So Donna and I brokered a deal while standing in the line at Hertz:  I get to listen to NPR until such time as my acerbic comments reached critical mass.  At which point, Donna is free to put in a CD by an artist that would, in her words, "have you driving with your head stuck out the window in the hopes that the sound of rushing wind would drown out your state-of-the-art stereo system."

We should have known that our ability to debate topics as diverse as the ramifications of the Republican bill to halt aid to foreign family planning facilities that perform, advocate, or even mention abortion, to the necessity of using a blinker even if no one else is on the road to see it would make the radio versus CD deal pointless.

Hey, we find it relaxing.

In other words, I didn't catch much of NPR, and Donna's secret weapon remained untested.

We made good time, pulling off the highway just before ten a.m.  Which is when Donna started to fidget.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Donna, you're squirming like a two-year old."

Donna gives me a withering glare.  "And there go your chances for sex tonight."

I gape at her.  "You thought we were going to have sex in my mother's house?"

"Josh," Donna laughs.  "You are ridiculous.  Does your mother think you're a virgin?"

"I don't know."

She gives me her skeptical face.  "You're pushing forty."

"I'm thirty-seven," I snap back, offended.

Donna pats my thigh in a thoroughly condescending manner.

"Pushing forty," I mutter.

Silence reigns until I signal -- I was on the pro-blinker side of that debate -- and turn onto Lawrence Avenue.  Donna stares at the large houses with their manicured lawns and fleets of SUVs.

She glances over at me.  "Josh, I yelled at your mother," she says, her tone hushed.

"You were upset."

"So was she," Donna points out miserably.  "And me yelling at her probably didn't help."

"Your fiancé was in surgery," I counter, attempting to lighten the mood."

"My boss," she corrects darkly.  "And her son was in surgery, Josh."

"Donna," I sigh.  "Really, she likes you.  She asks after you.  Hell, she baked you cookies for your birthday; she didn't do that for my birthday."

Donna cracks a small smile.  "That was awfully sweet."

I pull into the driveway.  My mother lives in a dark blue three-bedroom house nestled behind a grove of trees.  Her aging Toyota Camry is parked outside the garage, and I pull the rental behind it and cut the engine.

"Look," I say, turning to Donna.  "I told her we were both coming up here, and she got that tone--"

Donna looks alarmed.  "That tone?"

"Not that tone," I reassure her.  "The approving one.  The 'what the hell took you so long?' tone.  Trust me; she knows why we're here."  The tension in Donna's body eases slightly and I can't resist.  I lean over, one hand tangling in her blond locks, and kiss her softly.  "Okay?"

She grins, then gives a carefully half-hearted shrug.  "Yeah, that was okay."

I roll my eyes and point to front door.  "I would offer to try again, but I work best without an audience."

Donna whips her head around and stares at the house.  My mother, a petite woman with straight, chin length salt-and-pepper (although now mostly salt) hair and kind brown eyes, is leaning against the open door, smiling at us.

"Oh," Donna says, pushing at my hand.  "Get away from me."

Laughing, I open my door, climb out, and stretch.  "Hey, Mom."

My mother throws up her hands in mock irritation.  "Joshua, what have I told you about kissing girls in cars?"

I round the hood of the rental and join Donna, one hand at the small of her back as we walk up the front steps.  Then I drop my backpack on the porch and engulf my mother in a hug.  It's surprising how comforting a hug from your mother can be, even when you're pushing forty.

Grinning, I whisper to her in a conspiratorial tone.  "If memory serves, you told me you would kick my ass if I got anyone pregnant."

"Joshua," she laughs, pulling back and holding my face between her hands.  "You," she says, studying me, "have always been a handful."

"Now you tell me," Donna interjects good-naturedly.

My mom pulls me down and presses a kiss to my forehead, then turns to Donna with a welcoming smile.  "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," she says, taking Donna's hands.  "He's just like his father."

I have to blink back sudden tears as the two most important women in my life exchange a hug.  It's like something inside me that's been rattling around all these years finally snaps into place.

Donna, who has a good six or seven inches on my mother, smiles down at her.  "I wish I'd had the honor of meeting your husband, Mrs. Lyman.  Josh speaks so highly of you both."

"Please, Donna," my mother says, leading us inside.  "Call me Adira."

***

Every time I come home, I get nostalgic.  I'm sure that isn't unique, but it can be staggering.  Since I was nine, home has been a place of both safety and danger.  It was my home, after all, that took Joanie away from us.

This, of course, isn't that house; we lived in Greenwich then.  But this Westport home is where my father grew sick, and where I came to sit Shiva for him.

Don't get me wrong, this place has many, many good memories.  And most importantly, this is where my mother lives.  I adore Adira Lyman; I really do.  It's not that she's a saint (she curses like a sailor) or a perfect person (I inherited my temper from her), but she's got an amazing capacity to love.

