I am old news.

I know this because I heard it on NPR.

The American people, they are saying on All Things Considered, are tired of the latest White House sex scandal.  The American people are, I am told, ready to move on.

So am I, of course, so I applaud the sentiment.  However, I can't help but notice that a major portion of tonight's installment has been given over to recounting all the details of the story everyone's tired of.

I'd turn off the radio and not have to hear the seventy-third retelling of How Donnatella Moss-Lyman Got Her Job except for two things:  There is the amusing new development regarding the fact that Phyllis Tsolakis has dropped her lawsuit against my husband, and the aforementioned husband likes to yell "Loser!" every time NPR plays another snippet of Gregory W. Baker's press conference.

Although maybe I should make Josh turn the radio off anyway:  Yelling at the radio can't be good when you're supposed to be concentrating on your driving and your upcoming relaxing vacation in Connecticut.

I should gently suggest that he change stations.

"Josh, you're supposed to be relaxing, not screaming at people who can't hear you."

"I'm relaxed."  I should note that, when he says this, his hands are gripping the steering wheel, his body is rigid, and his face is turning an interesting shade of red.

"You're yelling at the radio again," I point out.

"I'm debating--"

"The radio?"

"The people on the radio."

"You do understand that they can't actually hear you, right?"

"Yes."

"But you argue with them anyway?"  Have I mentioned lately that I'm married to an idiot?

"It relaxes me," he replies.  Somewhat defensively, I think.

"Yelling at an inanimate object relaxes you?"

"Well," he says -- and I should point out that he turns his head toward me for a second with a rather sexy grin -- "that and philately."

Idiot.  I feel the need to mess with his head.  "So," I say, "I'm guessing you're not interested in having sex tonight."

He's too damn smug.  "You know, Donna, you always threaten to withhold sex and you never do it."

Yes, I definitely need to mess with his head.  Let's knock that smug grin right off his face.  "So," I ask casually, "how thick are the walls in your mother's house?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Why you're about to freak out at the thought of us having sex this weekend."

When he looks at me this time, he's horrified.  "You actually thought we were going to have sex in my mother's house?"  Then a more terrifying thought occurs to him.  "Wait!  We're not having sex this weekend?"

"No."

"Donna, it's been a tough week!"

"I believe I was there, Josh."

"I did the whole Master Politician thing!"

"You're going to really have to let that go," I tell him.

"It's not working anymore?"

"Not when you're yelling at NPR."

"I was not yelling, I was -- Sam!"

"What?"  I look at the cars passing us in the next lane.  "Where?"

"On All Things Considered."

"Sam Seaborn?" I ask.

"No.  Samuel Beckett.  He's got a new play."

"And any residual chances you had for stamp collecting are shot to hell," I point out.

"Again with the threats."

I'm trying to think of a really witty comeback when my attention is suddenly drawn to a familiar voice on the radio saying a word I've heard way too often these last weeks.  "Did Sam just say 'Tsolakis'?" I ask.

"Are we doing Dr. Suess now?"

"Josh, why is Sam on NPR?"

"He's obviously defending us from crazy-ass, conservative, right-wing, religious, wacko -- Mary Marsh."

"When did 'Mary Marsh' become an adjective?" I wonder.

"No," Josh explains, "that's Mary Marsh on the radio right now."

"Are you sure?"

"She just said we made a mockery of the holy institution of marriage."

"She said what?"  I hate Mary Marsh.

"Wait," Josh says, "Sam's talking."

I really hate Mary Marsh.  "That pretty boy better bring the smackdown," I mutter.

"The smackdown?"

"Will you be quiet, Josh?  I'm trying to listen to Sam!"  How dare she call my marriage a mockery?

Sam, I am delighted to report, is proving that he's capable of bringing the smackdown.  Sam, you know, studied in law school.  "You don't know anything about Josh Lyman and Donna Moss-Lyman," he tells Mary Marsh, "and you have no right to make judgments about their personal lives.  I would think that you, as a Republican, would want to respect their right to privacy.  Aren't you guys big on that?"

If Sam were here right now, I swear I'd kiss him.  "I am so bringing him coffee on Monday," I say.

Josh is stuck on my previous remark.  "I wouldn't call Sam pretty," he says.

"You have no idea how much that relieves me," I mutter.

Mary Marsh, it should be noted, refuses to stay smacked down.  She starts in with the allegations and the innuendo again.  "The moral character of our leaders is absolutely our business.  Furthermore, the very fact that Mr. Lyman and Ms. Moss kept their relationship a secret implies that there was an aura of unseemly haste surrounding their marriage.  And you have to ask yourself why a skillful political operative like Josh Lyman would feel compelled to hide the date of his marriage.  But perhaps their circumstances have changed since their wedding day.  Perhaps Ms. Moss exercised her constitutional right to choose."

What?  She just said -- That bitch!

Josh, it seems, has stopped listening to the radio.  "My fan club is bigger than Sam's."

"Josh, will you pay attention?  Mary Marsh just said I had an abortion."

"What?  She said that?"

"She implied."

"Give me the cell phone."

"Who are you calling?"

"Sam."

"I'm pretty sure they make you turn the ringer off before you go on the air."

"Fine," Josh says.  "I'll call NPR."

"Josh, you're driving.  You can't expect me to hand over the cell phone.  And how is any of this relaxing?"

"I said I had two ways of relaxing."

"Not while you're driving you don't."

Before Josh can insist that I hand over the cell phone, Sam brings the smackdown again.  "If your statements aren't actionable," he tells Mary Marsh, "they are certainly objectionable.  Your remarks are both malicious and display a reckless disregard for truth.  As an attorney, I would suggest that your best course of action would be to issue an apology to Donna Moss-Lyman right now."

"See?" I point out to Josh.  "That's how you smack down Mary Marsh."

"Hey, if there's one thing I know, it's how to smack down Mary Marsh."

"No, if there's one thing you know, it's how to almost get yourself fired for trying to smack down Mary Marsh and failing spectacularly."

"I did not fail spectacularly," Josh protests.

"Whatever.  And I told you that you didn't need the phone."

"I could have brought a better smackdown than Sam."

"If I agree with you, will you stop talking?"

"Wait a minute.  Did you say you'd bring Sam coffee?"

***

I push open the door to the hotel room, still talking.  "All I'm saying is that if you're going to be running to Starbucks all the time--"

"One time, Josh." Donna edges past me and into the room.

"One time, even."  I wave off the semantics and abandon my bag next to the door.  "If you're going to be there anyway, you might as well--"

Donna tosses her backpack to the floor carelessly and turns to face me.  "I'm not bringing you coffee, Josh."

"Donna--"

"I decoded the instructions for the coffeemaker for you," she points out with a challenging look.

"Fine," I say with an exaggerated sigh.

"You really should relax," Donna says, her voice low.  "In fact, you should go stand against the wall.  And take that jacket off."

"That doesn't relax me," I say with a smirk.  "Only two things relax me, and I don't see a radio in here."

"Against the wall, Josh," Donna repeats, an expectant look on her face.

"Donna, how is--"  And I finally get it.  "Wait -- you mean--"

"Yes, Josh," Donna nods, slowly shrugging out of her jacket.  It's incredibly sexy.  Plus, she's using that voice.

Ouch.

In my haste to obey her, I misjudge the distance to the wall.  I might possibly have fractured a rib just then with how hard I hurled myself against what happens to be surprisingly unforgiving plaster.

Donna has abandoned both her Sexy Wife and Supportive Wife roles to collapse onto the bed in a fit of laughter at my expense.

"Donna!" I protest, not quite able to reach the spot on my shoulder blade that's hurting right now.

"Josh," she says, still snickering.  "You're an idiot sometimes."  She leans up on one hand, her body adopting that incredibly sexy attitude that usually means we're about to have all the sex.

"And you," I counter, settling gingerly back against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest, "are a shameless temptress, implying that philately is in my future and then cruelly laughing when--"

"When you nearly take the wall down in your rush to collect some stamps?" she suggests dryly.

"Yes."  I'm staring at her like I can't wait to touch her.  Which is, of course, because I can't wait to touch her.  "Some amazing stamps.  Some incredibly unusual and creative stamps.  Untested and untried stamps.  Brand spankin' new stamps with--"

"Josh," Donna interrupts as she slides off the bed and saunters toward me.  "You want to talk about stamps, or you want to shut up and get some?"

I can't resist.  I really can't.  I smirk at her.  "Get some stamps?"

Donna shakes her head in exasperation, but she's grinning too.  "You should do something about those clothes."

I have my shirt over my head before she's done talking.  "You know, you should really take that as a compliment."

