My older sister is fond of telling people that she married well.  That's the actual phrase she uses -- "married well."  Hard as it is to believe, she actually speaks that way.  Of course, she also explains what that phrase means in terms of material possessions -- their five-bedroom house, his six-figure income, last summer's trip to Europe.  Never once in the eight years she's been married have I heard her describe her husband in terms that would make you think she values the man more than the stuff he provides.

Not that I can personally see anything to value in my brother-in-law.  He is a singularly unintelligent man.  He has no sense of humor, unless you think his constantly reminding me that he did not vote for President Bartlet is a real knee-slapper.  (On the other hand, I thought my response last time was rather clever:  "Yes, Steve, I get it.  My boss is in the White House, and your boy is on TV hawking pills for erectile dysfunction."  Well, Josh thought it was funny when I told him about it.)

Last Christmas Eve, I got home to discover that Steve and my sister had had a colossal argument.  Don't ask me what it was about; I try not to pay attention to these things.  Frances (which is short, by the way, for Francesca Caprice -- my mother points to her children's names as proof that you should make these sorts of decisions before the epidural is administered) -- well, my sister Frances is a classic passive-aggressive type.  She was sulking, while Steve tried every possible method of apology known to man.

It made me long for the sort of person who would resort to hostility, blackmail and, if all else failed, bon mots along the line of "Oh yeah?  Well, you kissed me back."  After an hour or so of Frances and Steve, I went a little passive-aggressive myself, retiring to my bedroom to unpack and do a little reading.  One hour and a half-dozen readings of a certain note accompanying The Art and Artistry of Alpine Skiing later, I emerged to discover Frances still sulking and Steve nowhere in sight.  It did cross my mind that maybe Frances was divorcing him; it would have made a really nice holiday gift for the rest of us.  However, I realized that with the lousy luck I was having that day (you may recall the earlier incident involving the mistletoe Margaret hung in Josh's office), this was unlikely.

Sure enough, Steve showed up around midnight.  He brought with him candy, flowers, expensive perfume, a cashmere sweater and a truly garish diamond necklace.  It seems he'd been driven to a last-minute shopping binge in the interest of keeping the peace.

My sister forgave him on the condition that he go back after Christmas and buy earrings to match the necklace.

Frances spent much of the following week explaining how I needed to find a man just like Steve.  I spent most of the week explaining that a Steve clone would drive me crazy.

"Well, what kind of man do you want?" she asked.

I knew exactly the kind of man I wanted, but since I didn't want to say as much -- not even to myself back then -- I simply said, "Someone who'll apologize sincerely.  Not try to buy me off."

Like I said, I have no idea what the quarrel between Steve and Frances was about.  Maybe Frances thought he'd said something unforgivable, something capable of destroying their relationship.  I can empathize with that.  But as for myself, right now I'd settle for a simple admission of guilt.  I don't expect or want flowers or candy.  I just would like to hear that he didn't mean those things he said.

Not that it matters.  Clearly, this whole marriage thing was a mistake, and we're well out of it.

It would be nice to think he didn't mean those things, however.

It would be nice to know where he is.

Hell, forget the apology.  Forget the marriage.  I just want to know that Josh is all right.

I keep thinking about the last time I saw him -- how he was shaking, how much weight he'd lost, how there was this tortured look in his eyes.

I need to know he's all right.  That's all I really need right now.

***

When I left the federal courthouse, I went straight to Stanley's.

He'd expected me, apparently, because he'd already cancelled his entire afternoon.  And believe me when I tell you I used that time and then some.

I'm pretty sure I was there for about seven hours.  While dismantling and reassembling my twisted psyche, Stanley confirmed for me that, yes, I have a spectacular case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Apparently, I have PTSD to blame for the nightmares and panic attacks, and those lovely personality quirks I've noticed lately.  Quirks like withdrawing from group situations, and, you know, being a total asshole to my wife.

I find being able to name the enemy, so to speak, is less helpful than I'd been led to believe.  My image of PTSD is a Vietnam Vet twitching in a rocking chair in the psychiatric wing of a state-run hospital, so you'll understand that it's a bit of an ego-check to realize I have an actual, nameable, treatable mental disorder.

Of course, Donna's been telling me that for years.

Donna.

I can't really talk about that yet.  About why I turned my anger on her.

Stanley tells me it's natural, it's human nature, and that the old cliché "you always hurt the ones you love" is actually quite on point.  It doesn't help; I still feel like an asshole.

I still am an asshole.

And so I am taking my cruel self away for a while.  Self-imposed exile.

Stanley thought I should stay in D.C. and see him daily.  I disagreed.  It's not that I don't see the value in that, but I can't be there right now.

Avoidance behavior?  Probably.  But I left anyway.

My favorite picture of my sister Joanie is from a family vacation when I was five and she was eight.  Our parents took us to Nantucket for a week, and we spent our entire vacation in bathing suits building sandcastles and having sand-ball fights on the beach.  I don't remember much about the vacation itself, but there's this great picture of Joanie in her frog-green bikini.  She's laughing up at the camera, and she's got her arms wrapped around me.  And I'm smiling at her in complete adulation.

I love that picture.

I haven't been to Nantucket since then, but I was bound and determined to go.  Stanley didn't really comment, but I could tell you what he's thinking:  Classic attempt to recapture past happiness by returning to an idealized geographic location, with a sprinkling of survivor guilt tossed in for good measure.  That's only partially true.  I mean, it's not like I expect to spend a lot of time building sandcastles on the beach or anything.

