Josh is dying.

That's all I can think, kneeling here on the pavement trying to hold his body together.  Watching his hand falls limply to his side.

He's fighting to keep his eyes open, and I'm fighting to keep this hole in his chest closed with shaking hands and my hastily shed suit jacket.

Josh is dying.

I'm yelling for a doctor.  Instead, I get Sam and CJ. They stare down at me, wide-eyed and not helping.  I yell some more, so loud that my throat feels like it's tearing, and Sam darts away in search of paramedics.

With a moan, CJ drops to her knees on the stairs, her hands fluttering above Josh's body before settling over mine and adding pressure.  Josh whimpers, and CJ catches my gaze with a tortured look that I suspect mirrors my own.  We're hurting him.

Josh is dying, and we're hurting him.

I'm shaking and my hands are soaked in Josh's blood.  CJ and I are pushing down with all of our strength, and his blood continues to spill, spreading over the pavement until I can feel the warm stickiness seeping through to my shins.

Running footsteps, and then hands are pulling me away.  I fight, momentarily, before I realize it's a paramedic.  Sam brought the paramedics.  Then I scoot back, my knees smearing Josh's blood on the ground as I go.

Josh is dying, and I would be screaming if I could feel anything.

Sam and CJ are huddled on the other side of him, watching with panicked eyes as the paramedics rip open Josh's shirt and expose the full brutality of the wound.  I can't move.  I don't want to see this, but I can't take my eyes off of Josh's pale chest reflecting the blue and red lights of the cruisers.

The paramedics are preparing Josh, sliding some sort of board under him, sticking him with needles, and covering the bleeding hole in his body.  Josh fights listlessly, rolling his head sideways, his eyes vacant.

Josh is dying, and he catches sight of me.

His hand reaches out for me.  Why for me?  Sam or CJ or almost anyone else would know what to do right now.  I grab him blindly, and his grip is surprisingly strong even though his skin is slick with blood.

Josh stares at me, and I try to school my features into something hopeful.  But I'm not that person.  I can't be that person.  I should relinquish his hand and his gaze to Sam, but I can't.

I know, somehow, that I am keeping Josh alive.  The paramedics put a collar around his neck, and he can't turn his head anymore, so I inch closer.  If I let go of him, if I glance away for even a second, he'll slip away.

Josh is dying, and I'm not strong enough to do this.

But I lurch to my feet when the paramedics lift him.  I stumble down the stairs, Sam and CJ at my heels, as we race toward the waiting ambulance.  I manage to climb into the ambulance, using my free hand on the pristine white door for leverage.  It leaves a smear of Josh's blood, and I feel nauseous.  But I don't let go.

The ride is instantaneous and never ending.

The siren is deafening and inaudible compared to Josh's labored breathing.

The paramedics are doing too much that I don't understand, and not enough.

Josh is dying, and they can't save him.

Sam and CJ hold on to each other on the opposite side of the gurney, but I'm still right next to Josh, pulling him back from the edge.  His eyes start to slide shut, and I lean closer, willing him to keep fighting.

He stares up at me as the ambulance eases to a stop.  The paramedics yank the doors open, but I'm still watching Josh.  I can feel his fingers tighten for just a moment; and I squeeze back, trying to pour some of my strength into him.

Josh looks at me and the corner of his mouth tilts up just a little.  I'm shaking my head angrily, because I can recognize the acceptance creeping in.

Josh is dying, right here in front of me.

I think I'm arguing with Josh, but he's not arguing back.  Not out loud.  Instead, he lets his eyes drift shut as the paramedics tug the gurney out of the ambulance.  I try to hold on, but they're moving too quickly for me.

Josh's hand slips out of mine, and they're running for the doors.  I don't move for a minute, because I can't believe I let go of him.  CJ and Sam run past, and I start after them.  I have to be there.

Because Josh is dying.

***

Josh is dead.

Oh, God.  Josh of the sparkling wit and the amazing intellect and the wicked sense of humor.  Josh is dead.

When they wheeled my husband out of surgery, I was so incredibly relieved that my family came through this damaged, but alive.

Now, I chose this precise moment to take a break from sitting with my slumbering husband, and that illusion is torn away from me.  Because it's only been seven hours; the surgeon should still be in surgery repairing Josh's torn artery instead of walking down the hall toward the waiting room with that look on his face.

I'm paralyzed, standing here in the hallway in shock.  There's a heavy feeling in my stomach, almost nausea, as I stare at the man in the scrubs with a small splotch of blood on the side.

Josh's blood.

The doctor hasn't even spoken yet, he's merely walking toward me, but I know that look.  I'm a doctor; I've worn that look as I trudged down the hallway after a failed attempt to save some kid who was thrown out of a souped up Mustang, or, one tragic time, a toddler who'd guzzled some pesticide.  The look that's a mix of anger, disappointment, shame, and fear -- fear of telling the family that I've failed them.  That their lives have been irrevocably altered because their loved one is dead.

Josh's surgeon has that exact same look on his face.

Josh is dead.

I can't let this anonymous man tell the staff; I owe Josh that much.  He got my husband elected president, after all, I think with a humorless chuckle.  It comes out sounding more like a sob.

I call the doctor's name and pick up my pace.

The surgeon notices me and stops just outside the waiting room.  There are windows, and I can feel the gaze of the staffers on me as I reach him.  I purposely stand facing the windows, so they can't read the truth in the doctor's statement.

I should be the one to tell them.

I steel myself against the words, but I fear my face gives it away to those who are watching me.  Leo especially.  The man knows me far too well.

I'm nodding as the surgeon expresses his condolences and then fills me in on the details of Josh's death, but I'm not really listening.  Because I already know.  I've been there, and I can imagine all too well the frantic beeping of the heart monitor.  The cacophonous sound of the alarms.  The raised voices, the chaotic action.

