Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG

Synopsis: Donna seeks counseling

Warning:

Series: This story is twenty-sixth in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

Smoke and Mirrors 1/3

By Lacy

You should know that sensitive alabaster skin does not heal quickly. I've been avoiding mirrors for the last two weeks, catching only glimpses of my reflection, but not allowing myself to dwell upon them. At least my head no longer feels like an overripe grapefruit. For the longest time, I felt as though my skull would burst wide open with the slightest touch.

The sutures in my scalp -- all 320 of them -- were removed a week ago. That's a lot of stitches, but the doctor made them so delicate he promises when the healing is complete, the scars won’t be visible. Unless you know where to look.

You know, I've got to tell you...you can't truly appreciate the luxury of washing your hair, until you're not allowed to do it. After two weeks, I was less worried about the tenderness of my scalp, and more concerned with the icky, creepy crawly feeling I had from fourteen days of collective filth. The waterless shampoo from the hospital is just not hair-friendly.

The doctor gave me specific instructions. Be gentle. I'm not even going to expound on how unnecessary that direction is. Also, no perfumed shampoos or conditioners for at least a week. So basically, my entire arsenal from Bath and Body Works will continue to languish unused in the shower caddy. At this point, I don't care.

Josh was more than willing to run out to the drug store and buy something a little more generic for me. In fact, he was a little too willing. Since I was released from the hospital he's made every attempt to provide for my needs before I actually need them. He may like that sort of thing, but frankly, I find it incredibly annoying. I'll have to deal with the New and Improved Josh Lyman the first chance I get.

Anyway, back on track. After washing my hair for the first time, let me tell you...I was a whole new woman. I'd had this dirty all over feeling for a while, and I was worried that it was associated with the incident. But as it turns out, it was just my dirty hair. What a relief.

I think, psychologically, I've taken a different tack than most people who've been in my position would. I expected to have nightmares, or at the very least for there to be some pretty heavy emotional fallout. But so far, there's nothing. I sleep through the night, which I guess can be partially attributed to the painkillers. And other than the fact that I'm sleeping alone, I sleep well.

You know how they say any crash you can walk away from is a good one? I guess that's how I feel. Any hostage situation where you don't end up dead couldn't have been all that bad. That's not to say it wasn't bad, or that I wasn't terrified. It was and so was I. But I've been more petrified in my life. I can think of a fourteen hour stretch when my panic left me nearly incapacitated. Compared to that, dealing with Leon Proctor was a walk in the park.

But one thing continues to haunt me still. Why did he leave me alive? I've considered every possible question, but can come up with no conclusions. I guess for now, it's a question that's destined to remain unanswered. Unless, I get the opportunity to ask him myself. When I'm better, I just might do that.

Shoving that thought aside for the time being, I look into the mirror, examining my reflection with a discerning eye. No more bandages. I can't tell you how happy that makes me feel. Of course, part of my hair had to be cut away for the stitches, but I can successfully cover that up with a hat, at least until I'm confident enough to take a brush to my scalp. I'm still afraid I'm going to damage the newly knitted skin.

There's a long scar at the back of my skull that I can't see. Josh promises me it will look fine once the redness goes away. High up and to the right there's another, from where I hit my head on the car window, no doubt. The last one is just inside the hair line on my left temple. The first blow I took from Proctor. A few smaller lacerations took only a few stitches, but the larger ones nearly took my life.

I never knew that the scalp could bleed so much. A nurse told me that the scalp is one of the richest sources of blood in the human body.

The bruises on my face have faded, ever so slowly, into an unflattering mustard yellow. Mustard has never been a member of my color palette. The yellow against my skin tone just makes me appear jaundiced.

I can't feel the facial bruising anymore. My sensitive skin has always been that way. The discolorations remain long after the puffiness has dissipated. Well, at least it's reached a point where it can be covered with makeup.

Thankfully, I'm having a good day today. No dizziness, no nausea, and no splitting headaches. Which is convenient because I have an appointment today. I haven't told Josh about it because he'd only hover and become annoyingly acquiescent, and I really need to handle this alone.

I called the doctor's office yesterday, and the receptionist discovered that there'd been a cancellation in the schedule for this afternoon. I was relieved, because I really didn't want to wait any longer than necessary. The days are slipping by me at a breakneck pace, and time is of the essence.

I’ve been home for two weeks, and I’ve waited to take matters into hand for as long as I dare. I’ve held off making decisions because I wanted to heal. And it hasn’t been easy to consider my future, with Josh constantly hovering around.

Well, not constantly. He’s off to the office quite a bit, and to tell truth the only time I’m able to relax is when he leaves. Everything is just so bungled. For two weeks we’ve lived these separate lives where we inevitably cross paths. When we do it’s polite and distant…and uncomfortable.

I can’t ever remember a time when I felt this way around him. But this isn’t him. This person that I share this house with isn’t Josh. He’s some quiet, yes-saying imposter. I don’t know how to deal with him — so I just don’t.

I think I know why he did what he did.

I think I can understand. His worst mistake was in doubting, not in accusing. Perhaps, in a similar situation I would have done the same. Who’s to say? Of course, I suspect that his PTSD might have played a large role in the volume and veracity in which his anger took form. He’s promised he’s getting help.