Donna stops just in front of me, and I can smell her conditioner.  I take a deep breath.  She grins and asks, "What?  That you can't keep your hands off of me?"

I gasp a little as her hands fumble with the zipper of my pants.  "Evidence would suggest -- God! -- that it's the other way around."

Donna moves quickly, reaching for my shoulders to turn me around.  My protest over being all but pressed face first into the wall dies on my lips when she touches me.  Her fingers trace the sore spots on my back.  "Joshua," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, "you're going to have bruises tomorrow."

"You jumped me in the hallway a week ago," I point out, then inhale sharply when she kisses my shoulder blades.  "You're hardly in a position to talk."

"And yet here I am, talking," she whispers into my spine.

I swear to God I'm shivering.  "Donna, as interesting as this wallpaper is, I'd rather be looking--"

She pulls me back around to face her.  "At your incredibly witty and sexy wife, who has quite the impressive stamp collection?"

I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly.  "You--"  I pause to nibble a bit on her neck.  "--are the Master Philatelist."

***

Married people should not keep secrets from one another.  Marriage should be based on trust and honesty.  I've only really lied to Josh once, and that was years before we were married.

It wasn't even a big lie.  Okay, it wasn't exactly what you'd call a little white lie either.  As lies go, it was pretty much a medium.

If this lie were a dress, it would be a size ten.  Okay, maybe a twelve.

It's about that time during the campaign when I quit working for Josh.  He thinks I left to go back to my ex-boyfriend, which is not the case.

I should tell him the truth.  But if I admit the truth, I will never hear the end of it.  Josh will be all "you were in love with me first," and he'll be completely obnoxious.

However, in the interest of the general cause of honesty in the Moss-Lyman household, I should tell him.

I should look at this like a political problem.

I need to find a way to spin this.

How do I change "Yeah, I left because I was scared that I cared too damn much about you" into something that gives me the power?

Can't bring my car accident.  'Cause then he'd be all Idiot Guilt Boy, and that's no fun.

Obviously can't be anything that implies I was already in love with him cause I would never hear the end of that.

So what else -- Oh, yes. Mandy.

Excellent.

Or not.  Because implying that my annoyance over his relationship with Mandy Hampton was in any way related to my decision to quit might lead him to the conclusion that I was jealous.

Which I wasn't.  At least not consciously.

So let's work on this some more: Mandy annoyed me.

This is true.  Mostly, it was the way she touched Josh that annoyed me.  But nevertheless.

And, her being Josh's girlfriend, I couldn't say anything to him about it.  This could work.  It is, after all, in the general neighborhood of the truth.

Besides, by this time, Josh is so damned relaxed, it'll probably sail right over his head.

"So, Joshua," I begin, "you remember when I quit working for you?"

"Longest three weeks of my life," he mumbles sleepily.  The poor boy can't even manage to open his eyes.

"You may have a mistaken impression about why I left."

"You left because of some bastard who had no idea how lucky he was."

He has no idea how accurate that statement is.

"Yes, but I came back to you anyway," I reply.

"What?"

"Seriously, Josh, I did not leave to go back to Dr. Free Ride."

"You said--"

"I may have been responsible for your mistaken impression."

"You lied to me?"  He's fully awake now.

"Well, I couldn't tell you the truth, all things considered."

"What are you talking about?"

"Her being your girlfriend and all."  Damn, I'm good.

"Who?  What?  Wait -- Mandy?"

"You had another girlfriend back then?"  I can so bring the misdirection!

"Of course I didn't--"

"I always wondered, you know.  Women don't go around giving men smoking jackets for just any old reason.  In fact, women don't go around giving men smoking jackets at all.  Did Sarah Weisinger have some sort of weird fetish?"

"No, she didn't -- I mean, I would have no way of knowing."

"It's okay, really.  You can tell me.  I didn't even think about you that way back then."

"Donna, I did not sleep with Sarah Weisinger."

"If you say so."

"I didn't!  I swear to you, I did not -- What does any of this have to do with you quitting?"

"I couldn't stand her," I admit.

"Sarah Weisinger?"

"No.  Well, actually, yes.  Her too.  But I was referring to Mandy."

"You quit because you didn't like Mandy?"

"It was a factor."  I have to word this next part carefully.  "She was always hanging around and being obnoxious.  And as a mere assistant -- snorting like that is unattractive, Joshua -- it wasn't like I could tell her to shut up and go away."

"You quit over that?"

"In large part, yes."

"I was miserable for three weeks because of Mandy?"

"You were miserable for months because of Mandy.  But you kept going out with her anyway."

"Yeah, but -- Okay, what about the car wreck and Dr. Free Ride stopping off for a beer?  Are you tell me that didn't happen?"

"It happened.  There was a car wreck.  I was in the hospital.  My idiot sister thought it would be a good way to arrange a reunion with Alan, so she called and told him where I was.  And he stopped at a bar on his way to see me.  At which point, I told him to go to hell, and that was that.  Now go to sleep."

There.  That was simple enough.

"Wait," he says.

Oh, hell.

"Why would Mandy irritate you that much?"

"Mandy irritates everyone that much.  She irritated you, and you were having sex with her."

He gets that gleam in his eye that usually means he's figured out a way to best a political opponent.  "Yes, I was," he says.  "I was having lots of sex with Mandy."

"We've established that." I may sound a tad annoyed.

"And, I have to admit, as irritating as Mandy could be, the sex wasn't of the bad variety.  In fact--"

"Shut up."

"There was this one time--"

I throw the pillow over my head to drown out his voice.  "Shut up," I repeat.  I may be shouting.  "Shut up.  Shut up.  Shut up."

"A little jealous there, are we, Donnatella?"

"I'm never sleeping with you again.  And this time I mean it."

"So what I'm thinking is that if you can get this upset over Mandy now, back then you must have been quite jealous."

"I was not.  I didn't even think of you like that."

He's smirking.  The really annoying smirk, not the sexy smirk.

"If you say so."

"You're never having sex again.  Just imagine fifty years or so of not having sex because that is your future."

"You quit because you were in love with me and I was with Mandy and you couldn't deal with it."

"I really hate you sometimes."

"You loved me back then."

"Yeah, well, you just cherish that memory because I'm pretty much over you now."

"I loved you first," he says.

"What?"

"I loved you before you loved me."

What?  He just turned this into a contest over which one of us fell in love first?  How did this happen?

"Prove it," I say.

"I was in love with you by the end of the first day.  Hell, I was in love with you by the end of the first five minutes."

And there he is, sitting there and smiling at me with the dimples, and there's only one thing I can think to say in response to that.  "Okay, that's it.  Go stand against the wall again."

***

"Josh?"

Donna pokes me not-so-softly in the arm.  I open one eye to find a very naked Donnatella Moss-Lyman sitting up in bed beside me.  I smirk at her.  "The wall?"

She rolls her eyes.  "You have bruises on your back."

I shrug -- or try to shrug in my current, face-down position.  "Well, if my wife weren't such an animal--"

"Please, Josh, the way you threw yourself against the wall?  I'm surprised you didn't crack the plaster."

"Or a rib," I concede.  "C'mere."  I reach over and tug her down beside me.  "So what time is it?"

"Time to get in the shower, Joshua," Donna answers.  Then she kisses me, so clearly she's not worried about getting out of here on time.  After all, we'll be at my mom's house tonight, so there will be no more sex.

How depressing.

I kiss her with what can only be described as desperation, but Donna pulls away.  "Shower," she says.

I waggle my eyebrows at her.  "The shower has walls."

"Joshua," she laughs, "get your butt in the shower.  Your mother's expecting us in a couple hours."

With an exaggerated sigh, I push myself up and slide out of bed.  "You're showering with me."

"No kidding," Donna retorts.

She doesn't have to tell me again to get my ass in the shower; I'm suddenly feeling quite motivated.  A little too motivated, perhaps.

"Josh," Donna protests, "would you slow down?"

"What?  I'm washing your back."  Have I mentioned how sexy her back is?  How her spine curves and sways with her movements?  How the muscles under her skin ripple as she twists her neck to give me a skeptical look over her shoulder?

"And you're thinking 'the quicker I finish this, the quicker we get to all the sex.'  Honestly, Josh, last night wasn't enough for you?"

I give her my best smirk.  "This is a whole new day, Donna.  And I'd like to start it out right."

She gives me a little pout.  "You didn't appreciate my efforts last night?"

"Oh, trust me.  I appreciated your efforts.  Very much so."  I am nodding like one of those dogs with the crazy nodding heads in the back windows of old Cadillacs, but I can't seem to care.