The sharp, painful shocks through Josh's lifeless body as they attempt to restart his heart.

Damn it all to hell; I'm crying.

I can't believe Josh is dead.  He's so -- He was such a vibrant person.  How can he be dead?  What are we supposed to do now?

I realize the surgeon has stopped speaking, and I force myself to focus on him for a moment.  I say that I'll break the news and he nods, telling me he'll be available if anyone wants to talk to him.  Then he leaves, and it's just me.

I look through the window and meet Toby's gaze.  He knows.

I'm not sure how, but I can read the knowledge in his eyes, as surely as he can read it in mine.  Hours ago, I found Toby frantically scrubbing his hands at a water fountain in the hallway, oblivious to the tears streaking down his cheeks.  He told me, in halting words, that he'd found Josh and tried to save him.  I can tell from the look on Toby's face right now that he's already blaming himself.

I take a deep breath to steel myself and reach for the door handle.  This is quite possibly the worst moment of my life thus far.  I thought the mind-numbing panic I experienced seven hours ago was bad, but it was nothing compared to this.

Then, I was worried, but I could still feel Jed.  It sounds ridiculous, but I'd know it if he were dead.  That goes double for Zoey.  I was terrified that perhaps they were injured and dying, but I still had hope.

Now, although my immediate family is safe, I have lost one of my extended family.  Josh holds a special place in my heart; during the campaign, he was wonderful with Zoey, who had a crush on him.  Josh always made time for her when she came in to work; he even started taking her out for ice cream.

And Josh is the one who introduced Charlie and Zoey.

I just...  I don't want to have to tell Charlie.  I don't want to have to tell my daughter that the man she loves like a big brother is dead.

I don't want to have to tell Leo, my dear friend Leo, that the man he loves like a son is dead.

I don't want to tell CJ or Sam or Toby.  I don't want to tell Donna.

Most of all, I don't want this to be true.  I don't want Josh to be dead.

But tonight, my job is to walk into this waiting room and dash the hopes of everyone inside.  God, please, help me be strong enough to do this.  My hands are shaking as I close the door behind me and turn to face them.

They're all standing there, watching me warily.  Charlie has his arm around Zoey, and I think they're holding each other up.  Sam and CJ are clutching hands, staring at me with pale, worried faces.  Toby is off to the side, standing stiffly in the knowledge he gleaned from my reactions.

Leo knows too.  He looks like he did when Jenny left, like life has taken a sudden, unexpected turn and left him, bewildered, by the wayside.

And Donna...

Donna is sitting in one of the chairs, and I don't think she has the strength to stand right now.  She's staring at me in horror, shaking her head as if to ward off the news I bear.

I glance at each of them in turn as I tell them that the bullet did incredible damage to Josh.  I hear myself talking, explaining how Josh's heart stopped twice during surgery.  I'm amazed that my voice is steady while I recount how the doctors brought him back once, but the strain on his body was just too much.  Too much blood loss, too much trauma.

Just too much.

I tell them that the surgeons did their best, but that the bullet did too much damage.  Josh's body wasn't strong enough to make it.

Through it all, they stare at me, unmoving.

Then, when silence falls, Leo begins to shake his head, his hands fisted at his sides.  Zoey turns her face into Charlie's chest, crying, and his arms go around her back.  Sam is sniffling as he and CJ collapse into chairs, still holding onto each other.

Toby merely closes his eyes where he stands, one hand reaching up to his shirt.  It takes some effort, but he manages to tear a hole in the fabric, right over his heart.

I turn my gaze to Donna last, because I fear she will be utterly lost.  She is still sitting frozen, still staring at me, her mouth open in shock.

I go to Donna and sit beside her, clasping her cold hand in mine.  But she's not paying attention.  I don't think she's really aware of where she is right now.

I don't think she can be; this knowledge, this horrible realization is too overpowering.

And not just for Donna.  Josh is -- was -- such an integral part of the group.  I glance around at this amazing collection of people, and they seem... diminished, somehow.  Not quite whole.

I wonder if they'll ever be whole again.

***

7:08 a.m.
May 18, 2000

I don't think I've been fully present since Abbey brought us the news.

I keep seeing him in my mind:  Adira and Noah proudly holding their newborn; a curly haired scamp with an infectious grin; that sad little boy in his best suit, not understanding where his sister went; a graduation photo, with a note that he was off to Harvard; a young politician with that ever-present black backpack.

I should be at the White House.

What's left of my staff is disintegrating around me, the president doesn't even know about -- this -- yet, and I should be holding down the fort at the White House.  But I can't seem to move.  Because I'm sitting here in this waiting room with CJ, Sam, Donna, Toby, Mallory, Charlie, Zoey, and Abbey, and all I can think about is the one who's not here.

Who won't ever be here again.

I must have made some sort of distressing noise, because Abbey is suddenly at my side, taking my hand.  She murmurs something in my ear, but I'm not really listening.

I have to get it together.

The rest of them can fall apart right now, but I can't.

Donna sobbed for a solid hour before Abbey sedated her.  Now she's sitting in the corner, devastated and numb.  It's given the rest of them something to concentrate on, though.  They never leave her alone; one of them -- usually Mallory -- is always with here, holding her hand or stroking her hair or offering her tissues.

Sam and CJ have been taking turns crying on each other's shoulders.  I'm not sure what happened to those two tonight, but they seem reluctant to be separated.  Which is probably just as well at this point.

Mallory, who's known him her whole life, arrived and threw herself into my arms.  I pawned her off to Zoey, because I can't yet be what she needs me to be.

Zoey and Charlie still seem dazed.  They don't have the experience with -- things like this.  What am I saying?  Charlie lost his mother a year ago.  Now this; I hope it's not too much for him.  I'm worried about Zoey too; she's had a pretty good life, and now violence has taken someone she loves away from her.

