BLACK PRESIDENT-Chapter 75. President John-as-Jackson experiences his first real tests as a switched-twin. Visits by family members/political aides, V.P., takes some PERFECT "acting" to survive.

<https://www.ranker.com/list/twin-swap-stories/samantha-dillinger>

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

When John-as-Jackson awoke the following morning, he found his mother’s face staring down at him. Beyond her, over at the door, a Secret Service agent stood alert, machine gun hanging from his shoulder, an intercom plugged into his ear. John remembered the man as “Al” from his brother’s security force at the White House. Al was trying not to stare in his direction, but obviously couldn’t help it. There was a surviving President of the United States, laid out on a hospital bed, with his aged mother in attendance.

Sarah was sobbing quietly. John quickly closed his eyes to buy some time. He could feel her body heaving as she placed her head gently against his. Although he felt an equal amount of sympathy toward her, he couldn’t suppress his own over-riding panic at the moment. In her mind, he was the one who died. That’s what everyone had told her. That’s what she had read in the newspapers and seen discussed on all and every TV channel. Did that deluge of media coverage, brainwashing in a sense, give him a chance to fool her into believing he was Jackson? Could a person fool his own mother?

In the next few minutes he knew he would have to somehow assure her that the man lying in the hospital bed before her was none other than Jackson. But he wasn’t exactly sure how to be his brother. What, after all, were the real differences? Should he be more talkative? Should he be bolder? Could he suddenly convince the world expert on Jackson Little that he was that man? He doubted it. But in his banged-up and scarred shape no one would require him to talk or do much. And if his eyes showed some shyness, a reticence, that would be OK, too. A severely injured person wouldn’t be bold. Beyond that, their bodies looked fairly identical. They had worked out together regularly and both had commented on the fact of their same weight, same basic build. They had laughed about it. So John knew that his physical appearance – bandaged face and torso – would withstand inspection, at least for the initial meetings with his mother.

Of course, the bottom line was, could he appear Presidential later, perform like his deceased brother? Could he fool his political allies and deliver a convincing State of the Union speech off the teleprompter for the 200 million-plus people watching? Could he stand firm against determined political adversaries? At that moment, with a full complement of pain medication dripping into the IV, it actually did seem possible.

John Little kept his eyes shut throughout his mother’s visit and at various opportune times during the evening. When he had heard Cissy’s voice again, watched as she conversed briefly with the agent before approaching his bedside, he feigned sleep. After feeling a light kiss to his cheek, he heard the footsteps recede. A while later – he guessed he had napped some – he cracked his eyes cautiously, staring out through his eyelashes to make sure he was alone in the room. The guard, Al, was gone from his post, but likely still around, in position out in the hallway. Only a nurse’s visit at close to 11 PM, to check his vitals and administer more pills, had stirred him to make some semblance of eye contact.

His last thought, before catching a further round of sleep, was that he’d better prepare himself in the coming days for visits by Rudy, Fran, his children and that of his brother, not to mention various political cronies and adversaries of the President By then he knew he’d better have his “Jackson” role in place. Perfected. Perhaps the entire world – at least what his twin and he had envisioned – depended on it.

When 2:00 AM rolled around, a nurse again checked his vitals as part of the night shift. The procedure woke John enough for him to be conscious of some pain in his left foot and in the center pelvic region. He asked the young woman if he could have a list of his injuries, but she explained that it was hospital policy that, for legal reasons, only a patient’s lead physician could impart such information. After their short conversation, John wondered if he had given off enough presidential authority. How would Jackson have acted? What would he have said? Could his brother have convinced the nurse to break house rules and supply the list? Maybe.

Before the nurse departed, he asked if she could help him turn on the TV. She handed him the remote, showed him how to click it on, demonstrated the sound controls and exited. Maybe he could learn something about his condition from CNN. Catching a program midstream, he heard the first words. “...terrorist attack on President Little...” and then, “...failed to prove lethal for the Commander-in-Chief...” The commentator, an attractive woman with the White House as backdrop, continued with her report.

