by Jayne Lind
“Mrs. Carlson, this is Dr. Leigh,” Lillian said and quickly withdrew.
Taylor’s first impression was how small Mrs. Carlson was. Even wearing high heels, she barely reached Taylor’s chin. She was dressed in a powder blue tailored suit with a chiffon scarf at her neck. There was no sign of grey in her deep brown hair, coiffed in the familiar style Taylor had seen so often and a few blond highlights caught the light from a lamp. Her carefully made-up face showed few signs of aging, although there were puffs under her eyes and she did look older in person than on television. Taylor was certain the president’s wife had access to a full time hairdresser. Now she had access to a full time psychologist.
“Dr. Leigh,” she said, extending her hand.
Taylor smiled and shook her hand, “Mrs. …”
“Please, call me Beth,” she interrupted. “I gather you’re going to end up knowing all about me and I’m much more comfortable with Beth.”
“Of course,” Taylor said, “but I may stumble a few times.”
She quickly took in the details of the small room. It was overwhelmingly blue. Deep Wedgewood blue wallpaper with a white flocked pattern adorned the walls. The drapes and a sofa, as well as two chairs, were all upholstered in material of the same blue pattern. There were two windows, one which faced the front of the White House with an old fashioned vanity table placed in front of it, the kind with a silk flounce hiding the legs. There were two small lamps and an antique mirror propped on the vanity top. A full-length antique oval mirror stood in one corner of the room, and a small fireplace with yet another very high mirror was over the mantle. A very blue room, Taylor thought, fitting for someone who is depressed.
As if she read her thoughts, the First Lady said, “I’m afraid this room is rather.....blue. Jacqueline Kennedy had it decorated like this, but Lillian and I decided it was a safe place to meet.” Her tone was apologetic.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Taylor exclaimed, “I guess I was a bit surprised, that’s all. Where would you like to sit?”
Beth moved over toward one of the comfortable looking chairs beside the window. She looked uneasy, sitting down with her back as straight as if there were a backboard in her jacket.
There was a small, round antique table between the chairs. No clock, Taylor noticed, as she sat down in the chair opposite
Beth spoke first. “I’m grateful that you’ve accepted, that you agreed to come here.” She looked down into her lap after she spoke.
This was so different than any other first session with a client, not only the circumstances, but also the time. There was no rush, no need to keep an eye on the clock. The only time limits to the sessions were the First Lady’s, not hers. Wanting to put her at ease, Taylor said, in gentle voice, “Why don’t you just talk to me as if I was a friend, which I hope I will become. I’ll ask questions when I don’t understand or when I want you to expound further.”
Beth nodded, and when she raised her head, her eyes shone bright with tears.
“Take your time, we have as much time as you want, as you have,” Taylor said.
Beth once more nodded and took a tissue from her pocket. “It’s just that I don’t know where to begin,” she said, dabbing at her eyes and looking up at Taylor. She sat up even straighter, if that was possible, in her chair.
“Begin anywhere you want,” Taylor said encouragingly. “Eventually all the strands of your story will come together.”
Beth took a deep breath and began to speak in a very soft voice, alternately looking straight at Taylor and through the window behind her. “When one is First Lady, it’s like being on display in a shop window. You have to be dressed smartly at all times, you have to smile at all times, and heaven help you if you’re in a bad mood or upset over something. You can’t let anyone know.” She paused for a moment. “And you can’t trust anyone. You never know if that employee or that staff member will write a memoir later, if a person will sell their story to some newspaper. So you keep it all inside—all the hurts, all the doubts, all the…anger.”
“And you end up depressed,” Taylor said softly.
“Yes, I guess that’s what happened. I didn’t know anything about depression. It was a long time before I had the courage to tell anyone.”
“Who did you tell?”
Beth blew her nose delicately before she spoke. “Frank. He’s the White House physician. He explained that my symptoms added up to the fact I was depressed and he put me on Prozac.”
Taylor nodded. Josh had told her that much on the way over. “What dosage are you on?”
“Forty mg. I was on twenty at first and then he increased it.”
“Has it helped?” Taylor asked. Beth had a soft mile and her eyes twinkled through the tears. It was the first Taylor had seen of her public face since she walked in.
“Yes, I’m sleeping better now,” she replied, “but I’m also taking Trazadone at night, so I don’t know which is which.”
“And has your mood lifted?” Taylor asked.
The smile quickly vanished and the look on Beth’s face was of a woman who felt utterly hopeless, one of the classic descriptions of depression. “Somewhat, I’m able to control the crying a bit. Often there were engagements which had to be postponed or canceled because I didn’t look well, when my eyes were too swollen.”
“Did this doctor,” Taylor asked, “Frank, did he explain what an antidepressant does? How it works?”
Beth shook her head. “No, not really. He said it would take between two and three weeks to begin working to the point that I notice any benefit.”
“All right, we can get into that later, but now why don’t you just talk,” Taylor urged. “Obviously, you know that I’ve taken an oath not to reveal anything you’ve said to me. It would be confidential anyway, but even more so in your case.” Josh had administered the oath on the plane.