Toby disappears every once in a while, returning with red eyes and sagging shoulders.  I think CJ wants to comfort him, but she knows as well as I do that Toby is someone who grieves privately.  Besides which, the sight of Toby crying might just do the rest of us in.

Abbey sits beside me, crying a little but mostly under control.  She's in the same hell I am -- she still has to tell Jed.

Which is probably why I can let her touch me.  If CJ were to hug me, I would lose it.  And I can't.  I have another task, a cruel task.

When Adira Lyman arrives, I have to tell her that her son is -- gone.

Adira Lyman, whom I've known for decades, is going to walk in that door, take one look at my face, and realize her family has been reduced to one lonely member.  And I'm not sure she can take another loss.

I was at Jonika's funeral, and I saw what it did to Adira and Noah.

And him.  A scared nine-year-old boy.

I just hope he's with Joanie now.

And Noah.  God, I still can't believe I missed Noah Lyman's funeral.  I told myself it was the campaign; I told myself I couldn't let Jed down.

In reality, I couldn't bear to see him suffer like that.  He's carried such a burden since Joanie's death; I couldn't watch him shoulder another.  It was too much for me to handle, so I stayed in California and worked.

I let down the man I love -- loved -- like the son I never had.

Abbey whispers my name, and I realize that I'm shaking.  I glance around the room absently.  Toby meets my gaze, his mouth trembling.

And then there's movement outside the doors and I jerk to my feet.

Adira Lyman bursts into the room, her gaze skittering past the other occupants before settling on Abbey.  Then she turns her fearful gaze to me.

I'm frozen for a moment, staring at her across the length of the waiting room.  Belatedly, I realize there are tears on my cheeks.

Adira shakes her head and backs away.  One hand clamps over her mouth, but I can still hear her heartbreaking denials.  With her free hand, she scrabbles at the material near her neck, finally rending it with a searing rip.

Toby, recognizing the gesture, makes an agonized noise, and it's finally real.

My paralysis breaks right along with my heart.

Josh is dead.

I say the words aloud, and Adira recoils as if I have slapped her.  I reach her side and follow her awkwardly to the floor.  She lands on her knees, still begging with her eyes for me to take it back.

I would give anything I could to do so.

I tell her I'm sorry, and my voice catches.

And then we're both crying.  I'm trying to comfort her, but I have no platitudes to offer.  I look for my deputy, but he's not there.

Josh is dead, and I feel so empty inside.

***

11:19 a.m.
May 18, 2000

Josh's office feels so empty.

It's only been six hours -- how can his office feel so damn dead?

I can't believe it's only been six hours.  It feels like ten minutes ago that he was standing outside the boardroom, sopping wet and grinning like a maniac.  It feels like eight minutes ago that we won the nomination.  It feels like five minutes ago that we took office.

And now his office is vacant.

We didn't have enough time, dammit.

I flip the TV on to break the stifling silence.  CJ's briefing should be on anytime.

I didn't want to leave the hospital.  I didn't want to leave Josh there, alone.  I felt like I was abandoning him.  Abbey, Zoey, and Charlie were in with the president; Leo took Josh's mother to the Residence, and Toby ordered us back to the West Wing.

In another situation, I would have goaded Josh into pulling rank and countermanding Toby's order.  But Josh is dead.  And Toby said, in this drained whisper, that waiting rooms are for people who still have hope.  We have no place in a waiting room right now.

There's no such thing as a grieving room.

CJ sent Donna home with Margaret, and then CJ and I clutched each other and followed Toby numbly to the car.  We adjourned to Toby's office, nodding our acknowledgment to the staffers who offered their condolences, to write The Statement.

The Statement that will admit to the world that the White House is vulnerable.

The Statement that will declare Joshua Lyman dead.

I couldn't stay in that room.  I couldn't draft that statement.  I knew if I did, I would never be able to write again.  That probably makes me weak.  Josh would make fun of me, I'm sure, if he were around.

But if he were around, we wouldn't need The Statement.

God, I'm never going to be the punchline in Josh Lyman's jokes again.

This reality is too harsh, too dark, and too colorless.  So here I am in Josh's office, another dark space, but one that usually brings me comfort.

Instead of feeling better, I'm standing here, unable to move.  Nine hours ago, when Josh was dying right in front of me -- I couldn't move then, either.  Maybe if I'd run for paramedics when I heard that strangled note of panic in Toby's voice, maybe if I hadn't stood there, staring stupidly down at Josh while my brain tried to understand the sight before me, maybe if I'd run faster, Josh would still be alive.

I would gladly have taken the bullet for him.  The president can find another speechwriter; Toby's ten times better than me anyway.  But Josh's political mind...  He's amazing.  And irreplaceable.

In politics, and in the lives of the people he loves.

I owe Josh everything.  He helped me when I arrived on the Hill, he rescued me from 9-5 corporate hell, and he started me on this, the most amazing journey of my life.

But he's supposed to be there at the end.  We're supposed to go out the night after President Bartlet leaves office and get blistering drunk.  He's supposed to confess to Donna that he's been in love with her for years.  He's supposed to be happy, dammit.

I'm crying again.  It feels like I never stopped.

I've lost people before, but never someone so close to me.  Never someone whose life has been such a part of mine for so long.  I don't know what I'm doing.  I'm floundering.

And then CJ's voice rescues me.

I glance over at the TV, and she's just entered the pressroom.  She looks like hell.  Her suitjacket was far too bloodied to salvage -- she threw it out at the hospital -- but she's still in the rumpled clothes she was wearing yesterday.  Her hands are shaking just the slightest bit, and she's extremely pale.

