I really hate this.  I'm watching Josh retreat further and further into himself.  And I'm doing nothing.

Well, to be precise, I'm jumping up and down on the Defense of Homophobia Act, which is not nearly enough to divert my attention from the sight of my friend self-destructing in front of me.  And, yes, I realize my sudden obsession with this bill -- while certainly warranted by the import of the subject matter -- is a defense mechanism of my own.  There's some twisted sort of logic going on inside my head, like if I can fix this, maybe I can fix Josh.

I'm beginning to realize that fixing whatever's broken inside Josh may not be a one-person job.  Especially not one person who has no training in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I've been doing a bit of reading in my few spare moments, and I'm convinced Josh has PTSD.

Not that in and of itself PTSD is a problem.  Well, okay, yes, it is.  But I think all of us have some manifestation of PTSD:  Toby's manic work on hate groups; Sam's paranoia; Leo's excessive mother-henning of both the president and the staff; Charlie's withdrawal into himself; Zoey's panic attacks; the president's obsession with past battles and old enemies; my incessant nightmares.

Everyone who was there that night has dealt with some fallout.  But the thing is, we were able to start dealing with it that night.  Even the president, who was on painkillers for a week, was coherent enough to begin the emotional process of rebuilding himself.  It was hard.  Excruciating, even.  The fear of open spaces, of lurking gunmen... it doesn't just go away by itself.  We each fought it in our own way, hiding as much as possible in our work, but still dealing with it.

Josh, on the other hand, spent a week on some serious, mind-altering drugs.  Then he enjoyed the hell out of his Percocet for another two weeks, and rounded off his recovery with two months of harrowing physical therapy and near-constant pain.  His emotional and mental energy was wrapped up in his physical healing.  I don't think he had much time to deal with the psychological ramifications of being shot by neo-Nazis during an assassination attempt.  Or an attempted lynching, as the president would say.

And so now Josh finally has the time and energy to deal with it.  Only he's not.  So his demons are surfacing however they can, resulting in what appears to be a serious case of PTSD.  The thing is... he can't have PTSD.

He can't have PTSD, because that would mean that he needs some intense psychological help.  Help he can't get.  Well, he can get it, but he may not be able to get help and keep his job.  The idea of a high-level White House staffer seeing a shrink was scary enough for Leo when we took office, which is when Josh reluctantly agreed to stop seeing his psychologist.  Now, after the shooting...

Let's just say if the press ever got wind of it, Josh's political career would be over.  Finished.

And I don't want to be the one to start that in motion.  But at some point, you have to decide -- does this person's career mean more than his mental and emotional well-being?  I'm guessing no.  I mean, I adore my job.  This is the best job I'll probably ever have, and it's been an honor to serve with President Bartlet.  But if I were dangling over the deep end, I'm sure I'd rather have my sanity than my job.

Problem is, I'm not sure Josh would feel the same way.  Political machinations are like food to Josh; I can't take that away from him.  Which is why I need to talk to someone about this.  Someone who cares about him as much as I do.  And someone with a little more insight than Sam, who's still pissed off at Josh for whatever happened after the staff meeting a few days ago.

And so I seek out Donna.

She looks awful.  Her ever-ready smile and what Sam would call her 'perk' have been replaced by sharp, agitated body language and small worry lines marring her forehead.  It occurs to me that Josh may not be the only one about to lose it.

I can only handle so much at one time.

Josh is late to work, so I corner Donna at the coffee pot.  "Bad night?"

"What?" Donna looks panicked, for some reason.  "I just..." she gives me a helpless look.  "I didn't sleep that well."

My eyes flick to Josh's darkened office.  "There's a lot of that going around."

Donna nods.

"Donna, are you free for lunch?"

Her eyes widen and she looks like she's desperately searching for an excuse.

"Please," I say.  "It's important."

With a sigh, she agrees,  "Yes, I'm free.  But -- can I meet you somewhere?"

I'm slightly confused, but I nod my assent.  "Sure.  The Flying Saucer?"

"Okay," Donna answers, a hint of a smile about her lips.  "One o'clock?"

I agree, then retreat to my office.  Just in time, too, as Josh appears in the doorway with two large Starbucks cups.  He wordlessly places one in front of Donna, then trudges into his office.  I watch Donna for a moment as she stares at the coffee as if it were a winning lottery ticket.  I swear there are tears in her eyes.

I walk through my office, enter Josh's office through our shared door, and close his main door as well.  He looks up at me, and the ever-present circles under his eyes seem slightly less pronounced today.  I hope he's sleeping better than I am.

