else asked about
me, Sam. I'm not Senior Staff. I'm a dime a
dozen kid who gets the President a can of Coke or
tells him when his next meeting starts. I'm
totally replaceable. I'm also totally responsible, but you still asked Toby where I
was. It means a lot to Zoey that someone gave a
damn, so please, when she's strung out enough,
like she is now, don't blow her off."
I wasn't sure if I'd just been yelled at
or thanked and I had no idea what to say to any
of that. Well, almost any of it. "Charlie… you
aren't responsible. The shooters are
responsible. And you are not, in any way,
replaceable. Don't ever think that."
He just nodded solemnly and went back to sit with Zoey.
I was grateful when the First Lady came
back in and gave me something else to think
about. As she explained what would happen now -
that his lung and artery were repaired and now
they had to shock his heart to start it again and
then close him up - I was able to redirect my
focus from Charlie's lecture back to Josh. It
was amazing how simple the First Lady made the
rest of the procedure sound. Just send several
hundred volts of electricity through his heart to
bring him back from the clinically dead, wire his
breastbone back together and sew his chest up.
No problem.
It was another hour and a quarter before I heard a quiet, "Sam?"
Leo was at the door talking with a
doctor. I hadn't even realized he'd come back
here. Last I'd known he was still at the White
House. I stood and joined them. We were
informed that restarting his heart hadn't been a
problem and that his heartbeat was strong and
steady, but that he was on a respirator to help
him breathe. I'd choked when they said that and
everyone turned at looked at me. The doctor
explained that it was the next step after
by-pass, that it was helping to re-expand the
collapsed lung. He told me - us - that it was
just temporary and it looked good for taking him
off it soon.
"They're going to wake Josh up for a few
seconds. I thought you might want to be there."
Leo's voice was soft and gentle, like I was still
in that weird shell-shock phase I'd been in when
we'd first gotten here, what seemed like forty
years ago instead of eighteen hours.
"Yes. Thank you." I smiled my first
real smile since all this chaos had begun.
Knowing that Josh was still breathing - albiet
with help - literally made me breathe easier.
I had assumed Leo would be going with us,
but he clapped me on the shoulder and squeezed
past me into the waiting room to update the
others.
I followed the doctor who was telling me
a lot of numbers, and while I understood that
B.P. meant blood pressure and PO2 meant pulse
oxygen level, I didn't know what a good number
was versus a bad number, so the numbers
themselves meant very little to me. What I
gathered from him was the same thing I'd seen
when Josh had been in surgery - the doctor was
calm, he seemed positive and upbeat about the
outcome of the surgery. I knew that Josh had a
long way to go, but for someone who'd just been
shot in the chest, it sounded like he was doing
as well as could be hoped. As we reached the
recovery room door he put out a hand to stop me
from going in.
"He's still on a lot of monitors and
I.V.s. He has a tube that's draining fluid, air
and blood from his chest cavity so that the lung
has space to re-expand. There's a tube down his
throat helping him breathe. He can't talk
because of that, and even when it comes out his
voice is going to be hoarse and his throat sore
for a little while. We just want him to wake up
for a second; start coming out of the anesthesia.
It's often helpful and comforting for the patient
to have a familiar face around when he wakes up.
It wouldn't be surprising if he doesn't remember
what happened and how he got here, but if he
does… well, he was pretty confused and scared
when he went under."
I nodded. The last time I'd seen him all
his vital organs had been on display. I figured
short of seeing him in the morgue, even all the
machines would be a step up.
The doctor let me in and I moved slowly
to his side. I decided that I was glad for the
warning after all. Josh is a big guy. But with
all the machinery beeping, buzzing and hissing
around him he seemed… dwarfed.
There were two nurses in with him. One
was adjusting one of the machines and the other
was tucking one of those horribly short hospital
issue blankets around his legs. I wasn't sure if
I was supposed to touch him, but I figured
someone would yell if I wasn't. His left hand
had two needles in it. One from an I.V. bag with
several bags of what I assumed were medication
running into the main line, the other transfusing
a pint of blood. I remembered that I'd planned
to give blood and hadn't. Maybe when I wasn't
about to fall over as it was. I took his right
hand in both of mine, stroking the back of it
softly with my thumb. His skin was cool and
papery.
The doctor and the nurses seemed to be
waiting for me to do something, but I wasn't sure
what, so I just looked at him, tried to block out
the machines and tubes and monitors, tried to
will some of my own warmth into his cool fingers.
"See if he'll respond to your voice.
Remember, he can't talk, but let's see if he can
open his eyes," the doctor told me.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself
like I was about to do something much, much
harder than say Josh's name. I shifted his hand
from both of mine to one and reached the free one
up to stroke his hair back. He worries about his
hairline, and maybe his forehead is a little
bigger than it was when I met him, but with Toby
and Leo around, no one really notices. He has
wonderfully soft hair. I ran my fingers through
it and squeezed his hand. Please, please do
this. Please look at me, I thought to him
desperately. "Josh. Josh, come on. Come on,
buddy, open your eyes. I'm here, Josh. Open
your eyes for me, okay?" I held his hand tight
and kept stroking his hair.
There was nothing for a long moment and
then I felt his fingers tighten just slightly on
mine. "He squeezed my hand." I knew I had the
stupidest grin. As I watched, he pulled his eyes
about half open, obviously with supreme effort.
Suddenly his heart monitor started
beeping wildly and he tried to pull away, but was
too weak. The doctor stepped up. "Josh? Josh,
you're on a ventilator, it's helping you breathe.
You're all right. Relax and don't fight it and
you won't feel like you can't breathe. You won't
be on it long. In fact the next time you wake
up, it'll probably be gone. Just don't fight it."
As the doctor spoke, Josh relaxed and the
rapid beeping of the heart monitor slowed. His
hand tightened on mine as the adrenaline faded
and his eyes drifted shut again. "I'm still
here," I whispered. "Just rest. You're going to
be okay. You're going to be just fine. Close
your eyes and rest…" I kept up the litany and
the gentle touches until one of the nurses told
me that he'd fallen asleep again and would be out
for a while.
I nodded and they went back to their
work. When no one was looking I placed a gentle
kiss on the back of his hand and tucked it back
under the blankets.
I went back to the waiting room and as
soon as I opened the door, all eyes were on me.
Time to be spokesboy again. "He woke up for a
few seconds. He was a little scared by the
ventilator at first, but he's going to be okay,"
I told them.
_________________
End Part 2, To Strive
Completed in Part 4
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 01:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 01:14 am (UTC)All we get from the cannon is that C.J. doesn't want to do the morning shows so Leo suggests to her that Sam do it.
The next time we see Sam is when C.J. walks into his office and calls him Spanky and tells him to go walk with her because she figured out that he had her necklace. I had to figure out why he answered her with "Oh, God. What'd I do?" Did that work for you?
Waldo.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-28 01:43 am (UTC)Spuh!
Date: 2004-06-28 01:48 am (UTC)Waldo.