But she is amazing.  Even reading The Statement, she doesn't break down.  Her voice cracks, but she gets through it.

The Statement is beautiful.  Toby did an amazing job, painting Josh's legacy with a few broad strokes.  Hearing it, I wish I had been able to write it.  I should have done at least that much for Josh, if I couldn't save his life.

I could at least save his legacy.

CJ finishes and refuses questions, then leaves the room, her head high.  I can hear her coming down the hallway; she's crying openly.  I'm so proud of her for getting through that briefing.

I glance around Josh's office again, and I remember during the campaign we stopped in Connecticut.  Josh and I stayed with his mother for the night, and the next morning, they allowed me to come with them to the cemetery to visit Noah and Joanie.  I remember Josh explaining the Jewish custom of leaving rocks on the tombstones of loved ones.

I don't have any rocks on me, but I pull out my keys.  The small, battle-scarred bottle opener was a gift from Josh the first year we met.  I ease it off the keyring, stare at it for a moment, and then lay it on Josh's desk.  He doesn't have a tombstone yet, but this office has always been Josh.  It feels right to leave it here as a marker.

The keychain is lost amongst the chaos of Josh's desk, but that's how it should be.

Feeling the tiniest bit stronger, I leave the office with one last glance back, then head for CJ.  She takes one look at me and gathers me into her arms.  Again.  She's been amazing this whole time.

We collapse together onto her couch, and I'm mumbling something to her, but I don't know what because I'm so tired.

CJ gently covers me with a blanket and tells me we'll worry about it when I wake up.

***

1:47 p.m.
May 18, 2000

I know as soon as I wake up.  As soon as I see Abbey's face my stomach knots and I have to fight the wave of nausea that Abbey blames on the anesthesia, and I blame on sudden, horrific knowledge.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't know who it is, but I know it's somebody I care about.  I'm ashamed to admit I am relieved it's not Zoey.  I know it's not, because if it were one of our children, Abbey wouldn't be sitting by my bedside with dried tear tracks on her face; she'd be... I don't even want to contemplate that possibility.

That possibility is the only thing I can think of right now that would feel worse than this.

Joshua Lyman.

It's unbelievable, in the truest sense of the word.

That man is -- was -- one of the most vibrant people I've ever had the pleasure to meet.  The bravado, the sarcasm, that persona he cultivated, it was all for the purposes of concealing the fact that he is really an incredibly caring, sensitive soul.  With the mind of a politician, of course.  Which makes for some interesting contradictions.

Made for some -- God.  I have to think about Josh Lyman in the past tense?

Abbey sits with me for... I don't know, for however long it takes for it to feel real.  For me to understand on an emotional level.  My doctors arrive and fuss at me for getting upset -- how absurd is that?  A friend of mine died last night while I was under the knife, and I'm not supposed to get upset?

My dear Abbey politely but firmly tells them to get out, then climbs onto the narrow bed with me and holds me.

I can't tell you how painful it is -- literally painful -- to cry ten hours after surgery.  When I start to calm, Abbey chastises me for pulling at my sutures, and I manage a watery chuckle.  She lifts the bandage to check the stitches, and then it's her turn.  She mumbles an apology into her hands and tries to turn away.

I'm sure she's been holding it in this whole time, keeping it together for Zoey, for Leo, and for me.  So I pull her back against me and stroke her hair while she lets out her fear and her anger and her sorrow.  She actually cries herself to sleep, which answers the question of whether she slept at all last night.

I may have dozed off for a bit myself, because I open my eyes and Leo's slumped in the chair that Abbey abandoned when she joined me.  I glance down at her, but she's still asleep, a small furrow in her brow.

Then I turn my attention to Leo.  He looks like hell.  Margaret must've retrieved a new suit, but his face is haggard.  I swear, he's aged ten years overnight.

I breathe in rather sharply, and Leo's eyes snap open and he's staring at me.  We just watch each other for a moment, deferring personal pleasantries in favor of silent companionship.  Silent, shared grief.

I may not have lost Zoey last night, but Leo lost Josh.

Not only am I without a friend and an irreplaceable staff member, my best friend is without the man who was like a son to him.  And I'm worried that I'll lose Leo over this.  To the bottle, to retirement -- I'm not sure he can take much more.

Leo musters his strength and starts to speak.  He tells me about the staff, about the ones left behind.  He tells me that Toby is silent and brooding, CJ is quiet and crying, Sam is lost and belligerent, and Donna is devastated.  But he has it under control.  The White House is still running efficiently.

I see the haunted look in his face when he says that:  The White House is still running efficiently.  Without Josh.

How can it run efficiently without Josh?  Without the driving force behind my campaign and the political genius who scares the hell out of the conservative Right?  It shouldn't be possible.

If I thought Leo looked awful moments ago, he looks abysmal now.  Because now he's telling me that Adira Lyman is making arrangements for Josh's funeral.

Josh's funeral.

In the space of maybe an hour, I learned of Josh's death and now have to start planning for his funeral.

I tell Leo that I have to be there.  It is imperative that I be there.  I understand that Jewish custom dictates burial as soon as possible after death, but I must be there.

Abbey stirs against me, probably because I have inadvertently raised my voice above the hushed whisper on which Leo and I tacitly agreed.  My wife makes a small, anguished groan as the events of the last dozen hours come back.  Then she sits up, greets Leo with a shadow of a smile, and says I'll be released from the hospital tomorrow.

Leo nods.  Josh's funeral, he assures me, will be the day after in Connecticut.  He'll be laid to rest with his father, Noah, and his sister, Joanie.

Abbey nods and tells me I'll be strong enough then.  Physically, perhaps.

On Thursday, we'll bury Josh.

***

6:52 p.m.
May 18, 2000

I can't eat.

