by Jayne Lind
The next day Taylor woke to a curtain of silver rain coming down straight and loud from an angry looking sky. She had read late into the night and felt drained. As always, the first thing she did was take her laptop from the safe to see if Josh had written. He hadn’t. She felt a shot of disappointment and realized how dependent she was becoming on him.
The day’s newspapers were outside her door each morning. Most days she had time to go to the gym and work out, if it was allowed, plus time to take a leisurely shower, breakfast, and read the papers. Like a holiday. So why wasn’t she having fun? She picked up one of the books about the White House. Entitled Gardens of the White House, there were bright color photos of the Rose Garden in full bloom, of sweeping lawns, and carefully arranged borders. The pictures were enticing and made her yearn to be outside, to get out of her room, to be in the fresh air. Looking out her window, she could see the rain had stopped. She dialed Lillian’s number.
She answered promptly. “Yes?”
“This is Taylor….”
“I know, but all I will ever say is yes and don’t use that name.”
Her tone was abrupt, as if Taylor was bothering her. She was sure Lillian was a busy woman, and Taylor knew she wasn’t the only person she had to worry about, but she was totally dependent on her. “May I go outside? Just to walk around the grounds?” she asked, in an uncharacteristically timid voice. She felt like a little girl asking permission to go out to play.
“Yes, but you may only go in the area right outside the south entrance. I will tell your detail to guide you.”
So this was what the ubiquitous men in dark suits were called, detail men. Taylor wondered if they wondered who she was, wondered why she was staying in the guest quarters, or if she was just a friend of the family. When she was ready to leave her room, after locking up the computer and looking around for any identifying information that might be loose, she stepped outside her door.
The agent was silent, but gestured as he led her to the lift. He was a muscular man, with wide shoulders and an incongruously tiny waist. He looked to be Hispanic; his black hair was shorn close and she noticed his deep chocolate colored eyes. “Sunflower leaving” he announced to the world of secret service. Sunflower, how had they come up with that? She did like sunflowers, maybe they knew that as well.
As she stepped out the door, Taylor took in a deep breath of crisp air which smelled freshly cleaned. It tasted glorious and she couldn’t get enough of it, taking long, deep breaths. Never before had she equated fresh air with freedom. And having to ask permission like a child, just to go outside, caused a righteous anger to well up inside. Josh was right when he said this was going to be much harder than she ever dreamed.
The agent spoke for the first time. “I’ll show you the parameters of where you can walk. Just follow me, we’ll go in a circle and then I’ll let you wander about,” he said as he smiled, “but I’ll be close by.”
Taylor smiled back. “Thank you,” she said, trying to read his name on the badge around his neck, but without her glasses, she saw only a blur. Her anonymous guide steered her toward the garden outside the East Wing.
“You can’t go over to the other side, near the West Wing,” he said, “but you can walk straight down to the fence from the east side of the lawn and you can go over to the swimming pool and the tennis court, hidden from your view at the moment.” He was pointing to a large clump of trees on the west side, well away from the West Wing. “When you come back this way, be certain to repeat your path. Come back exactly the same way.” He smiled once more.
She wanted to engage him in conversation, but thought this probably would be frowned upon, so didn’t. She began walking slowly, wanting her outing to last, going in a more or less straight path down to the wrought iron fence that enclosed the south lawn. The sun was competing with the clouds to be seen and it was chilly.
Her first impression was of the scarcity of flowers. Other than the planted beds near the East Wing, she saw no others and presumed this was matched on the other, verboten, side. As she approached the fence, she saw people walking by, not paying any attention to the White House or to her. Must not be tourists.
She looked back at the White House from this vantage point. It seemed much smaller than it looked in pictures and the grounds didn’t appear all that large either. One of the books about the White House stated that it is set amongst eighteen acres, but Taylor didn’t get that impression. Perhaps it was because the trees intercepted the sweep of the lawn, she told herself. Plus, she had never been good at spatial perspective. There were some brown patches, not brown grass, but simply dirt, where the grass wasn’t growing. This surprised her; she thought the grounds would be maintained to a higher standard.
Most of the trees looked as if they had been planted long ago, spreading their branches out wide and high. She noticed little plaques on each one, giving its name and origin and some had small plaques at the base with different president’s names on them plus the date of planting. Her faithful friend followed a respectful distance be-hind. Taylor looked back every once in awhile to see if he was still there. It is one thing to be protected when there is a clear danger, but when there isn’t, it felt spooky and she didn’t like it. The First Lady had lived with this watchfulness for over three years now. It was uncomfortable; she began to worry about her posture, becoming self-conscious even about what she did with her hands. Well, Taylor, it’s always good to step into the client’s shoes and I certainly am already beginning to feel the way she does. She wondered if she’d get depressed as well.
She walked for half an hour, almost in a circle. Unwilling to go inside yet, she sat down on an uncomfortable white wrought iron bench and found it was still slightly damp. Raindrops lingered on blades of grass, sparkling like crystals. The deciduous trees were beginning to turn and she noted there should have been leaves on the lawn, but there weren’t. Stray leaves must be instantly picked up. What a perfect picture, a white mansion, a large garden or at least a large lawn with trees, servants, everyone at your beck and call. Who wouldn’t love that?