Taylor was feeling more comfortable now that she had met the First Lady and the work had begun. The past two days had been filled with unfamiliar, new, and fast experiences. Now she was back in her own domain; she knew what she was doing and for the first time since all this began, felt some control coming back into her life.
Beth hesitated a moment, and with a heavy sigh, began, “I don’t think anyone, other than former first ladies, can understand what it’s like living here. It’s not one thing, it’s lots of things. When we’re in the residence, there are servants—someone is always cleaning or something. Oh, I can hang the privacy sign on my door and gain a few hours alone, but there is not enough time to have space to be myself.”
Taylor listened intently, knowing from experience with clients over the years, that Beth was probably going to skirt around what she suspected was the real problem.
“And you can’t phone up a friend,” Beth continued, “and ask for advice or confide, because even though they tell you that you have a clear line, it probably isn’t. Someone, somewhere, could be listening. And…and how do you know anymore if you could trust that friend?”
Taylor nodded, “It must be terribly lonely.”
Beth looked off into the distance behind Taylor. “Yes, it’s very lonely. And I can’t even talk to former first ladies, you know? How do I know I could trust them?”
“So can you put a name to the feeling, from all you’ve just said?”
“Yes, I put a name to it a long time ago. The word is trapped. Trapped in a glass house with everyone looking at you.” Her voice took on an edge as she said those words.
Glass house—Sylvia Plath—the Bell Jar. These thoughts flashed through Taylor’s mind as Beth spoke. “Trapped is a very descriptive word. And is there no way out?”
Beth looked at her intently, her voice rising as she said, “No! That’s part of it, when someone is in the position I’m in, there isn’t a way out. Once you’re in, you can’t leave until your husband loses an election or until the eight years are
up.”
“So you feel you have no control over your life.”
“Yes!” Beth replied immediately. “Absolutely. No control whatsoever. I sometimes feel like a mannequin, you know, one of those store mannequins who has a permanent smile fixed to her face, painted on?” Her voice had risen even more and there was a look of desperation on her face. Once again her eyes glistened with tears.
“That must be very, very hard,” Taylor said. “I never thought of it before, the difficult position first ladies must be in. What we see on television news is exactly what you are saying, a smiling, supportive wife, loving every minute of the glamor and prestige of living here in the White House.”
Beth dabbed her eyes, as if she needed to make certain tears didn’t escape to run down her cheeks. “That’s right. I don’t think anyone realizes what it’s like, other than past first ladies, as I said. I didn’t know either. I had to actually live here for awhile before the feeling of being trapped, of being out of control, began to overtake me.”
“I know that we will have a long time to work together,” Taylor said quietly, “but I need to find out first how depressed you are now, today. Do you have any change in appetite? Are you having a problem concentrating? Making decisions?”
Beth nodded her head vigorously, “All of the above. My mind is in a muddle, as if my brains have disappeared, you know? And I can’t seem to eat, although the past few days, that’s improved. I’ve lost ten pounds.”
“That’s common when one is clinically depressed. Has anyone in your family ever suffered from depression?”
Beth shook her head, “Not that I know of. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I thought I was losing my mind! It came on slowly, like a fog that became thicker and thicker until it completely blanketed me.”
“And did you have days when you just didn’t get out of bed?” Taylor was keeping all this in mental notes. She rarely took notes during a session anyway, except the first one, where she put down details such as had just been given. Ordinarily she would have given Beth a paper and pencil test which evaluates the depth of depression, but that wasn’t allowed. “Can you tell me when and where this started, this feeling of not wanting to get up in the morning, the feeling of a fog as you so aptly put it?”
Beth was silent for a moment, but kept her gaze on Taylor. “It’s difficult to remember now. That’s another thing, by the way, my memory seems to have packed up as well, but for several months at least.”
“And you didn’t tell your doctor until when?”
“A little more than two weeks ago.”
“All right. We’ll get into the depression more later or in the next session, but I need to get to know you, to understand you. So could you tell me a little about yourself, your family, etc?” Taylor wanted to let up on the pressure she assumed Beth must be feeling, to lighten things up a bit, to help her feel more at ease.
Beth took a deep breath, seeming to relax a little. “So where should I start? What do you want to know about me?”
“Everything. All about your family growing up, where you went to school, friends, everything. Are your parents still living?”
“My mother is, but my father died about ten years ago after a long illness. He had early onset Parkinson’s disease and my mother nursed him for quite a long time.” She smiled as she began talking about her father. “He was a wonderful man, a wonderful father. We didn’t have much money when I was growing up, but he did the best he could.”
“Was your parent’s marriage happy, as far as you know?” This was not an innocent question. Framed in the context of telling about her family of origin, Taylor hoped it was a way into Beth’s problems.
“Um, yes, I certainly never thought otherwise, they seemed happy enough together. Of course, after he became ill, I’m sure there were times of stress. But Sam and I were able to help them, financially, at least, so Mom didn’t have to leave him for someone else to take care of him. She was able to quit her job.”