Mom and Charlie keep telling me I have to keep my strength up, that I need to eat, that -- that Josh would be force-feeding me chocolate chip ice cream if he were here.

But that just makes me cry again.  Because he's not here.  He won't ever be here again.

I don't know how to do this.  I don't know how to say goodbye to Josh.  I've never done this before.  I've never had to.

My life -- I've been lucky so far.  Three of my four grandparents are still alive, as are my aunts and uncles.  Grampa Barrington died when I was four; all I remember from that is the devastated look on my mother's face, and the way she held me so very tightly while she cried.

I never understood that overwhelming loss.  I never felt it before now.

I hate myself because I can't stop crying.  Charlie's had to deal with me sobbing all over him for almost twenty-four hours now.  My mother's been with me most of the time too, but she's been in with my father and Ron Butterfield for a while now.

Gina appears at the door of the hospital room Charlie and I commandeered -- the Secret Service cleared the entire hallway -- and beckons to us.  I'm shaking as she leads us to my Dad's room.

I see his face, and he looks worse than I've seen him in years.  This despair in his eyes -- it reminds me of that summer when I was twelve and he found out about the MS.

But this isn't about him.  This is about Josh, Charlie, and me.  Dad stumbles over his words a bit, and Ron Butterfield confirms what I've known in my gut since -- since it happened.

This is my fault.

Josh is dead because of me.

I'm crying again; but this time instead of holding me, Charlie pulls away.  I watch in shock as he stumbles past Gina and out into the hallway.

Mom leaves Dad's side to embrace me, and I weep in her arms.  I feel so damn weak, crying like this, but I can't seem to control it.  I can't look at Dad, who's hurt because of me, so I mumble my apologies into my mother's shirt.

She surprises me by grabbing my forearms and holding me away from her, ordering me to look at her.  Shocked, I do.

Mom tells me in that no-arguments-allowed voice that this is not my fault.  It is not Charlie's fault.  Or Dad's.

I work up the courage to look at my father, and he nods solemnly.  Then, Dad holds out a hand and I hesitantly move towards him.  Mom's arm settles around my waist as Dad takes my hand in his.

It isn't Josh's fault, he tells me.  Three foolish, ignorant, violent young men are to blame.

I nod my understanding, but it still hurts so much.

Josh is dead.

Josh is dead, and Charlie is hurting.

My parents immediately understand when I glance at the door.  Dad kisses my hand and Mom squeezes me tightly before letting go.  They tell me to go to Charlie.  To find him and make him believe it's not our fault.

Charlie's in the hallway, leaning against the wall like it's the only thing keeping him upright.  It should be me.  I should be holding him up, like he's held me up through the long night.

But he jerks away from my touch when I reach him.

We argue loudly, and he's trying to walk away from this.  To walk away from me.  I refuse to let him, and when my words don't break through his daze, my touch does.  I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in his neck.

Slowly, his arms come up to encircle me, tightening as he begins to cry into my hair.  The guilt won't go completely away, probably not ever, but I know in my heart that this isn't our fault.

So does Charlie.

But that doesn't change the fact that Josh is dead.

And I still don't know if I can deal with that.

***

11:42 a.m.
May 20, 2000

I don't think I can do this.

I really don't.

Speaking to the press corps is one thing, but delivering Josh's eulogy is quite another.

Sam was supposed to do this, but he can't even say Josh's name without crying.  Toby refused, the President is too weak, and Donna is still a shell of herself.  Abbey brought her to the Residence Tuesday night because it's more than apparent that Donna is not handling this well.

Not that any of us are, really.

How can we?  Josh is dead.

I've said that phrase so many times in the last forty-eight hours, but each time the words hurt just as much as the first time, as much as when Abbey brought the news.

Abbey.  She's been a godsend.  Not that she's not just as devastated as the rest of us, but the woman has such an enormous capacity for love that she's been able to keep the President and Leo going.  I've been doing my best to help, but I've been pretty useless.

I honestly don't remember much of the past two days; just fragments.

Donna, paler than I've ever seen anyone and shaking uncontrollably, her eyes dull and lifeless.

Toby, angry and pacing like a caged tiger, vowing to outlaw hate groups if it's the last thing he does.

Sam, locked in his office, weeping and clutching one of Josh's old Harvard t-shirts he found in his gym bag.

Leo, shell-shocked and soft-spoken, trying his damnedest to hold the fractured remnants of his staff together.

The President, somber and grieving as he addressed the nation from the steps of the hospital.

And now all those faces, plus that of Adira Lyman, are staring at me from the rows up front, expecting me to capture Josh's essence in a eulogy.  They told me this would be cathartic.  They told me it would be hard, but I'd feel better when I was through.  They told me Josh would want me to speak for him.

I don't feel up to it.  I can't speak for Josh.  He was smarter than any of us, except maybe the President.  I'm trying to speak for those of use who are left behind, to express in words the unnamable pain we're in, but I feel wholly inadequate.

My shaking hands clench the stilted speech I wrote on Air Force One, but it's not right.  It's not what I want to say today.

I glance at the plain wooden coffin, simple and strong as Josh himself, and then I know exactly what to say.

I tell them about the Josh I knew.  I tell them that the doctors who said Josh wasn't strong enough to survive were wrong.

Josh was the strongest person I know.  His family raised an amazing person, a man passionate and resolute, brash and vulnerable, incredibly intelligent and refreshingly childlike.

Adversity and tragedy forged a man with a core of steel, but with an endless empathy for others.

Monday night, the political world lost a first-class operative.  The White House lost an irreplaceable Deputy Chief of Staff.

But more than that, a mother lost her son.  A man lost his younger self.  A woman lost the center of her world.  And a group of us lost the vibrancy, the wit, the dimples, the charm and the heart of a man whose absence can never be filled.

Josh, I love you, mi amor, and I'll miss you always.