I told him that I hate him. Of course, I told him I love him too, to take some of the sting away. And, true to my words, for a long time I hated him. Three weeks. I know that in the overall scheme of things it may not seem like a long time.

A single mile might not be a long road to travel — unless you have to carry an elephant on your back. That’s what my hate is like…a big elephant. It’s so heavy that each minute I carry it becomes a week.

Each day — a month.

Each week — a year.

So, you see, in the last three weeks, I’ve hated Josh for three years. That’s as long as I’ve loved him. So, I guess all things are equal now. Love and hate have canceled each other out to leave behind…what? I don’t know. I awoke this morning, for the first time in three weeks, with emptiness inside that I can’t explain -- the emptiness of a canceled heart.

Love, like hate, is heavy too. Except that it's a good kind of heavy. You don't mind the burden of it. It's the kind of heavy you feel when you're tipsy on champagne, or you're full up on Thanksgiving dinner. It spreads throughout you like the warm tinglies you get when someone caresses you just right.

I want to love him again. I have this seed that wants to bloom, if only Josh could water it. The problem is that Josh…isn’t Josh. I think if I could know that he’s still in there — I think I could love him again.

My watch tells me that I have to hurry. I have an appointment and I can’t afford to be late. Time is a precious commodity these days. He’s not here to talk me out of it, or tell me that I’m still too weak to leave the house. If all goes as planned I can have everything finished and done before Josh comes home from the office.

Conveniently for me, Josh was called into the Oval early this morning. Something about a House resolution going south. The President called him in for a last minute strategy session. With any luck, he'll be out for the rest of the day.

I look a great deal better once I've applied my makeup, although it's a touch more than I usually wear. Now, clothes. My jeans these days, form fitting to begin with, are too tight to feel comfortable. They threaten to cut off the blood circulation to my brain. Not the best way to recover from a head injury, I should add. I opt for a pair of brown slacks that are still comfortable, and a thick sweater. I still get cold from time to time.

I've been trapped inside of this house for two weeks now. And another week in the hospital before that. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm a little stir-crazy. Just thinking about the frustrating effects of my cabin fever is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Damn, I can't wait to get out of this house. I'm beginning to appreciate how Josh felt during his convalescence. Maybe I was a little tough on him.

Descending the stairs at a slow pace, I must breathe steadily to keep any lingering vertigo at bay. I hang on to the sturdy railing until I reach the ground floor. My neurologist, after my final MRI, cleared me to drive, but I called a cab instead and check the front window to see if it's arrived. No reason to tempt Fate on a smoothly running day.

As if to prove that my day is running like clockwork, the cab pulls up in front of the house and honks its horn. Right on schedule. I fish my keys out of my purse and lock the front door as I leave the house. Sliding into the backseat of the taxi, I inform the driver of my intended destination from a business card I retrieve from my wallet.

The cab driver must think he's in New York, because I have to warn him to slow down unless he wants to spend the next few hours cleaning the upholstery in the backseat. He takes one look at the serious expression on my face through the rearview mirror, and immediately eases up on the accelerator.

After a fifteen minute trip through the streets of Washington D.C. he pulls the car alongside the curb of a modern brick office building. I pay him the fare and climb out of the car, careful to apply an equilibrium adjustment for the change in my position.

I check the office directory in the lobby before taking a short elevator ride to the third floor. The suite's waiting room is empty when I enter and approach the receptionist behind the class window. I'm told by a friendly looking black woman to sign in and have a seat. I follow her instructions to the letter, and notice that receptionist disappears from the window for a few moments.

I'm not sitting for very long when my quiet is interrupted by a voice.

"Donna?" Dr. Wilborn stands at the door with a welcoming smile on her face, and manila folder in one hand.

"Hi," I respond, standing cautiously from the couch.

"Come on back," she tells me.

She doesn't wait until we reach her office before she begins to speak. "I'll admit that I was a bit surprised to hear that you called for an appointment." She ushers me into her neatly appointed office, and I'm a bit stunned to see that it's a stereotypical representation of a psychiatrist's office, complete with a leather chaise lounge. Reading my mind, she comments, "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Should I have shown up unannounced?"

"No," she smiles. "It's just that...is your therapist not working out?"

"No, it's not that," I say. And then I'm unexpectedly struck dumb. I have no idea how to explain why I came here. I remember meeting with her in the hospital when she diagnosed my APD that she seemed to connect with my life in a way that no one else ever had. Certainly, in a way that my current therapist has not been able to do.

"Couch or chair?" she asks.

"Excuse me?"

"Would you like to take advantage of the couch, or is this just a chair situation?"

"I really don't know."

"Stand then," she responds. "At least until you figure it out. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Of course not."

She drops gracefully into her tall leather chair, and I think that the chair somehow fits her. It's clearly been used and used well, yet it maintains an air of elegance. Dr. Wilborn is a woman of wisdom, gained from years of learning and listening. Her face seems ageless to me, though I'd estimate her to be forty-five years old. And her eyes smile. That's what I like best about her. Even when she keeps her face carefully neutral, her eyes still have this peaceful radiance.

She's a woman who knows her place in this world, and is perfectly at ease with it. I wish I were more like her.

TBC

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