In fact, it's late fall, so I have to coerce the owner of a small hotel to open a room for me.  He agreed, eventually.  (Yes, I played the pity card, okay?  I was desperate.)  But the stubborn old goat refuses to turn on the heat.

I spend my nights huddled under several blankets, but I enjoy it, in a sick, twisted way that I don't want to examine too closely.  My own private form of self-flagellation.  I'm getting pretty good at it too.  I tracked down the only place on the island that serves spicy food and got my ulcer to flare up until I was puking blood into the ice-cold porcelain toilet.

Donna would kill me if she were here.

But we all know that's never going to happen, right?

Some nights I wish I didn't have such a delicate damn system so I could get nice and hammered and maybe forget for a little while.

I've only had to call Stanley twice so far.  I think that's pretty damn good.

And tonight, four days into my self-imposed isolation, I call Sam.

I can't call Donna, of course, but I can at least find out if she's okay.

He answers after only two rings.  "Hello?"

"Sam?"

My voice sounds creaky from disuse.

"Yes?"  He has no clue who I am.

I don't know what to make of that.

"It's Josh."

"Josh," Sam says, his tone warm and a little worried.  "How are you?"

"Fine," I say.

We both know I'm lying.  There is an awkward pause.

"I was just calling to check in," I say.

"Right," Sam answers.  "Things are fine here.  Donna's handling everything--"

"How is Donna?"  I can't help it.  I sound like a desperate man.  I am a desperate man.

"She's fine, Josh," Sam says.

I am not altogether convinced.  "She's not, you know, upset?"

"She's not drinking at her desk, if that's what you're asking."

"No, I mean--"  What do I mean?  Does she miss me?  Is she sleeping?  Does she still love me?  "Forget it."

"Josh, I'm sure she'd love to hear from--"

"I can't call her."

"Tell me where you're staying; I can have her call you."

"No, Sam.  Don't tell Donna where I am."

"Josh--"

"Sam, please," I say.  I can't believe how pathetic I sound.

Sam is quiet for a minute.  "Okay, Josh."

"I've got to go, Sam."

"Wait a second.  Where are you?"

I hesitate.  But, really, someone should know where to find the body in case I freeze to death in my unheated bed.  "Nantucket."

"The island?"

I roll my eyes.  "Yes, Sam.  The island."

"Oh," he says.  "Well, that sounds... fun.  You know, with the beaches."

"It's a tiny island twenty-five miles off the coast of Massachusetts, and it's the middle of October.  I'm not doing much sunbathing."

"Fair point."

"I should go," I say.

"When will you be back?"

Good question.

"Couple weeks, maybe," I answer.  God, I hope I can rejoin the world of the living in a couple weeks.

"Okay," Sam says.  "Well... be safe."

"Yeah," I answer.  "Listen, tell -- Never mind."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I say miserably.  I can't make Sam be the go-between.  Donna deserves an actual apology.

I just don't know when I'll be able to give her one.

"I've got to go, Sam."

I disconnect, crawl into my cold, cold bed, and try to sleep.  Alone.

***

The phone rings at 11 p.m.

There is only one person who calls me this late at night.

"Josh?"

I hate myself for sounding so damn excited.  Especially when it's the wrong voice on the other end of the phone.

"No, it's Sam.  But I bring tidings of Josh."

"You talked to him?"

"Just now.  He called me."

"Is he okay?"

"'Okay' may be too strong a word.  'Better than last week' would be more accurate."

"How much better?"

"Marginally.  But marginally is, you know, approaching the general neighborhood of steadily."

"Just how quickly is he approaching that neighborhood?"

"Well, you know, on the phone that's hard to tell."

That bad.

"Where is he?"

"The thing is, Donna, I got the impression he didn't want me to tell you."

"And you got that impression when?"

"When he said, 'Don't tell Donna where I am.'"

"Oh."

"On the plus side, you were the only person he mentioned by name."

"Did he say when he'd be back?"

"Another week or two.  He was avoiding specifics."

"Is he going to call you again?"

"He didn't say."

"Well, if he does, tell him -- tell him--"

"Tell him what, Donna?"

It's a good question.  What do you tell the man who said he doesn't want to hear your voice and that your marriage was a sham?  There's "go to hell," but I said that already.

"Tell him everything's fine at the office.  He can stay away as long as he wants."

"Donna, what happened with you guys?  'Cause at first it was very cute watching you and then it wasn't."

"Nothing happened, Sam."

"Well, whatever the nothing was that happened, I think he feels bad about it."

"He should."

"Yeah," Sam says, "I miss him too."

***

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Read Me

Donnatella--

I wouldn't blame you if you deleted this without reading it.  My words to you recently have been filled with selfishness, anger and cruelty.  You have every right to hate me.  I said horrible, unforgivable things to you.  Any apology I could give you would be inadequate.  But I do apologize.  I am more sorry than you'll ever know for what I said.  I regret my hasty, hate-filled words every day.

You are an amazing assistant.  You keep me on track, you keep me organized.  Hell, you mastered my job yourself while I was recovering.  You could easily be in my position, but I could never be even half the assistant you are.

As for the other, you were the most supportive, kind, giving, and loving person I could have ever hoped to be involved with.  If I ever made you feel differently, I am truly sorry.

As things stand, I believe the agreement we made that night is the only sensible course of action.  At the very least, I won't be able to hurt you anymore.

I'll be back in the office next week.

As Always,
Josh

***

Well, you see what's going on here, don't you?  It's classic Lyman strategizing:  "You're a good assistant, and I'll be back in a week."

Bastard.