And right now, in this kitchen where she used to make me grilled cheese sandwiches late at night when the nightmares woke me, my mother is welcoming Donna into Adira Lyman's family circle.

For her part, Donna looks a bit overwhelmed.  Her own family, I should note with some disapproval, has yet to visit her in D.C. even though she dutifully flies to Wisconsin every Christmas.  They seem to be more... reserved, like their love for her is affected by whether or not they agree with how she's living her life.  I can't help but worry about how they'll react to my impromptu decision.

Well, our impromptu decision.  Because obviously Donna has agreed to marry me.  For reasons that completely escape me.

God.  She's going to marry me.

"Joshua," Mom asks with a knowing look, "why are you grinning like a yutz?"

I glance over at Donna.  "Mike Piazza called me 'dude.'"

My mother and Donna exchange exasperated looks.

"I've never understood his fascination with the Mets," my mother says.  "This is a Red Sox family."

Donna shrugs.  "Wisconsin was more of a football place."

"Nothing wrong with football," I offer.

The women look singularly unimpressed.  My mother leans in to Donna.  "So did my son use his political clout to meet the pizza man?"

"Piazza," I correct, but they are ignoring me.

"No," Donna answers with a look I am beginning to fear.  "He made me do it."

"Donna!" I protest.

My mother tsks.  "Joshua, you give your beloved the scutwork?"

Donna blushes, which brings to mind other times I've seen her alabaster skin flushed.  It's all I can do to answer distractedly, "That's her job."

"I'm sure the American taxpayers would disagree," Donna notes dryly.

Mom nods appreciatively, then looks over at me.  "So let me get this straight:  You can use this political power to get in good with overpaid athletes, but not to push through badly-needed legislation that would help protect victims of domestic violence and rape?"

"Mom," I protest, mortified.  "I did all I could."

Donna is staring at my mother in awe.  "VAWA3?"

"Yes," she answers.  "I volunteer at a shelter, so I took a rather keen interest."

That's another thing about my mother -- she's incredibly modest.  I shake my head at her.  "She works 40-50 hour weeks," I tell Donna.  "For free."

My mother shrugs it off.  "I don't need the money, and it's something I believe in."

"She marched on Springfield with representatives from NOW, the Feminist Majority, RAINN, and other women's groups to protest overturning a hard-won state law protecting shelters."

I can tell Donna is impressed; she's staring, wide-eyed, at the 71-year-old, five-foot-one, relatively soft-spoken woman sitting at the table with us.

Then Donna looks over at me with a disapproving crinkle between her eyebrows.  "Which part of VAWA3."

I groan, knowing I'll never hear the end of this.  "Mom wanted me to get a provision making it a federal crime to reveal the location of domestic violence shelters."

"You'd be horrified, Donna," my mother breaks in.  "There are similar laws in some states, but not in others.  Plus so many people don't really believe domestic violence is a legal problem -- they still see it as private."  She pauses, shaking her head in frustration.  "Some people, if they learn where a shelter is, they don't think twice about mentioning it.  A woman and her seven year old daughter were killed on the front steps of a shelter in upstate New York.  The facilitators had to evacuate all the other residents of the shelter, and abandon it.  It took them almost four months to find another place to start a replacement shelter.  And the murderer got the information from a friend of a friend who worked for the post office."

"That's awful," Donna says, glancing over at me.  "We dropped that provision, didn't we?"

"Leo did," I correct, "over my strong objections.  And Mom already gave him a talking to.  But there was no way we were going to get any Republicans to jump the fence with that in there."

Donna looks back over at my mother.  "You yelled at Leo McGarry?"

My mother grins.  "Leo's a pussycat.  Plus I introduced him to Jenny; he owes me a great many favors."  She turns to me, changing the subject.  "So why'd you come all the way up here for sixteen hours?  And let me say again how happy I am to get up at three in the morning to see you off," she adds sarcastically.

Typical; she hates to have any attention on her remarkable courage, so she redirects the conversation.  I always told Dad she'd have been a better litigator than him.

"Well," I say, reaching for Donna's hand.  "Donna and I are together."

My mother rolls her eyes.  "Surprise, surprise," she says drolly.

"Due to certain..."  I look to Donna for help.

"Public relations issues," she supplies, "we're keeping this a secret until the summer."

"The summer?" I repeat, panicked.  "I thought we said May?"

"Josh," Donna argues, "I can't very well quit May 1st and marry you the next week."

My mother lets out a gasp and Donna clamps a hand over her mouth.  I just grin, because really -- when has anything gone as planned for Donna and me?

"Marry him?" Mom repeats, beaming at her future daughter-in-law.  "You're marrying the big lug?"

