**Warning: Adult subject matter. This may be difficult for some people to read. 
Please note the presence of your delete key and use it judiciously.

 

Marianne Ehrenbeck got pregnant the spring I was in the sixth grade.  I wouldn't have noticed -- Marianne was a senior; she was my sister Frances' peer, not mine.  But for Frances, Marianne's unexpected pregnancy was an object lesson in hubris.  She felt compelled to share her newfound wisdom with her younger, impressionable sister.  According to Frances, Marianne's predicament proved one of life's great truths.  It didn't matter if you were beautiful, popular and had a scholarship to Brown; you could still turn out to be a fool.  Like Marianne, Frances warned me, a woman could ruin her life very easily.

She could get caught.

Frances was amazed that a girl as supposedly intelligent as Marianne Ehrenbeck could end up pregnant.  "How tough is it to remember?" Frances asked me.  "You wake up in the morning; you take a pill.  What kind of idiot forgets to do something that simple?"  And then, in one of her rare moments of sisterly concern, Frances made me promise that I would never, ever forget to take my pill.

I was touched by this.  I mean, Frances talks longingly about the halcyon days before I was born; she never worries about my well-being.  And so I have followed her advice; I take my pill religiously.

Well, I did.  Back in the days before I worked in the White House, taking my pill was simple; it was automatic.  I had a nine-to-five job, a regular routine.  In the world I inhabit now, however, the days can last anywhere from twelve to twenty hours.  Some days you don't go home at all.  You are frequently on the road.  It's hard to stick to a routine.  At some point, obviously, I must have forgotten.  It's the only explanation I can think of.

Because, like Marianne Ehrenbeck, I got caught.

I'm pregnant.

And there's only one thing I can do.

***

It started so long ago that the decision was made before I was aware there was even a choice.

Two years ago, to be precise.

Two years ago, I took time out of one hellishly crazy day in a long string of the same to engage in a topsy-turvy, circuitous, yet spellbinding conversation with a blonde woman who appeared in my office.

I'm a creature of instinct; I have always just sensed things about other people.  Probably why I'm such a great politician.  Thank God I listened to my instincts that day.  Thank god I chose to hand Donnatella Moss my security badge.

And three months later, after she'd left me for browner, withered pastures, I ignored the logical part of my brain and followed my instincts again, sending her that same security badge in the mail.  Just my little way of begging her to come back to me for reasons I never examined too closely.  Donna did come back, and another choice was made as we walked to our hotel, hand in hand.

I can't believe it took almost another year for me to realize why everything seemed so... off... during the three weeks she was gone.  Also the thirty-six years before she arrived in my life, but that is another story entirely.

That Night, the night of the Inaugural Ball, something indefinable shifted and it was suddenly so clear, so blatantly obvious to me why Donna was irreplaceable.  It seemed ridiculous that we could have missed it before.

Donnatella was a vision in lavender That Night.  Just gorgeous.  Since life is not a cheesy Hollywood romantic comedy, I didn't watch her glide into the room and come to some sort of epiphanous realization that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.  To be fair, I don't think I was capable of coherent thought, never mind epiphanous realizations when I saw her in that dress.

I couldn't even look at her most of the night.  I knew if I did, I would either implode or do something really stupid.  Like make a pass at Donna.

Turns out, that night my desire out-performed my instincts in the internal polls.  Instead of running like hell out of the ballroom before I opened the hours-old Bartlet Administration to a sexual harassment suit, I stuck common sense in a box and made eye contact with Donnatella Moss.

That, as it happens, was the stupidest thing I've ever done.  Also the best, most intelligent, and most courageous thing I've ever done in my life.  She couldn't stop looking at me either.  Unbelievably, I still didn't get it.  No epiphany when our eyes locked, not when she relaxed in my arms and rested her head on my chest during our lone dance.  Not even when she agreed to come home with me.  What can I say?  I was distracted by other things.

No, my epiphany, when it came, was completely unrelated to how Donna looked in her dress.  Well, not completely since she wouldn't have been naked, sated, and lying in my arms had my lust not overwhelmed my common sense.  But still.  Just after the second time Donnatella Moss made love to me, she was lying in my arms, her skin cooling under my fingers as she drifted off to sleep.

I kissed the top of her head, and this feeling happened.  I crushed her to me with this sudden sense of desperation, and Donna laughed sleepily and tightened her arms around me.  And it was right.  It was perfect.  It was unique and amazing and the words "I love you" very nearly tumbled from my mouth.

That was it.  That was the moment of joyous, sickening clarity.

I finally understood that I loved Donna.  I love her more than I've ever loved anybody in my life.  I love her so much that I'm willing to be without her if it means she won't be hurt.

The next morning, I broke Donna's heart, and mine in the process.  It was the only thing I could do, the only path we can walk until President Bartlet is out of office.

I know this.  I really do.

And I swore to myself that I would never do anything to put Donna in danger.

I was so good too.  I made it a full 365 days without touching her again.  I pretended that nothing had ever happened between myself and my gorgeous, witty assistant.  Until New Orleans.

Call me sentimental, call me stupid -- I couldn't stop remembering That Night.  It felt like yesterday and another lifetime all at once.  I wanted Donna to know I remembered.  I needed her to know.

I blame myself entirely.

It was my decision to acknowledge the day.  It was my boneheaded choice to buy that outrageously expensive lavender silk scarf at an antique shop in the French Quarter.

It was my impulsive decision to enlist the help of the maid to place the gift in Donna's room.  How could I have been so stupid?  One member of the Presidential party clandestinely plants an obviously expensive gift in the room of another member, and I expected this woman who makes some indecently small amount of money not to take advantage of such a perfect opportunity to sell a scandal?

Looking back, it's inevitable that someone found out.

***

I'm not worried when I'm a day late.  It's not as though it's an exact science, after all.  I hardly even notice.

At three days, I start to worry, but I still rationalize it.  It's been a difficult month.  This thing with Josh -- I'm still upset; I'm under stress; I'm not eating well.  You know how that can throw you off schedule.

On day five, I face facts.  I have no PMS, no craving for chocolate, not even a twinge of pain from cramps.  I'm not going to have a period this month.  Which means one of two things -- either I'm pregnant or I'm seriously ill.

I'm hoping for a life-threatening illness of some kind.  It would be less complicated.

And that's when the paranoia kicks in big time.  The logical step is to buy a home pregnancy test, but I have a roommate and a one-bathroom apartment.  Candi and I aren't close, but she knows I haven't been dating.  She knows that the only man I see much of is my boss.  If she noticed the remnants of a home pregnancy test in the trash, Candi would easily reach the logical conclusion.

I don't trust Candi enough to take that chance.  So I spend three hours debating whether to stop at the drugstore and buy the kit on my way home.  I buy it, and I make sure to carry all the evidence -- including the cash register receipt -- to the nearest dumpster after I've tested myself.