Does he ever think about what he said that night?  Is he aware of the actual words he used?  Because, frankly, it's going to be years before I forget them, and it wasn't the part about whether I was a good assistant that hurt.  It was what Josh refers to as "the other" that destroyed our marriage.

Which Josh said was never a real marriage.

Bastard.

But now he's apparently had a chance to think about it, and what's worrying him?  Losing his assistant.

I know the man too well.  Ironically, you know, I was always aware that if the choice were between me or politics, politics would win.  So it doesn't surprise me, not in the least, that Josh thinks we should keep to the non-divorce divorce agreement.  No, losing a wife doesn't worry him in the least.  Losing the only person who can make sense of his schedule -- oh yes, that would terrify him.

Bastard.

I wonder if he's eating.  'Cause, you know, he lost weight during the trial.

And the nightmares -- have they stopped?  He shouldn't be alone if he's dealing with that.  I shouldn't have let him go without promising me he'd get help.

Please, God, let him be all right.

Stupid man.

I'm not falling for this.  This is not a sincere apology.  It's the Master Politician thinking he can manipulate me.

Bastard.

God, I hope he's all right.

***

I am pathetic.

I have been sitting here, staring at my laptop for the past hour.

Donna hasn't responded to my email.

Did I really expect her to?  I'm not sure.

All I know is that I'm staying in a gorgeous hotel on the small, isolated island of Nantucket, and I don't seem to be able to do anything that doesn't involve communicating with Donnatella Moss.

It's been seven days since my hasty departure, and I've spent the entire week obsessing over how to apologize to Donna.  Well, I've done other stuff, too.  I walked the beach and contemplated whether or not I should ask for her forgiveness or merely offer my apology.  I went sailing (bad idea for someone with a weak stomach) and stared unseeing at the surf while I debated the relative merits of email (instantaneous but impersonal -- not to mention monitored by the government) versus regular mail (very personal, but slow and sometimes unreliable).  I even tried a bit of hiking.  Didn't like that very much, but that could be because I kept tripping, engrossed as I was in deciding whether or not I should mention our non-divorce divorce agreement.

Was that a bing?

I stare at the computer for a moment.  I swear it just binged at me.

I close the CNN website and access my mail program.  There is new mail.

There is new mail from Donnatella.

I'm having a hard time working the tracking ball; my hands are shaking.

Finally, I get her email open:

To: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
From: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Read Me

Which day next week?

Donna

That's it?  That's all she wrote?

One sentence?

Shit.

Donna hates me.

***

I'm not sending a second email.

My reply was brief.  To the point.  Also professional.

I need to know when he'll be back.  As his assistant.

Nothing personal.

Anyway, he hasn't replied yet.

I won't do anything else until he sends a reply.

It's been ten minutes since I checked my email.  I can check again.  You know, there might be something from my sister.  Pictures of her kids.

That's all I'm expecting.  Really.  I'm not looking for anything from--

From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov

Well, you know, there might be something work-related he needs me to take care of.  I really suppose I should open it first.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Read Me

Donnatella--

Monday.

And I really am sorry about everything.

Josh

"Sorry about everything"?  What the hell does that mean?  Sorry about what he said?  Sorry we got married in the first place?

You can see why President Bartlet didn't give him a job in communications, can't you?

I should reply.  I'm sure there's something else I need to know.  As a good assistant.

To: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
From: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Read Me

Josh,

What time Monday?  Leo wants to know.

Define "everything."

Donna

What?  I'm sure Leo will want to know at some point.

***

Define everything?

I think the word is fairly self-explanatory.

And, really, what time does she think I'll be back on Monday?  Ten at night?  That is definitely an odd question.  Which makes me wonder why she's asking it.  That and the other.  The everything thing.

Let's see if I can figure this out:  On the plus side, we've got three full sentences.  Sure, they're four words or less each, but it's better than "Which day next week."  On the other hand, she spent seven words on work stuff and only two on the everything thing.

Should I reply likewise?  Should I explain that, yes, I will be in on Monday morning, so that I can begin the work week with everyone else.  I expect to be in the office before eight, as usual.  Possibly as early as six, depending on how well I sleep--

Whoa, can't go there.  "How well I sleep" implies that I'm still having nightmares.  I am still having nightmares, but there's no reason to worry Donna.

Okay, so maybe just "Monday morning."  Is that too short?  I don't want her to think I'm being short with her.

As for the everything thing... I have no idea what to answer.

Does she really not know?  Does she really think I'm not sorry for all the shit I put her through?  The woman talked me through about seventeen horrendous nightmares, put up with my attitude for weeks, and... and do I really have the right to ask for her forgiveness?

Probably not.

Okay.

I can do this.  I will just lay it all out there.  Lay my soul bare with no expectations for a response from her.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Read me

Donnatella--

Monday morning, usual time.

Everything: 1. Every particular of an aggregate or total; 2. Something extremely important; 3. Every single word I said the other night, every particular time I made you lose sleep, every thing I did that hurt you.

Josh

Shit.

I shouldn't have hit send.

***

I'm smiling.

When is the last time I smiled?  Seriously, I mean.  Not just to be polite.  Not just so people won't think I'm missing Josh.

I'm smiling.

Stupid man.

I ask him to define what he means by "everything," and this is the answer I get.

Idiot.

I'm dealing here with a grown man who thinks his SAT scores are some kind of turn-on.

Okay, he's right.  But still.

Wherever he is, he probably took a dictionary with him.

Idiot.  "Hi, I'm Josh Lyman.  I just walked out on my wife to have a nervous breakdown.  Anybody know where I can find a thesaurus?"

