Written

Marguerite

---

C.J. once said that it's written somewhere - no one can look
good on a morning show. You remind yourself of that as you
settle into the guest dressing room to let a young woman
drape you and dab you with foundation. It's amazing how one
bad night can take away a tan and replace it with flesh the
color of overcooked oatmeal. You wonder if you should have
donated blood. It couldn't have made you look any worse and
might have made you feel better.

You wish you could donate a lung.

"I'll just be a minute, Mr. Seaborn," the makeup artist
says, and her voice is soft and apologetic. "I know you have
a million other things you need to be doing right now."

She doesn't have any idea how much you hated getting on the
press helicopter to New York in the middle of the night. She
has no clue how much you want to be back in D.C., in that
grim waiting room where Donna, the First Lady, and Mrs.
Landingham abide like the three fates who decide when a
man's life will be cut off like a piece of string.

You hope no one has scissors.

You finger your pocket because your notebook is in there and
you want to make sure it stays with you. It's the stuff
about Josh, the words that spilled out of your unsteady pen
on the press helicopter this morning, the words you wrote
just in case.

Like taking an umbrella to make sure it doesn't rain, you
write your best friend's obituary to keep him from dying
before you get home.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...

There's a brisk knock on the door and it's your Secret
Service escort, Steve. "Mr. Seaborn? There are people to see
you."

"Yeah. I'm good," you say as you look up to check your
visitors.

It's Katie, who you've worked with a dozen times before, and
to your surprise Matt is with her. "Hey," you say, getting
up out of your chair with no little difficulty and shaking
their hands.

Katie presses a kiss to your cheek, then carefully wipes the
lipstick off your newly-made-up face. "Sam, thank you so
much for doing this. Are you okay?"

That's the world's dumbest question and you're shocked that
an interviewer of her caliber would ask you such a thing.
Then you remember that you're off the clock, off the camera,
and she's asking as one human being to another.

"I've been better," you say, because you know her well
enough to tell the truth and not have her think you're
unprofessional. "How ya doin', Matt?"

He takes your hand a second time, clasping it a bit longer
than a normal hello, and he looks genuinely worried. "I'm
fine. Just wanted to make sure you have everything you need
before we start. We're live but we're gonna show it all
morning so you can make the rounds and still get back on
time. I know you're worried about Josh."

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar...

"We're on in ten," Katie adds, and she pats your arm as if
you're a desolate child in need of consoling. And who says
you're not? "Anything you want to start with? Anything you
want to avoid?"

"I can't comment on Secret Service procedures, of course,
and I can't give the names of the shooters or the suspect
who just got arrested. Other than that, I guess I'm just
supposed to tell you what I remember from last night."

"How's the President?" Matt asks.

"It looks good - the bullet exited and didn't hit anything
important. He'll be released on Wednesday."

"And Josh?" Katie tightens her grasp on your arm and you
wish she'd stop because she could easily squeeze tears out
of you and you can't let that happen.

"He was still on heart-lung bypass when I left. We should
know something in a few more hours."

An assistant director hovers in the doorway. "We'd better
go," Matt says. "It'd probably be a good idea if you wait in
the wings if that's okay. There are chairs."

"Yeah, I can do that," you say, because it's easier than
sitting here and brooding and you know you won't crack as
long as other people are there with you. So you follow,
noticing that you've managed to put on mismatched socks.
They're both black. Maybe no one will notice.

A stagehand clips a wireless mike to your lapel. "Sorry
about last night," he says in a gruff Brooklyn accent. "Hope
they fry in hell. Bastards."

"Yeah, uh, yeah. Thanks."

You wait for the short segment in front of you to be over
and take your seat opposite Katie in the surprisingly
uncomfortable chairs. "On in five...four...three..." The
director stops counting aloud and points a finger.

Katie welcomes you to the Today show. "Sam, we appreciate
the time you're taking to speak with us this morning. What
can you tell us about the incident in Rosslyn last night?"

What can you tell her? Can you tell her what it felt like to
try to account for the whole group, all the while not knowing
what happened to the President? Can you tell her what it
felt like when, just as you thought everyone was safe, you
heard Toby's wrenching call for help?

