Charlotte Kramer: Madam President Part 7

"Yes, of course. Richard, Lucy, I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me, but I will see you shortly at the Women's Museum, and I am looking forward to our interview afterward."

Richard and Lucy reluctantly stood to go. Dale appeared suddenly in the doorway to the Oval Office with a look of alarm on her face.

"There you are, Dale." The president smiled.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry I'm late. I had an urgent call from Secretary Kingston after the teleconference."

"Is everything all right?" Charlotte asked. She suspected that Melanie was peeved about Richard and Lucy's partic.i.p.ation. It wasn't that Melanie wouldn't appreciate the gesture. It would have more to do with the fact that she hated surprises and liked to be the one doling out favors to the press.

"Yes, ma'am," Dale a.s.sured her.

"Good to hear. I'll see all of you later."

Charlotte stood in front of Samantha's desk and listened as Dale quizzed the anchors about how they had ended up in the Oval Office. When Charlotte was confident that Dale had herded Richard and Lucy far enough along toward the press office that they were out of earshot, she sat down in the chair next to Sam's desk.

"Sometimes it makes perfect sense to me that the public thinks everyone in government is an incompetent b.o.o.b," Charlotte said, more to herself than to her a.s.sistant.

"Ma'am?"

"Do you think anyone in the press office had any idea that they were in here?"

Sam stared at her keyboard and tried to conceal a smile. She never ratted out the staff, but the president was pretty good at figuring things out for herself.

"I couldn't tell if you really wanted them to stay, ma'am."

"Usually, I don't want anyone to stay, but they were amusing. And you were equally amusing with your persistent efforts to free me," Charlotte teased.

"I am, if nothing else, persistent, ma'am."

"I realized after ten minutes went by without Dale or Marguerite bursting in that no one had any clue that they were in there alone with me."

"I'm sure they just thought it was good for everyone. You know, to let the reporters feel like they have unfettered access, and it's not like you need press handlers around all the time, ma'am."

Charlotte smiled. Sam was too good at her job sometimes. "Sam?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do I have time to walk over to the residence?"

"Yes, ma'am. The translators need time to set up anyway. Is twenty minutes enough time, or do you want me to move the call back?"

"That's perfect. I'll be right back."

Charlotte walked out through the door behind Sam's desk and nodded at the Secret Service agent who met her on the colonnade to walk the short distance to the residence with her. They pa.s.sed the Rose Garden, and Charlotte noticed that all the flowers she'd seen the day before were gone. That happened all the time. Just a few weeks earlier, the park service pulled up hundreds of gigantic red tulips. Dinner-plate-sized blue hydrangeas had replaced the tulips, and now they were gone, too. A dizzying mixture of multicolored sunflowers had been installed in their place. The roses, which were the mainstay of the garden, were in bloom. The entire South Lawn smelled almost sickeningly sweet. Charlotte wondered what they did with all the perfectly good plants they ripped out.

She waved at the nurse who stood up to greet her when she pa.s.sed the medical unit. Charlotte preferred the stairs, but she didn't have much time, so she popped into the elevator. She slipped out of her heels and walked toward the Lincoln Bedroom, which Peter used as an office. She didn't intend to eavesdrop, but what she heard stopped her in her tracks.

"I don't talk to Dale on a regular basis anymore, sweetheart."

Charlotte couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

"I know she works here. I watch the news, and I see her on television... Look, it wasn't my decision, it was your mother's, and I have to believe that she chose her because she was the best person for the job... She's your mother's press secretary. I'm sure she talks to Mom every day... No, Penny. They have more important things to talk about than me... Dale would love to get an e-mail from you. Her old e-mail address should still work. Are we done with this subject for now? I am calling with an important message from your mom about her speech today... No she didn't ask me to do her dirty work. I need you to keep a low profile today, for my sake, kiddo, got it?... You know exactly what I'm talking about... Yes, I will get Dale's new e-mail address, but repeat after me: I will not step out of line today after my mother's brave and important speech."

For the first time since Charlotte had been standing there, Peter laughed.

"Yes. Yes. I know, I know. She's a little uptight about that stuff." He laughed again and listened to something Penny was saying.

"Oh, G.o.d, that's a terrible thing to say about your mother. She was actually a lot of fun when she was in college. Yes, I'm serious. I don't know what happened. I guess she decided that what the public thinks of her is more important than what we think, and as much of an imposition as that might feel like sometimes, we need to keep in mind that this time in all of our lives will come to an end. In a couple of years, she'll just be your neurotic mother again."

Penny said something else, and Peter laughed again.

She felt ill. They were commiserating about how miserable she was. She knew she should turn around and head straight back to the Oval Office, but she was frozen in place. She'd never asked Peter if he stayed in touch with Dale. Her a.s.sumption was that he'd cut all ties to her, but she had no idea if that was the case. They could still e-mail or talk on the phone. She was pretty sure he never saw her. How could they get together without her knowing? The moment the question crossed her mind, she wanted to smack herself in the head. Peter and Dale had carried on an affair for more than two years behind her back. Not entirely behind her back. She'd known about it, but that had been different.