***

10:48 p.m.
May 24, 2000

I loved Josh.  I really did.

I know some people doubt that.  Some people think our relationship disintegrated because I was a heartless bitch with no feelings for him whatsoever.

They might be right about the bitch part.  I don't apologize for that.  I can't apologize for the way I am.  I can't change that any more than Josh could change that remarkable egotism.

Our relationship crashed and burned, but not because I didn't love him.  Oh, how I loved that man.  I still don't understand how any straight woman or gay man who came into contact with him could not love him.  He was so damn charismatic.

It's been a week, and this place is a morgue without him.  Black humor.  Probably making me seem heartless again.  But seven days later, I still don't know how to cope with this.

When I lost Josh the first time, it wasn't permanent.  Oh, I didn't harbor any foolish hopes about Josh being my one true love or about fate reuniting us.  I knew our romantic relationship was over.  But he was still there -- still would be there if I ever needed him.  Despite how poorly I may have treated him, Josh loved me, in his own way.  But he didn't love me the way I loved him.

I think that's why I was so cruel to him sometimes.  I couldn't admit it then, but I always knew that his feelings for me weren't very strong.  I don't honestly know how we made it last as long as it did.

Especially after she arrived, with her blonde hair and her long legs and her instant infatuation with my boyfriend.  I knew right away, the first time I saw them together, that Josh felt it too.  Whatever "it" was, they had it, and Josh and I didn't.

That didn't stop us from beating the dead horse for another couple of months.  Until finally I couldn't stand watching it anymore, and I left him and the campaign.  Immature, probably, but I couldn't be that close to him and get over him.

I'm not sure I'll ever get over him, even now.

I'm not sure it's possible to get over Josh Lyman.

I no longer harbor any ill will toward Donna Moss.  She's destroyed.  I'm devastated, but she's just destroyed.  I hope one day she'll get over Josh's death, but I seriously doubt it.

Hell, I'm still not sure I can do it, and I've had two years of practice.

Which is why I'm in Leo's office, waiting for him to escort me to the Oval Office.  He knows why I'm here; I'm sure they both do.

But Leo doesn't try to talk me out of it, he doesn't even seem like he cares.  He's not doing all that much better than Donna, to be honest.  He looks like hell, and I wonder, fleetingly, if Margaret's made sure there's no liquor around.

Leo silently follows me into the Oval Office, and the President stands to greet me.  He walks over to the couches and lowers himself painfully into an armchair.  I perch on the edge of the couch and hand over my letter of resignation.

I can't do this anymore.  I can't do this without Josh.

They started to clean out his office today.  It's only been a week since those bastards killed Josh in cold blood, and they're already removing all traces of him from the West Wing.  I saw the boxes sitting there, surrounding his desk, and I had to go into the restroom and lock myself in a stall to cry.

Then I splashed cold water on my face, fired up my laptop, and wrote the letter.

I can't be a part of this without him here to argue with; I just can't do this.  Maybe that makes me a coward.

The President doesn't argue either.  I'm sure they all feel like walking away right now.  The entire West Wing is hushed, like everyone is waiting for Josh's triumphant return.

It's not going to happen, and I've got to get out of here.

The President stands and offers his hand.  I tell him how much I've loved working for him, how much Josh loved working for the real thing.  I'm crying again, but I don't even take the time to brush the tears away.  Instead, I shake Leo's hand and turn, heading for the hallway.

When I reach the South Entrance, I slow down.  But I don't look back.  I can't ever look back.

Instead, I emerge into the disgustingly cheerful day and cross to my BMW.

I can't work in that place.  Not without Josh.

***

3:32 p.m.
June 18, 2000

It's been a month since I buried my son.

Thirty days since CJ Cregg delivered a stunning eulogy for my dear boy, since I tossed a small handful of dirt onto his coffin, since the President wept at Josh's gravesite in front of God, CNN, and everyone.

It's been a month, and I'm not sure I can do this without her.

Donna Moss came to Connecticut for the funeral like everyone else.  But she stayed to sit Shiva for Josh.  Jenny McGarry came up for a week, Leo flew in each weekend, and Toby Zeigler stayed four days, but this young, Protestant woman sat Shiva with me, stumbling over the Hebrew.  She told me that she picked up what little she knew of the ritual from books, because years ago, she wanted to know what Josh was going through when his father died.  Her revelation spoke volumes.

I've been so grateful to have her here at the house; even though I've lived alone since I lost Noah, Josh was always a phone call and a short plane ride away.

Now I have no one.

I thought when I lost my dear Jonika that I would never recover.  I never did; at least not fully.  Children aren't supposed to die before their parents.

And then when my Noah succumbed, I lost another part of me.  Now Josh is gone, yet I'm supposed to go on?  How, when three-fourths of my heart is missing?

Every time I look at Donna, I am both relieved and angry.  I'm so glad my Josh was loved so fiercely and so well, but I am furious he had only two years with her.  I had forty-three years with Noah, and that wasn't enough.

I know from hearing Josh speak of Donna that he loved her.  I also know that he had no idea.  My dear boy could be so incredibly obtuse sometimes, a trait he inherited, I assure you, from his father.

I also know, from watching Donna fall apart this last month, that she absolutely adored my son.  I wish so much that there could have been another way for those two to understand.  I remember being where she is right now; I remember the daze I was in after Noah's funeral.

And for the last month, I've been able to focus my energy on Donna, on making sure she survives.  She's not suicidal in the classic sense of the world.  At least not consciously.  But it's an uphill battle getting her to eat twice a day, to go outside into the sun, to function at all.  Aside from the fact that I've grown to love Donna and am honestly worried about her, concentrating on her needs allows me to not think about what I've lost, about what my dear Joshua lost.