We've been very awkward with each other since the disastrous staff meeting, and I really hate having this tension between us.  "Josh, do you have a second?"

He gives the pile on his desk a pointed look.  "Probably not, but for you..." he trails off with an attempted smile.  It doesn't reach his eyes.

"I wanted to apologize," I begin.  "The other day -- I should have talked to you before going to Leo--"

"CJ, don't worry about it."

I stare at him for a moment.  "I do worry about it.  I worry about you.  I worry about this anger between us."

Josh looks away from me, and I follow his gaze to the picture of a young, smiling Josh with his grandfather.  My heart breaks a little bit more for him.  Josh clears his throat.  "I'm not angry with you, CJ."

"You were," I state.  "You were very angry--"

"Don't take it personally," he says, looking back at me.  "I seem to have a hair-trigger lately."

I let his words hang in the air for a moment, unsure how to approach him.  Everything I say to him is wrong, and I don't want to shatter this fragile truce.  "Josh," I say quietly.  "I wanted to ask you--"

"Am I losing it?" he interrupts, with a faint shadow of his wry grin.

"No," I answer quickly.

"CJ," Josh sighs. " We can't keep having this conversation."

"We haven't ever had this conversation," I argue.  "I'm worried about you."

"Well, we've definitely had that conversation," he answers.  His voice is low, but I can sense an undercurrent of anger.  "Several times, in fact."  I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off.  "Do you know what Feynman's sum-over-paths theory is?"

Oh, here we go with the physics again.  "No," I answer warily.  "But--"

"He posits that a light particle travels every possible path between point A and point B.  Every possible path.  Isn't that amazing?"

"Sure."  If I understood what the hell he was talking about, I'd probably agree that it was amazing.

"Think about it, CJ," he insists.  "If that's true for light particles, why not for humans?"

I frown at him.  "What?"

"Humans who follow every possible path between point A and point B.  Between birth and death."

I am not following this.  "Josh--"

"So really," Josh continues, heedless of my interruption.  "I died that night on the pavement, with all of you staring down at me in horror.  I died in the emergency room.  I died on the operating table."  There's a raw look on his face that I can't comprehend.  "I died, CJ."

I stare at him.  I can't begin to respond to that.  "You didn't, Josh.  You lived."

"No, think about it," he says again.  "It makes sense.  If I travel all the possible paths, I did die that night.  Maybe that's why I can't feel anything anymore."  He looks away from me, his gaze resting on the chaos of his desktop.  "Maybe there's another me somewhere who never got shot.  Maybe that Josh can still--"  He shakes his head suddenly.

"Josh," I whisper.  I have no idea what to say to him, so I just say his name.

"I'm fine, CJ," Josh answers my unspoken question.  "I'm doing my job.  I'm just..." he shrugs.  "I'm having some trouble sleeping, so I keep reading these physics books.  That's it."

He's lying to me.  I know he's lying to me, because he's a terrible liar.  But I can tell how important it is to him that I buy it.  So I pretend to believe him.  "There are things you can take--"

"I don't want that in my house right now," Josh answers sharply.  "I can't--"  He stops and averts his eyes.

My stomach is twisted into knots.  I'm scared to consider what he really means by that.  Depression, I can deal with.  Suicidal tendencies... that scares the shit out of me.

"Josh," I repeat.  "Please."  Please tell me I'm wrong.  Please tell me I misunderstood your meaning.  Please tell me you're going to be okay.

But Josh just shakes his head, his gaze still focused somewhere over my left shoulder.

I realize my hands are tangled together in my lap, shaking.  "Maybe," I swallow hard.  "Maybe you should talk to--"

"Don't, CJ," he interrupts, finally allowing the anger to surface.  "You know I can't do that.  Don't dangle that in front of me like some kind of salvation when you know it's not possible."

His vehemence is frightening.

"It is possible," I argue.  "We can work something out--"

"No!"  He is practically yelling again.

"Josh--"

"No," he stands, leaning over and planting both hands on his desk.  "Don't do this to me, CJ!"

I stare at him, at a loss for words.  He is breathing heavily, his eyes wild.  Josh has always been a physical person, but I've never seen his body language so openly aggressive before.  He's like a cornered animal.

I untangle my hands and open them, a universal placating gesture.  "Okay, Josh," I say.  "Okay."

He watches me, eyes narrowed.  Then he nods.  "Fine."  He slumps into his seat, and I can see the tremors running through his limbs.  He shouldn't have that much of an adrenaline rush from a simple argument.

