Page 3 of Revisions (By Design #17)

Candace

Being apart from Jameson and Cooper isn’t my preference. I’ve also lived long enough to know that all healthy relationships require balance. While some might like to deny it, a bit of distance occasionally helps. I’m not sure I subscribe to the saying, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” It can. Too many prolonged absences often create rifts that become insurmountable valleys. Balance is key. Jameson and I have worked to find the middle ground in our chaotic existence. Life in a big family is always hurried, and while I wouldn’t trade our life for anyone’s, it’s further complicated by my position.

Striking anything akin to balance while serving as the president requires a Herculean effort, not only on my part. It’s one reason I asked Cassidy to serve on my communications team. With Dana moving to Jameson’s office, I need someone who understands me. Cassidy’s presence differs from Dana’s or Shell’s. Cassidy is my equal. She respects me but also knows I don’t have all the answers to the problems our country faces—or my family confronts. We both have big families composed of even bigger personalities. Navigating the competing priorities of children and spouses whose ideas and personalities often clash isn’t unlike traversing the political landscape. We’ve known each other since I was a senator. Our friendship is one of mutual respect and admiration. Having Cassidy close grounds me because I know she sees me clearly. It’s different from the relationships I share with Dana and Shell. They’re both incredibly talented and devoted to me, but I also play a parental role in their lives. That can sometimes make it difficult for them to see me clearly.

Dana started working for me a couple of years after she graduated from college. She was as starry-eyed and exuberant as she was intelligent and driven. I adore Dana. I’ve spent more time with her over the years than almost anyone. She is just as much a daughter to me as the two I gave birth to. She also has me on a pedestal, much like Shell.

Having my daughter close is an asset in more ways than I can count. And I love that Shell is a part of my administration. She’s as enthusiastic as she is intelligent. She’s passionate about the political world and remains hopeful about the future. Her youth and vibrance help me navigate a world that often feels like a dystopian novel. And her presence reminds me why I got into this business.

It is a new world—one where face-to-face discussion, handshaking, baby kissing, and town halls have been eclipsed by TikToking, Tweeting, Facebook Live, and Instagram. I see the advantages, but I also see the pitfalls. The constant flow of words and images flying by on screens makes shaping narratives that serve a divide-and-conquer mentality easier. It’s too much to process. That leads people to carve out small corners where they find comfort—places that reinforce their beliefs rather than challenge them.

If you listen to me, you might think I oppose technology. I don’t. My concern is how technology is used. Like everything else, the government walks a fine line between oversight and interference. This reality keeps me up many nights. No one can divorce governing from politics; the two work together. That reality has always created problems, but the alternative is a country led by a monarchy or a dictator, which I find unacceptable.

We stand on a narrow ledge overlooking an abyss I once thought was unimaginable. Politics has always been riddled with self-interest, special interests, and a dizzying amount of capitulation. Anyone who suggests otherwise hasn’t been close enough to the political landscape to understand. But this moment is unlike any before. There is a level of anger and discontent in the nation and the world that I can’t recall ever experiencing. It’s normal for people to criticize the government and typical for them to feel dissatisfied with their wages and expenses. It’s also common for the electorate to direct their anger at the government. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt it this intensely.

This trip is timely. Flying aboard Air Force One always provides me with an opportunity to escape for a few minutes. Unless something urgent arises, I’ve established a policy to leave me to my thoughts while we prepare for take-off until we reach a comfortable cruising altitude. That may seem like little more than a minute, but I gratefully accept every second of quiet. I hope to gain some perspective on this brief trip so that I can focus more earnestly on my family when we’re together. Lately, I have struggled to set work aside for even a few moments. Endless scenarios race through my mind while I try to listen to Cooper recount his day or Jameson share a conversation with one of our kids. Balance. I desperately need some balance in my thoughts.

This trip will enable me to connect with people from different regions of the country. I wish I could say it would lead to conversations with those who oppose my presidency the most, but it won’t. There was a time when people crossed party lines to see a president—even if it was someone they didn’t vote for. There was a mutual respect for the office, even if not for the individual who held it. I’d never be so bold as to claim it fostered unity. Instead, it created a shared space for people to find common ground. We seem to have entered an era where prioritizing America has given way to political frustration and anger. That concerns me more than anything else that comes across my desk.

A knock on the door tells me that quiet time is over.

“Sorry,” Luke apologizes.

Choosing Luke as my Chief of Staff was one of the best decisions of my presidency. “Don’t apologize.”

“I know you like a little peace when we travel,” he says.

“And I know you wouldn’t knock unless you need me. Have a seat.”

“There’s a planned demonstration for the event today,” Luke explains.

"Demonstration" is a more palatable word than "protest." I raise an eyebrow at Luke, and he sighs.

“Candace.”

I offer him a smile. “Luke, protest is part of our political process.”