“You miss him,” Taylor said quietly.
“Yes I do, terribly,” Beth nodded, with a sad smile.
“If you had one adjective to describe him, what would it be?”
“Kind,” she answered quickly, as her smile grew broader. “He was a kind man. He was a pharmacist. I grew up in a small town in Vermont where everyone knew him; there was only one drugstore and everyone liked him, respected him.”
“Tell me some memories you have of him, memories from childhood,” Taylor asked.
“Oh, there are so many,” she said, smiling and once more dabbing at her eyes. “I remember one time when I must have been about six. We were out in the back yard and I was helping him plant tomatoes.”
“And what were your feelings—do you remember?”
She smiled, “Happy, I just remember being happy.”
Good, thought Taylor. It was rare for her clients to describe being happy as a child, but it was also a predictor of inner strength. She’d had a good foundation. “Same question for your mother. What adjective best describes her?”
Beth hesitated for a moment. “Oh, there are so many for her. She was kind as well, but she was….I guess the best word to describe her would be that she was nearly always cheerful. She was hard working and I just remember her singing around the house and smiling at me.”
“Were you an only child?” Taylor asked, feeling better all the time about the prognosis.
“Yes, something I always regretted. I always wanted a sister—didn’t ever want a brother,” she laughed. “But I always wanted someone to actually live in the house, to play dolls with me.”
“Were you a girly type girl?” Taylor asked, smiling.
“Yes,” she responded, “I’m afraid so, never much good at sports, not a tomboy in any respect.”
“Did you have neighbors, lots of playmates? Tell me about the place where you grew up.”
Beth smiled. “Oh, yes, it was a small enough town that anyone could go anywhere safely, so there was always someone to play with. I guess I had an unusual childhood; it almost sounds as if it was a throwback to the past. We never heard the word pedophile; we weren’t frightened of being kidnapped, or anything.”
“It sounds idyllic.”
“It was—it was idyllic.” Beth paused and looked out the window again. “Maybe that’s why I’m so unhappy, maybe I expected marriage to be like that.”
Taylor’s face remained impassive; she didn’t want to give away what she was thinking. Beth had just dropped a hint, a large one. “And being the President’s wife couldn’t be further removed from your roots,” Taylor stated rhetorically.
There were no tears in Beth’s eyes now. Taylor thought she seemed to be feeling more comfortable, but she knew it would take more than one session for the First Lady to trust her.
Beth didn’t answer Taylor’s question, but instead, looked at her watch. “I’m sorry. I have to go to a meeting in five minutes. She shrugged, “Is it all right if this is all for today?”
Taylor was startled. Only half an hour had passed and she had expected the session to last much longer. She hoped she hid her surprise as she replied, “Of course, you know that you are to set the schedule. What time would you like to see me tomorrow?”
“Lillian will phone you. Since our sessions are not to be listed on my agenda for each day, since they are listed as private time, she will try to give you a day’s notice. I’m afraid that’s the best we can do.” Beth stood up.
“I understand.” Taylor smiled and rose from her chair as well.
Beth extended her hand, “Thank you, Dr. Leigh,”
“Please call me Taylor. And thank you for the privilege of helping you.”
The First Lady left through a door near the window, closing it after her.
***
This house, it seemed funny to Taylor to call it a house, seemed to be a p
lace of closed doors. She supposed she was to leave the same way she came in and opened the door into the large sitting room. She saw no one until after she climbed the stairway at the end of the hall and came to the third floor, where one of those ubiquitous uniformed men nodded to her, putting his sleeve to his mouth. She knew he was telling someone, somewhere, that Sunflower had arrived on the third floor. He simply nodded to her as she inserted the key and opened the door to her suite, but before she had time to close it, another man seemed to appear out of nowhere with a large stack of books in his arms. “These are the books you ordered,” he said, and without waiting for her to thank him, disappeared.
Taylor closed the door and quickly looked through the stack. There were books on the history of the White House, books on the families who had previously lived there, and books on the architecture and layout. These were just what she wanted and she was anxious to look at them.
First, however, she needed to assimilate what had just happened in the session. It was all so strange compared to her normal workday. She should have been typing up her notes, printing them out, doing an invoice, catching up on phone calls, breathlessly getting ready for her next client. Instead, she had nothing to do until the next time.
Kicking off her shoes and changing quickly into a track suit, she lay down on the bed and began going over in her mind every detail of this first, very short session. She would have to remember absolutely everything. She hadn’t asked the questions she normally would in a first session, such as if Beth had felt suicidal. I should have asked. One always asks that of a depressed client; it is the only illness that a psychologist’s patients die from, but she didn’t. Why not? She conjectured that the magnitude of the office, of who she was dealing with, had all interfered with her professional skills.
Trapped, Beth said. This was only Taylor’s first day here and she was already beginning to know what it felt like. At least Beth had freedom to go where she liked, didn’t she? Couldn’t she go shopping or out for a walk? Maybe she couldn’t. It might be dangerous and with so many people watching her, following her, it might not be enjoyable.