Silly, stupid man.

"Every particular of an aggregate or total."

And I want this man to father my children?

"Something extremely important."

Okay, that's promising.  Vague, but promising.

"Every single word I said the other night."

Oh.

This is the White House.  I am not going to cry in the White House.

"Every particular time I made you lose sleep."

Josh, you idiot. I was only losing sleep because I worried about you losing sleep.

"Every thing I did that hurt you."

I'll just go into Josh's office and close the door.  Nobody will see me cry in there.

And his computer is much nicer than mine anyway.

To: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
From: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Everything

Joshua,

"Every particular of an aggregate or total" -- You had to look that up, didn't you?

"Something extremely important" -- No, I am not bringing you coffee on Monday.  What?  You didn't think I'd read between the lines?

As for the rest of it -- Well, all right.  As long as you understand what a jerk you were, extenuating circumstances not withstanding.

Are you sleeping all right?

Donna

Why did I hit send?

***

I am grinning like a complete idiot.  That's -- hang on -- 64 words!  That's an increase of 611 percent!  (Hey, my math SAT score was almost as high as my verbal.)

Okay, so what does that mean?

Conclusion number one:  Donna might be experiencing feelings of non-hate towards me.

Conclusion number two:  Donna is worried about me.

I am surprised by how good that feels.  Just knowing she still cares about me.

Some of the burning guilt inside of me eases.  Slightly.

Which is nice, but the purpose of this is not to make me feel better; I'm apologizing to Donna because I truly regret hurting her.  I want her to feel better.  I don't ever want to hurt her again.  I don't want to cause her even a small irritation.

Yeah, I know -- not likely to happen.  Still.  I will endeavor to be humble, kind and solicitous.

So what am I supposed to say to her?

I am fighting the urge to pick up the phone and call her.  While I could distinguish a lot more if I could just hear her tone of voice, I know I'm not ready to hear her tell me the truth.

It's stupid, I know.  I have ruined this marriage (which, I should point out, was real and equal and healing), but the thought of hearing anger or hurt or, worse, disinterest in Donna's voice when she confirms that fact... I'm not ready for that.

I need to call Stanley.

These mood swings are getting ridiculous.

No, I'm not calling Stanley.  Not yet.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Everything

Donnatella--

No, I did not have to look that up.  760 verbal, remember?

Second, I am not expecting coffee.  I never expect coffee.  Coffee is an unexpected -- but always appreciated -- gift.

Third, I freely admit I was a jerk.  Am a jerk.  Will probably always be a jerk.  Circumstances are no excuse for saying things like the things I said.  Especially to someone who is what you were to me.

Fourth, aside from the icy sheets and the not-very-frequent nightmares, I'm sleeping like a baby.

Josh

I've got to call Stanley.

***

I'm worried about him.  Sort of.

He must be feeling better.  Bragging about his SATs and all again.

On the other hand, he's still having nightmares.  "Not-so-very-frequent" -- that's what he said all along.  Big fat liar.

And what does he mean by "what you were to me"?  What I was to him?  Am I something different to him now?

Damn email.

Damn White House computers.  We're probably already saying too much considering that we're communicating via the damn White House computers.  But it's all way too vague.  I want answers.

I should make Sam tell me where he is.  I could go all teary on Sam, and he'd break in five minutes.  He's always been the weak link.

I will not give Josh Lyman the satisfaction of knowing I care that much.

I won't even answer his ridiculously ambiguous email.

He's having nightmares.

Oh shit.

To: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
From: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Everything

Joshua,

First, I want to see these alleged SAT scores, because I personally have always doubted your veracity on that particular subject.

Second, yes, coffee is a nice gift.  Someone promising -- nay, vowing -- that you would never have to bring him coffee is even nicer.  In other words, don't hold your breath.  It's just not going to happen.

I am assuming that last line in your third point refers to our recent agreement.  Because I think we need to discuss the details of that agreement when you return.

What do you mean by "icy"?  (No, Josh, I am not asking you to look up the word in Webster's.)  Do they not have blankets and heating systems where you are?

Have you been sitting in your apartment this whole time and you forgot to pay the bills and now they've turned off your electricity?  Do I have to remind you of everything, Joshua?

Exactly how often is "not very frequent"?

And "sleeping like a baby" is a misleading phrase . Babies wake up frequently during the night.  Babies drool.  Neither image is pleasing.

Donnatella

He'll get it right?  The part about discussing the non-divorce agreement?

I mean, I even signed it "Donnatella."

No, he can't possibly misinterpret that.

***

So I called Stanley.  Tried to explain the thing with Donna.  Turns out, I was far too distracted by the fact that she might be writing me back right then and I would be late receiving it because I was on the phone instead of online.  I think Stanley is about ready to fly up here and drag me into his office.  Especially after I hung up on him.

I make my therapist think I'm even nuttier than I actually am, and this is my reward?

I don't even know where to start.

Is she deliberately tormenting me?  Does she think I need more stress right now?

No, that's not fair.  But -- she wants to discuss the details of our non-divorce divorce?  Does that mean she wants to, you know... enforce them or something?  Strengthen them?  Add a non-restraining order restraining order?

What am I supposed to say to that?

I should never have emailed her in the first place.  I should have left well enough alone.  Just waited until I got back to apologize to her.

But then again, she did mention vows.  "Vowing," to be precise.  She's got to be referring to my wedding vows, right?  (She even signed the email "Donnatella;" that's got to be a good sign.)  But then she ends the paragraph with "It's just not going to happen."  Is that a hint?  Am I overanalyzing?