"You don't think it's time for, you know--"  She pauses and does this little shrugging thing that draws my attention away from her eyes. "--payback."

My gaze snaps back to hers, and I can feel a grin starting.  "Payback?"

"Yes."

I reach out and run my hands ever so softly down her arms.  "Oh, yes, Donnatella.  I think it's definitely time for payback."

"Excellent," she says, giving me a dazzling smile.  "You know what I'd love right now?  You know what would start my day off just right?"

"A brand new stamp for--?"

Donna laughs and hands me the shampoo bottle.  "Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat."

***

Like my relationship with Josh, my friendship with Adira Lyman started out work-related and grew into something else before I realized what was happening.

My mother-in-law is not a woman who remains on formal terms with someone she talks to on a regular basis.  And if you call Josh at the office (which, of course, is where you'll usually find him), you've got to go through me.

Within weeks, I had gone from "that girl who answers Joshua's phone" to "Donna."  She always asked how I was, and she was never satisfied with a quick "Fine, thanks.  Josh is in a meeting."  She wanted details -- what I'd been doing, whether I'd been seeing anyone, that kind of thing.

Thinking back on it, she gave me a lot of good advice about the kind of man I should be dating.  That kind of man, though I didn't realize it at the time, bore a striking resemblance to her son.

Don't get the wrong idea here.  Adira Lyman is not one of those aging women who has too much time on her hands and is consequently consumed with thoughts of matchmaking and grandchildren.

That would be my mother.  And the less said about that situation, the better.

No, Josh's mother is much too busy and altogether cool to live vicariously through her son.  Her consuming passion is her work at the local domestic violence shelter.  When she's not working there (fifty hours a week, give or take -- now you know where Josh gets the workaholic thing), she's off picketing the state legislature, trying to get stronger domestic violence laws passed.

Or, you know, calling Josh to hassle him about the need for federal standards on this issue.  Following one hour-long conversation with his mother on this issue, Josh emerged from his office looking rather pale.

"She has all these statistics and these bits of, you know, trivia related to domestic violence," Josh said.

"Good," I told him.  "You needed the education, I'm sure."

"That's not the point," Josh replied.  "See, at some point, I started to zone out--"

"You need more sleep."

He gave me this look that was meant to convey my responsibility for his lack of sleep these days.  I ask you:  Is it my fault the man is insatiable?

"I zoned out," he said, "because it occurred to me -- and it's a truly scary thought -- that she's always been like this.  When she wants to win an argument, she cites some bizarre factoid that she's culled from some obscure source."

"An extremely effective method of debate."

"That was when it hit me."  He collapsed into the chair next to my desk for added drama.  "You do that too."

"You've been complaining about it for years.  You never fooled me, by the way.  I always knew you thought it was part of my special allure."

"You," he said in this accusatory tone of voice, "are exactly like my mother."

"Josh!" I exclaimed.  I was inordinately pleased.  "That is the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I married a woman who's just like my mother," he muttered.  "This is a revolting development."

"It could be worse," I pointed out.  "At least you didn't marry a woman who's like my mother."

Once again, I seem to be getting ahead of myself.  I was supposed to be discussing the years before my marriage, the years when I was firmly in a state of denial about my feelings toward Josh, the days when Adira Lyman first took an interest in me.

Our weekly phone conversations started soon after the Inauguration.  That was the first time we met in person.  We bonded over our mutual distaste for the way Mandy Hampton was continuing to throw herself at Josh, despite their many, many breakups.

In my own defense, I had probably had one whiskey sour too many that night.  I don't ever get drunk, but I do get depressed.  Maudlin, CJ calls it.  The combination of Mandy making one last hideously obvious play for Josh and of Josh ignoring the sight of me in my incredibly overpriced formal gown made me more maudlin than usual.  Somehow I ended up nursing my whiskey sour at a table with Josh's mom.  I remember the words "as close to him as I'm going to get tonight" wandering through my brain and scaring the hell out of me.

"That," Mrs. Lyman said as we both stared morosely at Josh and Mandy, "is not an affectionate woman."

"No, she's not," I agreed.

"Joshua can be very reserved about his emotions," she said.

I nodded.  "Which makes it surprising, you know," I said, "when you realize how deeply he cares about people.  Like when he hugs you."

Mrs. Lyman didn't say anything, but she gave me a rather intense look.  Josh has her eyes, you know.  It made me feel like I should go on.

"When he hugs you," I said, looking at my whiskey sour as though it could give me the answers to questions I was afraid to ask, "it's like the two of you are the only people in the world."

"Just like his father."

"He hasn't hugged me like that since election night.  I wish Mandy Hampton would go away."  Okay, maybe I was a little drunk.

"She's not the right woman for Joshua.  Not at all."

"Josh needs someone to take care of him.  And, you know, tell him when he's being an ass."

"Yes," Mrs. Lyman, said, "that is exactly what he needs."  And she gave me this look I didn't understand, but which is painfully obvious now.

As time went on, I found myself confiding much more in Mrs. Lyman during our weekly phone conversations than I ever had confided in my own mother.  We commiserated with each other when Mandy arrived back in DC, and we congratulated each other when it was obvious that Josh's taste in women had improved enough that he didn't fall in with her again.

And then there was the shooting.

I'm not sure exactly when Mrs. Lyman arrived at the hospital.  I was sort of in a fog the whole time.  People keep telling me they talked to me then, and I don't remember.  I talked to Toby and to Sam; Mrs. Landingham was there at one point; I think I may have yelled at the First Lady.  But I have trouble remembering exactly who arrived when.  I know I spent some of that time with Josh's mother, but it's rather vague.  But one moment I remember.  I was holding it together fairly well, all things considered, and then I fell apart.  For no particular reason that I can remember; it's not as though someone came in at that moment and announced that Josh wasn't going to live.  I suppose I simply had reached my limit and chose that instant to break down and start crying uncontrollably.  And Mrs. Lyman -- this woman whose son was quite possibly dying -- held me and told me Josh loved me.  Nobody had ever said that out loud before.

So what I'm saying here is that I adore my mother-in-law.  It would be enough if all she'd ever done was give birth to Josh.  That is no small accomplishment, creating this remarkable man.  But she's fabulous all on her own.  She lost her father in the Holocaust, she lost her mother when she was a child, she lost her daughter, she lost her husband, she almost lost her son, and she manages to care about other people and to do this incredible work at the domestic violence shelter.  If I could choose a mother for myself, I'd choose Adira Lyman.

I'm looking forward to this more than Josh is, I think.  He's always had a cool, funny, kick-ass mother.  It's a completely new experience for me.

Besides, I've always enjoyed watching Josh with his mother.  Depending on his mood, he either turns into this incredibly overprotective "I am now the head of the family" type (and believe me when I tell you that he will never be head of this family while Adira Lyman draws breath).  Or he reverts to the pampered, and slightly embarrassed by it, baby of the family.  Either Josh is fun to watch.

So I'm more than a little disappointed when, after an hour of listening to Josh literally salivating over the pan of homemade double chocolate fudge brownies that his mother no doubt was up at dawn baking for us, it turns out that Mom's not even home.  Ten minutes of searching (and increasing levels of panic from Josh) reveals a note telling us to go out, get some breakfast, do some sightseeing.  ("If I wanted sightseeing," Josh mutters, "I would have stayed in DC.")  As it turns out, there's some sort of crisis at the domestic violence shelter she volunteers at, and she had to head over there.

"But we called last night," Josh -- well, Josh whines; there is really no other word for it.  "We told her when we'd be here."

"She had this stuff to do," I point out.  "It's work; it's an emergency.  You know about those; we only have a dozen or so a day ourselves."

"This is different."

"Why?  Because she's your mother?  Because there's no one here to bake brownies for you?"

"It's volunteer work.  It's Saturday, and we're her children.  Shouldn't we take priority?"

"I'll remind you of those words the first time you're tempted to skip Molly's school play because some bill's coming up for a vote."

"She works too hard; that's all I'm saying."

"Gee, a Lyman who works too hard.  What a radical concept."

"All I'm saying is that my mother is not a young woman and--"

"You'd better not let Mom hear you say that."

Josh grins at me.  There are dimples.  I don't care what weird hangups he has; we are so having sex tonight. "You're really getting a kick out of calling her 'Mom,' aren't you?" he asks.

"Yes, I am.  Deal with it and move on."

"I think it's cute, that's all."

I can take only so much of him with his dimples and his grin and his being all the concerned son.  I pull him closer and start kissing.

"Donna," he says after a minute, "I appreciate the sentiment, but we're making out on my mother's front porch.  What if she shows up?"

"Josh," I reply, "we're married.  It was in all the papers.  I think your mother knows that we've had sex by now."