She looked up at what she thought must be the window in her sitting room. Susan told her that originally these rooms on the top floor were attic rooms for the servants. In the 1920’s the roof was lifted and the area remodeled, made into extra rooms for the first family as well as their guests.
She rose reluctantly from the bench and walked back to the entrance. Another man opened the door for her and as she entered she heard him murmur into his sleeve. She was ushered to the lift and pushed the button to the third floor. Were there cameras in the lift? She searched the ceiling. If there were, they were cleverly hidden.
“Tell me more about you, separate from your husband,” Taylor suggested that afternoon. The light from the window was dim and all three lamps in the room were lit, giving a bit of warmth to the hopelessly blue room.
Beth looked at her inquiringly. “Like what?”
“Well, if you hadn’t married the man you married, if you hadn’t married at all until later in life, what would you have done?” Taylor asked.
A beautiful smile lit up Beth’s face. “Oh, I wanted to be a dancer, a ballet dancer. You know, I wasn’t good enough to be famous, or anything, but I just loved it. From the first lesson at the ballet school, that’s where I was the happiest.”
After she said this, Taylor did note that Beth had a graceful air about her. She told herself she must have been so focused on Beth’s words, her problems, that it hadn’t penetrated. She now realized Beth had an elegant way of moving her hands, and when she walked, it was more like gliding. “Did you keep it up through high school and college?” Taylor asked.
Beth’s mouth turned down at the corners in a shrug. “Yes, through high school and I was helping at the dance school by then, teaching the young children.” She took a deep breath and sighed audibly. “But then, in college, I knew I had to be practical, I had
to go for a course that would enable me to support myself.”
“So you went into teaching.”
“Yes, it was the sensible thing to do. I went to a state university because that’s all my parents could afford. And I lived at home the first two years. There was no money for the dorm or an apartment.”
“And you stopped dancing?”
Beth nodded and a sad look came over her face. “It was gradual. At first, I only had time for one class a week and the last two years, I was away from my home dance school. The lessons were expensive and they didn’t need anyone to help with the little ones, which is how I paid for my lessons before.”
“Do you still dance?” Taylor asked, hoping the answer was yes, even if it was in private.
The look on Beth’s face changed and with a small grin, she said, “Since this is all confidential, I’ll tell you.” She looked as if she was going to get up and demonstrate.
“Go on,” Taylor urged. “I would love to see you dance.”
Beth hesitated, “Are you serious?”
“Yes – please!”
She took off her shoes and stood up. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I do this in front of the mirror.” She stood on her toes and put her hands over her head in a graceful arc. Then she pirouetted around, only for a very few seconds, ending with a low bow and a laugh.
Taylor was delighted. “It’s good to hear you laugh and I can certainly still see the dancer in you. What does your husband think of your dancing?”
A shadow crossed Beth’s features. “I think he thinks it was something I did as a child, like taking piano lessons. He doesn’t ever mention it, actually.”
How terrible, Taylor thought. She was growing into more and more dislike of the President. “Did he ever see you dance?”
“No. He never would even discuss it with me. It was a non-starter.” All the exuberance was gone from Beth’s voice and her countenance.
“And your daughter? Has she inherited your love of the dance?” Taylor asked.
Beth shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. She takes after her father. She’s a very good athlete and loves all sports. Anna is his favorite, always has been. But…” She looked reluctant to say what she had been about to say. Then, “Ben, our son, did several times express an interest in ballet. He saw the DVD of Billy Elliot and afterward, he wanted to talk about it. I encouraged him, told him that would be wonderful for him to take lessons.” She sighed again. “But when it was mentioned at the dinner table that night, Sam exploded. ‘No son of mine is going to be strutting across a stage wearing a tutu’ he said.”
“So that ended that.”
“Oh, yes, it wouldn’t fit into his image, you see, his political image, the one he was still creating. That happened when Ben was ten and he’s in college now. I tried my best to help him. I mean, it was ironic, wasn’t it? That was the whole point of the Billy Elliot story, the young boy had to struggle to get to where he wanted to go.”
“Yes,” Taylor replied, “except in the movie, his father eventually came round.”
“And Sam is an immovable force. Once he says something, he expects it not to be questioned.”
Not to be questioned, another aspect of controlling behavior. “So being the President of the United States is perfect for him,” Taylor said. “No one questions his decisions; he has total power.”
Beth sighed, “Yes, well, no one except the opposition party. And the press, of course.”
The picture of the President was becoming clearer all the time. It wasn’t just a marital problem that led to Beth’s depression. It wasn’t just living in this place, which Taylor could see would drive anyone to depression.
“What is going through your mind?” Taylor asked, noting how sad Beth looked. Her body had become almost limp.
“Oh, I just feel so sorry for Ben. I know I’m restricted by this job we all seem to have, the job of being in the White House, the job of making sure the party gets elected next time around. We all are trapped, but it was not Ben’s choice. I did make the original choice to marry Sam, so I have some culpability. But poor Ben, he has a secret service detail just like the rest of us and he can’t even have the normal fun that college kids have. He tells me he doesn’t know who his real friends are, he doesn’t know if they just want to brag that they are friends with the president’s son, he says he can’t let go, can’t just enjoy himself like he would if he didn’t think there might be a call to his father or a picture in some newspaper.”
