Series So Far:

Taking the Offense 1/2
By Lacy



"You're looking much better these days, Donna."

"Thank you, Stella."

"You've put on some weight," she observes.

"Yeah," I think I'm blushing. "I feel like I'm eating all the time.
Josh doesn't think I eat enough though."

"Your obstetrician called me."

"She said she would," I explain. "Did she...imply that she was
worried about anything?"

"No. She just wanted to get a clear understanding of your medical
history from me. The ulcer, and the medication I prescribed for you."

"Oh, okay." I'm lying on the leather chaise this time. No chairs for
me.

"Why? Is there a reason she should be concerned?"

"No, I'm probably just being a worrywart," I sigh.

"It's completely normal, Donna. Do you understand that? Every
expectant mother is apprehensive about the health of her child."

"I guess so."

"Have you discussed this with Dr. Burgess?"

"She says everything is fine. We had an ultrasound on Saturday."

"How did you feel about that?"

"It was...surreal."

"How so?"

"Well, there's this clear image...well, silhouette image, anyway...of
this baby. And there's arms and legs and fingers, and it's moving up
there on the screen, but I can't feel it inside of me."

"You will. How is Josh handling this? Did he go with you?"

"Yes. I think he's a little unsure of himself. I've spent so many
years handling the cocky Josh, that I'm not quite certain how to
handle the insecure Josh."

"And?"

"I think I always knew that he had it in him to be a good father.
When we were watching the sonogram, he just had this expression on his
face. I wanted to watch the baby, but I had trouble taking my eyes
off Josh."

"How did he look?" she asks. From the twinkle in her eyes, I can see
that she's truly interested in this saga that is my life. I don't
know how knowing all of this is going to help her help me, but for
now, I don't see the harm in it.

"It's hard to explain," I say. "He was like...a blind man seeing for
the first time. I believe...in my heart...that he's going to be an
amazing father."

"Have you told him that?"

"I...." I think back. "I don't think so."

"I think you should, Donna. I think he probably needs to hear it.
What about you, Donna? Have you come to terms with the idea of being
a mother?"

"Well, I don't know about that," I say. "But I keep in mind what you
told me about nobody ever really being ready."

"How are you sleeping?"

"I haven't slept through the night in a month."

"Tell me," she advises. "How many times a night do the nightmares
wake you."

"Just once," I'm careful to say. "After the nightmare I can usually
sleep for the rest of the night."

"What do you see in your dreams, Donna? Do you see him?"

"No, it's never about him. It's never about that night." Dr.
Wilborn's brow furrows and I know that my answer to her question was
unexpected. "Is that strange?"

"Tell me about the dream," she says, instead of answering my question.

"I'm in a coffin and everyone thinks I'm dead. Someone I can't see
closes the lid and I'm carted away. The next thing I know, I can hear
Josh's voice. He's whispering to me, but I can hear him anyway...even
through the coffin."

"What does he say to you?"

"That he's lost without me. That he doesn't know what to do next.
That he doesn't know what I want him to do. Things like that." His
voice still whispers and begs on the edges of my mind, even when I'm
awake. I can feel his dream desperation as easily as I can hear it.
I haven't figured out how to dampen the white noise.

"Do you think that's true, Donna? Do you think he would be lost
without you?"

"Would it be arrogant of me if I said yes?"

"Not if it's the truth," she promises with a warm smile.

"Then, yes. I think he would be on some levels. Professionally, at
least."

"Don't you think he could find someone to take care of
him...professionally speaking?"

"The trick would be finding someone who could put up with him," I
chuckle. "He's demanding, and abrasive, and occasionally hostile."

"Okay, what about on a personal level? Would he be lost?"

"I don't know how to answer that," I reply truthfully.

"I think you do. I think you're just afraid of the answer. Do you
still doubt his love?"

"No," I say without hesitation. "It's not that."

"Would you be lost without him?"

I recall the utter powerlessness I felt after the shooting. I can so
vividly remember the complete lack of direction I felt as his life
hung in the balance. I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing.
"Yes, I would," I answer, finally.

"So, why wouldn't it be the same for Josh?"

"Because he always knows what he wants?"

"You're asking me?"

"Josh calls you Dr. Kreskin."

"I'm flattered. Also, I'm not fooled by your attempt at changing the
subject. That's a little trick that works pretty well for you, isn't
it?"

"Not so much anymore," I admit.

"Do you think it's possible a part of you wants Josh to be lost if
something ever were to happen to you?"

"No," I say, perhaps a bit too vehemently. "I don't want that for
him. I don't want for him to worry."

"Have you ever discussed what he went through when you were missing?"

"Yes...no....Well, only in the barest of terms. I don't think he
wants to think about it."

"He knows better than anyone else not thinking about it doesn't make
it go away."

"I worry that he'll worry."

"That's clear...from your dreams."

"Is that what my dreams are telling me?"

"Partially. What do *you* think your dreams are telling you?"

"That I'm afraid to die," I shrug.

"Are you? Or are you afraid of having no control over your own fate?"