"We left the building and headed for the motorcade. I was
about ten feet behind President Bartlet and his daughter and
C.J. Cregg was near me. I don't know where the others were,
exactly."

You take a deep breath and fall into the routine. You were
trained for this, for giving a deposition, for not letting
anything get in the way of the facts.

"What did you see or hear?"

"I didn't see anything except for a couple of Secret Service
agents looking...jumpier than normal. Then I heard someone
yell 'Gun!' and I got down out of the way. I think I pushed
someone down...with me...when I fell."

In your other pocket is C.J.'s necklace. You hope she
doesn't make the connection right now. Maybe you'll just
slip the necklace onto her desk when you get in.

"While you were down, did you see or hear anything?"

"I heard...shots. And there was glass breaking right over my
head. I've still got some in my hair, I think," you say as
you run your fingers nervously through your hair. "We heard
sirens and someone said they had the President and Zoe
Bartlet in their cars, so we got up. We couldn't find Leo
McGarry or Josh Lyman, and someone said they were both in a
limo. But it was just Leo. Toby Ziegler went looking for
Josh and..."

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar and graduate of Harvard and Yale...

Oh, damn. You feel the hot stinging and you pray, please,
God, don't let her touch me, don't let her look at me with
those compassionate eyes.

Katie keeps her hands on her notebook and her gaze on the
lens of the camera that's over your shoulder and to the
left. You see Matt, standing carefully out of the shot,
mouthing, "Take your time, Sam."

You nod and you're ready when Katie continues. "When did you
find out about Josh Lyman being shot?"

"Toby found him. He said..." You have to swallow a couple of
times. There's water in a glass beside you but you know damn
well your hand will shake if you pick it up, and if it
shakes then C.J. will kill you when you get home. "Toby
called for help. An ambulance came and they put Josh in a
neck brace and got him on a stretcher. We all went in the
ambulance - Toby, C.J., and I did. And Charlie Young, the
President's aide."

"What was it like?"

"Scary." You finger the notebook again. "There was a lot of
blood and Josh wasn't able to talk. It was obvious that he
couldn't breathe and that he was terrified."

"Were you afraid?"

"I was...I was...yeah. Afraid."

"And what's the latest update?"

It's easy now. This is the part you've rehearsed, that
you've seen C.J. do a dozen times already. Deep breath. "The
President's condition has been upgraded from stable to good
and they expect to release him on Wednesday. There was a
woman named Stephanie Abbott who was shot in the thigh. Her
injury was not life-threatening and she is listed in good
condition. Secret Service Agent Ron Butterfield was shot in
the hand and should be undergoing surgery shortly."

"And how is Josh Lyman?"

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political
strategist whose brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet
into the Presidency...

"The doctors have reinflated his lung and are working on
repairing the damage to his artery. He's on heart-lung
bypass and the surgery has been going on all night. We won't
know anything more for several more hours." You come up for
air. "Two of the three shooters were taken down by the
Secret Service on the scene. The third was arrested early
this morning. C.J. Cregg will give a briefing when we are
able to release more information. For now - that's really
all I know."

"Our prayers and best wishes are with all of you. Sam
Seaborn, White House Deputy Chief of Communications. When we
return, we'll hear from some of the spectators who witnessed
last night's assassination attempt."

"We're out," says the director, and you relax in your chair.

"You did great, Sam," Katie tells you, and you wish you
could believe her but you can't for the life of you remember
what you said just now. "Why don't you go back to your
dressing room and relax for a few minutes?"

"I can't, Katie - I've got Bryant at CBS in half an hour."
You pull your leaden limbs out of the chair and let her hug
you. She's a warm person, she means well. She made you look
clear-headed even though you've got cobwebs with their own
zip codes where your brains should be.

"Okay, then. But give us a call when you know something.
I've interviewed Josh. He's...he's gonna be just fine.
Someone that tough, that bright..."

"I know." You squeeze her hands and give everyone a little
wave as you find Steve waiting for you. As you pass one of
the assistant directors you hear something that makes you
want to vomit.

"Yeah, he's a good choice - he's got that sad face, he's all
sober and dressed in his wrinkled suit from last night. Bet
their approval rating goes up fifteen points."