“But the press has been quite good at letting the children of presidents alone, haven’t they?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, but still, I now exactly what he means. You never know when someone may break the self-imposed code of behavior.” Beth paused for a moment and then in a quieter voice said, “But that’s not what he’s really afraid of, he’s really afraid of his dad’s anger.” She stood up abruptly and stretched her arms up over her head. “I’m beginning to get a headache, is it all right if we stop for today? I need to take a pill before it gets worse.”
Taylor stood up as well. “Of course.”
“As far as I know I can’t see you until late tomorrow,” she said. “Thank you, Taylor.”
“Please, it’s an honor to be able to help you. I’ve been meaning to ask you, would it be all right for me to confer with Dr. Bolton? I know he’s not a psychiatrist, but I thought maybe we should meet.”
Frown lines appeared on Beth’s forehead for a brief moment, “I…I think it would be fine. The only problem is that he accompanies Sam almost everywhere he goes. So it may be difficult.” Then she smiled softly, “But I agree, it would be beneficial for you two to meet, I need all the help I can get!” she laughed lightly as she said those words.
“I need for you to sign a release of information slip, so that he can tell me what he knows about your symptoms. Is that all right?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll speak to Lillian about it today.”
Lillian arranged a meeting with Dr. Bolton the next day. Taylor knew he was a colonel in the U.S. Air Force and learned from one of the books about the White House that there is a medical staff of twenty assigned to the president, which includes nurses and technicians. Dr. Bolton’s office was on the ground floor just below the residence and right across from the lift the President and the First Lady used to come down from the residence.
Taylor opened the door that led to a receptionist’s office. It was a small narrow room. There was no one behind the desk. Dr. Bolton must have heard the door open, because he immediately came through from an inner door. He looked to be his late fifties, with silver grey hair carefully blown dry to cover the thinning. His leathery, tan face was brightened by deep blue eyes, framed with almost invisible glasses. A welcoming smile softened his face as he extended his hand.
“Hello, Dr. Leigh. Come in.” His voice was crisp, sharp, and had a military tone.
The office was very comfortable looking. There was only one small window at the far end, but lighting all along the top of the cornices and pale yellow walls gave the appearance of more light. Bookcases lined the walls opposite a comfortable looking sofa and a cluttered desk was centered underneath. Dr. Bolton beckoned her to sit down on the sofa and as she did, he sat in a plush leather desk chair opposite.
“I am so glad you’re able to meet me,” Taylor said. “Did Mrs. Carlson sign a release?”
He turned around, picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to her. “Yes, I spoke to her this morning and she would like for us to work together. How is the therapy going,” he asked, “what do you think so far?”
“Well, I’m certainly grateful that you prescribed Prozac for Mrs. Carlson as soon as you did. I don’t think she would have committed suicide, but she certainly was clinically depressed.” Taylor smiled, “Do you go by Colonel or by Dr. Bolton?”
His facial expression
was austere; there was no smile in response. “Just call me Frank, at least when we’re alone.”
“All right, Frank. I think having someone to talk to is helping her, but I wish I had more time with her. She has so many commitments. I guess I didn’t know, or realize, how busy the wife of the President is.”
He nodded, “Yes, it’s probably one of the most difficult jobs in the world, mainly because it’s not given enough recognition and the schedule can be tremendously exhausting.” He leaned forward. “The hardest part is that of supporting her husband.”
Taylor scanned his face for any sign of emotion. Was he trying to tell her something? Something Beth hadn’t? However, the craggy face remained frozen with no clue as to what he was thinking. “Beth has told me how she feels about her husband and I believe that is the main cause of her depression, plus the fact that she can’t trust anyone, can’t talk to anyone, and feels trapped, as well as on stage, here in the White House.”
Frank didn’t respond. He just looked at her intently, as if he were examining her. What was he thinking? Did he agree with her? She felt like literally squirming in her seat. After what seemed like a very long time, he stood up abruptly, went to the door, opened it, and looked out. He shut it again and pulled his chair closer to the sofa. “I wanted to make sure no one was near enough to hear what I’m going to say.” He took a deep breath and began, “Dr. Leigh, my duty here is to the President. As you probably know, I accompany him everywhere he goes. I do not sit in on cabinet meetings, or staff meetings, so I do not have inside information about the workings of the administration. But….” he hesitated and leaned even closer to her. His voice was very quiet, not a whisper, but definitely sotto. “I have many opportunities to watch the President in all sorts of situations. I accompany him to Camp David as well as on vacations. I think I probably have a good idea of his personality.”
He once more stopped talking. He seemed to be struggling with what he was going to say, struggling with whether he should say it. After all, he didn’t have permission from the President to reveal confidential information. Taylor conjectured he wasn’t going to tell her anything the President had said or done, he was simply going to give her an opinion, an impression. For a brief moment she was afraid he was going to decide not to confide in her. “And?” she prompted.