I open my mouth to say something and realize there's a suspicious lump in my throat.  I stop, swallow hard, and ease myself upright.  "I'm going to go, Josh."

"Fine," he repeats woodenly.

"If you need me," I say, gesturing towards my office.

He nods absently.

I am so frightened for him right now I can taste the metallic bite of fear.  I move to our connecting door and look back at him.  He has turned his chair away from me so that I can only see the top of his head and one shoulder.  He is still shaking.

I want to hug him, to rock him and tell him everything's going to be all right.  But I don't know how this is going to turn out and I can't lie to him.

And so I do what he wants for now.  I leave him alone and retreat to my office, downing a lukewarm cup of coffee to get the taste of fear out of my mouth.

***

Donna's and my clandestine meeting comes off without a hitch.  We meet at the Flying Saucer and find a small table in the corner.  This is just about the least political place I could think of on short notice, but we still can't chance anyone overhearing our conversation.

Donna fidgets across from me, tapping the menu, folding and unfolding her napkin, and studiously avoiding my eyes.  I wait until after we order to bring up the reason for lunch.

"Donna," I say quietly.  "I'm worried about Josh."

She looks at me for the first time, and I can tell she's terrified, too.  But she shakes her head.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Donna, please, I'm trying to help."

"You mean you're trying to avoid a political scandal," Donna counters harshly.

I stare at her for a moment.  "You know that's not true."

She meets my gaze with a sheepish look.  "I'm sorry, CJ," she says quietly.  "I'm a little on edge."

"Join the club," I answer.  "I don't think any of us are at 100 percent yet, but Josh..."  I shrug, unable to finish the sentence.

Donna examines her hands for a long time, locked in an internal struggle.  Then she sighs and I can tell she's decided to trust me.  She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.  "He's falling apart, CJ," she whispers.  "I don't know how to help him."

Dammit, now I'm about to cry.  The last thing Josh needs is two women sniveling into their lunches over him.  I hastily swipe at my eyes.  "You're stealing my lines."

Donna gives me a wobbly smile.  "I was hoping you'd have a suggestion."

"Again," I say with a grin, "that's my line."

Donna drops her chin into her hand.  "So you're saying neither of us have any idea how to help him," she mutters into her fingers.

"Basically," I admit.  "But I think if we, you know, share information we'll have a better idea of what, exactly, we should be doing."

Donna looks at me sharply.  "What do you mean, 'doing'?"

"Donna, the last thing I want is to put Josh's job in jeopardy -- okay, I'm lying.  The absolute last thing I want is to lose Josh for good this time."  Donna glances away, but I know she understands my point.  "We came damn close already, and I'd rather see him jobless and okay than... than watch him disintegrating every day in the office next to mine.  I can't just sit by and do nothing."

Donna sniffles, then straightens her spine and turns back to me.  "You're right.  He needs help."

I nod at her.  "I'm pretty sure he has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," I venture.

Donna nods and recites, "'Episodes of reliving the trauma in intrusive memories or dreams, a persistent sense of numbness, detachment from other people, unresponsiveness to surroundings, avoidance of activities and situations reminiscent of the trauma.  There is usually an enhanced startle reaction, and insomnia.'"  Her eyes close momentarily and her voice drops as she finishes, "'Suicidal ideation is not infrequent.'"

I can't help but remember what Josh said earlier.  I take a long sip of water, but that metallic taste of fear is back.

I give Donna a sickly smile.  "I think I read that webpage.  I'm not a psychologist, but he certainly seems to fit those criteria.  He's been paranoid about the 'Defense of Marriage' thing, to name just one instance.  He's pushing people away; he doesn't smile, doesn't laugh.  He said something about not being able to feel anything anymore."  It's my turn to pause.  Josh, the most passionate person I know, unable to feel.  It's such a hideous thought.  I steady myself, then continue.  "I'd lay even odds that he's having nightmares."

"He is," Donna says softly.  I give her a curious look, but she just stares back at me, defiant.

I don't push.  "Okay," I say.  Now comes the hard part.  I don't know how to ask this.  If he hasn't said anything to Donna, I don't want to cause her anymore pain.  But I have to know.  "Has he--"  I grip my hands tightly together on the table.  Maybe Donna won't notice that they're shaking.  "Has he made any comments that you thought were possibly indicative of..." I trail off as I see the comprehension in her eyes.

"Oh, God, CJ," Donna whispers.  "He's not suicidal.  He can't be.  Please, tell me he's not."

I am not going to cry.  I refuse.  "I don't know," I admit, my voice shaky.  "He said something." I shrug.

