When I was a little girl, my sister Frances and I used to complain that Christmas Eve was the longest day of the year.  I have this very clear image of the two of us, faces pressed up against the picture window in our living room, literally praying for the sun to go down.  Our parents had a strict policy when it came to opening Christmas presents: nothing was to be opened before Christmas morning.  Christmas Eve, therefore, was an endurance test -- something we had to survive before the magic moment on Christmas morning when we could run downstairs and discover whether we'd gotten our hearts' desires.

Recent Christmas Eves haven't been that much better.  I'm usually stuck in an airport somewhere.  Either I'm rushing to make my connecting flight or I'm discovering that my flight has been postponed for an indefinite period of time, leaving me to worry about the fact that my parents are waiting for me at the other end of the journey.  And in the back of my mind, I'm usually thinking that I'd be having much more fun if I'd stayed in Washington for the holidays.

This year I'm staying in Washington, it's Christmas Eve, and I am most definitely not having fun.  This Christmas Eve has been every bit as long as the Christmas Eves of my childhood.  And filled with infinitely more tension.

I got here early because I wanted to make sure I arrived before Josh.  I rehearsed all kinds of light banter to, you know, distract him from the reason he was here today.  I took one look at him, and it all flew right out of my head.

He had his hostile face on.  To be fair, you can't really blame him for that.  He must feel as though everyone he knows has ganged up on him; he knows we all talked to the ATVA people.  And he's all too aware of the ramifications of his yelling at the president and being told to see a doctor.  Josh is a proud man; he doesn't like seeking help, much less having everyone know that he's been ordered to see a psychiatrist.

We won't even deal with what would happen if the press got wind of this.

So Josh came into the office in a mood, but at least today he wasn't yelling at me or (worse) ignoring me.  He was, actually, nice.  I'm betting I'm the last person he's been nice to today.

He looked at me, sitting at my desk on a Sunday morning, and he smiled.  Not a real smile.  Not one of those smiles that shows off the dimples he denies having, but an ironic sort of smile.

"What?" he asked.  "No coffee?"

"I never bring you coffee."

"Last time I was about to lose my job you brought me coffee."

"You're not going to lose your job," I said (with much more conviction than I felt).  "You're just going to see this guy."

"Right," he answered in a tone that indicated we both knew what could happen as a result of his seeing this guy.  This doctor.  Stanley.

I wanted to hug him; but even if it's Sunday morning and Christmas Eve, you can count on a few staffers being around the bullpen.  I settled for taking his good hand and giving it a quick squeeze.  "You'll be fine, Josh," I told him.

I don't think he believed me.

That was six hours ago.  I have had one semi-official task to perform today:  Ironically, I ordered coffee for Stanley and his assistant.  Since then, I have cleaned out the files, updated Josh's schedule through the end of January and finished the research on the Carpenter bill.  And I've made about a dozen surreptitious trips passed the room where Stanley is talking to Josh.  On one of those trips, Josh was standing by the door and we made eye contact.  He looked like he was going through hell.  He looked almost as bad as he did the night after the concert.  But he managed to smile just a little when he saw me.

That's got to be a good sign, right?

He also mouthed the words "go home."  You'd think he'd know better than to tell me things like that, wouldn't you?

He never learns.

There's still a skeleton crew in the bullpen, but most people have long since gone home.  The ones who are left -- the ones who have so little seniority that they have to work on Christmas Eve -- are slightly in awe of the fact that the deputy deputy chief of staff is in the building.  I must remember to mention this to Josh: people who are in awe of me.  He should find that concept amusing.

I have taken to pacing around the foyer, which at least has that beautiful Christmas tree.  Plus, you know, Josh will have to walk by here when his meeting is finished.

"Donna, you want to stop pacing?  You're making me seasick."

I come to a sudden stop.  How long has Leo been sitting there?

"I was just--" I start.

"Waiting for Josh," Leo finishes.  "So am I.  I don't imagine it will be too much longer."

"Have you talked to him since he went in there?"

"No," Leo answers.  "That's not how it works."

Well, of course it's not and I should know that, but I'm worried.  When I get worried, I have trouble grasping certain basic concepts.  Witness my inability, in a moment of stress, to remember the definition of the word "hit."  So I just nod before I say something even more stupid.

And then it occurs to me:  Josh can't refuse a direct order from Leo, and there's something Josh has refused to do for me.  It can't hurt to suggest it, right?

"Josh hurt his hand," I say.

"I noticed."

Right.  Of course he did.  There I go, stating the obvious again.

"He won't go to the doctor," I explain.  "It could be infected, you know.  The statistics on untreated--"

"Donna, do you want me to tell Josh he has to go to the doctor?"

"No, I want you to tell him he has to let me take him to the doctor.  Because otherwise he might try to lie and say he went.  He's scared of needles."

Leo nods.  "I'll tell him."

I thank Leo and hurry back to the bullpen to grab my coat and Josh's stuff.  By the time I get back to the foyer, Josh has emerged and is in the middle of what looks like an intense discussion with Leo.

