Journey

“Don't be cute, Mad,” Jack said, sounding annoyed. “Do you want to put your viewers to sleep, or are you working for some other network?”

“You know what's happening here. We're all getting the same stuff,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“That's my point. Get something different.” He hung up on her without saying good-bye, and a reporter from a rival network smiled at her and shrugged in sympathy.

“I'm getting the same crap from the head of our newsroom. If they're so smart, why don't they come down here and do it.”

“I'll have to remember to suggest that,” Maddy smiled back at him, and settled into a chair with her coat over her, until the next press announcement.

A team of doctors came back to them at three in the morning, and those who were asleep woke up to hear what they had to tell them. It was more of the same. The President was still holding his own. He had regained consciousness, was still in critical condition, and his wife was with him.

It was a long night, and in spite of another release at five, no one gave them any significant news until seven in the morning. Maddy was awake and drinking coffee by then. She had slept about three hours in disjointed little bits and pieces, and she was feeling stiff from sleeping curled up in a chair all night. It was like spending a night at the airport during the snowstorm.

But at least at seven, the news was a little better. They admitted that he was uncomfortable and in considerable pain, but he had smiled at his wife, and sent his thanks to the nation. And his team of surgeons was extremely pleased with him. And they actually dared to say that they had every reason to believe he was going to make it, barring complications.

And half an hour later, the White House released the identity of the man who had shot him. He was now being referred to as “the suspect,” although half the country had seen reruns of the tape that showed how he had shot the President. The CIA believed that it was not part of a plot to assassinate the President. The suspect's son had been killed in the action in Iraq that summer, and he felt that the President was to blame for it. He was a man with no previous criminal record, no history of violence, or mental instability, but he had lost his only child in a war he didn't understand and didn't care about, and had been depressed ever since. He was in custody, and being watched carefully. The rest of his family was shocked. His wife was apparently hysterical. He had been, until that moment, a respected member of the community, and a reasonably successful accountant. And it saddened Maddy to think about it.

She sent a note to Phyllis Armstrong through one of the press secretaries, just to let her know that she was there, and praying for her. And she was stunned when a note came back from her a few hours later. She had just jotted the words, “Thank you, Maddy. He's doing better, thank God. Love, Phyllis.” But Maddy was enormously touched that she had taken the time to write it.

Maddy went on the air again at noon, with the latest report, that the President was resting comfortably, and although still listed in critical condition, they were hoping that he would soon be out of danger.

“If you don't give me something interesting soon,”

Jack said when he called her after the broadcast, “I'm going to send Elliott over to do it.”

“If he can get anything different than the rest of us can, then send him,” she said, sounding exhausted. For once, she was too tired to be affected by Jack's threats and accusations.

“You're boring me to tears,” he accused her.

“I'm stuck with what they're feeding us, Jack. No one else is getting anything better.” But it didn't stop Jack from calling every few hours and complaining to her. And when Bill called her at one o'clock, she was relieved to hear him.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked with genuine worry.

“I can't remember,” she smiled. “I'm so tired, I'm not hungry.”

He didn't offer to come by. He just showed up twenty minutes later, with a club sandwich and some fruit, and a couple of soft drinks. He looked like the Red Cross arriving, as he showed up, and picked his way through the sea of reporters in the lobby till he found her, and forced her to sit in a chair and eat while he watched her.

“I can't believe you did this,” she grinned broadly at him. “I didn't even realize it, I was starving. Thank you, Bill.”

“It makes me feel useful.” He was amazed by how many people were there, reporters, cameramen, sound crews, producers, all milling around the hospital lobby. They were spilling out into the street, where the news vans were parked helter skelter. It looked like a disaster area, and it was. And he was pleased that she ate all of her sandwich. “How long are you going to have to stay here?”