God, I wish she were here talking to me.  For many reasons, actually, only one of which is that I'd be able to discern the hidden meaning behind her strangely-strung-together words.  Plus maybe she'd be able to talk me out of this funk.  And, you know, hold me at night.

Hey, I can fantasize, right?

I should really just drop this whole email conversation thing right now.  It's clearly just muddying the waters.  Clouding the issues.  And all those other water-related clichés.

But Donna might misinterpret that as emotional abandonment or something.  Which would hurt her.  Which I don't want.  Which means I have to try to answer her questions.  Somehow.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: Everything

Donnatella--

Un, I received a combined score of 1450 on my SATs:  760 verbal, 690 math.  I'm pretty sure the results are still magneted to my mother's refrigerator, so you'll have to pursue that with her if you'd like a hard copy.  (Also, please note my exhibited proficiency in the french numerical system.)

Deux, I am no longer allowed to drink coffee, which is convenient actually, since I am still honoring my vow to never expect or ask you to bring me coffee.

Trois, which details are in need of discussion?  Because I thought we were pretty clear the other night.

Quatre, I think the meaning of "icy" is fairly obvious.  Cold.  Like ice.  (And, no, I'm not looking it up; just supplying some helpful synonyms.)  Yes, they have heating systems, but they are currently not engaged.  Which means the sheets are very cold when I climb into bed.  (I should point out that they have supplied me with several blankets, so I warm up eventually.)  And now that you mention it, I'm sure my bills are sitting in my mailbox.  Didn't really plan this out very well before I left.

Cinq, although I don't believe I have suddenly become a night-drooler, it is possible that I've been waking up during the night.  But these bouts of wakefulness are due to the ulcer, not the nightmares.

Joshua

It occurs to me, now that I've hit send, that I'm pretty sure Donna didn't know about the ulcer.

Shit.

***

What the hell?

I mean -- I mean -- I mean -- What the hell?

I have no idea what to make of this.  I mean, "I thought we were pretty clear the other night."  Yeah, well, I thought you were a complete bastard the other night, Joshua, and I thought we'd just gotten beyond it.  I thought we were not speaking about that again.

If he was "pretty clear the other night," why did he apologize for what he said then?

What ulcer?

Just when you think you can forgive him, you remember what a complete bastard he can be.

He doesn't want a wife; he wants an assistant.  I was right to begin with.

But then again: "since I am still honoring my vow."  That could have a double meaning, couldn't it?

What ulcer?

To: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
From: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
Subject: WHAT ULCER?

Josh,

What ulcer?  And is this why you are no longer allowed to drink coffee?  When did this happen?

As for which details are in need of discussion, there *were* no details.  There was just the agreement.  For the agreement to work, we will have to implement certain details.  None of which can be discussed in the present forum.  I assure you, however, that if you are so intent on having your precious *agreement,* I will certainly not stand in your way.

I am not surprised that you failed to plan anything before you left, considering that you did not pause long enough to say goodbye to your own *assistant.*

Are ulcers painful?  Do you have medicine?  Are you taking it?

Do you want me to stop by your place and pick up the mail?

By the way, I minored in French and have read Madame Bovary in the original. So much for your ability to count to five in French.

Donna

***

Oh, this is not good.

If email could convey decibel levels, I'm pretty sure Donna's email would contain shouting.  Quite a bit of it.

This is so very Not Good.

I need to call Stanley.

No.  I will handle this myself.

It occurs to me that I seem to have made a big mess of this so far by handling it myself.  But it's my bed, yadda, yadda, and so I'll shoulder the consequences.

I am so flustered I'm mixing my metaphors.  This is probably not the best state in which to attempt a conciliatory email, but I have to respond before she leaves for the day.

More pressure.  I am so glad I'm having such a relaxing time.  Really.  It's just sweeping me right along the healing path towards total sanity.

Okay.

Let me just reread this one more time.  I'm cringing again.  I can hear her in my head, yelling these things at me.  (Does that count as hearing voices?  Maybe it's a good thing Stanley's on speed dial.)

Wait a second -- she says that she won't stand in my way if I'm so intent on the agreement.  Does that mean -- Could she really not want to be non-divorced from me?

No.  I refuse to do this.  I will not get my hopes up about this.  I don't deserve Donna, even if she, by some stroke of luck, still had some non-hateful feelings towards me.  I can't subject her to me.  Especially when I'm holding on to sanity with my fingernails.

Plus, I can't help but note that we're back to "Josh" and "Donna."  That's got to mean something.

So I will pacify her.  I will make sure she knows I am truly sorry, but I will not ask for anything in return.  I will also reinforce the idea that our agreement is the only way to go.  Nicely.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: Re: WHAT ULCER?

Donnatella--

Did I forget to mention that?  I have an ulcer.  A bleeding ulcer.  In my own defense, I didn't know of its existence until a few days ago.  I thought the pain was still from my surgery.  I am not allowed to eat spicy foods or caffeinated, acidic drinks.  Hence, no more coffee for me.

I agree that the details can't be hammered out in our current relative locations (or through our present mode of communication).  I also would like to reiterate that I don't want to, in any way, cause you pain.  As my *assistant,* I'm sure you'll be on the receiving end of my tantrums far too often.  I can't think about what would happen with the other thing.  Although my vow involved coffee, I think the unspoken subtext was that I would try not to ever hurt you with my words or actions.  Please understand that this is the only way I can make sure I no longer subject you to my fractured psyche the way I did for the past few months.