At least, I think I got everything.  I'm kind of in shock.  Even though I suspected it, I'm still stunned when I get the results.  When I try saying the words "I'm pregnant" out loud.

Let's not even consider trying to say the next logical sentence:  "Josh, I'm pregnant."  I can't manage that yet.

But, you know, home pregnancy tests are not one hundred percent accurate.  I should see a doctor, get official confirmation.  Paranoia kicks in again.  I shouldn't go to my regular doctor; that's way too easy to trace.  I find a doctor who doesn't know me; but even with all the begging, pleading and cajoling I do, I can't get an appointment for another week.

It is one week of hell.  It is one week of knowing and not being able to say it.  Seven days of trying to be quirky and funny and able to bring the banter with Josh.  Seven days of making sure he doesn't suspect that anything's wrong.  Because I've thought this through.  I know what has to happen.  I know what I have to do.

There's really no choice.

***

CJ pokes her head into my office and interrupts me in the middle of a perfectly good brood.  It's been a little over a month, and I'm having a lot of trouble putting the night I spent with Donna in New Orleans out of my head.  I have a perfectly good compartment in my brain for Things I Absolutely Cannot Think About at Work.  The night in New Orleans obviously belongs in that box, but it has this habit of refusing to stay where I put it.

And now CJ is staring at me with an expectant expression in place.

I give her an annoyed look.  "Yes?"

"The Sullivan confirmation?" she says.

I shrug.  "What about it?"  I can't imagine what possible PR problem CJ could have with Melissa Sullivan.  Sullivan is the President's appointee to a federal district court in Louisiana, and her record is unimpeachable.

"I'm not sure," CJ admits.  "But Orville Hodges and James Chambers apparently had a shouting match in the Senate Cloakroom over something to do with the Sullivan confirmation."

I stare at CJ in shock.  "The Republican Chair of the Senate Judiciary Committee and the Democratic Minority Leader got into a shouting match?"

"Yes," CJ nods, a small grin in place.

"In the Senate Cloakroom?"  Okay, so that is kind of funny, if you ignore the fact that this means our candidate is probably going to be screwed over in the near future.

"Yes.  Nina Tottenburg had it on NPR.  The story was on Congressional stalling tactics over confirming Presidential appointees."

"Blue slips," I surmise.  Blue slips are the forms that both Senators from a state have to sign off on before the Judiciary Committee will confirm a nominee from that state.  The easiest way to hold up a Presidential appointment is to refuse to sign the damn blue slip -- it's also the most cowardly and partisan way, since the Senator doesn't have to offer even the vaguest reason why he or she doesn't approve of the nominee.  Just to illustrate the point, this is how many racist Senators kept pro-Civil Rights judges off of federal benches in the 1960s.  I am not a fan of the blue slip system.

"Right," CJ nods.  "I wasn't listening, but I'm getting the tape.  I assume Hodges was bragging about the blue slips--"

"And Chambers got pissed," I finish.  "Sounds familiar."

"Melissa Sullivan is a damn good judge," CJ says.

"You're right.  This can't become a thing.  We need more information."  I lean over a bit to see if Donna's at her desk.  She can probably--

Donna's not there.  That's odd.  I sit back up.

"What?" CJ asks, her eyes narrowing.

"Huh?"

She waves a hand in my general direction.  "You look, I don't know, strange."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean--"

"It's nothing, CJ," I say.  "Just--"  I can't talk to CJ about this.  She'll kill me.  Especially if I'm not just being paranoid about the timing of this other thing.  I hate coincidences.  "Just get Toby on this.  He loves arguing with Hodges."

CJ agrees with a doubtful look and leaves.

I know what she's thinking -- why aren't I handling this?  This is exactly the kind of thing I love to tackle.  The problem is, I'm having paranoid thoughts about the scarf and the fact that I put it on my credit card.  How stupid was that?  I mean, it's not like I just randomly had $375 dollars on me (Did I mention that Rosalind Russell supposedly owned this scarf at some point?), so I didn't have much choice.  Still, using my credit card was stupid.

I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling about this, about the timing of this story.  Why is Hodges suddenly so brazen as to comment on the record about holding up Presidential appointees?  Especially this appointee, whose record is one of judicial restraint.  Hodges wouldn't make noise over this unless he had a reason.  And in this particular situation, that means he's got something he thinks he can hold over the administration.

Or someone in the administration.

I think I may have made the one mistake that'll bring this thing with Donna into the open.

***

I made a mistake with this doctor.  I gave him my real name.  I shouldn't have done that.  I shouldn't have handed my health insurance card over to the receptionist.

How stupid am I?  Leaving a trail like that.  I should know better.

If the wrong people find out about this, it could ruin Josh's career.  I told him.  I said I wouldn't let this thing between us be used against him.  After all, I know how this will play in the press -- the Deputy Chief of Staff who got his assistant pregnant.

While on a business trip with the President of the United States.  In New Orleans.  It's the sort of story tabloid reporters dream about.

What the hell was I thinking, giving this doctor my real name?

Waiting for the test results takes two more days.  This seems like a sadistically long time to me.  I mean, if a home pregnancy test can give you the results immediately, why should a doctor's office take two days?  My theory?  I don't like this doctor.  I don't like the judgmental look in his eyes when he notices that I'm not wearing a wedding ring.  I think his policy is to make unmarried women who ask for pregnancy tests wait a few days for the results while they ponder their sins.  If I weren't afraid of calling more attention to myself, I'd tell him exactly what I think about that attitude.  Given my circumstances, however, all I can do is call back compulsively -- from my cell; I don't want any record of this on the White House phones -- until at last this cold, impersonal voice tells me I'm pregnant and asks when I want to schedule a follow-up visit.  I have no intention of going back, but I make an appointment anyway.  I can call back and cancel later.  But I gave my real name and I don't want to do anything that sounds suspicious, so I schedule an appointment for two weeks from today.

With any luck, I won't be pregnant in two weeks.

***

Three days later, Toby corners me in my office.  "You have a second?"

"Looks like," I answer as he closes the door behind him.  I don't bother to stand; Toby doesn't usually stay long.

"Finally got to Hodges today," Toby says.

I raise my eyebrows.  "It took you three days?"

"To find out the story, no," Toby answers quietly.  "Chambers gave me details over the phone, Josh.  CJ had a comment at the gaggle."  He's giving me this look like I should know this already.

I nod and pretend I do.  "Right.  But I'm saying -- Hodges?"

Toby stares at me for a moment, then says, "Hodges was ducking.  Sent me a deputy."

Okay, I'm perplexed.  "Why?"

Toby laughs a little.  "I was hoping you'd tell me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You haven't done anything in the past few days that was..."  He shrugs.  "...unusually stupid?"