"I'm begging you not to use the words 'sex' and 'your mother' in the same sentence."

"You know, I predict that we'll spend a fair amount of time with Mom in the future."

"We're the only family she has," Josh agrees.

"So unless you want to eschew having sex for long periods of time--"

"Eschew?  Who actually uses 'eschew' in ordinary conversation?"

"I do.  It's part of my quirky yet adorable persona."

"That's one way to describe it."

"Or we could eschew having sex for the rest of our marriage."

"And there she goes with the empty threats again."

Sometimes it's best just to ignore him and keep talking.  "I am merely pointing out the fact that you're being illogical.  We are married.  Your mother knows we're married.  Married people have sex.  It can therefore be assumed that your mother knows we have had sex."

"In fact, Joshua," another voice says, "it can even be assumed that your mother has had sex."  We turn around to see Josh's mother standing behind us.

"I'm going to need years of therapy by the time this vacation is over," Josh mutters.

***

Luckily, the conversation about sex has ended.  I don't think I could handle anymore of that particular topic while in the presence of my mother.

Speaking of my mother, she and Donna are hugging and chattering and generally ignoring me as they wander into the house.  I follow behind, waiting impatiently for my mother's attention.

"Joshua," Mom says, as she releases Donna and pulls me into a surprisingly comforting hug.  "You look like hell."

I squeeze her tightly, then grin down at her.  "Why, thank you, Mom.  You always know just the right thing to say.  You, on the other hand, look wonderful."

"Stop," she says, waving off the compliment.  It's true, though.  The woman's sixty-eight years old, and she's healthier than I am.  And she refuses to do that weird old-lady haircut with the sausage curls; instead, she's been letting her hair grey naturally and has a chin-length blunt cut.  She really does look wonderful.

"You look tired," Mom says, still studying my face as she deposits me in a kitchen chair.  "Did you get enough sleep last night?"

I'm blushing.

For the love of all that is holy, my mother asked me an innocent question, and I'm blushing like... Like a blushing person!  God, I'm flustered.

Grinning, Donna jumps in.  "The bed at the hotel wasn't all that comfortable.  We did a little work on our stamp collection."

I glare at Donna, but she just gives me a big grin.

"Philatelics, are you?"  My mother gives my wife a knowing look.  I think I may actually die of embarrassment.  Thankfully, my mom changes the subject.  "Would you two like any iced tea?"

"Sure," Donna says.  "If you point me in the right direction, I'll get the glasses."

"No, no, dear," Mom says, heading for the refrigerator.  "You sit.  Joshua, get some glasses down.  Lemon or honey, dear?"

"Lemon," I say.

"I know that, Joshua," Mom grins.  "I was talking to Donna."

"Lemon, please."

Laughing, I follow directions and grab some glasses from the cupboard.  "So what was the big emergency at the shelter?" I ask.  "I figured you'd be here making brownies."

"Josh," Donna admonishes.

Mom removes the glass pitcher of iced tea and rolls her eyes at me.  "Maybe if I'd had more notice about this visit--"

"It's not like we had any idea when we'd get the ruling," I point out.  "Never mind the fact that we had no idea you'd bullied Leo into letting us have some time off."

With an innocent smile, my mother pours the tea and says, "I did nothing of the sort, Joshua.  I'm sure Leo was acting out of the kindness of his heart."

Donna grabs my hand under the table and wordlessly shushes me.  Then she says, "Mom, is everything okay at the shelter?"

My mother sobers immediately.  "Yes.  But it was a close call."  She sits down at the table with a lemon and a knife.

"What happened?" I ask.  "If you can talk about it."  Obviously, the very nature of her work makes talking about it difficult -- both because the stories she hears every day are horrifying and because she's signed confidentiality agreements.

"Without names I can," Mom says.  "One of the batterers was spotted at the post office.  Luckily, she saw him first and got out of there.  But we had to move her to another shelter immediately."  She frees a lemon wedge and offers it to Donna.

Okay, so my griping about the brownies seems a little shallow and self-centered right about now.  I'd have gladly sat on the porch all day if it meant this woman was able to avoid being found by her abusive asshole of an ex.

Even if I do worry about my mom sometimes: domestic violence shelters can be dangerous places to work.

Donna takes the proffered lemon wedge with a smile and squeezes it over her iced tea.  "Thanks.  How'd he find her?"

Mom smiles, but it's bitter and jaded.  "He convinced the clerk at Radio Shack that his wife's cell phone bill was being mailed to the wrong address and that he needed the information so he could correct it.  Obviously, we don't get any mail at the shelter itself, but the post office box is in the same general vicinity."

"God," I say, "that's terrible.  She's okay?"

"Yes," Mom answers, tossing a lemon wedge my way.  "But each breach of security threatens all the women we help.  If one batterer locates the shelter, it could be dangerous for all of the women."

"Why?" Donna asks.  "Wouldn't the jerk just want to find his own wife?"

"These are violent men, my dear," Mom explains.  "They'll threaten their children, their friends -- anyone they think can help them find the person who left them.  Their focus is this woman who's no longer in their control; last month a man in Dallas who inexplicably had joint custody of his two little girls called his ex-wife, put the girls on the phone, and then shot them dead as their mother listened.  The girls were nine and six, and their names were Liberty and Faith."

Donna grabs at my hand under the table.  "That's awful," she whispers.

"Yes," Mom nods.  She pauses, blinking hard, then clears her throat.  "My point is, they certainly wouldn't blink at threatening me for records on their wife or girlfriend's current location."

"Mom," I interrupt, "I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"It's the truth, Joshua," she shrugs.  "But I can see it's upsetting you."  She turns her attention to Donna.  "So Joshua was obsessing over brownies on the car ride?"

"Hey!" I protest.

"Yes," Donna says.  "He was very excited about the brownies."

Mom glances at me.  "So you want brownies?"

I nod enthusiastically.  "Can I lick the mixing spoon?"

"What, are you ten?" Donna laughs.

"No, but the batter is even better than the finished product."

"You may share the mixing spoon with your wife," Mom decrees.  "But first you've got to run to the store."

I narrow my eyes.  This feels suspiciously like a ploy to get me out of the house so that my mother and my wife can trade Idiot-Josh stories.  "What do you need?"

"Brownie mix," Mom answers promptly.  "Now get going."

***

"So," Mom starts, "stamp collecting?  Is that what you kids are calling it these days?"

I nearly choke on my iced tea.  "It's kind of a long story," I reply.

Mom sits down at the kitchen table across from me.  "You will notice that I have time."

I think I'm blushing.  I'm rather glad Josh isn't here to see exactly how uncomfortable I am.  Hesitantly, I try to explain about Marcus Aquino and the eighty-seven index cards and, yes, Josh's misunderstanding of the word "philately."

My mother-in-law has the strangest smile on her face, like she knows something I don't.  "That boy always did take after his father," she says.

I have to remember to stop drinking tea when I think she's going to be saying things like that.  It's disconcerting.

Mom -- Josh is right, I really do get a kick out of calling her "Mom" -- smiles at me.  "He looks better than he has in a long time," she says.

"You said he looked terrible," I point out.

"Well, he definitely needs more sleep, but he looks happier than I've seen him since--"  Her gaze goes toward a photo propped up against the kitchen hutch -- Josh's sister and father.  "Happier than I've seen him in many years," she concludes.

"You should have seen him a couple of days ago," I say.  "He got the best of Ann Stark."  My mother-in-law is a Lyman; she knows all the political players.  I don't have to explain who Ann Stark is.  "He was ecstatic."

"That's not the kind of happiness I meant," Mom says.  "Joshua takes things very personally.  He thinks he should be able to solve the world's problems.  And when he can't, he broods."

I nod.  "He has turned brooding into an art form."

"I suppose it started when we lost Joanie.  No matter how many times Noah and I tried to explain it to him, we couldn't get Joshua to understand that he wasn't responsible for what happened to his sister.  He was determined to go over that night again and again, looking for some way he could have changed the outcome."

"He's still looking."

Mom shakes her head.  "He didn't do anything wrong that night.  Neither did Joanie.  She was a very responsible girl, and she took good care of her little brother.  It was simply one of those things that couldn't be helped.  Believe me, I would dearly love to have had someone to blame, but it wasn't like that.  When you and I were sitting in that hospital room last May, I remember thinking that if we lost him, at least this time I would have someone to direct my hatred toward."

"I told Toby I was glad they were dead.  Which was pretty much a lie.  What I really wanted was to kill them myself."

Mom squeezes my hand.  "I know.  I tell myself they were simply foolish, misguided young men, but the truth is that they almost killed my boy and I haven't reached the point where I can forgive them for that."