I am sorry I didn't say goodbye, Donna.  I really am.  I don't remember leaving the hearing.  My memories of that day are unclear, but I can tell you I spent a good portion of the afternoon with a therapist.

Oh, and don't bother with the mail -- that's too much trouble.

Josh

P.S.  The only other French I remember is "Je t'aime."

***

Oh.

I think he just said he still loves me.

Let me read that again.

Je t'aime.

Yeah, that's what I thought it said.

Oh.

Stupid self-sacrificing idiot.

And I'm supposed to let him walk away after that?

I don't think I can do that.  I really don't think it's possible for me to do that.

To: d.moss@whitehouse.gov
From: j.lyman@whitehouse.gov
Subject: The Agreement

Joshua,

You do not have a fractured psyche.  I refuse to believe that.  What you've been through would have destroyed most people.  It has not destroyed you.

Besides, you know perfectly well that you are much too egotistical to respond the way an ordinary person would, so obviously you do not have a fractured psyche.

As for the agreement, we'll discuss that when you get back.  However, I've already been putting up with you and your tantrums, as your assistant, for three years.  The other thing has its own compensations.  Also its own vows, the subtext of which involved that whole supportive issue you're so fond of raising.

You have an excellent recollection of French.  For someone who didn't minor in it.

And you do not have a fractured psyche.

Donnatella

***

I think I may have that framed.  Can you get email framed?  Maybe I'll just use it as a screensaver or something.  That's not at all obsessive, is it?

My kingdom for a printer; my eyes are burning from staring at this laptop all day, but I keep rereading this last email from Donna.  It sounds to me like she might not hate me.  I can deal with non-hate.  Non-hate is good.

Donnatella.  She's back to calling herself Donnatella.  And I am Joshua again.  I really used to hate my full name; Donna has turned it into a verbal caress.

I check my watch -- she's probably gone for the day.  No use in responding to this now.  I will savor this email tonight and reply in the morning.

You know, it's a lot easier to believe I can actually get past this when I have someone like Donna -- someone as strong and caring and loving and amazing as my Donnatella -- telling me I can.

I know I shouldn't be dependent upon her belief in me, but I've disappointed myself so badly in the past month that I don't have a whole lot of faith in myself left.  My faith in Donna, however, is at an all-time high.

Donna, who handled this whole situation with poise and grace and dignity and who showed me nothing but love and acceptance -- and pluck, especially when I turned nasty.  I know how cruel I can be; and while I know I hurt Donna, I also know she's strong enough to stand up to me and call me on my atrocious behavior.  That's one of my favorite things about her, actually -- she knows when to kick my ass.

I still have this burning anger in my gut that I'm trying to exorcise.  (Hence the frequent phone calls to Stanley.  My cellphone bill is going to be quite scary.)  Anger and hatred over what was done to me, what was done to the people I love, and just... the futility of it all.  I'm still learning how to process those feelings so that they don't tear me up inside.

And then there's this ache.  It's in my bones.  It gets bad at night, when I'm lying in bed shivering, and my entire body is aching for Donna.

I miss her so much it hurts.  It hurts more than the ulcer, to be honest.

As much as I yearn for her, my love for her is strong enough to keep me from reaching out to her.  I can't use her as a crutch.  I can't sacrifice her psyche to heal mine.  Not even if I hadn't already hurt her.

Sometimes, that's harder to understand than all the hatred -- how I could have taken something so pure and sweet and ruined it.  Stanley had to talk me out of the Everything I Touch Turns To Shit theory, although I was partial to it for several days.

Now, I think I understand that this thing with Donna was a matter of timing.  We were happy for a while.  I think we were very happy.  I think, if three disturbed, hate-filled and violent young men hadn't opened fire on a crowd, we might still be happy.

But it happened.  And I lost it.  And this thing, this amazing thing with Donna, was a casualty of my war with myself.  I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that.  But I will try.

I think if I can do that, I can make it back to when life was fun and enjoyable.  When I could laugh instead of cry.  When I could smile instead of frown.

When I felt love instead of hate.

I am not leaving this island until I feel something besides numbness or pain.

*

I cannot believe I overslept.

I am an idiot.

It took me hours to get home last night.  First, I had to convince myself that I was, in fact, ready to rejoin the world of the living.  This took a lot of deep breathing and two phone calls to Stanley.  To be quite honest, it was scary to walk into an airport full of people.  I felt exposed and raw and vulnerable, like they could all see the emotional scarring left over from the shooting and the trial and the death of my marriage.

I managed to fall asleep on the plane, and then promptly had a nightmare.  Luckily, I woke myself before I started actually screaming.  But it left me shaking and sweating and very unhappy.

I took a cab home from the airport, then had to locate the keys I'd tossed into my suitcase three weeks earlier.  My apartment was a mess, but I just dropped my suitcase on the floor next to the bed and climbed in.  Didn't even take off my shoes.

Another nightmare.

I couldn't fall back asleep, so I laid in bed, obsessing over what to say to Donna today.  It is imperative that I say the exact right thing to her.  Something brilliant.  Something sweet.  Something that will convince her I'm not the asshole I was three weeks ago.  Something--

I'm doing it again, and I have no time.  It's almost 8 and I'm not even in the shower yet.

I am such an idiot.

Can you believe this -- I actually pondered which suit I should wear today.  For a long time.  I know Donna likes this dark blue on me, so of course, I spill coffee on my tie.  By the time I locate another tie -- it's amazing how disorganized my closet is -- Donna's favorite suit is rumpled.

Just call me idiot-boy.

The drive to the White House doesn't go much better, although I consider it a success since I don't actually hit anyone in my distracted state.  I arrive around nine, which is about three hours later than I would on any normal day.