"No," I answer defensively.  Hey, it's been over a month since my phenomenally stupid shopping spree.  Still, I am getting increasingly nervous.  "What happened, Toby?"

He shifts his weight a little, arms crossed over his chest.  "Hodges made a comment."

Sometimes getting Toby to tell a story is like pulling teeth.  "What did he say?" I ask, exasperated.

Toby watches me closely.  "He said that refusing to sign a blue slip is a perfectly valid course of action and that the Judiciary Committee is not going to interrogate Senators about why they're withholding signatures."

"He's talking about Sullivan," I nod.  "But why are you in here questioning me?"

Toby's voice lowers further.  "Because then he gave me this shit-eating grin and said, 'Tell your people to lay off, or the lavender menace will get a prominent spot on page one.'"

Oh. God.

I stare at Toby, utterly without speech.  Couldn't speak right now to save my life.

"Josh?" Toby prompts.

I shrug.

"There's nothing you want to tell me?"

I shake my head and manage, "Lavender menace is usually a reference to lesbians, Toby.  Go harass a woman."

He keeps staring at me.  "I already talked to CJ and Sam.  But it occurred to me that you delegated this.  Why is that, Josh?"

This is just so bad.  "No reason."

Toby gets this humorless little grin on his face and says, "Why am I having trouble believing that?"

I shrug again.

"Josh, you know the President is absolutely a supporter of gay rights," Toby comments.

I gape at him.  "You've got to be kidding me, Toby.  Don't you think you'd know by now if I was gay?"

Toby lifts one shoulder the slightest bit.  "I'm not making any judgment calls here, Josh.  We just need to be ready for this."

I am going over options in my head, and none of them are looking good.  I meet Toby's gaze and say, "Let me take care of Hodges."

"Josh--"

"I said I'll take care of it," I answer a bit more sharply than I meant to.  If he didn't think something was amiss before, I'm pretty sure he's clued in now.  Nevertheless, he reluctantly agrees and leaves me alone.  After all, if it's my fuck up, I should be the one to fix it, and Toby knows that.  I can fix this.

Now I just have to figure out how.

***

In a perfect world, none of this would be a problem.  In a perfect world, Josh and I could be together and we could work out the rest of it.

The world I live in is far from perfect.

First -- and most important -- there is how this would be used against Josh.  Suppose we got married.  Republicans are still capable of counting to nine, and that puts us back to the Deputy Chief of Staff having an affair with his assistant.

And has any relationship, outside of those in tacky romance novels and bad movies, ever succeeded when two people married because they were having a baby?  Wouldn't you end up feeling trapped, no matter how crazy about each other you may have been originally?

Then there's the question of how you raise a baby when you work in the White House.  Even if we assume I'd quit -- which is not something I'd want to do -- when would Josh ever see this child?  You can't bring a baby to work in the West Wing.  You can't cut back on your hours and be Deputy Chief of Staff.  You can't love Josh and ask him to give this job up.

Maybe later.  After re-election.  Or after President Bartlet's left office.  Maybe then we could find a way to make this work.  But not now.

I could drop out of sight.  I could leave and have the baby.  I wouldn't even have to tell Josh where I am.

Yeah, there's a brilliant idea.  A single mother without a college degree.  My parents wouldn't help me, even if I were desperate enough to ask, and what I'd have to pay for child care while I worked would eat up most of my earnings.

Not to mention what Josh said that night.  He said that if I left, he'd come after me.  I totally believe he'd do it.

Besides, I promised.  I promised him that I would never leave.

So I have one option left.  And I can't tell him.  If the story ever got out -- it has to be clear that Josh knew nothing about this.

Encouraging your pregnant assistant to have an abortion doesn't play well.

***

As far as I can tell, I have only two options here.

The first:  I go to Hodges, find out exactly how much he knows, and then agree to make the White House sit on the fact that the Republicans are blocking female and minority appointees to open seats on federal benches.  Appointees who are largely liberal, pro-choice and supportive of gay rights, no less.

Agree to a deal that will not only damage the Bartlet Administration, but society at large.  I will be the person directly responsible for putting moderate, middle-of-the-road judges on the federal bench, which will in turn dictate which cases make it to the Supreme Court.  I will be responsible if Roe vs. Wade is overturned.

This is not something I ever thought I'd consider.

I mean, it would be an abuse of my power.  It would be the President's Deputy Chief of Staff agreeing to a political deal that hamstrings the White House in order to keep his personal life from being aired in the Washington Post.  This would betray my principles, my oath of office, and the promise Donna asked me to make her.  Of course, I refused to make the promise to Donna, but this is not who I thought I'd be when I took this job.

This is not something I thought I'd ever have to consider.

This is exactly what Donna was worried about.  This is just what she said I would do -- abuse my power to protect her.  I don't want to do that.  I don't want to be one of those men who uses political power to pursue his own ends.

But that's one of two options, and the other is even worse.

The other option is, I go to CJ right now and tell her the details of my brief affair with my assistant.  I tell CJ to condemn the Republican Senators who are blocking appointments for partisan reasons that have nothing to do with the appointees' judicial merits.

In effect, I hang Donna out to dry in the press.  I let our nights together become public knowledge, at which point she will lose her job.  I may lose mine too, but there's no way Leo will let us still work together if he reads about our 'indiscretion' in New Orleans.

I will get knowing looks from Senators and Congressman, and a thorough ass-kicking from CJ.

Donna will be publicly castigated.  She will become a footnote in history textbooks.  Her name will become associated with illicit affairs.

This is absolutely not an option.

***

You would think that, when you know this is what you have to do, the rest of it would be easy.  You make the arrangements, you have the abortion.  End of story.

Not when you're trying to remain low-profile.

I do not understand the kind of people who spend their days picketing abortion clinics.  I understand the concept of standing up for something you believe.  While I disagree with their position on this issue, I think they have every right to express their opinion.

Somewhere else.

What the hell do they think they're accomplishing by screaming at women who have extremely personal reasons for choosing to have an abortion?  Do they think we're doing this for fun?  Do they think I got the results of my pregnancy test and said, "That's great!  Now I can go in for that abortion I always wanted!"  Do they have to be parked outside the clinic, looking over each woman who enters?

I cannot afford to have right-wing protesters looking at me.  I do show up in the papers now and then -- the unidentified blonde who's always standing beside President Bartlet's Deputy Chief of Staff.

Have I mentioned my increasing sense of paranoia?

I need advice.  Under the present circumstances, that means CJ.  I tell her I need to meet her for lunch as soon as possible.

"The mess in an hour," she suggests.

"No," I reply.  "Outside the building."

She knows.  Well, not that I'm pregnant, but that this has something to do with me and Josh.  I can tell by the look she gives me, somewhere between horror and compassion.