You stiffen. Steve stiffens. You consider asking him to go
back there and punch the bastard's lights out, or better
yet, let you do it yourself. "We're outta here," you say to
Steve and you let him guide you through the maze of
corridors and down to where your car is waiting.

You'd rather walk. You'd rather see the sun's rays hit the
Prometheus fountain and go for a leisurely stroll, stopping
for a soft, salted pretzel. But there's a job to do, and it
sucks, because you're in pain and it's a beautiful spring
dawn in Midtown and you can't enjoy ten seconds of it
because Josh's heart may or may not be beating.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political
strategist whose brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet
into the Presidency...whose wit, energy, and infectious
charm moved political mountains...

It's the same ordeal at CBS, and at ABC. You do a remote
interview for CNN on the phone in the car going back to
LaGuardia. It happens with merciful speed and you can be
unconscious for it, not paying attention to Bryant or Diane
or Bill, just rattling off the facts. Only when Steve slips
you onto the tarmac and into your seat do you really have
time to think again.

You finally get hold of Leo, who says he has no news on
Josh. You sigh heavily, and Leo adds that the President is
awake and doing better. He's worried about the letter that
didn't get signed, and about Toby wanting to take the blame
for the canopy being down, but you tell him that you
remember how much the President wanted to be in the open air.

"I'll be in around eight this morning," you tell him, still
dazed from the 4 a.m. flight and the subsequent two hours of
interviewing. "I'll be in my office."

"You did a good job," says Leo just before hanging up
without a goodbye, and it's the warmest you've felt since
you left the Newseum.

The rotors give you a headache. You take the notebook out of
your pocket but you can't see the words through your hazy,
exhausted eyes. Your glasses fog up because your eyes are so
wet. You lean back and try not to think, but the words still
well up like the tears you will not shed.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political
strategist whose brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet
into the Presidency...whose wit, energy, and infectious
charm moved political mountains...his life brought to an
untimely end in a meaningless act of hatred...

You're close to D.C. now. On the ground you can see the tiny
flashing lights of the police cars that will escort you back
to the White House. It's almost eight. You wonder if there
had been a sunrise for Josh this morning. No, no, if
he'd...Leo would have told you. Your cell phone is on.
You keep checking it, half expecting to hear Josh's voice on
the other end asking you to bring him pizza and a beer.

When the helicopter lands your ears stop up and you relish
the pain because it brings you a micron closer to what Josh
must have felt when the metal tore through his chest. Steve
guides you past the whirling blades and into a limo. His job
is to take a bullet for you. You would've gladly taken the
one that hit Josh. Anything but this.

When you pull up at the entrance, Leo is there waiting for
you. You can't read his face.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born
Fulbright scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political
strategist whose brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet
into the Presidency...whose wit, energy, and infectious
charm moved political mountains... his life brought to an
untimely end in a meaningless act of hatred...beloved son
and treasured friend whose heart will never truly stop as
long as he is remembered by those who knew and loved him...

Leo clasps you by the shoulders when you finally get
your arms and legs out of the car and stand up. "The First
Lady just called. They're starting to take him off bypass
and it's looking good. He's looking good, Sam."

You try to smile at him before heading for your office. The
spiral notebook cuts into your palm as you walk with your
hands in your pockets. You can't look at Josh's office when
you pass by. It's never dark like this, never empty, and you
can't imagine what it would be like to have to go through
his things and watch Donna wither from grief before your
eyes.

But Leo said it was looking good. And Leo is an honorable
man...and you can't tell if you're laughing or crying as
exhaustion takes over and leaves you shaking. You sit in
your chair with your feet up, leaning back to look out the
window and whisper a prayer out into the morning sunshine.

Carol walks in, a little stooped from lack of sleep. "Hey,
Sam. C.J. wanted me to tell you she's going over to the
hospital in a few minutes, after her briefing."

"Yeah, thanks." You take your feet off the desk and watch
her as she leaves, then you pull the notebook out and look
at your notes.

It's written on paper, but not on destiny. Atropos and her
abhorred shears will have to wait.

Joshua Jacob Lyman...no. Not this time.

You start writing.

He's going to live. Not be survived, but survive. With a few
strokes of your pen, you perform surgery as delicate as the
doctors at Georgetown are doing, and fate is changed.

It's written.

---

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