We're quiet for a minute.  I think we're both torn between horror over how close he came to dying and how relieved we are that he's still here.

"Well," Mom says, "Joshua survived, and he finally had the good sense to realize what you mean to him.  So it does us very little good to waste our energy worrying about what might have happened.  Now, what stories should I tell you about his childhood to sufficiently embarrass Mr. Deputy Chief of Staff before he gets back?"

***

My trip to the store doesn't take long; it's surprising how well I remember my way around this place, considering I haven't lived here in almost twenty years.

When I get back, Donna and Mom are still sitting at the kitchen table.  They are, predictably, sharing Idiot-Josh stories, but I don't even mind the embarrassment of Donna learning that my first girlfriend dumped me for a football player or that I played the flute in fourth grade.  I'm just... peaceful.

My mother and my wife.

God, I never really thought I'd end up happily married.  As Leo said, it bears some serious thought, Josh Lyman experiencing wedded bliss.

Watching my Donna, I have the overwhelming urge to kiss her.  And then I realize that I can.  Our marriage has been made public, and we have been vindicated by the courts.  We are now old news.

Besides which, we're in the pretty much press-free zone otherwise known as Adira Lyman's kitchen.

Grinning, I enter the kitchen to matching smiles from my women.  I drop a kiss on my mother's forehead and then one on Donna's lips, before placing the brownie mix triumphantly in the middle of the table.

Donna smirks at me.  "Successful, my little hunter-gatherer?"

"Yes, now bake me something, woman."

My mother and my wife exchange amused looks.

"As I recall, Joshua," Donna says, "you're quite capable of baking cookies."

"Donna!"

"Oh," she says with a significant look at my mother, "we're not allowed to even allude to any sort of--"

"Donna!"

"Josh," she laughs, "how would your mother have known about the cookie thing -- and by the way, Mom, he thinks they should be called 'bakies' -- if you hadn't turned all red and said, 'Donna!' in that tone?"

I bury my head in my arms, because this is really just too embarrassing.  My mother is laughing at me, my wife is telling my mother about our sex life, and I just want an escape hatch.  "You're an evil woman," I mutter.

Mom leans over and pats my arm.  "Your father liked helping me bake key lime pie, dear."

"Mother!"

And then the two women collapse into gales of laughter, leaving me bright red and squirming in my seat.  "This is ridiculous."

"My dear boy, what's the point of having children if you can't embarrass the hell out of them once in a while?" Mom asks with a big grin.

"Fine," I shrug, "but can't you just, I don't know, haul out the naked baby pictures or something?"

Donna grins at me from across the table.  "You're going to show naked baby pictures of Molly to her future husband?"

My mother raises an eyebrow delicately.  "Molly?"

It's Donna's turn to blush.  I gallantly step into the fray.  "Apparently there's some sort of crazy-naming gene that runs in Donnatella's family, so we decided to name the kids beforehand.  A pre-emptive strike, if you will."

Mom nods, but she looks a little confused.  "Are you...?"

"No!" Donna answers quickly.  "God, no.  We were just, you know, talking about it one day."

My mother smiles, finally, and looks quite pleased.  "Excellent.  I can't stress enough how much you should plan ahead for children.  They are a handful."  She gives me a pointed look.

I roll my eyes.  "I'm thirty-seven, Mom, you wanna let go of the teenage troublemaking?"

"No," she says haughtily.  "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

"That won't be for a few years," Donna assures her.  "After re-election."

I give Donna a grin.  "I still say we could win Texas."

Donna rolls her eyes, and my mother quirks an eyebrow at me.  "Joshua?"

"Nothing, Mom," I answer, exasperated.  "Just a little joke."

"Josh thinks we could win Texas if we have Molly -- whose namesakes are Texas Democrats -- in time for re-election," Donna explains.

My mother turns that look on me -- you know the one -- and says, "Really?"

"Mom--"

"Joshua Matheusz Lyman, do you have any idea how much work goes into raising children?" she demands.

Donna's eyes widen, and she opens her mouth to interject, but my mother keeps right on talking.

"You work, what, seventy, eighty hour weeks?  When, exactly, would you be able to spend time with this child?  Leo and Jenny made sacrifices, Joshua; Jenny gave up her career to raise Mallory.  I did the same for you and Joanie.  Kids are hard work, and they shouldn't be brought into this world on a whim."

I'm nodding furiously.  "Mom, I know.  Believe me.  We're not going to have kids until we're ready."

"Not to mention," she grumbles, "the fact that you've only been together for a couple years.  You need time to build a relationship, a strong family together before you add the stress and euphoria of children.  Your priorities will change, Joshua, and I know you'll feel guilty if you cut back to sixty-hour weeks."

Donna looks incredibly impressed.  "I told him the same thing."

Mom reaches over and pats Donna's hand, and I'm not sure how I became the bad guy in all of this.  "Mom," I say, "I totally agree with you.  Donna and I are going to wait."

"Until President Bartlet is out of office?" she asks, skeptically.

Donna glances over at me.  "Maybe not that long.  But at least until after re-election.  Besides," she grins, "Josh will be forty-three when President Bartlet's out of office."

And that's when it hits me.

I can't have children.  Not anymore.

***

The only member of the dysfunctional Moss clan that I honestly got along with was my paternal grandmother.  Gran was this fantastic, free-thinking, intelligent woman who maintained that she never understood how she'd given birth to "a complete dolt like your father."  She blamed my grandfather -- a man I never met since, according to Gran, "he had the bad taste to get himself killed during the Second World War and leave me pregnant and uninsured."

Apparently, I inherited my early bad taste in men from Gran.  The story, as she told it, went like this: Gran was all of seventeen when World War II broke out, and she had quite the thing for her high school sweetheart.  He was, Gran told me, captain of their debating team.  "God, but that man could talk," she said.  It was very sweet and sad to hear her tell it; almost half a century later, she was still completely in love with the guy.  "Take my advice, Donna," she told me.  "If you ever find a man who can turn a conversation on the national debt into a flirtation, hang on to him."

Gran would, I am sure, be thrilled at how my life has turned out.

When she was seventeen, however, her high school sweetheart/debating partner Jesse was drafted.  She said a tearful goodbye -- I've always pictured it as one of those scenes out of a black-and-white movie:  Gran, all tearful in her long, flowing dress, running alongside Jesse's train, that sort of thing.  She went home, cried her eyes out in that way only teenage girls in love can manage, and waited for Jesse's first letter to arrive.

The letter was a bitter disappointment. Gran was expecting more of the scintillating conversation she'd grown used to during those long hours on the debate team.  Turned out Jesse didn't write nearly as well as he talked.  And the arrogance she found so appealing in person (Yeah, I know -- it freaks me out too.) didn't translate well on the printed page.  She was expecting a marriage proposal in that letter.  What she got was her boyfriend skipping ahead and making the assumption that he and Gran would get married after the war.  Gran was pissed, to put it mildly.  "What can I say?" she told me years later.  "I was young and stupid, and I wanted hearts and flowers.  And so I screwed up my life."

The night she got Jesse's letter, in what turned out to be a fateful fit of pique, Gran went out on a blind date with the cousin of her best friend's boyfriend -- one David Moss, who was on leave.  "He cleaned up good; I'll give him that," Gran told me.  "Looked incredibly sexy in his uniform."  They were married one week later -- those leaves didn't last very long, after all -- and by the time my grandfather left for the Pacific, my father had been conceived and Gran had begun to realize that she'd made a terrible mistake.

So there she was, pregnant and married to the wrong guy.  Even when my grandfather died in battle, Gran was left with a child she didn't particularly want and an ex-boyfriend who didn't return her letter of apology.

Gran, by her own admission, was a terrible mother.  Even ignoring the fact that she had to work for a living and couldn't be the stay-at-home Mom type society lauded in those days, she was young and she didn't want to be a mother.  She and my father, as Gran put it, "never did hit it off."  My father spent the majority of his time with Gran's more conservative brother and sister-in-law.

My father was always inclined to think of Gran as a mean-spirited woman who never loved him.  My mother flat out called Gran a bitch.  To me, my grandmother was an amazing woman and the only family member who ever loved me unconditionally.

I was fifteen when Gran told me the story of how she'd married the wrong guy.  She ended the story this way:  "But if I hadn't married him, if I hadn't had your father, there'd be no Donnatella.  So it was all worth it."

My grandma was the only member of my family who encouraged me to be the person I was clearly meant to be.  She encouraged my love of words, my reading, my interest in politics.  Every day after school, I would run to her house and stay there -- safe from the criticisms of Frances and my parents for as long as possible.