We meet at a café several blocks away from the office an hour later.  At CJ's insistence, the waitress gives us the most secluded booth available.  I order soup.  It's not that I'm having morning sickness or anything like that; I'm simply too upset to have much of an appetite these days.

Once the waitress is out of hearing range, I start speaking.  "Hypothetical situation," I begin.  "Suppose someone needed to have an abortion and there were reasons -- very compelling reasons -- why she had to be sure she found a doctor or a clinic where there weren't any protesters or cameras.  Where exactly do you think she could go?"

CJ just stares at me.  Under ordinary circumstances, this would be amusing.  I don't think anyone has ever rendered CJ Cregg speechless before.

"Donna," she asks finally, "is this about who I think it's about?"

"It's a hypothetical situation, CJ."

"A hypothetical friend would want to know what he said when you told him."

"CJ--"

"You didn't tell him?"

"Hypothetically, no."

She gives me one of her appraising looks.  "And you're not going to?"

"What would it look like if this got out to the press, CJ?"

"The pregnancy or the abortion?"

"Either."

"Extraordinarily bad.  It could be a nightmare either way."

"And a pregnancy can't be hidden for more than a few months.  So the abortion is the safer option.  It can remain a secret."

"But that shouldn't be the deciding factor.  It should be about what you want to do."

"I want to keep him safe.  This is the way to do that."

"Donna, I still think you should tell him."

I lower my voice further.  "I can't.  You know what he'd be like.  He'd want to take the decision completely out of my hands and gear up for some sort of political battle that would destroy everything he's worked for.  I'm not going to let him do that."

CJ reaches for my hand across the table.  "You've already made your mind up, haven't you?"

"I can also give you about a dozen reasons we'd both make terrible parents right now.  I've thought this through, CJ.  I'm doing the best thing I can do."

"All right then," she says.  "Do you want me to come with you?"

***

"Hey, Josh."

Startled, I glance up, jarred out of my torturous thoughts of lavender scarves and forty-point headlines to see Sam in my doorway.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, more rudely than usual, even for me.

He frowns a bit at my suspicious tone.  "I just met with Gardner and Tomiak on 563."

"Oh."

He narrows his eyes.  "They're back on board, Josh."

"Good."  I couldn't tell you what 563 is right now, or why Gardner and Tomiak jumped ship originally, but it seems like getting them back would be a good thing.  Hard to concentrate on that with visions of tabloid reporters dancing in my head.

"Josh?"

"I've got a meeting with Hodges," I blurt.  Then I give myself a mental kick.  Way to focus people's attention exactly where you want it the least.

"Blue slips," Sam nods.  "Want me to go with you?"

I stare at him, horrified.  "No."  Judging by the look on his face, my tone is too emphatic.  I give a careless shrug.  "No, I've got it under control."

Sam just watches me for a moment.  "Did Toby ask you about the lavender menace thing?"

"Yeah," I answer warily.  There's no way he could know about the scarf.  I hope.  Nobody knows except me, Donna, a maid in New Orleans, the Senate Judiciary Chairman, and however many middlemen got that information from the maid to the Senate.  God, I am such an idiot.

"You didn't know what it meant either?"

It takes me a second to figure out what he's talking about.  "No."  I answer too slowly, but Sam doesn't seem to notice.

"What a strange turn of phrase," he muses.  "Lavender menace.  It's not like the Bartlet administration hasn't been openly supportive of equal rights for gays and lesbians.  Why would he think he could blackmail us with--"

"Sam," I interrupt him.

"Right," he says, nodding.  He's used to people cutting him off when he starts rambling.  "When's your meeting?"

"Wednesday."  I can't tell you how much I'm not looking forward to Wednesday.  Although there is a tiny part of me that wants this to be over, one way or another.  Either the phrase was coincidental (yeah, right), or I'm going to find out just what kind of man I am.  Nothing like trial by fire.

Am I as easy to corrupt as Donna thinks I am?

***

They want my name.

The abortion clinic I finally decided on wants my name.  I keep making the same stupid mistake.  I should have thought of an alias before I called to make the appointment.

At least this time I realize that automatically answering "Donna Moss" is not a good thing.  "Frances Hudson," I say.

She'd kill me if she found out.  Getting caught was bad enough, but using her name -- Frances would kill me.  But on such short notice, my sister's name is the only one I can think of.

At least I have the presence of mind to ask how much it will cost.  I'm not writing a check or putting this on my credit card.  I'm paying cash.  Then I'm destroying the receipt.

CJ wants to come with me; I desperately want CJ to come with me.  But I can't chance it.  Turn on CNN on any given day, and you'll see one of CJ's briefings.  I don't want to take the chance that someone will remember the day President Bartlet's press secretary accompanied Frances Hudson to the abortion clinic.  I'm going alone.

The only bit of luck I've had so far is that I'm able to get an appointment this week.  On Wednesday.  I dutifully write down all the receptionist's instructions -- don't eat or drink after midnight; that sort of thing.  I'll have to take yet another pregnancy test once I get there and talk to a counselor.  The talking to a counselor part strikes me as particularly ludicrous.  They don't think I've thought this through already?  Are they worried I'll change my mind?

On Wednesday morning, I make two phone calls.  The first is to Josh; I explain that I have the flu and that I'll be taking the day off.  I'm hoping he'll be in one of those moods -- one of those "Do you have any idea how much your illness is inconveniencing me?" moods.  Instead, he's concerned and caring and threatening to bring me chicken soup.  I wish he wouldn't do that; this would be much easier if I could hate him today.  But I tell him that I'll be all right, that I just need to rest, and (for safety's sake, because it would be like him to call back to check up on me) that I'm taking the phone off the hook.

Then I call CJ.  Even though she understands why I can't have her come with me, she's determined to see me through this.  She doesn't want me to spend the evening alone, so I'm going back to her place when I leave the clinic.  I hate that she's going through all this trouble for me, but on the plus side, she's having no trouble hating Josh today.

I wish I were going to be in the office to see the way she treats him.  That would be some serious entertainment.

***

I should walk into this meeting arrogant and dismissive and clearly pressed for time.  I should act like I don't particularly care what silly piece of information Hodges thinks he has.  I should breeze in there, put the fear of Josh into him, and breeze back out.

Damn hard to do when I'm convinced that everyone is staring at me.

I keep telling myself I'm being paranoid; but CJ has been quite surly all day, tossing glares at me every time I passed her.  Toby is still giving me suspicious looks, and Sam's been frowning a lot.

And now I'm sitting here in Senator Hodges' damn reception area.  His assistant keeps giving me this look of distaste, her lips twisted sourly.

All of which is not helping my equilibrium.

"Josh," Hodges says, sticking his head out of his office.  "Come on in."  He is, in the tradition of Republican windbags everywhere, loud, slightly overweight, and desperately clinging to the end of middle age.