“But the country is now mourning the death of his brother – Attorney General John Little – and he will be greatly missed. A private service is set to take place at St. John’s Cathedral on Saturday, while a public memorial service will be conducted at the Capitol this Sunday, followed by interment at Arlington Cemetery Monday morning.”

The reporter went on to speculate on possible terrorist organizations thought responsible, ending with the words, “No one, as yet, has come forth, to take credit for this heinous deed.”

John turned down the sound for a while until he saw a doctor on the screen. The white-coated physician was flanked by what appeared to be hospital executives. Raising the volume, John caught the doctor discussing his condition; “... is here to report on the injuries and care of President Little.” A white subtitle faded in: Franklin L. Johnson, Lead Physician Washington Memorial Hospital, D.C.

“As you’ve probably heard, the President and his brother were victims of a deadly attack on the Oval Office at the White House. Attorney John Little was killed instantly, while President Little has sustained several injuries to his lower extremities and pelvic region, along with a slight concussion. While there has been the loss of several toes from the President’s left foot (so that’s the pain I’ve been experiencing, thought John), he has experienced no direct trauma to vital organs. We expect a full recovery within 30 days.”

As the barrage of questions rose from the assembled gallery, John elevated his sheet and tried to form a direct line of sight toward his feet. While he did spot some bandaging, it was impossible to learn any more. Just the action of moving his arms to reposition himself had drained his strength.

As Dr. Johnson fielded questions, from leading news organizations, TV crews and reporters jostling for information to fill their front-page columns, a funny thought entered John’s head. He was suddenly relieved that the damage to his body was sufficient enough to alter the “normal” way he walked – how the President walked. At least he wouldn’t be expected to replicate the famous “President Little strut.” At least his body language wouldn’t betray the greatest deception in American history.

Two days later, President Little, at bedside, took a meeting with Vice President Holstead – acting President – and his Chief of Staff. Both visitors seemed pleased at his good fortune in surviving the attack, and both expressed their condolences on his brother’s demise. Adapting his concept of kung fu to the situation, John let the conversations roll over him, thinking water over a rock in a stream.

Around noon, Sarah and Rudy arrived with Cissy in tow. Cissy was smiling and affectionate as she greeted her wounded husband with a kiss, adding her modest flowerpot gift to the avalanche of bouquets that filled the room. Nearby, a basket sat loaded with get-well cards and letters from friends and well-wishers, including government officials and heads of state from many countries. Sarah smiled with a mother’s relief as she asked how he was feeling. John remained as calm as possible, as he began his role-playing.

“Hi Honeybun,” he said to Cissy, acting a little groggy. (he’d heard his brother use the endearing term on numerous occasions, and “groggy” covered up some of the Presidential edge, he thought). Looking over toward the door, he then acknowledged his parents.

“Hi Mom, Hi, Rudy.”
“So relieved you’re gonna make it, pal!” Rudy blurted out, harking back to his Vietnam-survivor days of counting heads, acknowledging the living over the dead. To him, everything was a war, and the death of John was proof of that.

“Sorry about John. Going to miss him terribly.”

“I know,” was all John-as-Jackson could voice. It was going to be a long and tough day. After some patch of silence, he decided to take the initiative (as Jackson surely would have done) and be proactive with his own questions. “How’re the kids taking all this?”

Cissy wiped her hand against her cheek, but there weren’t really any tears left to scrape off. “Pretty good, I guess. Trying to keep them away from watching TV about it. They’re at school. I figured that’s the best way to normalize.”

As Cissy ran out of words, John held his emotions in check. This poor woman thinks that her husband survived the blast. She doesn’t know he’s dead. Dead, as me. Going to be laid to rest, as me. John knew he wasn’t going to tell her the truth until the moment was exactly right. And it certainly wasn’t right there in the hospital. She had always been practical about things, and John realized that he was now connected – even ostensibly married – to a very capable woman. He fought his mind from its mental drift, wondering how he’d manage the sex part of the impersonation. It helped when he shifted his attention to the role he was playing. But future worries arose. It was obvious that the most difficult test for him would be when Fran entered the hospital room. When she visited and they exchanged tears about her husband, that’s when it would get really difficult. Would she know? How could she not? Or was it that people only saw what they knew.