And then, when I was sixteen, Gran died.  Cancer.  I remember her clutching my hand the one time my parents let me see her in the hospital.  Her face had, in the two weeks since I'd last seen her, turned gray, and her skin was simply hanging off her bones.  I remember being scared and wanting to run away, not wanting to face the obvious fact that she'd be dead in a few days.

"Listen carefully," Gran told me.  "You're special.  You don't belong with them, and most everything they ever told you about the world is wrong.  Get as far away from them as you can as soon as you can.  Do what you want to do, and don't be afraid to make mistakes."  As it turned out, that was perfect advice; but it took several years for me to understand that.  Gran's death, however, left this hole in my life.  Without her, the only women I had left to emulate were Frances and my mother.  And I spent too many years trying to impress them.

The point of all this is the fact that I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an older woman who loved me unconditionally and who I want to emulate . I've got that again now.

Adira Lyman is the woman Gran could have been if she hadn't made a few critical mistakes along the way and wasted a hell of a lot of potential.

We've taken the leftover brownies down to the Women's Center.  I'm not sure whether Mom is more eager to show me the place or to show off her new daughter.  That's how she introduces me to people -- "my daughter Donna."  It's hard not to break into tears over that, frankly.  She says it with a kind of pride that I've never heard my own mother use.

Watching her walk through this place is like watching her son in the West Wing.  She doesn't quite swagger, but she certainly strides.  She's helped create all this, just like Josh helped create the Bartlet administration. S he owns this space; she cares passionately about it; and I'm thinking Josh doesn't get that tendency toward wanting to explain things completely from his father, you know?

She fills me in, as we make the rounds, on useful facts and statistics about domestic violence.  Did you know that a permanent restraining order is not, in fact, permanent?  They only last three years.  How stupid is that?  And apparently, the only common denominator among survivors of domestic violence is that they're women.  Race, class, socio-economic status -- none of this seems to affect the likelihood that one in three women will experience violence in their lifetimes.

What a horrifying thought.

Finally we end up in her office -- or what passes for an office here.  It's a cubbyhole even smaller than the one Josh used back in Manchester during the campaign.  And Josh seems to have inherited his tendency toward organizational chaos from his mother too.

Give me a couple of hours, and I could make sense of this mess.

***

Before Donna, I never thought about kids.

To be honest, before Donna, I never thought about a lot of things that the vast majority of the United States population seemed overly concerned with: kids, mortgages, a decent 401(k).  Instead, I lived and breathed politics, as my parents before me lived and breathed their passions.

My father worked seventy-hour weeks until he got sick -- and even then, he only cut back to forty, working from home when the nausea from the chemo got to be too much.  My mother, who stayed home to raise Joanie and me, started volunteering at a local women's group, through which she learned of an embryonic domestic violence program.  She promptly devoted school hours -- her only free time -- to the fledgling shelter.

Even with their obligations -- or perhaps because of them -- I had two wonderful role models growing up.  Not that I always appreciated it then.  Having Dad miss every single Little League game sucked, even if he did drive us into Boston a few times a season to see the Red Sox.  We actually lived just outside of New York City, but both of my parents were die-hard Red Sox fans.  The one game we attended at Yankee stadium -- Yanks vs. Sox, of course -- nearly ended in a brawl.  And so started the two-hour drives to Fenway Park to be with other Sox fans.

My mother, too, missed a school play or two because of crises at the shelter.  As a child, I begrudged her that time; I didn't understand that the situations she was talking about were actually life-and-death.  But my mother had a keen sense -- she still does -- for when I was upset or moping.  The late night grilled cheese sandwiches -- usually burnt because Adira Lyman never much cared for cooking -- became a ritual just after Joanie's death.

Many parents, if they lost one child due to the actions of their surviving child, would have a hard time forgiving him.  But even after I told them repeatedly that the popcorn was my idea, that I ran out of the house in a blind panic and that I stood there on the lawn, shaking, while the house burned down around my sister -- even then, they told me it wasn't my fault.

I never believed them.

I'm sure Stanley would tell me that the way I've lived my life since then -- the way I've consciously or unconsciously cut myself off from close personal relationships -- is a form of self-punishment.  My parents never blamed me, but I always did.

My track record with women, plus my insane work hours, pretty much precluded any thoughts of having children.  Or so I thought.

I never considered the preposterous idea that I would fall in love, get married, and start thinking about having children.  The idea was inconceivable three years ago.  Of course, three years ago I was dating Mandy, so who could blame me?  Even long before that experiment in dating incompatibility, I never thought I'd be this guy.

But I am, and I'm happy.  Truly happy for the first time in a long time.  Don't get me wrong -- I still berate myself daily for letting my sister die.  I'm still an incurable workaholic.

Hell, I'm still an arrogant bastard.

But I look at Donna, and the knowledge that this is real, that she actually loves me for no reason I can fathom, it's amazing.  The idea of making these little people with her is breathtaking.

For the first time in my life, I want those things.

Well, okay, I own the condo already, so I don't need the mortgage, and my 401(k) is creeping ever upwards, so that's pretty much taken care of.

Molly and Josiah, though. I want my kids.

Only I can't have them.

***

A decidedly glum-looking Josh is sitting on his mother's front porch when we get back.

"What are you doing, Joshua?" Mom asks.

"Thinking," he replies.  Mom and I exchange looks; when Josh claims to be thinking -- when he uses that tone of voice -- what he generally means is that he's found something new and exciting to brood over.  I have two questions:  First, what is the crisis du jour?  Second, who does he need for this one -- Supportive Wife or Comic Relief Girl?

Mom nods at me, indicating that he's my problem now, and goes into the house, stopping just long enough to give Josh a quick hug.  He looks at her gratefully as I sit down next to him.

"Can't be re-election," I say.

"What can't be re-election?"

"The reason you're sitting here looking like somebody died.  If it were re-election, you'd be all excited and bouncing off the walls."

"We're going to kick Baker's ass," he says automatically.  But he lacks his usual level of enthusiasm for that task.

"You haven't heard anything from the office that's turned you into brood boy, have you?"

He doesn't even call me on the "brood boy" thing.  "No, apparently they can run the country without us."

"Imagine that," I say.  "And you haven't even divulged your secret plan to fight inflation yet."

He gives me a slight smile, but I can tell his heart isn't in it.  So I put my hand on his arm and ask, "What's wrong, Joshua?"

He makes quite a point of not looking at me.  "It's just -- I've been thinking, and maybe we should reconsider this whole idea of having kids."

There's this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I've grown quite fond of my unconceived children, and I have no intention of letting them go.

"What?" I ask.  My words may be coming out harsher than I intended, but Molly and Josiah have become very real to me.  "If we can't have Molly in time for re-election, you don't want her?"

"God, no," Josh says.  "That's not -- I want them.  That's not the issue.  It's just -- I'm not sure I'd be the best possible father for them is all."

"Well, if I'm their mother, you're the only possible father, so I'm sort of missing your point."

"You know when I had that doctor's appointment last week?"  The sick feeling has now escalated into full-blown panic.

"Yes," I answer.  I'd say more, but I'm trying to avoid sounding hysterical.

"She said I might have some long-term complications from the surgery."

I give up trying to avoid hysteria.  "What complications?  Why are you just telling me now?  What does this have to do with Molly?  And what complications?"

"See," Josh says, "this is why I didn't tell you.  We were in the middle of the whole Baker thing, and what with Ann Stark paying us visits and Phyllis Tsolakis suing us, you didn't need to worry about--"

"I'm your wife.  I'm supposed to worry about you.  Hell, as your assistant, I get paid to worry about you."  I stand up and start to head inside until Josh grabs my arm and pulls me back down beside him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks.

"To call Dr. Bartlet," I answer.  "Or the Surgeon General, if I can't get hold of the First Lady."

He sounds amused.  "I'm seeing a specialist, you know.  One who was recommended by both the First Lady and the Surgeon General.  And don't you want the details before you call in the cavalry?"

Okay, he has a point.  "Fine.  What kind of complications?"  For an instant, I'm back in that damn hospital, making bargains with God for Josh's life.  Anything you want, God; anything at all.  Even Molly and Josiah.  Just don't hurt Josh.

Josh looks away from me again, which is never a good sign.  "Cognitive dysfunction," he says.

"And in English that would be...?"

"An earlier onset of senility for people who have had bypass surgery than would otherwise be the case."

"Senility?"  I try to imagine Mr. I-Was-a-Fulbright-Scholar dealing with senility.  I've moved beyond hysteria to a full-blown panic attack.