The thing that worries me here, though, is that slight grin.  He doesn't look concerned.  He doesn't look the slightest bit bothered by my presence.  He knows why I'm here, and he clearly knows -- or thinks he knows -- something that'll bring me to my knees, so why worry?

"Would you like anything to drink, Josh?" he asks, settling in at his large oak desk.

"No, thanks.  I'm fine."  I drop into the guest chair, purposefully slouching a little into the back, like 'See how unconcerned I am, lounging over here?'

From the suppressed smirk on Hodges' face, I don't think he's convinced.  He laces his fingers together and places them on the desktop.  "I understand you wanted to discuss the blue slips?  They're perfectly legitimate.  In fact--"

"I'm here to discuss your cryptic, homophobic remarks," I interrupt.

He watches me for a moment, almost smiling.  "Homophobic remarks?"

Dammit.  "Lavender menace."  I'm impressed I managed to spit that out in such a disinterested tone.

"How is that homophobic, in the context?"

I exhale slowly before I answer.  "I don't know if you expected Toby to have taped your remarks, Senator, but I didn't get any context.  I just got 'lavender menace.'"

He nods thoughtfully and studies me.  "Why are you here then, Josh?"

I force a slow smile.  "I'm a supporter of civil rights," I tell him.  "And as such, I support the gay community's fight for--"

"Josh," he interrupts.  "You're not here about gay rights."

"You're right," I agree.  "I'm here because you made a veiled threat to out a gay staffer, and I'd like to discuss the--"

"I know about New Orleans, Josh."

My entire body goes cold.  I can't feel my fingers.

Fuck.

"Senator, I don't know what you think you know, but--"

"I know about New Orleans," he repeats, eyes narrowing.  "But you knew that already, or you wouldn't be here in the first place."

"I'm here because you made a cryptic comment," I insist.  "I'm here--"

"You're here to deal, Josh," he interrupts.  "Because you don't want this in the papers."

"No," I tell him, but I don't know what I'm refusing.  I look down and am amazed to realize I'm still in the supine posture I adopted.  The only tell is that my fingers are clutching at the fabric of the chair.  I forcibly relax them, but they start to shake.  I decide clutching is better than shaking.

"Josh?"

"What?"

He gives me a sympathetic look, and I want nothing more than to punch that smug face.  "Josh, I understand what it's like, the temptation of--"

"Don't," I warn through clenched teeth.

"Would you prefer to talk terms, then?" he asks.

"No."

"That's okay," he decides.  "I think we both understand this situation, don't we, Josh?"

"No."

Hodges shakes his head a little.  "Josh," he reprimands me, "why don't you just admit why you came all the way over here."

"It's a couple of blocks," I point out weakly.  "I did not come here to make some deal."  Even I don't believe me anymore.

"Fine," Hodges says, standing abruptly.  "If that's what you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, call it a mutually beneficial decision."

"No," I say again, but there's no strength behind it.  No conviction.

Hodges smiles.

I push myself out of my chair and face him.  If I'm going to do this, I'm going to face it.  I take a deep breath.  "We sit on the blue slips issue, you sit on the lavender menace."

"That sounds workable," he says jovially.  "Do I have your word?"

"Does it matter?" I mutter.  What does the word of a crooked politician count for these days?

"Yes," Hodges says, and there's an edge to his voice.  He probably doesn't consider himself crooked.  He probably does moral relativism so he can go to bed with a clear conscience.

I don't think that's gonna work for me.

"You have my word," I tell him, an odd tremble in my voice.

"Excellent."  Hodges holds out his hand, and I just stare at it for a moment.

He wants to shake on it?  Is this a gangster movie?  I swallow an ill-timed laugh and lurch forward, shaking his proffered hand.

He repeats my words solemnly.  "You have my word."

I just stare at him.  Is this guy for real?

"Thanks for coming by, Josh."  Hodges ushers me to the door.  "Maybe we can do this again sometime."

Oh, God, I think as I stumble out the door.  What did I just do?

***

Could someone explain to me why gynecologists' offices and women's health centers are always decorated in these mauve tones with paintings that look like bad imitations of Georgia O'Keefe?  I know they're trying for a tranquil, relaxing atmosphere; but does it have to be so stereotypical?  Besides which, it isn't working.  There are five women in this waiting room, including me, and none of us look tranquil or relaxed.

I just want to get this over with and get back to my life.

I wish CJ were with me.  There's only one other woman here without someone.  There's a teenager who brought her mother, a forty-ish Hispanic woman with a friend, a college student with her boyfriend, and a black woman in her thirties.  We're just a regular cross-section of American women.  Josh would probably see this as some sort of weird polling opportunity.

After an hour of waiting, I hear a nurse call out the name "Frances Hudson."  It takes me a second to realize that's me, but the nurse doesn't seem to notice.  She's probably used to women who don't give their real names.

This is DC, after all.  I'm betting I'm not the first politician's assistant to wander in here.

Following yet another pregnancy test, I wait half an hour to talk to a counselor.  The whole counseling thing annoys me.  I don't need counseling; I don't need advice.  I've had plenty of time to make up my mind.  I don't need veiled references to "other options."  I know my situation far better than this woman lecturing me ever could.  I give her impatient, clipped answers and try not to reveal any personal information.  She may be a perfectly well-meaning woman; I'm sure she is.  I'm sure she'd be enormously helpful to someone who hadn't made up her mind about whether to have an abortion.  The women in the waiting room all looked as though their minds were made up.

I'm thinking the women who are indecisive are not the ones at the abortion clinic.

I wonder if this woman ever feels as though she's working in the wrong place.

After my pointless conversation with the counselor, I have another twenty minutes to wait before a nurse takes me to yet another room for what they euphemistically refer to as "the procedure."  The language annoys me.  I know what I'm doing.  I'm having an abortion, terminating a pregnancy.  I'm not one of those people who believe that life begins at the moment of conception, so there's no point in sugar-coating it.  Yes, I am pregnant.  Yes, if I didn't have an abortion, I would be giving birth in approximately seven and one half months to a baby -- a small person who is half Lyman and half Moss, who would no doubt emerge from the womb talking a mile a minute, demanding coffee and immediately applying for membership in the nearest chapter of Young Democrats for Bartlet.  But I don't believe that the tissue inside me at the moment can be described as a human being.  Any regrets I have later on will not be about that.  My regrets, as always, will be about Josh.

The abortion itself doesn't take long.  It's uncomfortable, but they give you a local anesthetic, and really I had a pap smear once that hurt more.  It's mostly a matter of having to remain so passive while you listen to the doctor suction and scrape until it's over.  They try to be friendly, try to distract me with small talk, but I don't want to say much.  I'm too afraid of saying something that will make them remember me, especially when they start talking about a story that was in the news yesterday-the Sullivan confirmation.  I think Josh is taking a meeting on that today.