If everyone said he was Jackson, then could she penetrate that belief system any better, and spot her own husband there under the hospital sheets? He would find out soon enough. If he decided to come clean with his true identity, tell the two wives what was up, could he trust them not to make a slip-up? If he was ever discovered – a thought just too horrible, too dangerous to contemplate – then no one would be spared.

***

As the days of his hospitalization turned into weeks, John Little felt the pressure of his deceit build to almost unbearable levels. The situation seemed to escalate as doctors charted his improvements, announced updates, and reported good news to the media. Feet clear of infection. Bones healing nicely. No permanent damage. Blood work exemplary. Hospital release date set. Next week!

The better his recovery, the more visitors arrived, and with them, more questions. And while his Vice President continued to run the government in his stead, the more visits he got from his core advisors and political allies, to confer on topics currently on the table. (He was often completely at a loss in these conversations, feigning amnesia from the explosion, if necessary!). At least he could trust his brother’s past friends and allies, knew who they were and could safely promise allegiance to new causes and upcoming political races they supported. On the family front, the challenges became more considerable. The dreaded meeting with “John’s” wife, Fran, was one of the most difficult moments he’d ever experienced.

Fran Little had entered the hospital room weeks earlier, after passing through a battery of security checkpoints throughout the hospital and its surrounding property. By the time she actually got admitted to her supposed brother-in-law’s hospital room she was exhausted, and told him so.

“Wow, Jackson – some labyrinth to get in here.” After giving the man she believed to be the brother of her dead husband a hug and careful kiss on the cheek, she plopped herself down in the bedside hospital chair and tried, though not very successfully, to deliver a smile.

“Glad to see you’re improving. I'm so sorry for what happened to you – and John. I just can’t believe it.” After a slight pause she added, “But you warned us that there were plots against the Little Presidency. And if you and John had switched identities like you were considering, it would be John sitting here, instead of you.”.

John tried to contain his uneasiness at Fran's unnerving observation. It was several long seconds before the subject changed.

“But I know I have to move on, to be the mother John would have wanted me to be. Hard to think how he’s been lost to us now, to our – my kids.”

As John listened to his wife discuss him in the past tense he experienced a barrage of emotions and deep concerns. Somehow his wife didn’t recognize her own husband. She just saw his brother, Jackson, lying there before her in hospital green like he prayed she would. John was so gone now in her mind. It seemed he was safe from detection. But he was still very vulnerable to his own emotions. When Fran reminded him of the loss his kids would be experiencing, it gave him a chill. He was hurting them, probably damaging their entire lives. Was that right? Was the continuation of Jackson’s policies – for the good of the people – worth the trade-off? He couldn’t reconcile it at that moment, as he watched his wife slip away, shed the bond they’d built together. Admiring her nobility under the circumstances made it all the harder.

It was possible, his heart told him, to stop everything right then and there. Before Fran left, he could suddenly weaken and spill the beans. He quickly rehearsed it in his mind, imagining what he would say after dismissing the security agent near the door.

“Fran,” he’d say, “…could you come over here, closer to me, so I can share a secret?”

She would wonder at first, hesitate, then move over to the bedside, leaning in at his prompting, until her ear was almost touching his lips. At that point, he would let certain sounds escape, words that could never, ever be retrieved: “Honey, John didn’t die. I’m John. We did do the switch before the explosion.”

What would happen next? Would she faint? Would she scream? Cry? Shout? Swear? Would she slap him, slug him, yell loud expletives that would prompt security guards to rush in through the door? Could he predict anything about it? No. Not really.