"There have been these studies of people who had bypass surgery, the doctor said.  There's confusion and loss of memory right after the surgery, and I had that."

"Yes, but you got better.  I was there.  You got better.  You're okay now."

"I know, but what these studies indicate is that the confusion, the lack of cognitive function, can return as you age.  As I age.  In twenty years or so."

You know, it's getting harder to resist the urge to scream and throw things and cry.  I take a deep breath to calm myself and say, "Well, okay, but what are the odds any of this is actually going to happen?"

"Donna--"

"Seriously, Josh, have you ever read the list of side effects on over-the-counter medications like Tylenol?  That would scare the life out of you, but I've never met anyone who experienced any of those symptoms from taking a couple of pills.  So maybe this is the same thing -- there's a slight chance it could happen.  An infinitesimal chance.  No real chance at all.  Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, well, even infinitesimal is too much when you consider--"

"And let's be logical here.  Bypass surgery, that's usually done on people who are much older than you are and in worse shape physically than you were.  Except, you know, for the life-threatening gunshot wound.  I'm betting it doesn't apply to you.  Not at all.  Nothing to worry about."

"Twenty years from now, Donna, that's what the doctor said.  That would leave you with two teenagers to take care of and me not able to -- I wouldn't even be able to recognize our children."

"Or me."  God, what a depressing thought.

He looks at me as though that last possibility hadn't even occurred to him.  "No, I can't--"  He takes my hand in his.  "That wouldn't happen.  There's no way I could not know my Donnatella."

"And yet you're absolutely sure you wouldn't recognize Molly and Josiah."

"I'm just saying we shouldn't take that chance.  I can't risk putting that kind of burden on you.  If I'd thought--"

"Joshua Lyman, I swear to God that if you tell me you would never have married me if you'd thought this part of it through, I will never forgive you."

"I'm just saying--"

"Please don't.  And besides, is this absolutely going to happen?  Does the doctor know this for a fact?  Did you think to get a second opinion?  Or a third?  And even if you knew for sure it would happen, it's twenty years, right?  How much research can happen in twenty years?  Maybe there'd be a cure, and--"

"And maybe there wouldn't be.  And you'd be left with a senile husband.  And two teenagers to put through college."

"And maybe I'll get hit by a truck on the way to work next week.  You can't predict the future, Josh.  Nobody can.  You can't know that this is what's going to happen.  And anyway you were much too stubborn to die when the doctors thought you would, so I'm betting your ego would never allow you to go all senile on me either."

"Donna, I can't take the chance--"

"I can just see us, you know, in thirty years, with you being perfectly healthy.  And we're sitting right here on this porch, saying, 'Well, gee, if we'd known things were going to turn out like this, we could have had those children after all.'"

"This is the safe thing to do."

"Oh, please!  If you and I wanted to do the safe thing, we'd still be in your office trying to deny that there was anything going on between us."

"I'm just -- I don't want you to end up with this huge burden because of me; that's all I'm saying."

"The burden would be not having our children to turn to if this thing -- which is not going to happen to you -- happened."

"Think about what it would be like for Molly and Josiah.  They don't need that."

"That is a ridiculous argument.  You are arguing that they'd be better off not being born.  Once again, I must ask whether you actually went to Harvard and Yale because I took Introduction to Philosophy at Madison and there we learned that--"

"Donna."

"What?"

"The misdirection's not going to work this time."

"Well, I was going to threaten to withhold sex again; but I figured that, given what we're arguing about, that would just be playing into your hands."

"I'm really sorry about this, Donna, but my mind's made up."

"So is mine.  We're having the kids."

"We're not."

"Josh, your mother just gave us some excellent advice about waiting two years before we have Molly.  Don't make me ignore it."

"About Mom -- you've got to promise not to tell her about any of this.  I don't want her worrying about me."

"Too late, Brood Boy.  She could tell something was wrong just by looking at you."

"She could?"

"Yes.  It's an instinctive thing mothers have.  I know this because of my status as the mother of a very-soon-to-be-conceived-if-you-don't-stop-acting-like-an-ass daughter."

He grins at me.  "You're the only person I know who can make it sound as though I'm doomed to have sex as a punishment."

"Yeah, well, I didn't say it would be good sex."

"It's you and me."

"True."

"It's good sex."

"Phenomenal, even."

I rest my head against his chest, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.

"Josh," I finally say, "this cognitive dysfunction thing -- it's not going to happen to you.  I won't let it."

He sounds almost amused.  "You have that kind of power, do you?"

"Where my husband and children are concerned, yes.  I'll get that kind of power.  Somewhere."

Of course, I have absolutely no idea where.

***

"Where's Donna?"

I glance up to see my mother in the archway, casually leaning against the crown molding.  Rubbing my eyes tiredly, I drop the briefing memo onto my lap and say, "She's harassing the First Lady."

My mother grins.  "She's fiesty."

"Donna or Mrs. Bartlet?"

Mom pushes away from the wall and strolls over to the couch.  She sinks into the corner and rubs her left shoulder a bit, grimacing as she works the stiffness out.  "How come you kids don't call her Dr. Bartlet?"

I shift a little in the armchair so I don't have to crane my neck to see her.  "Huh?"

"The First Lady," mom says.  "You call her Mrs. Bartlet."

"She is Mrs. Bartlet."

"She has a medical degree, Joshua.  You should show her education the respect it deserves."

I grin at her.  "Yes, mother."

A familiar silence falls between us, and I let my thoughts wander.  My mother would be an amazing grandmother.  She'd spoil Molly and Josiah, then send them home hyperactive and overtired.  Just like she used to threaten to do ("Just wait till you have kids!") when I was the small demon on a sugar high.

"Joshua?"  She gets my attention immediately, because she sounds almost tentative.  Adira Lyman doesn't do tentative, not after forty years of marriage to a litigator.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"I didn't--"  She stops and gives me a helpless shrug.  "The conversation we had -- about children -- I hope I didn't inadvertently--"

"Mom," I interrupt, "you didn't.  This is...It's not about that."

She gives me that look that I've seen countless times over the years, the one that says "I know you're lying to me right now, and you'd better 'fess up before I turn the evil eye on you."

I squirm in my seat a little, then spill.  As always.  "It's kind of about that."

"What's wrong, Joshua?"

I can't hold her gaze.  I drop my head back onto the chair and stare at the ceiling.  "The doctors -- It's possible that one of the long-term effects of the bypass..."  God, it's so hard to say this.

My mother's voice is tight with fear when she says, "Joshua?"

"No," I answer, glancing at her.  "I'm fine.  It's just I might eventually have some trouble with cognitive function."

She inhales sharply.  "What does that mean?"

I explain briefly, and I still can't look at her.  I don't want to think like this.  I don't want to consider the possibility that some day my mind will be full of potholes and detours.  It hurts -- it actually hurts to think about a time when I won't remember loving Donnatella Moss-Lyman.  How is that possible?

I know the shooting will have long-term effects.  As I age, I can expect the weakness and pain to grow steadily worse.  But that's about on par with the bad knee I got from a stupid tackle during a pickup football game at Yale: something that can be explained and treated.

I can tell my doctor that I need a knee brace or a prescription for pain relievers for my back.  I can do the sad face until Donna rolls her eyes and agrees to give me a back rub.  I can do something about those ailments.

But what if I lose my mind?

What if I can't tell people what's wrong with me?  What if I can't tell Donna that I'm forgetting her?  What can I do about that?

"Joshua?" my mom says.  She reaches one hand over to me, and I take it gratefully.  "You are the most stubborn person I know."

I manage a chuckle at that, because she's the most stubborn person I know, with my dad and Toby tied for second.  "What about Dad?"

"Dad wanted you to go to NYU."

Yes.  Yes, he did.  "I remember."

"Do you remember what you told him?" she asks softly.

"That I was going to Harvard?"

Mom squeezes my hand.  "You told him that you were going to Harvard.  You told him he could take his tuition money and shove it, because you had a full scholarship.  You told him that you knew what you were doing, and you weren't going to go to NYU just because that's all he could afford when he was your age."

My eyes are suspiciously moist.  "Please tell me you're exaggerating?" Please tell me I wasn't that much of a bastard toward my own father.

"My dear boy, do you think I would possibly forget that day?  You worshipped him, Joshua, and yet you had the strength of character to stand up to him."

"Was I that rude?"

She laughs then.  "Tact has never been your strong suit, dear."

"Still," I say.

"Joshua, look at me."

I can't argue with that tone of voice, so I turn toward her and turn hopeful eyes her way.  "He knew, right?  I mean, you both know..."

"Yes, Josh."  Mom gives me a beautiful smile.  "We know."

"I miss him," I admit, and my voice is hoarse.