"I'm sorry," I tell the nurse.  "I'm afraid I don't follow politics."

***

I can't believe I just did that.

I can't believe I just sold the Bartlet Administration down the river to cover my mistakes.  I am officially a corrupt politician.  Does this make me the amoral, unethical politicians I remember from the Nixon days?

Does this make me evil?

It definitely makes me unworthy of Donna.  It proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm as weak as she suspected.

I told Hodges we'd back off the appointments.  In effect, I told him I'd get CJ to tone down the statements from the White House on the Republican-controlled Judiciary committee.  I told him we'd drop Sullivan.

In exchange for which he'll sit on the knowledge he has about Donna and me.  The problem is, Hodges may be an asshole, but he's a damn good politician.  I did my best, given the circumstances, but I couldn't pin down exactly what he knows.

I may have just sold my soul to the devil over a scarf.

I mean, it's possible that Hodges and his cronies found out that I gave Donna an expensive scarf.  They may have had no proof that there was anything inappropriate going on between us at all.  They may have only suspected.

Until I went up to the Hill and made this deal.

Any suspicions they may have had, I just confirmed.

If there was ever a chance to keep this quiet, I think I just blew it.

Why do I have these bright flashes of illumination just after I've done something incredibly stupid?

Because now Hodges knows he was right.  Now he knows I had an affair with my assistant.  Now he can start looking back, looking for evidence to drop on me later.  Now he can start having us tailed, searching for any shred of proof that we're still sleeping together.

And if Hodges knows, there are other people who know.  There's no way that some maid in a hotel in New Orleans had direct access to the Senate Majority Leader.  There are other people out there, other Republicans, other people who have a bone or two to pick with the White House, or just with me.

This situation just got about a hundred times worse.

I need to talk to CJ.

***

I have to wait another hour after it's over so they know I'm not having any complications from the abortion or the anesthetic they gave me.  When they finally let me go, I pay in cash -- no checks or credit cards to be traced back to Josh Lyman's assistant -- and make an appointment for a follow-up visit in two weeks.  I guess this is an appointment I'll have to keep.

I parked my car three blocks from the clinic; I was worried about someone tracing my plates if I parked too close.  I know I'm being ridiculously paranoid.

I can't help it.  I don't want to have gone through this only to discover that I've slipped up on some minor detail that will lead to the scandal I'm trying to avoid.

But, as I soon discover, walking that far after the operation is not the best idea I've ever had.  I sit in the car for a few minutes, waiting for the pain to subside and noting that the bleeding the doctor told me to expect has started, but I hate being idle.  If I just sit here, I'll start thinking about the things I do not want to think about, so I start driving.

I make it two blocks before I have to pull over.  Given how sore I'm feeling now that the anesthetic's wearing off, that's quite an accomplishment.  I have two options here -- I can drive despite the pain (and the raging headache I'm developing), or I can call CJ.  She'll drop everything and come get me, I'm sure.  But I shouldn't do that; that is absolutely the wrong thing to do.

She'll miss the two o'clock briefing.  I can't have her missing something that important just to come pick me up because I stupidly miscalculated my ability to drive following outpatient surgery.

I seem to be stupidly miscalculating a lot of things lately.  That's how the hell I got into this mess.  Frances was right:  What kind of idiot forgets to take a pill?  Where the hell was my brain?

And anyway, if CJ does come and get me, I'd have to leave my car parked here overnight.  What if something happened to it?  Josh may be fond of referring to it as my "piece of shit Toyota," but it's all I can afford.  Suppose it got towed or stolen or something.  What would I do then?  There'd be forms to fill out, and someone might ask what I was doing leaving my car here overnight.  How would I answer that without seeming suspicious?

But I don't think driving is a good idea.  I think a bed and a heating pad and some painkillers are a good idea.  So I call CJ.

"You drove?" she asks when I explain my predicament.  "You drove yourself to surgery?"

"I told you I was going alone."

"I thought that meant you were taking a taxi.  I can't believe you drove.  Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you."

"You've got the two o'clock briefing."

"I'll postpone it.  I'll get someone else to handle it.  Don't worry.  And don't try any more driving."

So, fine, CJ's coming to pick me up.  She can work the rest of it out for me.  I don't seem to be able to concentrate on things like how to get home right now.  I keep thinking about Josh.

It would have been nice to have been able to tell Josh.  I don't like keeping secrets from him.  Especially not one as big as this.  I did the only thing I could do if I was going to protect him properly, I know that.  And this is what matters, after all.  Josh shouldn't have to suffer because he did something impulsive one night in New Orleans.

I was the one, after all.  I was the one who told him that everything was safe.  He shouldn't be punished for my stupid miscalculation.

He probably would have made a terrible father anyway.

***

CJ is barreling down the hallway when I arrive back at the White House.  This is probably not the best time to have this discussion, judging from the look on her face; but she's got to hear this sooner rather than later.

"CJ, I have kind of a thing."

She waves me off and keeps going.  "Not now, Josh."

"Yes," I call after her.  "Now, CJ."

CJ stops short in the hallway and turns on me.  "You know what, Josh?  When I said not now, I meant not now.  I have to--"  She stops short.

I stare at her.  "What's wrong with you?"

I don't think I've ever seen her like this.  She looks worried and sad and very, very angry.  "I'm not going to talk about this with you, Josh."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"That means," she snaps, "that I have somewhere I need to be.  And it's very important.  And it's none of your goddamned business, Josh.  Not anymore."  She glances away, biting her lip.  "Just -- talk to me later."

"Well, I'm sorry to bother you, CJ, but this is actually pretty important."  I'm yelling.  Why am I yelling?  I have a really bad feeling about this, but I can't quite put my finger on how CJ's involved.

CJ steps very close to me, leaning in and lowering her voice.  "Believe me when I tell you that your important thing?  Not as important as mine.  If you care at all about--"  She stops again.  "Talk.  To.  Me.  Later."

Mouth agape, I watch her stalk away without so much as a glance back in my direction.  If I care at all about what?

I have a sneaking suspicion that wherever she's going has something to do with Donna.

Please, God, let me be wrong.

***

CJ arrives via taxi.

I wish she hadn't done that.

What if the taxi driver remembers?  That's exactly the sort of thing you'd remember, isn't it, no matter how many fares you had?  This six-foot-tall woman who got in your cab at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and told you to drive to this street where she met a blonde in a piece of shit Toyota with bumper stickers saying "Girls kick ass" and "Bartlet for America"?  Yeah, this fare will fade right out of his memory.

I am screwing everything up lately.

This guy is going to see CJ on television and he's going to remember this trip and it's all going to come out.