“Perhaps we should rethink your appearance,” he says.

I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath. “Did Ryan say something?”

Ryan McCarthy is the lead agent for my security detail. He would have informed me if he had any reason to think that the Secret Service couldn’t protect me. It’s not that I want to bypass Luke; he’s an important partner and advocate for my initiatives and presidency. However, there are realities in the world that I only share with a very close circle. It is my choice. Perhaps one day, history will judge me harshly for this decision. I have reason to believe there are leaks in my cabinet and that some individuals within the agency assigned to my protection do not prioritize my welfare.

Luke has grown hesitant about my public appearances since the explosion in New York. Most people close to me still feel anxious at public events. I do my best to project the confidence I sometimes lack. Holding a public office has always involved risks. The higher the office, the more public one’s persona becomes—the more one invites greater scrutiny. I received threatening letters and calls as a senator, which intensified when I became governor of New York. The threats escalated even more when I announced my candidacy for the presidency. And now? They’ve reached a point of resulting in an attack.

I knew threats to my life would become more serious if I assumed the presidency. I want to say I understood. No one can fully grasp how life changes when you live in the White House.

“Candace,” Luke begins again.

“No,” I tell him. “Luke, we need to face reality. People are unhappy with nearly everything. They’re angry at each other. Some will be out to protest my agenda. Others will be out to counter-protest. I can’t sit on the sidelines because something might happen again.”

Luke sighs. I can feel his tension.

“Luke?”

“It’s the American Brethren, Candace.”

I hold his gaze deliberately and steady my breathing. This group was implicated in the attack that landed Dana and me in the hospital and took the lives of three others, including a member of my Secret Service detail, Blake Everson.

“Candace?”

“It’s inevitable,” I tell Luke.

“Demonstrations and protests are inevitable, putting you in the crosshairs of?—”

“I know who the Brethren are, Luke, and what they stand for. I also know why they’ve trafficked their intention.”

“And I know what you’re about to say.”

I nod. “Then you also know I won’t change my mind.”

“Candace, I spoke to Ryan, and while he won’t demand a change in your schedule, I think he’d be relieved if you agreed to forego this one stop.”

Here’s the problem that neither Luke nor Ryan understands: there will always be one stop where opposition borders on threats. The more I avoid those situations, the more they are likely to increase.

“Luke, I need you to listen to me. This is exactly what the Brethren want from my administration—from me. They want me to change my course.”

Luke is ready to pounce. I hold up my hand.

“Luke,” I warn him. “I cannot hide away because a hate group decides to come out of the shadows. Frankly, I’m glad they have emerged from the shadows.”

“It’s a?—”

“Risk?” I ask. “That’s why we have an advance team that secures event spaces. It’s also why I have the best security in the world. Before you say another word, no one , and I do mean no one, is more aware of the failures at the event in New York than me. I will not be intimidated by a bunch of insecure men wearing twisted crosses on t-shirts and chanting homophobic slurs.”

Luke groans. “Indiana isn’t New York.”

“Your point?” I challenge him.

“It isn’t Reid territory.”

It’s Luke’s job to challenge me—to help me see perspectives I may otherwise avoid considering. But it’s also his responsibility to support my decisions when I make them explicit. He’s not about to win this round.

“I understand your concerns,” I tell Luke. “Listen. Just listen. This was inevitable. I can’t hide from it. I won’t hide from it.”

“I know you believe the goal is to intimidate you. And I agree. I agree that the group is unlikely to make any attempt on your life. But their presence emboldens others, and it invites altercations.”

Luke’s not wrong.

“You’re right,” I say.

I have to chuckle when he tries to conceal his gloating. He is correct but doesn’t see the bigger picture or give the issue the context it needs. This reality frustrates me continually—and not only with Luke.

There’s a reason the president has a cabinet of department heads with rooms full of advisers. Context. Leading a large organization of any kind is challenging. The United States government is the world’s largest organization. People are constantly spitting facts at me. The facts mean little unless they’re given context. Someone can tell me they need funding for a program to help kids. That’s terrific. How is it helping kids? Which kids will it help? How much money is required to provide this help? Context.

What Luke shared with me amounts to facts, not revelations.

“We’re not deviating from our plan,” I tell him. He’s ready to pounce. “Listen to me. I said you’re right. I mean that your observations are factual. Whether I speak at the event or not, there will be protesters and counter-protesters. And no one understands the risk involved better than me—no one.”

“I understand that, but?—”

“No. You don’t,” I reply.

It’s unlike me to lose my patience with my close staff. Luke typically knows when to stop. I know everyone means well. I’m tired of being lectured by people about my safety—about risk . Luke was at the White House on the day of the bombing. He didn’t experience it the way Dana did—the way I did. He can’t understand. Not really. I don’t mean to underplay the fear and pain my family, staff, and the nation felt that day. I know what it’s like to be a spectator to devastation—to watch at a distance while someone I love is in danger. I’ve experienced that more than once. It isn’t the same as experiencing violence firsthand.