Josh still looks like someone who is going through hell, but this reminds me of a moment in the hospital: he woke up and he had this vacant look in his eyes.  I thought at first that I'd lost him anyway; that the shooting and the surgery had taken all the fire out of him.  Then he looked at me.  He could barely move without pain; but even so, I could see the spark return to his eyes and I knew we had him back.

I see that spark now for the first time in what feels like months.

If I don't get anything else for Christmas, this is enough. 

* * * 

We are uncharacteristically quiet all the way to the hospital.  I had expected Josh to put up at least a token resistance, but he's not complaining.  I wish he'd complain.  Complaining is so Josh, you know?

The quiet is broken once we get to the emergency room.  It's a madhouse, even on Christmas Eve.  Patients and their families chatting, doctors and nurses talking, Christmas carols blaring over the loudspeaker.

Josh is looking pale.

I try taking his good hand again, but he moves away from me.  "Do we have to do this?" he asks.

Ah, good sign.  Complaining.

"Yes, Joshua, we have to do this.  If you're a good boy, I'm sure the nice doctor will give you a lollipop."

"I really can't -- I need to get out of here, Donna."

He stands up, then sits down again abruptly as though his legs won't hold him up.  "This is just too much.  I should get out of here."

Okay, this isn't good.  This is a man who gets hostile for a living, and he's shaking.  Still, I refuse to let that hand get infected.  I like that hand.  I am also fond of the man that hand is attached to.

With what looks like a tremendous effort, Josh stands up.  "I'm leaving," he announces.  "Give me the car keys."

Right.  Because I'm going to let him drive when he can hardly walk.  "You need to see a doctor."

"I know a doctor.  Come on."

Getting out of the hospital is a definite challenge.  Josh is so pale I'm afraid he's going to pass out.  Every sudden sound -- and there are a lot of those -- causes him to jerk and grab me as tightly as he can.  I add to the sounds, which maybe I shouldn't, by murmuring "It's okay, Josh" over and over.  But he doesn't tell me to shut up, so I'm thinking maybe it helps.

He's a little better when we get into the fresh air.  I offer to go get the car and save him some walking, but he just shakes his head and keeps moving with me.  I'm too aware of all the noises out here now, especially when an ambulance goes by and Josh comes to a sudden stop.  I don't know what else to do, so I hold him until the noise fades and we can start moving again.

Josh doesn't so much step into the car as he falls into it.  He shuts his eyes and leans his head against the window, his breath coming out much too fast.  I'm wondering if I made a serious mistake letting him leave the emergency room.  Emergency rooms have people who are more qualified to deal with this kind of behavior than I am, after all.

I give him a minute to catch his breath, and then I ask, "Where do we go now?"

He gives me an address in Georgetown.

"And this will help how?" I ask.

"It's Stanley's address."

I'm confused.  "Stanley is on his way back to San Francisco by now," I point out.

"Not that Stanley.  My -- my friend Stanley."

"Oh, wait.  You mean racquet ball Stanley?"

"What?"  He pauses as if he's remembering something.  "Yeah, that Stanley."

We pass the rest of the drive in silence, with me occasionally sneaking a look at Josh to make sure he's okay.  I try to remember when was the last time I heard about racquet ball Stanley.

I should backtrack here and explain:  When I started working for Josh during the campaign, he used to have me pencil in an hour every week when he could get together to play racquet ball with his friend Stanley.  The racquet ball sessions stopped around the time we took office, which I just attributed to the fact that Josh no longer has a free hour during the average week.  I do remember that Stanley sent flowers and a card to Josh in the hospital.  I remember because it was one of the few cards that Josh kept.

When we get to Stanley's, Josh starts to get out of the car without me.  "I'll be okay," he tells me.  "Stanley's a doctor.  You don't have to worry that I'm breaking orders from Leo.  You can go home."

"And you will get home how?"

"I'm capable of calling a cab.  I'm not a complete basket case."

I'm out of the car and locking the door by the time he finishes that sentence.  "I have my orders," I tell him.

"I was under the impression that you took your orders from me."

"Well, where did you get that stupid idea?"

He smiles.  He actually smiles.  "I have no idea.  I was just clinging to the last of my illusions there."

I take his arm again, and we walk up the steps to Stanley's door.

The man who opens the door does not fit the mental picture I've had of racquet ball Stanley all these years.  He's about ten years older than Josh, overweight, not an athletic looking guy at all.  But he has kind eyes.  I like him better than ATVA Stanley already.

Before Stanley has a chance to say anything, Josh speaks.  "Tell her you're a real doctor," he says.

"I'm a real doctor, Donna," Stanley tells me.

Josh looks confused.  "How did you know this is Donna?"

Stanley gives Josh an amused look.  "Do you really want me to explain that in front of her?" he asks.  Whatever Stanley's referring to, Josh must understand because he immediately starts to blush.

Do you have any idea how much I want an explanation right now?

"See?" Josh says.  "He's a real doctor.  You can leave me here and go enjoy what remains of your Protestant holiday."

"No, I can't.  Leo's orders were to see that you got your hand bandaged, not to drop you on the doctor's doorstep and leave you there."

"There's something wrong with your hand?" Stanley asks.  He holds the door open, and Josh and I walk in.