Josh's career will be destroyed, and I'll be to blame and--

The cab drives away as CJ pulls me into her arms.  "It's going to be all right," she tells me.

I made it through all of this.  I made it through being late, I made it through the home pregnancy test and the doctor's appointment.  I made it through finding a clinic and waiting all day there and being asked all manner of personal questions.  I made it through the abortion and losing my only chance to ever create a person who is half Lyman and half Moss.

I made it through all that.

It's only when CJ tells me things are going to be all right that I finally break down and cry.

*

I should get out of bed.

CJ drove my car to her place while I lay in the back and sobbed all the way home.  She made a pot of hot tea for me and set it on the nightstand next to the phone, the remote control and a package of vanilla wafers.  She went out yesterday and bought the vanilla wafers because she remembered my saying once that my mother used to bring me vanilla wafers whenever I was sick.

How much do I adore CJ?

CJ went back to the office, but she's called twice since then to check up on me.  I am, as I've told her, perfectly all right.  I simply overdid it with the walking.  After having rested for a while, I'm fine now.

"Rest some more, and you'll be even better," she says.

"I can't," I say.  "I need to--"

"You don't need to do anything.  Except pamper yourself.  You've been through an ordeal today."

"I could fix dinner.  The least I can do for you is to fix dinner."

"Don't be ridiculous, Donna.  That's why take-out was invented.  I'll swing by Fast Fong's on my way home, if you can wait that long to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You'll have hot and sour soup.  Maybe some fried rice.  At least.  You have to keep your strength up."

"I'll try."

"You'll do more than try.  I'll be home in two hours, and I don't want you to even think about getting out of bed before then."

It feels good, actually, to have someone taking care of me like this.  "Fine," I say.  "I won't get out of bed."  I'm almost smiling.

Then her voice changes.  She goes all formal on me, like someone else has just walked into the room.  I know who it is, even before she tells me in this stilted voice.  "I'll have to call you back. Josh Lyman is here."

"CJ," I say, "none of this is his fault."

"It's not your fault either," she answers just before she hangs up.

***

The fifth time I call Donna's cell phone with no response I start to panic.  CJ knows more than she's telling me, so I storm her office.  She's on the phone, but she ends the call and fixes me with a glare.

I ignore the look on her face and yell at her anyway.  "Where's Donna?"

"What?"

"She's not answering her phone, CJ.  Where is she?"

CJ crosses her arms over her chest.  "Did you ever consider the possibility that she doesn't want to talk to you?"

"Why the hell wouldn't she want to talk to me?"

"Josh--"

"Oh, screw this," I decide, turning to leave.  "I'm out of here."  My instincts are screaming at me, but I'm trying not to listen.  I make it all the way into the foyer before I hear the clatter of CJ's heels as she runs to catch up with me.

"Josh."

"What?" I say, but I don't slow down.

She grabs my arm, forcing me to stop.  "Where are you going?"

"Donna's sick."

She glances away from me, and that niggling suspicion I've been feeling all day starts to intensify.  "CJ?"

"She doesn't want to see you."  CJ uses her gentlest voice, and that just makes me panic.  There's a strange sort of pain in my chest right now.

"Why not?  Is she okay?  You've talked to her?"

"Because," CJ answers with a shrug.  "Yes, and yes."

Enough with the word games.  "CJ," I say, and it's as close to begging as I've ever gotten.  "What isn't she telling me?"

"Josh," CJ starts, "she just needs today--"

I turn away from her and start for the door.  "I'm going to see her."

"Josh."  The tone of her voice halts me in my tracks.

I'm suddenly terrified to look at her, to see the reality of this situation.  That niggling feeling has mutated into a searing pain.  Six weeks ago, Donnatella Moss and I made love all night.  Today, CJ's running interference, Donna's supposedly sick, and she doesn't want to see me.  The factors are adding up to a wholly unacceptable conclusion.

"Please, no."

I didn't realize I said it aloud until CJ's hand touches my arm.  She comes around to stand just in front of me; and when she speaks, her voice is low and haunted.  "Josh, she really isn't feeling well--"

"But she's not sick," I say, feeling quite nauseous myself.  I pin CJ with a tortured look.  "Right?"

CJ ducks her head.  "Josh--"

"CJ, please."  My throat is burning, and it comes out as a whisper.

She stares at the ground, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.

"Do you want me to beg?  I'll do it, CJ.  Please, just tell me if she's sick or if--"

I can't say it aloud, but it doesn't matter.  She flinches at the implication, and I have my answer.

I stagger back a few paces until my shoulder hits the wall.  Instinctively, I drop forward, my hands landing on my knees, but it's not helping.  I still can't breathe.

"Josh?"  CJ is beside me, her hand on my shoulder pulling me upright, repeating my name in a panicked voice.  It occurs to me that we're in public, and I should really get a grip.  I think for a second, but I don't know how I would go about getting a grip.

CJ drags me outside and steers me toward a nearby bench.

"No," I manage.  My voice sounds destroyed, even to my own ears.  "I have to go."

"Josh, you can't be serious."  Her eyes are wide and scared.

I wipe absently at my cheek and realize with a strange, detached sense of wonder that I appear to be crying.  "I'm fine."

"You're not fine."  CJ half-laughs with frustration.

"She's not fine."  Walking shouldn't be an effort, I don't think.  But I have to direct my suddenly clumsy legs in their duties.

CJ catches up with me a few feet down the pathway and presses a set of keys into my palm.  "She's at my place," she says.  "Josh, stop at Fast Fong's and bring her some hot and sour soup.  She needs to eat something."

I nod my thanks and trudge onward.  Donna's not fine.  I'm not fine.

I don't think anything will ever be fine again.

***

I wonder when it happened.

Not that it matters, especially not now, but it would be interesting to know.  In a perfect world, where everything would have worked out and Josh and I could have had a child together, it would have been nice to know exactly when it happened.

Was it the first time, when we were so frantic and desperate to get at each other?  Or was it the second time when Josh said he loved me and the look on his face was so incredible that I swear I fell in love with him all over again?  In a perfect world, I like to believe, it would have been the second time; it would have happened at that moment when Josh said he loved me.  Of course, even in a perfect world, Josh would laugh at me if I told him I believed that.  He would mock me mercilessly for my susceptibility to that sort of girlish sentimentality.  Secretly, however, he would agree with me.

I wonder too whether, in that perfect world, we would have had a son or a daughter.  There's something tremendously appealing about the idea of Josh's son -- a miniature Joshua, unruly hair, ego and all.  The potential discipline problems, however, do give one pause.