"Mom," I protest.

Donna nods.  "That's the plan."  The silly smile on her face betrays the cool tone she's using.

My mother gives me a sidelong look.  "Let me guess -- he didn't ask so much as just announce it?"

Donna laughs.  "Yes, but it was really quite sweet."

With a bittersweet smile, my mother nods her understanding.  "Noah, he did the same thing.  He was leaving for law school in New York -- we were both from Boston originally -- and he told me he'd be back for the wedding."

I swallow hard, but I can't seem to comment.  Besides which, there seems to be some sort of female bonding going on.

My mother leans over and hugs Donna again.  "Welcome to the family, dear."

***

It's been a long time since I've had that nightmare.  The dreams about fire, about Joanie, they've lately been replaced by gunfire and skinheads.  I guess it's something about being at home that triggers it tonight.

All three of us retired early -- my mother to her room, Donna to the guest room, and me to my old room.  Only it's 12:37 in the morning, I have to be up in two hours and thirteen minutes to catch the first shuttle to D.C., and I'm having trouble sleeping.

Habit takes over and I wander down to the kitchen.  I zero in on the refrigerator and rummage inside, looking for comfort food, I guess.

I don't hear her coming, so I nearly jump through the roof when my mother lays a hand on my arm.

"Decide what you want before you open the fridge," she admonishes.  "Don't stand there and let all the cold out."

I smile at the familiar tone and close the door obediently.  "Sorry.  Can't sleep?"

"I heard you," she answers simply.  "I'm not used to having people in the house, so it woke me."

I nod.  "You should get a dog."

"You should visit more often," she counters.  "Nightmare?"

I look away.  "Yeah."

"Jonika?" she asks softly.  Even 28 years later, it's hard for her to talk about Joanie.

"Yes," I whisper.  I know -- I really do -- that my mother doesn't blame me for Joanie's death.  I know it in my head, but there's this part of me that has never been able to forgive myself for surviving.  What if I'd gone back inside?  What if I'd shouted louder?  What if I'd thought to call 911 before I fled the house?

Joanie's death is not easy to live with.

Mom gives me an understanding look, then walks over the refrigerator.  "Grilled cheese?"

I am laughing, suddenly.  "Mom, it's almost one in the morning."

"So," she shrugs.  "Do you want a grilled cheese or not?"

"Yes," I admit, still grinning.  "No one makes them as good as you do."

"Flatterer," she rolls her eyes.  And then she makes us both grilled cheese sandwiches.  "You're happy," she says to me.  "I'm so glad."

"Mom," I say, embarrassed.

"Joshua, I have never pushed you to get married, or to give me grandchildren, or any of those things. All I have ever asked of you is that you be happy.  You've carried such guilt around for so long," she pauses, her voice trembling.  "You are a good man, and you deserve happiness."

"Thank you," I mumble.

"I like Donna," she says.  "I knew she loved you at--"  She stops and shakes her head.

"When I was shot," I supply.  She nods.  I take her hand.  "Donna feels terrible for yelling at you."

My mother smiles, her eyes watery.  "I didn't take offense.  I've been there; I lived in that hellish world of uncertainty for two years and seven months while your father fought the cancer.  I did worse than yell at people then; I understood Donna's reaction."

I nod and admit quietly.  "I miss Dad."

Mom smiles at me, then gathers up the empty plates and heads for the sink.  "So do I, my dear."

"Mom," I say, standing up.  "When we get married, I think it'll be a really small thing."  I frown, considering.  "Unless Donna wants, you know, The Wedding."

"She doesn't," my mother answers.  "She wants to be married to you; she doesn't care about the trappings.  Donna is wise beyond her years."

I nod.  "She is.  She's far smarter than I am."

My mother laughs at that.  "My Joshua, admitting someone may possibly be smarter?  I thought I'd never see the day."

"Mom," I protest.

She finishes up the dishes.  "You were saying?"

"The wedding," I say.  "Whenever and wherever it is, I want you to be there."

"Anytime," she vows.  "Anyplace.  You just tell me a date and a time."  She crosses the short space in the kitchen and gives me a quick hug.  "Now go to bed."

"Yes, Mom," I grin.

My mother reaches up and cups my cheek in one hand.  "You're not taking my meaning.  Go to bed with your Donna."

"Mother!" I exclaim, blushing fiercely.

"Joshua, you are pushing forty--"

"I'm thirty-seven!"

She pats my cheek indulgently.  "I trust you," she says.  "And believe me, you'll sleep better next to her."

I blink down at her.  "Thank you, Mom."

"You're welcome," she says, heading for the stairs.  "Good night."

Even knowing I have to get up in two hours, my mother's right.  I do sleep better with Donna beside me.

THE END

03.24.01