He felt he knew his wife pretty well, but she had been traumatized by the news of his death, and for several weeks would have been reprogramming herself to psychologically survive that loss. For Fran to suddenly be told that it was all a lie would jar her out of her mourning state, possibly propel her into a world of anger. She would first experience shock, then be indignant, bitter, confused, finally wracked with the utmost sense of betrayal. She could possibly hate him (and his brother) for what they’d put her through. And those closest to her would certainly see a distinct change in her demeanor. He was certain that her mother, the children, any close friends of hers would be able to sense that something monumental had switched her around. Could they guess from that, figure out what it was? Would she then tell Sarah and Rudy? Let Cissy know? Where would it end? Ruined marriages, angry parents, confused and upset children, and a prison sentence for him? A shockwave of worldwide embarrassment, danger to the Office of the Presidency itself? He couldn’t help imagining an immense backlash if he admitted he wasn’t the real President.

Was it too late to back out? Could he still plead momentary insanity, a few weeks into acting as President? He had met with Cissy and had led her to believe it. Same with his mother and Rudy. Ditto with his V.P. and all the Congressmen who had dropped by. He had even commiserated over the loss of his brother. Could all that be attributed to a bump on the head, and the loss of some toes?

Examining all possible outs, he wondered if he had said anything amounting to, “poor John?” Could anyone really believe that he had forgotten his own name, or identity?

No, it wasn’t too late. He could just tell his wife, right then and there. And Yes, he’d have to start preparing a defense (with her, Rudy’s and his mother’s help). Maybe it could all be washed away, him labeled as just “a temporary amnesiac due to trauma.”

The minutes ticked away as Fran prattled on about their children, the loss of her husband/his brother, the various family ramifications, even her determined support for “The Jackson Little Presidency,” and all the good left to do during his administration. He realized that she was reprogramming herself right there, even as she chatted with him. She was reeling out facts, not emotions, helping herself to be done with the past. If John was gone, dead and gone, then she would move on. In fact, she already had.

Her words about the tragedy, “as we all move through this horribleness,” and the tone of her voice – cold and disassociated – had signaled to him that he must act immediately, if at all.

Time was running out. Valuable seconds were passing. Should he confess? Now? Now, or never. Should he stop it?

“Fran, could you come over – ” John began, ready to maneuver his wife’s ear to his mouth and tell all. He had reached his breaking point. But suddenly a nurse appeared from nowhere. She had two tiny cups of pills on a small tray, along with a glass of water.

“Mr. President. Please excuse me, but it’s time for these...(she kept advancing)...pain pills and some muscle relaxants. The doctor will see you in just a few minutes.”

For just a second, John took his eyes off Fran. He placed the pills in his mouth, gulped them down, then watched as she looked away. Was she thinking about her new life, alone, without...him? How crazy had it been, to consider piercing that new reality?

Directing her eyes toward the hospital window, Fran had thought about herself and her children’s lives since the shocking event. She knew what she knew and she was dealing with it. Visiting the President, brother of her dead husband, had been a good and important idea. Handling John’s death certificate had certainly helped bring some closure too. Yes, she had begun to accept her fate. It was a hard lesson, but some things were just meant to be. She was a widow.

Glancing at her wristwatch as her brother-in-law took his pills, Fran saw it was time to pick up her children from Jefferson Day School. Yes, I’m still a functional parent. I can still cope, she reminded herself. John would have been proud of me, still hitting the marks of motherhood.

She stood up and gave the man she believed to be her husband's brother the best smile she could muster. With a couple light pats on his smock-covered shoulder she said, Goodbye.

John watched his wife slip out the door. Fran was gone. Suddenly there was no turning back. Now that he had double-crossed himself, forfeited his wife’s and children's love to play President, all of that, he would definitely hold no mercy for his brother’s enemies. Those people would be eliminated. He would see to the complete destruction of the military industrial complex. And he’d end the Federal Reserve too,** like Kennedy had tried to do. It was time, like his twin and he had discussed, to change around who actually controlled the finances of the US government. And if he was ever discovered; denounced, disgraced, imprisoned, killed or whatever, it would still be worth the effort. He vowed to carry on his and his brother's vital work until the bitter end.

————

**https://www.politifact.com/factchecks/2022/feb/21/facebook-posts/no-jfk-did-not-plan-end-federal-reserve/