"I broke a window, and I cut my hand," Josh says.

This is the single most beautiful sentence I have heard in weeks.  He sounds completely embarrassed, but he's telling the truth.  Even after I'd guessed what he'd done, he wouldn't admit it.  So obviously ATVA Stanley made some progress.

This Stanley nods.  "Let me see."

Josh holds out his hand, and Stanley unwraps it.  It's my first look too.  The cut isn't as deep as I'd feared, but I suddenly find myself asking Stanley all kinds of questions about the possibility of infection and whether there could be any shards of broken glass embedded in Josh's hand and whether he should have a tetanus shot and if he'll need stitches.  Josh is looking green around the edges, and Stanley is looking amused.

"And here I thought you were exaggerating," Stanley tells Josh.

Exaggerating how?  Just what has Josh told him about me?

We go into Stanley's office, which is actually the study of his house, and I watch as Stanley takes care of Josh's hand.  I also glance around at the diplomas on the wall, which is when I discover what kind of doctor Stanley is.

Oh.

That explains the racquet ball hours that obviously weren't spent playing racquet ball.  And why they stopped after the election.

I am suddenly, completely angry at the whole damn political system.  There was help available all along.  There was someone Josh could have gone to.  All this time he's been putting himself through hell, all he had to do was call Stanley.  All the time I was hanging on by a thread trying to figure out how to help him, I had Stanley's number and I didn't even know he was anything other than Josh's racquet ball buddy.

And Josh didn't even go to him.  He smashed a window with his hand, he yelled, he threatened, he considered -- All the time he knew where to get help, but he cared more about his damn political career.

He almost killed himself because he cared more about his damn career.

See?  I can say it.  I just have to get really angry first.

But we're at Stanley's now.  This is where Josh asked to go instead of to the emergency room.  So maybe I should just leave him here, after all.  Maybe that's the best thing.

"I should go now," I say.  Josh gives me a look that I honestly can't interpret.  "I followed Leo's orders," I explain, "so I can go home now.  You're capable of calling a cab."

I'm halfway to the car before Josh catches up with me.

"You're angry," he says.

"I am constantly in awe of your Ivy League trained mind," I tell him.

"You're angry I didn't tell you that Stanley was a psychiatrist."

"Joshua Lyman, you are the single most stupid individual on the planet."

"That's not why you're angry?"

"No, it's not.  I'm angry because--"  I gesture back toward Stanley's house.  "He was here all along, and you didn't go to him.  You were in pain, and he could have helped you.  Do you have the slightest idea what I've been through?  Not to mention CJ.  And Leo and Sam and Toby.  And all you had to do was come here."

"It's not that simple.  You know that."

"Yes, it is exactly that simple.  You were seeing him during the campaign.  He knows about me, for god's sake.  He sent you a card in the hospital.  It's not like you haven't seen him since you went into politics."

"This is different."

"Right.  Because you've never been suicidal before."

We stand there staring at each other for a minute, neither one of us truly believing that I said it out loud.

Finally, Josh speaks.  "No," he says softly, "this was the first time."

I hate hysterical, sobbing women.  I hate women who fall apart at the first little thing.  I hate that I'm turning into one now.

Josh pulls me into his arms.  "I'm not suicidal anymore," he says.  "I'm not well, but I'm not suicidal."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure.  Why the hell would anyone voluntarily leave a world that has Donnatella Moss?"

I hate when he says things like that.  He only does it to leave me speechless.

"You're absolutely sure you're not suicidal?" I ask again.

"Absolutely."

"So if I were to, you know, kiss you, you wouldn't decide that you had accomplished everything on that list of yours and now you could die without regrets?"

"Actually, if you kissed me now, I'd probably start adding a few items to the list," he answers.

"Well, okay then."

And I kiss him.  Not the sort of tentative little kiss I gave him once in the office.  A significant kiss.  Amazingly, it does not feel at all like a first kiss.  There's none of that sweetly awkward quality to it.  We kiss as though we've been doing this for the last three years.  And maybe we have.  Maybe that's what all the banter has been, in its own strange way.

"Well," Josh says, "I guess this complicates things."

I smile.  "Of course it does.  You'd have absolutely no interest in this relationship if it wasn't complicated."

He's stroking my cheek now.  "I wouldn't go that far," he says.

"Josh," I sigh, "we really shouldn't be pursuing this now."

"Right," he says, "I remember.  You gave that whole speech about wanting me to be happy and healthy before we did this."

"Which you aren't.  Yet."

"You'd be amazed how happy I'm feeling right this instant."

"Will Stanley talk to you tonight?"

Josh sighs.  "He's waiting for me right now."

"Then go.  Talk to Stanley.  That's more important than this.  And it's definitely more important than your damn career."

He nods.  "You go home.  I'll call a cab."

He walks me the rest of the way to the car, promising to call me in the morning.  I start up the car, but I don't leave until I see him safely inside Stanley's house.  Then I head home.

Without Josh in the car, I can turn on the radio.  There are Christmas carols playing, and a disc jockey announcing that it's officially Christmas morning.  The long, unendurable day is finally over, and it looks as though I'll get my heart's desire after all.

THE END

01.02.01