I think people are looking at me curiously as I reach the bullpen, but to be honest, I am interested in only one person.

Donnatella Moss is sitting at her desk, calmly working.  How can she be calm?

I start walking towards my office, all of my energy focused on Donna, when Sam grabs my arm.

"Josh!  Welcome back."

"Thanks," I glance at him.  He is smiling and quite happy to see me.  Donna doesn't appear to notice my presence at all.

"How are you feeling?"

Donna is still sitting there, just working.

"Huh?"  I turn back to Sam.

"I asked how you were feeling," Sam repeats, looking concerned.

"I'm fine, Sam," I say.

"That's what you said three weeks ago."

I drop his gaze for a second.  "I was lying three weeks ago."

"But now?"

"I really am fine," I say.  "Or at least halfway to fine."

Sam nods his acceptance.  "Okay."

"I'm going to--"  I indicate my office (and the woman sitting outside of it) with a tilt of my head.

"Right," Sam says.  "Welcome back."

"Thanks."

Okay.  I can do this.  Donnatella Moss prepare to be charmed.  Prepare to forgive me my trespasses when you hear the humble and heartfelt words of apology flowing from my lips.

I am almost there.

Donna is still engrossed in her work.  She appears not to have noticed my existence.

How can she not know I'm here?

I pause at her side, staring at her.  Drinking in everything about her.  "Morning, Donna."

Not exactly a brilliant opener, but still.  I expect she'll look at me with an expression of non-hate.  Maybe even smile.  If I'm a truly lucky man, she might even hug me.

"Morning, Josh," she answers.

She doesn't even look at me.

I am stunned.

I must have misinterpreted her emails -- they weren't full of non-hate.  They were full of disinterest.  Not only does she not love me anymore, she doesn't care that I was an asshole, because she doesn't care about me.

I am an idiot.

I beat a hasty retreat to my office to brood.

***

There he is.

Josh.

My non-ex-husband.

Joshua.

I'm sitting at his desk -- Did I mention that Curtis did an excellent job repairing Josh's chair? -- and I'm looking at the window.  Yes, I'm waiting to get a glimpse of him.

I'm hopeless.

I am completely without hope.

And here he is.  He's still too thin.  Whatever he's been doing for the past three weeks, he hasn't been eating.  Not enough.

Still, he looks better.  I do believe I see a hint of a swagger.

Thank you, God.

He's rumpled already.  He's deliciously rumpled.

I'd better get back to my desk.

It's just another day.  Nothing special.

Josh is back.

He's not mine anymore, but he's back.

This is what I can do for Josh today:  I can act as though it is just an ordinary day.  I can act as though it has not been three weeks since I've seen him.  I will not play into his silly notion of his fractured psyche and just be normal.  It's just another day.

I'm going through the morning email.  All right, I'm staring at the computer screen, but I look as though I'm reading the email.  I do not look as though I am waiting for a man who no longer wants to be married to me.  I can treat him as though we're just boss and assistant.

He's here.  He just stepped into the room.  I have not looked up from my computer screen, yet I know he is here.  I'm telling you, the energy in the room just changes when he walks in.

Josh.

I am not going to smile.  I am not going to act as though this is my husband and I have not seen in him in three weeks.

Sam's there.  Sam says something to him, and Josh talks to him for a minute.

Sam, go away.  Go away now.

I am not excited about seeing him.  I am not looking up from this computer screen.

Josh.

He's walking toward me.  He's making a straight line for me.

"Morning, Donna."

"Morning, Josh."  I am not looking up at him.

He pauses for a second, but he doesn't say anything.

Once he passes me, I turn around and watch him.

Welcome back, Joshua.  God, I've missed you.

***

Well, that was... stilted.

I think she hates me.  I really do.

Actually, I would prefer hate to complete and utter disinterest.  She didn't even look at me!

I've got to get out of here.

No.  I can't do that.  I've hibernated long enough.  I feel... well, if not ready to face the world, at least ready to stop sequestering myself in a freezing cold hotel on some god-forsaken island.

I love my job.  I really do.  So I'm staying.  I'll do my job to the best of my abilities, and this thing with Donna will just have to sort itself out.

I am going to check my messages and clear off some of this stuff on my desk.  Then I'll take an early lunch -- probably with Sam -- and come back here.  I'll work till six tonight, then head home.  If Donna and I have another conversation today, that'll be fine.  If not, that's fine too.

Really.  I am not going to obsess over this.

Okay.  I'm staring at a memo from someone about something that's probably quite important, and I'm obsessing over this.

Should I apologize again?

I need to clear my head.

Inspiration strikes, and I drop the memo back onto the stack.  I'm going for a brisk walk.

I emerge from my office, and Donna finally looks directly at me.  She's got her surprised face on.

"Josh?" she asks.  "Where are you going?"

She's speaking to me.  This is definitely progress.

"For coffee."

Donna looks confused.  "Coffee?  I thought you couldn't--"

"I'll get decaf," I say, walking past her desk.

"Josh," she jumps up and follows me.  "I'm not sure you should even drink decaf with--"

"Donna."  I glance over at her.  God, this feels great.  The talking to Donna part, not the subject matter.  "I'd prefer if people didn't know about the thing."

"The ulcer?"

"Yes," I say.  "That."

"Why?"  She is honestly confused.

I stop walking and take a step closer to her.  "Donna, they're already looking at me like I'm cracking up."  I can't meet her eyes.  "With good reason.  But I'm back now, and I'm better.  And I'd prefer it if they didn't have further proof that I'm psychologically damaged."