And Charlotte understood that Peter had a special relations.h.i.+p with Penny, but she didn't know that complaining about what a drag she was and discussing his ex-mistress with his college-age daughter were among the topics over which they bonded. Charlotte was so hurt. She needed to get out of the residence immediately.

"What are you doing here?"

It was Mark. He was wearing Lululemon workout clothes and looked as though he'd just run several miles in the humidity.

"I came over to change my shoes," she explained, pointing at the heels in her hands.

"Did you see Brooke?"

"No. Is she up?"

"I doubt it. She said she had to sleep off my s.h.i.+tty c.o.c.ktails."

"I need to sneak back to the office for a call with the president of Brazil. I will catch up with you guys at dinner."

"I'd kiss you good-bye, but I'm a little sweaty."

"Please don't."

"Hey, Char, what are you doing up here?" Peter asked from the doorway to the Lincoln Bedroom.

"I came up to change my shoes," she repeated.

"I caught Penny on her way to the gym. She isn't going to do anything to embarra.s.s you."

Charlotte was speechless. "Great," she practically whispered. She had trouble maintaining eye contact with Peter. "All right, then, I'll see all of you tonight." She started walking back toward the elevator.

"Char?" Peter called after her.

"What?"

"Weren't you going to change your shoes?"

"What?"

"Aren't those the ones you wore when you left this morning?"

She looked down at the shoes in her hand. She hadn't changed them for others, and she didn't want to. The ones she had went perfectly with what she was wearing.

"I changed my mind."

She put the shoes down and stepped into them and then walked straight toward the elevator. Once inside, she reminded herself to breathe. Charlotte could handle political upheaval, public disapproval, and the ire of her staff. But it stung terribly to realize that her husband and daughter had developed a greater capacity for intimate conversation with each other than she had with either one of them. When she got off the elevator, her agent reminded her that the CBS film crew would be setting up on the South Lawn to film her departure to the Women's Museum. She thanked him and pasted on a smile as she walked back down the colonnade toward the Oval Office for her call with the Brazilian president.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Melanie After spending forty-five minutes longer than her schedule had allotted on good-byes to troops, Melanie boarded the giant C-17 aircraft that would transport her and her entourage of press, handlers, and military aides the nearly seven thousand miles back to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. She settled into what was referred to by Pentagon insiders as the "silver bullet" for the first leg of the thirteen-hour journey. The silver bullet was a giant trailer that had been inserted into the middle of the plane to ensure that the secretary of defense rode in relative comfort. Members of the press and a handful of policy advisors and other staff sat in seats surrounding the giant installation. The plane was built for function, not comfort, but she'd managed to make her private cabin a sanctuary. She had a bathroom and a comfortable bed that she found herself using more and more. As soon as one of the military aides dropped off her lunch - tuna salad with crudite, Wheat Thins, and a large bottle of water - Melanie closed the door and collapsed into the oversized chair behind the desk. The bed was inviting, but she had a few calls to make while it was still early in Was.h.i.+ngton. She piled a forkful of tuna salad onto a Wheat Thin and was about to take a bite when she remembered that tuna had mercury in it, and mercury was to be avoided during pregnancy. She was starving, so she ate it anyway. As she wondered just how much mercury was in canned tuna, she thought about the teensy being inside her. Most of the time, she refused to believe that she was actually growing a baby that she'd ever get to hold and kiss and love. She'd had two miscarriages, and they'd both devastated her. One had occurred at seven and a half weeks and the other at eight weeks. It sounded like such a short time, but to believe for two months that you were pregnant and then to find out suddenly and without warning that you were not was like having your heart ripped apart. Twice. Melanie had once been described as Was.h.i.+ngton's version of an "iron lady," but the two miscarriages had reduced her to dust. The first time, she'd just begun to tell a few close friends and family that the invasive IVF procedures she'd endured had finally worked when she learned that she'd lost the baby. People who were otherwise kind and intelligent had said the most idiotic things. Things like "Oh, you're so lucky it happened so early," and "It's G.o.d's way." She vowed not to tell anyone ever again until she absolutely had to. She and Brian had muddled through the disappointment and sadness of the second miscarriage privately. Melanie had refused any further IVF treatments, and any discussion of pregnancy, fertility, and motherhood was strictly banned. Nearly six months went by, and Melanie was just starting to feel normal again. She tried to rationalize that perhaps motherhood was one blessing too many. Perhaps G.o.d only handed out a finite number of blessings to each person, and Melanie had used all of hers up on her charmed career and the sweet, handsome man she'd found to spend her life with. Maybe motherhood was a dream that would go unfulfilled.

Then, after a grueling trip to Asia in which she could barely stay awake for her bilateral meetings with defense ministers and foreign heads of state, she came home to Was.h.i.+ngton with what she was certain was the Avian flu. She was in bed for five days before Brian dared to ask if she could possibly be pregnant.

"Only if I was raped by a stork," she'd retorted.

He'd actually winced at her remark.