Donna reaches out and grasps my hands.  Her fingers are almost painfully cold against mine, but I return the pressure.  "CJ, please."

"I suggested that he take something, for the insomnia," I answer carefully.  "He said he didn't want anything like that in the house."

Donna stares at me, her lower lip trembling.  Then she tries to pull away from me.

"Donna, please." I hold on for dear life.  "Stay here."

"CJ," she keeps tugging, desperate.  "He's--"

"I don't think so," I insist.  "He's not that bad.  Not yet."

She stares down at me, her eyes wide and dark with fear.  "How do you know?" she asks, still tensed to flee.

"My..."  I stop and gather the last shreds of my composure.  "I had a sister, Nora," I say shakily.  "She was twenty-three when she killed herself."

Donna slumps into her seat.  "Oh, CJ."

"It's fine," I shake off her sympathy.  "It was a long time ago.  But she -- she was raped the year before. This guy -- a 'friend' of hers from her dorm, he -- Nora had a crush on him."  I sigh, frustrated with my inability to articulate.  "Anyway, she was depressed for a long time.  She refused to report it, and she just..."  I shrug . "Deteriorated.  And then she swallowed a bunch of pills and called me to say good-bye."

I blink back tears, staring not at the tabletop but instead into the memory of my sister's pale, inanimate face when I found her in her apartment.  I take a deep, unsteady breath and force my mind back to the present.

"I'm so sorry, CJ," Donna says, squeezing my hands in support.

I square my shoulders.  "I don't claim to be an expert on suicide, but I've seen it up close and personal.  I don't think Josh is there.  Not yet," I add grimly.

"Can I ask -- how do you know?" Donna asks gently.

I give her a bitter smile.  "He's still in pain.  When she -- when people make the decision, they often seem... happier."  I pause, swallowing back the familiar surge of regret.  "Nora seemed -- I thought she was getting better."  I pause and send a quick prayer up for my sister, then turn my attention back to the situation at hand. " Josh is still in the middle of it.  I don't think he's suicidal."

"Okay," Donna nods tiredly.  "Okay.  So how do we--?"

"Save him?" I ask.  "I don't think we can."

Donna gives me a devastated look.

"No," I explain quickly.  "I'm not saying he can't be saved -- that he can't save himself.  But he's in so deep right now that he doesn't know which way is up.  And I certainly don't feel qualified to help him.  Do you?"

"No."  A single tear tracks down her cheek, but Donna ignores it.  "But he can't go to a doctor."  She gives a helpless shrug.

"There's got to be a way," I argue.  I am furious with the entire situation.  How can political perceptions be more important than Josh's well-being? "There are people -- important people -- who have their own AA meetings.  Why can't Josh have therapy?"

Donna traces a crack in the table with her finger.  "It'll look bad when someone finds out.  And someone will find out."

"Dammit!" I slam my fist in to the napkin-holder.  "We were shot at!  Josh nearly died!  It's not like he's trying to get rid of a nervous tic!"

Donna is staring at me.  "CJ!"

I realize I'm crying and I turn my face towards the wall, hoping to God I didn't just blow the whole thing.  I rest my forehead against the dark paneling for a moment.  Why did this have to happen?

"CJ," Donna repeats.  "I need you here."

I sniffle a little, wipe the tears from my cheeks, and straighten up.  "Sorry," I whisper.  It's been a hell of a lunch.  My heart can't take much more.

"It's okay," she answers.

I watch her for a moment.  "I think it's time -- I mean, I think we need--"

"Reinforcements," Donna supplies with a resigned look . "But we can't tell people about this."

I nod my agreement.  "No one but Leo," I suggest.

"Leo?" Donna repeats, incredulous.  "Leo is Josh's boss."

"Did you know he was friends with Josh's father?"

"Yes," Donna nods.

"Leo has this fatherly thing going on with Josh.  He'll worry about the political fallout, of course, but his first concern is Josh."

I wait for her agreement.  For some reason, I feel like I need her permission to go to Leo, like her strange relationship with Josh gives her some sort of control over his life.

Finally, Donna nods.  "Okay," she says.  "But I need to be the one to talk to him."

"Sure," I agree.  "But make sure he doesn't go straight to Josh with this, saying we told Leo Josh is in some sort of downward spiral."

"He won't," Donna vows.  "I do a little kickboxing, CJ.  He wouldn't get past me."

We share a grin over her feeble joke.  I feel a little bit better about the situation.  Like maybe, just maybe, we can help Josh.

Please, God, let us help him.

THE END

12.18.00