I chance a look at her, and I am shocked.  She is blinking back tears.  What did I say wrong?

"Okay," she says.  She gives me a small smile and makes a shooing gesture with her hands.  "Why don't you get some juice instead?"

I watch her for a second, then return her smile.  "Yes, Donna."  I head for the door.

"Josh," Donna calls after me.

I turn back.  "Yeah?"

"You're not," she says.

I'm puzzled.  "I'm not what?"

She gives me that amazing smile, the one that is absolutely dazzling.  "Cracking up."

I can't help it.  I am grinning back at her.  For the first time in months, I think she may be right.

"No," I say.  I sound somewhat shocked.  "I'm not."

***

He smiled.

Well, okay, it was more a grin than a smile.  A hint of a grin.

I made him grin.

I told him he wasn't cracking up, and he believed me.

In his own twisted way, Josh needs me.

I like being needed.

Being needed by Josh.

Not that we're resolving anything here.  The whole non-divorce thing remains unaddressed.

Fine.  We'll get to it when Josh is ready to discuss it.

I'm not going anywhere.

He's gone for forty-five minutes, during which I look up websites on living with ulcers and think warm and fuzzy thoughts about my non-ex-husband.

Then he walks back in, and I swear I'll kill him.

He is holding a Starbucks cup.

I head straight for him.

He grins when he catches sight of me.  "I knew this would get your attention."

I snatch the cup right out of his hand.  I am not letting him get away with this.

"You shouldn't even--"

"I didn't.  It's Iced Espresso Latté."

"That's still--"  Something does not quite make sense.  "Josh, you hate Iced Espresso Latté."

"I know."

"I, on the other hand, adore Iced Espresso Latté."

"I know that too."

"Josh, you brought me coffee!"

"Yeah, well, I considered candy and flowers, but that's not really us, is it?"

"No," I say.  "This is us."

He grins, and we both know I'm not talking about the coffee.

"We should talk about, you know, the other thing," he says after a minute.  "In my office."

I nod, and we walk into his office and shut the door.  The door that doesn't lock.  Dammit.

"So," he says, "about the agreement."

I'm this close.  My brain is forming the words "forget the damn agreement."  But he talks before I can say anything.

"I think," he says, "that the agreement was a good idea."

No, it wasn't!

"The non-divorce divorce agreement?" I hear myself asking.  Because maybe he's talking about something else, and I'm misunderstanding.

"Yeah, that agreement," he says.

Okay, I'm just going to say it.  I'm going to say it because, you know, there's no point spending the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I'd just said it.

"I think it's a terrible idea.  I think it was a mistake.  I think we should just forget everything that happened that night and go back to being married."

"I don't think that's wise," he says.  "I've thought about this a lot, and that's what I've decided."

"You don't get to do that, Josh.  You don't get to decide that by yourself.  It's my future too."

"Everything I said that night--"

"Could we please forget that night and just move on?"

"No," he says.  "We can't.  It happened.  And I know I was a bastard and I said--"

"I remember what you said.  Every word of it.  I do not need a reminder."

"None of it was true."

"I know that too.  There were extenuating circumstances."

"That's no excuse," he says.  "I saw how much I was hurting you, and I just went on.  I went on because I knew it was hurting you, and I was in so much pain that I wanted to hurt someone.  And it's easier for me to hurt you than to hurt anyone else because I know--"  He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, "I know how much you love me."

"Well, I know how much you love me.  So there."

"Yes, I do.  Which is why I can't stay married to you."

"Right.  'Cause our being in love would be a terrible basis for a marriage.  Whatever were we thinking?"

"Donna," he says, "I did say one thing that night that wasn't a lie.  I can't be married right now.  I just can't."

"If you're starting in on the fractured psyche stuff again, I'm still not buying that."

"No," he says.  "You're right.  I'm not cracking up, and I don't have a fractured psyche.  But I'm not what you'd call healthy yet either."

"We may not have had traditional vows, but I think that 'in sickness and in health' may still apply."

"Donna," he asks, "could we survive another night like that?"

It's a fair question.  And we both know the answer.

"No," I admit.  "We couldn't.  But it won't happen again."

"I don't know that," he says.  "I don't know that yet.  And I can't take a chance on ruining this, you know?"

"So that's it?" I ask.  "You're absolutely sticking to the non-divorce?"

"I think it's best for now.  Maybe later."

"How much later?"

"I have no idea."

"Because I have to point out here, Josh, that I am a woman in my sexual prime."

"I've noticed."  He's grinning again.

"With a ticking biological clock too.  You can't expect me to just sit out there and wait on you forever."

"No," he says.  "I know I can't."  He sounds so sad I just want to hug him.  Except, of course, for the fact that he doesn't want me to.

"Well then," I say, "you can just consider it an incentive.  To get better and all."

"It's a very powerful incentive at that," he replies.

I will be damned if I'm leaving this office without at least something to, you know, tide me over.  I put down my Iced Espresso Latté,  I put my arms around Josh, and I kiss him.

It's hardly enough.  But there were several weeks there where I thought I'd never kiss Josh again, so I'm not going to quibble.  For the moment.

And besides, suddenly Josh starts kissing me back.  Seriously kissing.  He does not kiss like a man who wants any kind of divorce, non or otherwise.

I pick up my latté again.  "Well," I say, "just take all that into consideration."  And I walk back out the door.

As I leave, I hear Josh whisper something under his breath.  I swear it sounds like "Je t'aime, Donnatella."

Je t'aime, Joshua.

THE END

10.31.00