“I realize the gravity of the situation politically,” Luke says gently.

I nod. No. He doesn’t. I understand gravity . I felt it in Blake’s body, bearing down on mine. He saved my life. He carried out his oath and his duty in the fullest measure. He acted as my shield, and it cost him his life.

“No, Luke. You don’t understand. Do you think I’ve moved past that day in New York?”

“That’s not?—”

“Do you?” I repeat my question.

“No.”

“Then stop approaching me as if you do.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“I know. Your intention isn’t the point,” I tell him. “There are nights I wake up, and I think the weight beside me is Blake.”

I can see the forced swallow in Luke’s throat.

“I dream at night. I see Dana lying a few yards from me, bleeding. I wake up and think the weight pressing against me is Blake. I have to remind myself to breathe—close my eyes and repeat Jameson’s name until I trust that when I open them, I will see her . You think I’m pushing because I want to prove I’m not afraid. Of course, I’m afraid. Jonah set off some firecrackers in Schoharie last week—I trembled for an hour. No one noticed except Jameson. My fear can’t prevent my work. Too many people around me underestimate the gravity of my presence in that work. I will allow my fear to dictate my actions. I won’t. People need to feel safe, Luke. They need to believe they can attend a political rally, a protest, or any event and feel secure. The truth is that safety is an illusion. No one can predict what will happen. It could be an accident that triggers an explosion or a fire. It could be another shooting or a natural disaster. I need to project confidence.”

“But this is a preventable?—”

“Disaster?” I ask. “Do you have any reason—any verifiable evidence that my presence will endanger the crowd?”

“No. We have time,” Luke says. “I know you’re worried about losing the Senate. We can find alternatives?—”

“There isn’t an alternative to being present.”

“People understand.”

“No. People don’t understand. My days are filled with meetings with powerful people, many of whom serve my administration. Do you know how often I’ve heard, ‘I serve at the pleasure of the president?’ That may be true. They forget that I serve at the pleasure of the people . You forget that. My family forgets that. I assure you; I have not forgotten it.”

“I’m not going to win this argument, am I?” Luke asks me.

“This isn’t about winning an argument. It’s bigger than that. What happened that day in New York was traumatic for everyone— everyone. People need to see me. I also need to see the people I serve. Do you know why I wanted to run for office?”

“I know you admired your grandfather.”

“I did. I do. My childhood wasn’t always easy. People looking at me from a distance assume because my family has money, my life is easy. I didn’t want things as a child. I had toys and bikes, went on trips, and never worried about paying for my education. I hated to be at home. My mother loved that house in Saratoga Springs. I don’t think she loved it more than she loved me, but she understood it better. I never felt like I was home there.

“Being at the house in Schoharie with my grandparents and Pearl—that was home . I could be myself. Anywhere I was with my grandparents felt like home. When I was about twelve, my mother planned a trip for the family to Europe. She was so excited. We were set to leave in August for two weeks. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I told her I didn’t want to go. My grandfather was campaigning that month. I wanted to be with him. My mother was furious.”

“So, you went to Europe?” Luke asks.

“Hell no.”

Luke chuckles.

“My mother was so angry at me that she extended their trip for another week. Maybe she thought that was a punishment, or maybe she just wanted to avoid me a while longer.” I chuckle. “I got to stay with my grandparents for three weeks. That was the best gift I could have been given. I was on the trail with Grandad most of the time. I loved every second of it. He could talk to anyone . He encouraged me to speak with everyone . I met interesting people everywhere we went. Some would ask about me or Grandad. Most told me about their lives and how Grandad helped or disappointed them. They had stories about meeting him before he was governor or how they’d seen him play baseball when he was in college.

I realize most people think I love to campaign because I get to share my vision and press the flesh. I do enjoy those things, but that isn’t why I love it. I also get to listen to the people who shape my vision and hear the truth. Sometimes, it’s uplifting, and sometimes, it’s ego-shattering. But I hear the truth out there—people’s truth— away from people keen to stay in my good graces.

“Groups like the American Brethren disgust me. It’s infuriating to know that we still have people in this world who embrace white supremacy and hate. But it is real. What they feel is as real to them as what I believe is real to me. It’s uncomfortable. I need to see it and feel it as much as I need to feel the encouragement of my supporters. And they need to feel the discomfort that accompanies seeing me as the leader of this country. This is about more than elections, Luke. It’s about much more than that.”

Luke smiles.

“Is that all you have for me?” I ask.

Luke laughs.

“Silly question,” I say.

“I’ll leave you in peace for a bit,” he says. “Candace?”

“Yes?”