It's my mother's turn to glance away.  "I do too."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.  I don't know if I'm apologizing for being rude to my father twenty years ago or for making my mother relive her painful memories tonight.  Probably both.

"Do you know what makes it bearable, Joshua?"

I shake my head, but I don't speak.  If I open my mouth, I will start to cry.

"My children."

I close my eyes against the tears, but they escape anyway.  "Mom..."

"You lost your father when you were in your thirties, Josh," she says.  "If I had been able to see that, if I'd known you'd go through half your life without Noah, do you think I should have given up the idea of having children?"

I scrub my face with my free hand.  It doesn't help.  "But Joanie--"

"I miss Joanie every waking moment, Josh."  She's nearly crying too, but she's always been stronger than me.  "But I don't regret one day of her life.  If I'd known how it would end up, I would never have changed anything."

"Mom..." I don't know what I'm trying to ask.  It may be a plea for guidance.

"I can't tell you what to do, Josh.  I can't make the decision for you."  She pauses for a moment.  "Donna will be a wonderful mother, and you will be an amazing father.  You have so much of your own father in you, Josh."

I finally let out the fear that's been eating at me for days.  "What if I lose my mind?" I gasp.

"Then you rely on your family," Mom answers firmly.  "That's what family is for, Joshua.  We supported each other through the loss of your father. Donna and I supported you during your recovery.  The family that you and Donna have created, that's what will get you through whatever comes."

I nod and try to get myself under control.  I don't deal well with heart-to-hearts.  Luckily, neither does my mother.

She seems to sense that I can't talk about it anymore tonight.  Mom furtively swipes at her own eyes and then says briskly, "Well, I'm sounding like a self-help book.  Obviously that's my cue to break out the ice cream."

I grin up at her.  "So we can have some sort of girlie bonding moment?"

"No," she says, gesturing for me to follow her into the kitchen.  "So I can get my daily chocolate fix.  You coming?"

I toss the briefing memo on the end table and follow my mom.  "You," I tell her, "are a very wise woman."

"Because I recommend daily chocolate intake?"

I catch up to her and give her a quick hug.  "That too."

***

"So did you manage to harass the First Lady?" Josh asks.  He seems in a marginally better frame of mind.  I wonder what his mother said to him.

"No," I reply.  "Although I've got an appointment with her for next week."

"I really wish you wouldn't."

"I wish you wouldn't obsess over these things, but it doesn't look like I'm going to get my wish, does it?"

He makes a point of looking at our entwined hands rather than at my face.  "So," he says, "I was talking to Mom."

"You told her?"

"Yeah, I don't know what it is, but I have this problem keeping things from her.  And you."

"What it is is that you're inordinately fond of the sound of your own voice."

"And she seems to think that we should go ahead and have Molly and Josiah.  Eventually.  Regardless of whether--"  He shrugs.

"I still think you're blowing that way out of proportion.  And I want to have those children, Josh."

"So what you're saying is that this is non-negotiable?"  So we're back to talking in political metaphors.  That's always a good sign.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying.  This is the deal breaker."

"Then I guess I have no choice.  I'm outnumbered here four to one."

"Four to one?"

"You, Mom, Molly and Josiah."  And he starts to kiss me.

I break it off before things can get very interesting.  "Just so you understand," I tell him, "I hold firm to the not-until-after-reelection part."

"And I was so looking forward to winning Texas."

"Get over it."  I go back to kissing him.

It's a very nice kiss, sweet and affectionate and comforting.  It's about to move into something else when Mom interrupts us.

"Joshua," she says, "you have a phone call from Leo."

I give Josh a look which is meant to convey the message "don't you dare waste a perfectly good makeout opportunity talking about politics."  Josh goes off to take the call as Mom sits down beside me.

"So," she asks, "he's over the brooding?"

"Well, he's lightened up on the brooding.  Which is progress.  But I'm sure he'll find something new and exciting to brood over tomorrow."

My mother-in-law nods.  "It's an inherited trait.  Noah was even worse."

I try to imagine worse than Josh in full brood mode.  I fail miserably.

Adira takes my hand.  "Which is exactly why you're so good for him," she says.  "You're such a light-hearted person, Donna.  The two of you balance each other perfectly."

"My mother used to call me her little free spirit.  Somehow she always made that sound like a character flaw."

"I don't want to speak ill of your parents, dear, but I have to ask -- Were they crazy?"

"Mom!"

"They have an intelligent, healthy, happy daughter.  That daughter manages to find a man who adores her.  I can understand their being upset that you and Josh didn't tell them about your marriage sooner--"

"I'm really sorry we couldn't tell you, Mom, but--"

"I understand why you and Josh felt you had to do things this way, dear.  I'm merely outraged that your parents could be so unfeeling."

"My parents wanted a certain kind of life for me.  They're disappointed that I chose something so different for myself."

The woman I think of now as Mom shakes her head.  "All I know is that I would give my own life for Joanie to have had the chance to marry someone Noah and I didn't approve of."

What do you say to that?  Adira Lyman does know how to put things into perspective.

"I wish I'd met Joanie," I finally say.

"She was an extraordinary girl," Mom says after a minute.  "Like her sister Donnatella."

I have this problem doing straightforward declarations of affection.  The Moss household was never big on them, and my pattern with Josh is to use jokes about things like coffee to express our emotions most of the time.  It's difficult for me to come right out and say the big things about what I'm feeling, but this is one of those moments that calls for a serious statement.  The best I can manage is "thank you."

Adira Lyman pulls me into her arms.  I can't recall the last time my own mother hugged me like this.  "Thank you for taking such good care of my boy, dear, and for letting us into your life."  She pats my cheek and adds, "It's good to have a daughter again."

***

"Leo?" I ask, leaning against the counter in the kitchen.

"Josh, how're things?"

I frown a little at this.  I'm pretty sure Leo didn't call me at my mother's house just to ask if I'm enjoying my long weekend.  "Fine.  What's wrong?"

Leo sighs.  It's not his normal, run of the mill, damn those Republicans sigh . This is more like...  Well, to be honest, I don't believe I've ever heard him sigh with such outright desolation before.

You know how I was starting to feel better just then?  That didn't last long.

"Leo?" I prompt.  I sound a bit worried there.

"Josh, there's gonna be a thing."

How incredibly illuminating.  "What kind of a thing?" I demand.  I mean, are we talking about the press trashing Donna some more, another lawsuit?

Leo must sense my rising panic.  "You're fine, Josh.  Both of you."  He pauses, then says, "It's something else."

"Okay.  What is it?"

"Josh," Leo scolds.

Yeah, I know.  Like he can discuss state secrets over unsecured lines.  "Right," I say.  "How urgent is this?"

He hesitates, then says, "I'm not sure I'd call it urgent.  Perhaps acute."

I am frowning mightily at an innocent refrigerator magnet.  "Acute?  Leo, what the--?"

"Just get back here, Josh," he sighs.  "Stay tonight, but I'm going to need you back here as soon as possible."

So much for a relaxing long weekend.  "We drove, Leo.  Even if we leave early tomorrow--"

"It's fine.  Just -- Come find me when you get in."

I am thoroughly confused, but I agree and hang up the phone.

Then I head for the living room, where I find Donnatella Moss-Lyman all but curled up in my mother's arms.  It is a remarkably touching scene.

So I just stand there and try not to beam like a complete idiot.  Not sure I succeed.

Mom notices me and murmurs something to Donna, who pulls back and looks over at me.  I can see the happiness in her flushed face.  I can't help but grin at her.

She rolls her eyes at me. " Get your butt over here, Lyman."

I give a careless shrug.  "Nah," I say nonchalantly.  "You two go on ahead with the girlie stuff, I'm just going to--"

"Josh," Mom interrupts, holding a hand out to me.  "You have to go?"

My grin flickers and dies . "Tomorrow," I nod.  Then I take the last couple steps and clasp my mother's hand.

Donna looks up at me.  "What's wrong?"

"I honestly don't know," I say.  "Leo wants us back tomorrow, though."

Donna gnaws a bit on her lip.  "It's not--?"

"Nothing about us," I assure her.

Her brow furrows a bit.  "Okay," she answers doubtfully.

"Well," Mom says, rising and pulling Donna to her feet so that we end up forming a little triangle next to the couch, "I wish you two had more time here."

"Me too, Mom," I admit, reaching for Donna, who nods her agreement.

Mom grins at us.  "We've got tonight, right?"

"Yes."

"So," Mom says.  "Let's make the most of it."

Donna squeezes my hand and I meet her gaze.  "Sounds like a good idea," she says.

THE END

05.24.01