Besides, I've always wanted a daughter.  There's something basic, almost primitive, about my need for a daughter of my own.  Maybe it goes back to the fact that my relationship with my parents leaves so much to be desired.  I swear I don't think I ever saw a decent mother-daughter relationship until I started watching Dr. Bartlet and Zoey during the campaign.  But I'd like to be that kind of mother someday.  I could teach my daughter to be proud of how smart she is; I could teach her that being feminine and polite are highly overrated qualities if they mean people walk all over you; I could impress upon her the fact that you never, ever drop out of school for a man.  I could teach her that having inherited a little of her father's massive ego is not necessarily a bad thing.

I can still do most of that, of course.  This doesn't have to have been my only chance to have children.  Someday, when I don't have this insane White House schedule, I'll finish college.  After that, I can start thinking about children.  I might even eventually find someone I could love as much as--

No, that last part's not going to happen.

Fine.  I could adopt.  Even if I don't adopt, there's my niece.  Anna's intelligent, creative, funny; and Frances is doing all the same things with her that my mother did to me.  I should go home this summer.  I should spend time with Anna.  I should remind her that her mother's way of looking at the world doesn't have to be hers.

See?  This isn't the end of the world.  This isn't some great tragedy.  All I've lost here is my one and only chance to have a child with Josh.

No big deal.

***

I can't believe I'm standing in line at a goddamn restaurant right now.

Donna needs me, and I'm dawdling around, waiting for the idiots ahead of me to decide between egg drop soup and lo mein.  I need to get to Donna.  I need to see for myself if she--

I think I may be stuck here.  Frozen right here in this small, aging restaurant, staring endlessly at the take out menu.  I'm not sure I can bear it if--

I don't know for sure what's wrong with Donna.  I don't know, and I'm not going to just assume that she--

I don't know, but I have my suspicions.  I think I know what she's going to tell me.

See, I've been thinking about this, about why Donna would avoid me and lie to me.  About why CJ would agree to help her conceal whatever it is she's hiding, about why CJ would be so angry with me.  About why Donna would be at CJ's if she's not really sick.

The thing is, I know this isn't just Donna being mad at me for something.  It's not that I made some atrocious comment to her or committed some unforgivable act.  Because Donnatella Moss has never, not once since I've met her, she's never kept any feeling to herself.  She's a walking ball of vibrant emotion.  When she's angry, she gets loud, her gestures expansive.  When she's upset, her big blue eyes fill with tears and her hands clutch at each other.  And her laughter is the stuff of legends.

The only time she ever hides her emotions is when she's trying to protect someone.  And that someone is usually me, and more often than not, her actions are the result of me doing something stupid.  This time, I think--

Please, God, don't let her have done this.

A strange, tortured noise comes out of me.  The woman beside me gives me a slightly fearful look, then edges away.  I barely have the wherewithal to remain upright; I'm supposed to manage social niceties too?

Right now?  Right when I'm just starting to understand the full magnitude of this... situation?

The harried man behind the counter waves me forward, and I order.  Something.  I honestly have no idea what I just said (I'm impressed I managed to speak at all); I'm hoping I got whatever CJ told me to.

CJ.

The look CJ gave me before I left is haunting me.  She looked like she couldn't decide whether to hug me or slap me.

So we've got Donna avoiding me, but not angry, which means she's trying to keep me from knowing something.  We've got CJ feeling torn between anger and pity, which means that however this is my fault, CJ, at least, believes it was unintentional.  And we've got a whole lot of secrecy.

I can only make these pieces fit together one way, and the full picture is too horrifying to contemplate.

Donna's pregnant.

The man behind the counter barks something and waves a paper bag in my direction.

Was pregnant.

I accept the bag numbly.  I can't feel my fingers.

Donna's not sick; she's in pain.

I stumble toward the door.

Donna's in pain because she had an abortion.

God.

I run for my car.  I have to know for sure.

Could Donna really have--

I have to know.

***

Despite what CJ said, I should get out of bed.  This sitting around and brooding isn't healthy.  I'm feeling better, and I noticed some papers on CJ's desk that look terribly disorganized.  I love Carol, but her filing system leaves much to be desired.  If CJ has some post-its and some extra file folders, I could start rearranging things for her.  Color coding is the key.  Well, it is for Josh anyway.  It would be a nice gesture, considering all the trouble I've put CJ through today.

Ten minutes later, I've gathered up enough spare office supplies to begin working out a system.  I'm sitting on CJ's couch, going through papers, concentrating on the work, when I am hit by this overwhelming wave of sorrow.

I don't know what triggers it; I'm simply overcome by the futility of everything.  I mean, what's the point?  How can anything that started out like that, with Josh all smiling and saying he loved me, end up like this?  I put the papers on the coffee table, curl up with one of CJ's overstuffed throw pillows, and sob.  I did the best thing I could do under the circumstances; I kept Josh safe, and that is absolutely what matters most to me.  I can't mourn the loss of some vague possibility that never seemed quite real.

What I'm regretting right now, I realize -- why I'm crying -- is because I can't tell Josh.  I want more than anything to share this with him.  Not that I want him to suffer too, so it's just as well he doesn't know.  It's that -- I think I'd feel better if Josh were here, that's all.  Reassured.  I did all this to protect him; it would be reassuring to know it worked and he's safe.

I'm vaguely aware of the sound of the key turning in the lock.  If Josh can't share this with me, I've still got CJ, which counts for more than a little.  I should stop crying and tell her I'm fine.  But I can't even summon the energy to look up.  The day's been way too long, and I'm too tired.  So I bury my head deeper into the pillows, and I wait for CJ to tell me I need to pull myself together.

Because that's what I need to do.  Josh will be safe now, and that's really all that matters.  I just have to stop crying and remind myself of that.

***

I can hear Donna sobbing before I even get the door open.  I fumble with the key, panicked, until it finally releases.

The sight that greets me inside CJ's apartment makes me freeze.  Donna is curled up on the couch, swathed in blankets, her face buried in a pillow.  Her thin frame is shaking with the force of her sobs.

"Donna."  My voice doesn't seem to be working.  The bag of food drops from my numb fingers, and I think I will forever associate the smell of hot and sour soup with soul-deadening pain.

I manage to move, finally, my steps uneven.  At the edge of the couch, I drop jarringly to my knees, my shaking hands reaching for Donna.  Her sobs, the sound of her despair -- I'm crying too, without even really understanding why.

How could this have happened?  How could something so beautiful and so right turn so suddenly awful?

How could she do this without telling me?

My hands are on her shoulders, pulling her toward me.  My thoughts are fractured.  I'm angry and hurt and empathetic and so, so sad.  I can't fixate on one emotion, so I concentrate on Donna.

Her eyes are swollen from crying, her cheeks tearstained when she finally lifts her head to look at me.  "Josh," she whispers, her voice rough.  "I--"

"Don't," I tell her.

Then I pull her to me.  She can't say what I need to hear; I don't think I can comfort her with words.  Instead, I just hold her.

And we cry.  This, at least, we can do together.

THE END

12.01.01