I don't have to think about the fact that my son will never hit forty years old.  He'll never retire.  He'll never take that vacation to Greece he talked about for so long.  He'll never marry, never celebrate his tenth anniversary, never experience the elation and terror of impending parenthood.  My son will never know the indescribable highs and soul shaking lows of having his own children.

It's pure anguish, harboring these thoughts.  It seems like just last week I was collecting Josh's firsts -- first tooth, first word, first steps, first day of school.  Now I'm left with only lasts -- the last time I spoke to him, the last time he laughed at my bad jokes, the last silly card he sent me for Mother's Day.  Death is so final, so unforgiving, a lesson Donna has learned in the cruelest possible way.

I'm not sure she's strong enough yet to go back to D.C. -- she's still remarkably pale, the shadows under her eyes are as dark as bruises, and she's lost fifteen pounds -- but she's determined.  This is the first time I've seen much of a spark in her, so I decide not to argue.

Instead, I accompany her one last time to Josh's grave.  We never talk here, at least not aloud.  We even cry silently, our hands clasped in mournful solidarity.

Before we leave, I place the small rock I brought on the tombstone.  As she has every time before, Donna kisses her fingertips and runs them over his name.  Then, with a small sob, she reverently places one tiny coffee bean next to my offering.

I don't understand the significance, but Donna whispers to him that she finally brought him coffee.

Donna seems a little better after we leave, and I feel slightly less worried about her when I drop her at the airport.  I repeat that she has an open invitation to come back any time, and she says again that I should come to D.C.

Then I wave as she walks toward the plane and disappears from view.

I am truly alone now.

I don't know if I can do this alone.

***

10:17 a.m.
January 17, 2001

I'm almost positive I can't do this.

I know I shouldn't do this alone.

I may have been the target, That Night, but I wasn't even injured.  Not a bruise, not a scratch, not even a hangnail.  The President was shot and Josh was killed, but I was utterly unharmed.  I cannot possibly be an adequate spokesperson.

But President Bartlet asked me to speak for him.  He can't be here himself -- The President can't very well read a victim's statement at the sentencing hearing of the man who shot him and killed his Deputy Chief of Staff.  Although he wanted very much to be here, he can't come as Jed Bartlet, the man who lost a friend; he can only be the President of the United States.  And any appellate court in this country would overturn the sentence, citing undue influence by the Commander-in-Chief.

I understand this.  I really do.  I just don't understand why the President selected me to speak today.  CJ, Sam, Toby -- they were all there, and they're all much more eloquent than I'll ever be.  I don't know why he's trusting me with this, but I'll do it.

Josh Lyman's mother is here, and I'm doing my best to avoid her.  I can't face her.  I am responsible for the fact that her son is no longer here.  I am responsible for the unrelenting somber mood in the West Wing.  I'm the reason the President doesn't work the rope line, the reason Zoey is plagued with nightmares, the reason Leo's back up to nightly meetings.  I'm why CJ is just a bit less playful than she used to be, why Toby is considerably more brittle than he once was, and why Sam is a lot less innocent than he used to be.

I'm the reason Donna still can't talk about Josh.

This loss, this gaping hole in their lives -- in our lives -- even seven months later, is my responsibility.

Adira Lyman, Zoey, Leo, Donna, Sam, CJ, Toby, Mrs. Landingham, Bonnie, Ginger, Margaret, Kathy, Nancy, and many of the other familiar faces from the White House are here, watching expectantly as I attempt to speak for them.  And so I walk to the podium, my whole body shaking with nerves.  I don't have anything prepared, really.  I just talk.

I grew up knowing how the world works.  I knew when I took this job that some people might be offended -- violently offended -- by the sight of a black man so close to the President.  And I knew in the back of my mind that dating his daughter was the most dangerous thing I could possibly have done.

The President wouldn't let me quit, after.  I begged.  I may have even been crying, but he refused.  He didn't want the bigots to win.  I understand his motives, but it has been torture to work with these people every day, to see them turn to say something to a man who's not there, to see their faces fall when they hear something that would have struck him funny, to see the slump in their shoulders every night around 9:15.

It's not that they blame me.  In fact, they all tell me it's not my fault.  CJ, Toby, Leo.  I can tell they mean it.  I know they honestly don't blame me for this.  They blame themselves -- if CJ had kept Josh with her on the walk to the car; if Toby had found him sooner; if Leo'd never brought Josh onto the campaign in the first place...

The West Wing is full of people hoarding their guilt like candy.  Sam should've run faster for the paramedics; the President should've gone straight to the car; Donna should've been there.  I don't fool myself into thinking I'm the only one who feels responsible.  Zoey does too, although I tell her every time she wakes up screaming and sobbing that she's not at fault.  Her actions did nothing to bring about Josh's death.

I even know, intellectually, that I didn't cause Josh to die.  I didn't make those ignorant, hate-filled kids buy the guns, or the bullets, or drive all the way up to Rosslyn, Virginia, to open fire on the President and his staff.  I know this in my head, but I have yet to convince my heart.

My mother always taught me to be responsible for my actions.

The thing is, though, the reason that my responsibility is not anything like the gunmen's responsibility, is intent.  I intended to love Zoey Bartlet with all my heart.  I never, ever intended for anyone to be hurt or killed by my actions.

Those three men -- that man sitting right there -- they intended me to die.  They wanted to kill me because they disagreed with my choice in women.  They saw me as less than a man.  More than likely, they saw Josh as less than a man because he was Jewish.

But Josh Lyman was an amazing man.  He is the first person I met in the West Wing.  He watched out for me, he appointed himself a sort of big brother, he even introduced me to Zoey.

What I'm trying to say is that the world was a better place with Josh Lyman in it.  And the cowards responsible for taking Josh away from the people who love him, they should receive the strongest possible sentence.