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Good question. Everybody's afraid of death, Donna. It's human
nature to fear that which we don't understand -- to fear the unknown.
Most of us don't have recurring nightmares about it, though. It's
understandable, because you've been through a terrible ordeal recently
-- not just for yourself, but for someone you love, as well. Dreams
and nightmares are the subconscious mind's way of trying to tell us
something we already know. You already know you're afraid of death,
Donna. The fear of it is stamped into our DNA from the moment we're
born. It's why even the tiniest of babies will fight for survival
long after doctors have given up hope for a miracle."

Her words have stopped my heart, and the acid burn of bile rises in my
throat. I don't yet feel bonded with my child, not in any true
emotional sense. I mean, it is just sort of a vague concept still --
acknowledgement of its presence merely a leap of faith until I see or
feel physical proof of a life growing inside of me. But her words
have struck a chord nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Donna," she notices my sickly pallor. "My analogy was
inappropriate."

"No, it's okay."

"Are you sure? Would you like to call it a day?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay," she relents.

"So, you're saying that it's not the actual death I fear, but my lack
of control over it?"

"No, Donna. I'm saying that your fear of death is a given. It's a
constant part of the equation. But the dreams probably stem from your
need to seek some control."

"But you can't control death," I say. "I learned that the hard way.
You have no idea when or where it will come looking for you. That's
part of the fear, right? That it could happen at any time?"

"There are ways to be proactive in matters of death, Donna. Ways that
can give you some of the control you're subconsciously seeking.
Taking the offense, so to speak."

"Do you think if I took the offense then the nightmares would stop?"

"I can't promise that, but it certainly couldn't hurt."

She's cautiously offering me hope - a possibility of someday being
able to put this all behind me so that I can enjoy what I have. We
talk for another half-hour. At first, I think that some of the things
we discuss are trivial. They seem trivial to me, but her trained mind
looks deeper.

I've never thought of myself as the kind of person who could hide
parts of my psyche within the mundane. I've never believed I was that
deep.

"I read in the paper about Proctor's death," she catches me off guard.

"Yeah," I say. "There'll be an investigation."

"How do you feel about his death?"

I spent a significant amount of time yesterday trying to sort out my
feelings on the subject. "I don't feel anything," I admit. "I
mean…I'm relieved…but not because he's dead. I'm relieved because I
won't have to testify. It's one less thing to worry about."

"Testifying could've been cathartic for you," she suggests.

"Really, Stella, how much cartharses can one person stand?"

"A question for another time," she laughs.

"Is that your way of saying 'time's up'?"

"Have I ever told you that you are a very insightful young woman?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Next week?" she asks.

"Next week," I confirm. I run my fingers through my hair to make
myself presentable, and gather my things to leave.

The rental car waits for me in the parking garage. We've had this car
too long, I've decided. I need to talk to Josh about getting the
Corvette back. I promised Josh I'd come straight back to the office
after my session, but I need some alone time. To think about some of
the things Dr. Wilborn told me.

I drive around the hub of the town like a tourist viewing Capitol Hill
for the first time. The car never exceeds thirty-five miles per hour,
but my mind is moving at ten times that speed. My dreams exhibit a
fear of control - or rather the lack of it.

I'm afraid of more than just dying. Stella said everyone's afraid of
dying - on some level at least. But for me, it's different - it's
more. I'm afraid of losing control. That's nothing new -- I've had
that problem for a long time. I sometimes forget that Stella knows
this already. She's already had that tour through my subconscious
fears and desires.

Josh's dream voice still haunts me. His voice is as light as any
breeze, but his tone is heavy - his pleas…burdensome. That's what I
carry -- the burden of his pleas that come to me in the night. But as
vivid as the nightmares are, the memories are even more so.

I know I shouldn't be able to remember that night. At best, I should
only be able recall bits and pieces. But I got lucky - if you can
call that luck. The sensation of being pistol- whipped and the pain
that exploded in my head is still fresh. In fact, occasionally I feel
what might be called phantom pains that burst through my skull and
vaporize as quickly as they come.

The chill I felt as the water soaked through my clothes still disturbs
me but not as much as the images of Proctor's cold, dead eyes as he
leveled the gun at my chest -- and then at my head. The cruel sound
of his voice, tempting me to beg, stays with me. The hazy memories of
being shoved carelessly into the freezing darkness. The taste of
copper, and the sensation of floating in a pool of my own blood.

But for all this, I know…I *know* that it could have been worse. My
survival was a miracle that had nothing to do with my will to live.
My skull could have been fractured beyond feasible repair. I could
have been brain damaged. I could have been killed, or even worse, I
could have not been killed.

Stella's right. I need to be proactive. Now that I have some
understanding and acceptance of my fear, I'm driven to do something
about it. For the sake of my mind and for my child, I'm duty bound to
do something about it. And I know just what to do…or I think I do,
anyway. It's really not my area.

So, of course, I'm going to need someone to help. Someone I can
trust. With a glimmer of a strategy forming in my head, I park the
car and half-walk, half-jog into the White House. I hold up my
security badge to the guards because it's procedure - even though they
know who I am. It's 7:45 and I should have returned to the office
half and hour ago.

TBC

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