Nevertheless, she'd dragged herself from the bed and pulled a leftover home-pregnancy test out of her medicine cabinet. She'd peed on the stick and waited for the test to show that she was not pregnant so she could show Brian. When it came out positive, she threw it away and took another. And then she took another. After five pregnancy tests all said the same thing, she crumpled into a ball on the bathroom floor. When Brian came in and found her, she'd held up all five of the tests. He took them from her and placed them on top of the toilet bowl. He'd wiped her tear-stained face and carried her back to the bed. She couldn't look at him. She wasn't sure that either one of them could handle another loss. Brian lay next to her and wrapped his arms around her tightly. They stayed like that until the sun went down, and then he called in sick for both of them in the morning. They made an appointment to see Melanie's fertility doctor at eleven. She didn't even have an obstetrician, because she'd never stayed pregnant long enough to need one. They sat in the lobby with all of the other couples, who probably had very little in common with Melanie and Brian other than the desire to have a child regardless of the cost - monetary, physical, emotional, and otherwise. Melanie was afraid of every possible outcome that morning. She feared that between the five pregnancy tests she'd taken the day before and her morning appointment, she'd miscarried this pregnancy, too. She was also afraid that perhaps the tests were wrong, and she wasn't even pregnant. But most of all, she feared that she was pregnant with another baby that wouldn't survive. She was afraid to hope for anything other than heartbreaking news. She knew exactly what the doctor would say if she wasn't pregnant.

"Melanie, we know you can get pregnant. Keep trying."

She had decided that they were selling the cruelest kind of false hope she had ever encountered. Brian never complained, but she knew it was also taking a toll on him.

"You should have married someone with younger ovaries," she'd said to him on several occasions.

The nurse who'd seen them for all of their appointments came out to retrieve them.

"Dr. Fishbourne wants to visit with you first," she said.

Brian had nodded and pulled Melanie up by the hand. She felt like she was sleepwalking. The doctor was waiting for them in his office.

"What's going on, guys?"

Brian spoke. "Melanie thought she had the flu, but after five days in bed, she took a pregnancy test."

"This was yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes. And it was positive. Actually, there were five, and they were all positive."

"Do you remember when your last period was?"

Melanie shook her head. "No idea. A while ago. I figured everything was still screwed up from the fertility treatments."

He jotted some note in her file and then looked up. "I'll have a nurse take some blood from you, Melanie, and then I'll be in to examine you."

Melanie had tried to numb herself against everything that would happen next. The nurse had her make a fist while she took blood. Then she undressed from the waist down and squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't be tempted to look at the monitor while the doctor performed the ultrasound. She didn't hear anything, and that alone was a bad sign. She felt a lump forming in her throat. She turned to look at Brian, and he was staring intently at the monitor.

She s.h.i.+fted her gaze to Dr. Fishbourne's face. He was smiling. "Melanie, I'd say you're about thirteen and a half weeks pregnant."

Then he had turned up the volume on the giant ultrasound machine. The sound of a very fast heartbeat filled the room. The sound filled her with hope. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes, and when she looked over at Brian, he was choked up, too.

"How do we know that everything is OK?" she'd whispered.

"It's a good sign that you're this far along. We'll do all of the testing you want to do. There's an early test that's as accurate as an amnio. It will give you peace of mind. I can schedule it with some of my colleagues for later this week."

"Tomorrow," Brian had insisted.

"Tomorrow," the doctor promised. "Congratulations," he added.

"Don't say that yet," Melanie pleaded.

When the results came back one week later, the doctor a.s.sured her that everything was fine. He also asked if she wanted to know the s.e.x. Melanie still refused to believe that she was having a baby, but when he'd said, "You're having a son," something inside her s.h.i.+fted. She realized at that moment that the whole undertaking was an exercise in losing control. She'd decided to do her best to be brave - for her son's benefit.

More than a month had pa.s.sed, and the nausea and exhaustion were giving way to indigestion and a more general fatigue. She finished her lunch and pulled a blanket over herself. She had plenty of hours of travel ahead of her. No one would notice if she snuck in a short nap.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Dale Dale ducked into Marguerite's office so she could have a conversation without being filmed by the CBS crew.

"Marguerite, I'm going to go to the Women's Museum with the president so I can be there for the interview with Richard and Lucy, unless you want to go?"

"No, you go. I'll get the VP interviews set up so she can do those as soon as you guys are back."

"Is there anything breaking that I need to prepare the president for before the interview?"

"Everyone is covering the speech and the trouble it's causing for the president with conservatives. Fox is running a banner that says 'busting the base.' "

"That's not surprising. She can handle that. I like her language on the generational divide on social issues. She'll broaden the discussion and call for tolerance of the entire spectrum of views on the life-versus-choice debate. Warren said that the polls show that every time she's forced to defend herself against the Republican base, her numbers go up among women and independents."

"The deciders," Marguerite joked. Whenever they wanted to make the case for the president or the vice president to do an interview or a media avail, they appealed to everyone's desire to see the president's political capital remain intact. Women tended to be the biggest group of swing voters, and not simply in general elections. They watched the most news and were the most persuadable on nearly every major policy debate. Dale and Marguerite had taken to simply calling them the "deciders."

"The president will do fine. Take a deep breath, Dale."