I stop talking, finally, and look around.  I don't know if I did that right.  I don't even remember half of what I said, but I did it.  Josh, I think, that was for you.

And then I head back to the row of faces -- most of them crying now -- only to stop short when Adira Lyman rises to greet me.

I glance away, unable to meet her gaze.  But she says my name, then she tells me how amazing my words were, and that she's proud of me.  She holds out her hand, tears still tracking down her cheeks, and I shake her hand.  She thanks me, then.  Josh's mother actually thanks me.

I end up sitting between Adira Lyman and Zoey for the rest of the hearing, and I feel a little less tortured than I have for the past seven months.  I'm not healed; I still blame myself.

But maybe it's enough that the rest of them don't.

If Josh's mother can forgive me, maybe one day, I can forgive myself.

***

5:07 a.m.
May 18, 2001

I will never forgive God for this.

Before Josh died, I never thought much about religion.  I didn't wonder whether the universe was cruel or caring or indifferent.  Over the course of the last year, however, I've reached the conclusion that God exists and enjoys playing excessively mean-spirited jokes on humanity.  It's the only explanation for what happened to me that night.  I wasn't even capable of coherent thought for the longest time.  When Toby said that Josh had been hit, I couldn't remember what that word meant.  I sat there for seven hours, literally not thinking.

And then I had this revelation.  This immense, stunning thought.

I realized that I was in love with Josh.  And I was suddenly very sure that he loved me back.

For an instant, I thought that meant everything would be all right.  Because it was too funny.  It was exactly the sort of thing that Josh would laugh at -- the two of us needing an assassination attempt before we got a clue that we were attracted to each other.  It was so us, you know?

Everything would be fine.  I was sure of it.

Five minutes after my epiphany, Josh was dead.

So this is why I've concluded that God is decidedly sadistic.  I mean, would a loving, caring supreme being give me this revelation and immediately snatch Josh away?  Without my even having a chance to tell Josh I love him?  Without even letting me say goodbye?

Wouldn't a loving God never have let me realize what Josh meant to me?  Or better yet, you know, not let Josh die?

I think that people are getting impatient with me.  It's not that the others have gotten over Josh's death.  I don't think any of us will get over it ever.  From President Bartlet right down to Bonnie and Ginger, Josh's death will be the defining moment of all our lives -- the instant when everything we thought we knew about the world changed.  But what I think is that the others, they've incorporated the loss of Josh into their lives.  Most of them can talk about him now.  They tell stories about him, or they joke about how he'd react if he knew what boneheaded thing the Republicans have done this week.  They all still miss him, but they can smile when they think about him.

Me, I can't even say his name out loud without crying.  I'm sure it's getting monotonous.  They must be glad I'm not around all the time.

I'm working in CJ's office now part time while I finish my degree.  That was my concession to the chorus of people telling me that I had to get on with my life, that Josh wouldn't want me to mourn.

That was one of the few things in the last year that made me smile.  I mean, are you kidding?  With his ego?  Josh would positively revel in the fact that I can't move on.

Well, part of him would.  The other part, the bigger part, would worry about causing me pain.  He'd tell me -- I have no idea what he'd tell me; I can't seem to bring the banter alone -- but he'd hate that I'm still hurting.  People who weren't close to Josh didn't understand how sensitive he could be underneath all that ego and arrogance.  They didn't realize that the brashness was merely a cover for an enormously caring soul.

So, mostly because I think Josh would be pleased, I go to school; but I have no idea what I'll do when I graduate.  I can't seem to care about anything enough to spend my life doing it.  I can't see that far into the future -- one more year.  One more year without Josh.  I don't want to think about that.

At least I'll be out of the West Wing completely by then.  I hate it there now. mI have these moments when I'm walking down the halls and I'll turn automatically toward what used to be his office before I remember that someone else works there now.  Or I'll look up from what I'm doing because I'm certain -- I am absolutely positive -- that I heard him shout my name the way he did a dozen times each day.

I hated when he did that.

Now I miss the sound of his voice more than anything.  I miss arguing with him, I miss bantering, I even miss him shouting my name when I was only three feet away.

I'm only truly happy when I sleep.  I have dreams every night about Josh.  Every single night since he died, I've dreamed that it's still his office and we're sitting there, just like always.  He's behind his desk, I'm in the visitor's chair, and we're talking.  I tell him how everyone is, what bills we're trying to get passed, how my classes are going.  He loves it, especially the political stuff.  He gets very upset with me if I don't have all the research ready for him.  Apparently death is much too boring for Joshua.  I asked him about it last night, and he complained that he can't get C-SPAN.

We still don't discuss how we feel about each other.  But that's okay, because he smiles at me a lot in my dreams.  Not the smirk.  The full smile with the dimples.  When he gives me that smile, I know how he feels.

I think that was the way he felt in real life.  Not that I'll ever know for sure.  But I think it was.

CJ says he loved me.  Mrs. Lyman thinks so too.  But, hell, two weeks before the shooting, he was chasing Joey Lucas, so who knows?

The only thing I'm sure of is that I found out that I loved him seven hours too late.  And I never had a chance to tell him.  I haven't found a way to move past that moment when I was trying to decide what I'd tell him when he got out of surgery and the First Lady came in and told us we'd never have a chance to say anything to him again.

It's one year later, and I'm stuck there.  I'm stuck in that moment when I realized that God had just played this huge cosmic joke with Josh and me as the punchline.

I can't seem to find my way out of that moment no matter what I do.

I can't make plans.  I can't think about the future.  I can't focus on anything except the fact that I never told him and I can't tell him now because he's dead.

Josh is dead.

I really don't care about anything else.

***

Everything is quiet
Since you're not around
And I live in numbness now
-"Background" Third Eye Blind

THE END

04.10.01