“I do know why you love being with people. I may even know you’re right. That’s why we all want to keep you safe and chair,” Luke says as he leaves my office.

Deep breath. There are many moments when I wonder why I am the one sitting in this chair. When I was first elected to public office, I held the naive belief that I could change the world. Somehow, I thought that if I worked hard enough and remained honest and straightforward, I could eliminate the hatred directed at me. I didn’t understand the fear and anger behind all that hatred. It’s still hard for me to comprehend how people can become so hateful. But I also know that the ire directed at me isn’t about me.

I spent some time reviewing the transcripts of the interrogations the FBI conducted with members of the American Brethren after the bombing. Some parts were chilling, while others were infuriating. None of what was said surprised me. Mostly, it just makes me sad. I wonder where we took a wrong turn with these people. Was it neglectful or abusive parenting? Did our schools fail them? What happened to make them hate ? It frustrates Jameson when I get into those conversations—trying to understand the why. She’s fiercely protective of the people she loves, me most of all. I love that about her. She sometimes views my effort to understand as equivocal to tolerance. That’s not what I feel at all. If I allow myself to believe that I can never shift people away from hateful perceptions, I also concede my ability to create meaningful change. The moment I fall into that trap, I’ll know I am not the right person to sit in this chair.

Jameson has been deeply hurt by hateful, judgmental people she cares about. She’s learned to manage that pain, but hearing the vitriol directed at me or our family makes those wounds resurface.

Initially, I tried to assuage her anger by assuring her I was unaffected by the hurtful things said about me. That only increased her ire. She knows that isn’t true. What people say about me doesn’t change who I am. I can try to influence or counter their assertions, but I can’t force anyone to change their behavior, let alone their minds. I’d be lying if I claimed none of it bothers me. But it isn’t the momentary sting I feel that weighs on me. It’s how the lies, name-calling, and threats affect the people I love that gets under my skin—something Jameson quickly reminds me of. And my perceived unwillingness to fight back often frustrates those closest to me, Jameson included. I can’t say I blame them. I also recognize that the temporary rush of verbally hitting back is fleeting, and the repercussions are usually far more painful than the brief thrill. I prefer to strike back where it matters most. I know that seeing me in the Oval Office is the ultimate revenge.

Being president is an honor, and it’s also a position I wish to keep. I want to say all my reasons are selfless. No one reaches this level of political life without ambition and a fair amount of ego, and I recognize that more than most of my supporters do. People often confuse confidence—even cockiness—with narcissism. Existing under the relentless glare of a blaring spotlight requires a degree of vanity. You have to enjoy attention if you hope to withstand the criticism and cruelty that come with it. It’s another reality that demands balance . Of course, I care about what people think of me. I care about my legacy. But I also understand that I can’t control those perceptions. I might influence them, but others will define my legacy. Some will venerate me; others will condemn me. Only a few will strive to understand me. I am constantly reminded of that reality.

I’ve enjoyed close relationships with previous presidents. I promise you, that is not enough to prepare someone for the pressure of the presidency. But it isn’t the demands on my time, experience, or emotions, the critiques from the press, or the controversies stirred by others that sometimes make me question my decision to run for this office. The burden it places on my family takes the greatest toll on me. It’s not my absences that cause Jameson and my children the most anxiety; it’s how people talk about me and the inability to punch back. Keeping everyone calm after the bombing required more diplomacy than any G7 summit I could attend.

Politics is the unavoidable partner of governing. Any elected leader hoping to stay in office is always campaigning. Maybe it shouldn’t be that way, but it always has been. It’s become more complicated for me than it used to be. Jameson’s uncle has made it his mission to attack our family any chance he gets. And then there’s Laura.

I often think back to when I discovered Jonah’s girlfriend is Lawson Klein’s daughter. Everyone around me was buzzing, worrying about how it would affect my political future. My first reaction was amusement, which quickly turned to concern for Jonah. It’s ironic. Jonah is so much like Jameson that it often leaves me breathless. And God knows, he looks up to her—he looks to her as well. And Laura reminds me of myself at her age.

Lawson Klein presents a greater challenge for me than any hate group. It doesn’t help that his rhetoric emboldens those groups. But I’m not afraid to face him in a debate or compete with him at the ballot box. I worry about Laura. No matter what Lawson has done or can do, he’s Laura’s father. A part of her craves his acceptance and, more importantly, his affection. That’s natural. She’s often torn between her anger at him for what he says about me and her desire to bridge the gap between them. It reminds me that I can never stop trying, no matter how futile my attempts to reach people like Lawson or the American Brethren may be. Real people, including those I love, are always caught in the middle. I need a friendly voice.

I’m sure Jameson will be surprised by my call.

“Candace?”

“That’s what they tell me,” I reply.

“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me Congressman Briggs got caught with his hand in the cookie jar or his hand on an intern.”