The President's Wife Is on Prozac

by Jayne Lind

  “Were you frightened then, frightened of him?”

  “No—not at first. I didn’t want to make him angry, but I had more spunk in those days; I stood up for myself more.” She sat back down and looked intently at Taylor. “That seems so long ago now. It seems I was a very different person then.” She smiled again, ruefully “I think until you asked me that question I had forgotten what I used to be like.”

  “You’ve lost your identity in more ways than one.”

  “Yes, and you know, the funny thing is, it seemed that the more I acquiesced to Sam, the more I did what he said, the worse he became.”

  Taylor nodded, “If he’s a bully, then he respects those who stand up to him and doesn’t respect those who don’t.”

  “But I wasn’t trying to earn his respect. I was trying to avoid his anger.”

  “Yes, Beth, but that’s not how he sees it. He sees it as being weak and he doesn’t like that. It angers him even more.”

  “Really? How do you know that without knowing him?”

  “It’s an educated guess,” Taylor said, “a conjecture, based on what we know about types of personalities. Of course, I don’t know what goes through his mind, but there are enough slots that fit a personality profile such as his to give me a pretty good idea.”

  “That’s amazing, because now that you say that, it fits. I felt I couldn’t win, no matter what I did. If I stood to him, he was angry and if I didn’t, he also was angry. I’d never experienced conflict. It just didn’t happen in my home, you know?”

  “So you probably tried to placate him.”

  “Yes, exactly. Taylor, am I responsible for his drinking? Is that why he drinks, because he’s so disappointed in me?”

  Taylor shook her head vehemently. “No, not at all. No one is ever responsible for someone else’s alcohol problem. You must never think that. Is that one reason you hadn’t mentioned it to me?”

  “Yes, I guess…maybe. I don’t know. It’s just such a habit you know. I’m just so used to covering up for him that it’s hard to break. So you’re absolutely sure, in your professional opinion, that I’m not a part of his problem?”

  “Absolutely—one hundred percent certain. A person who has an alcohol problem tries to blame it on others, but it is a disease. And I imagine, being here in the White House has exacerbated what was already a problem.”

  Beth visibly relaxed. “That makes me feel better. And yes it has become worse since he’s been here. You asked me what happens after I’ve gone to bed. I don’t know; I’m sure he begins on the scotch then.” She looked pensive for a few moments. “The servants must know, mustn’t they? They must know how much alcohol he consumes, how much he orders. You know, we pay for our food and drink here; it comes out of our salary.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But you’re right, I wonder if there isn’t gossip in the kitchen.”

  Beth’s phone rang and she said to someone, “Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was.” She shrugged, “Sorry, Taylor, I have to go.”

  ***

  Most weekends, Beth went with Sam to Camp David, the mountain retreat in Maryland established for all presidents and their families. It used to be called Shangri-La until Dwight Eisenhower was president in the 1950s and re-named it after his grandson David, who ultimately married one of Nixon’s daughters. It is away from the city, away from the traffic and noise, away from the White House. In the beginning, Beth looked forward to going there. There were no duties, no appointments. She could walk in the woods and, even though she was still not alone, her detail was very discreet and often she was able pretend that she was by herself.

  Obviously, Taylor couldn’t go with her to Camp David, and although she told Taylor she would phone her if she needed to, Beth knew it would really have to be an emergency, because the only way she could talk to her and be sure it wasn’t being intercepted somewhere, was to ask the secret service to scramble a line. And, she knew from past attempts that meant terrible static. Not very satisfactory.

  She always took books to read and when the weather was warm, she would sit by the swimming pool and read for hours. Sam didn’t like to swim, so she knew he wouldn’t come round. But now that the weather was turning cool, she couldn’t stay out of the main house that long, which that meant she could run into Sam. Avoiding him was becoming an art. She always made sure she knew his schedule.

  All sorts of people came to Camp David to meet with him and they were often invited to stay for dinner, which was good from her point of view. In public, Sam was as polite and charming to her as he had ever been. She knew he wouldn’t get angry in front of others or at least he wouldn’t get angry at her. After dinner, she would excuse herself and go to her room, where she would once again bury herself in a novel. It helped, getting into the story helped. It made her forget just for a time how very miserable she was.

  So it was a respite. And she was definitely feeling better. She didn’t know if it was the Prozac or the therapist or both. But having Taylor to talk to, to confide in, had been a huge release, a release of all the tension that she had held within herself. As Beth walked in the woods this day, she thought back over her life. Why had it gone so wrong? Why, when all she’d ever wanted was to have a happy marriage and a happy family?

  Things weren’t so bad in Vermont. Sam was elected to the state legislature and then eventually became governor. They lived in the governor’s residence in Montpelier and she had duties there, but nothing like this. Nothing like the full time job she’d inherited as Sam became the President. In Vermont, she’d been able to take the children to school, to have their friends over, to belong to the PTA. She didn’t have to be superficially ‘on’. She had friends and she could leave her house anytime she wanted to. She could do the grocery shopping and cook meals for the family. She was a homemaker, not fit for this job, she often told herself. Not fit at all.

  She wondered what would have happened if Sam had not become president, if they hadn’t moved to the White House. Would their marriage have been better? Would Sam not be drinking as much now? She didn’t know the answers; she only knew that living in the White House wasn’t conducive to having a normal life.

  ***

  Josh hadn’t slept in three days. Early on in his training, he learned to do this; sometimes the job necessitated it. But it was taking its toll on him and he knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Now that he was working in the area of child sex abuse and trafficking, he’d been in Thailand more times than he cared to remember, seen firsthand the men from the western countries who came there for the sole purpose of having sex with children. It turned his stomach when he saw these men walking openly down the streets with them.

  There were levels of course. There always are in crime. There was the top level, which would be just having sex with an underage girl. Then there were the boys, rent-a-boy, they were called in Britain. And at the very lower level there were the dens, where children from the countryside, who had either been kidnapped, or bought from their parents, were tortured. Not only tortured, but filmed while they were being tortured.

  Josh knew he led a sheltered life until he began to work for MI6. He knew he had never been exposed to the seamier side of life, but not until he was assigned to this unit, did the full horror of the amount of evil that existed in the world dawn on him. What happened to those children? If they weren’t rescued by Interpol, they were murdered, their bodies chopped up and thrown into the river. Expendable. He was growing more and more bitter about man’s inhumanity to man.

  And as he became more and more dedicated to the children, something else was happening to him. He began to want to be a father, to raise a child or children. He knew it was possible to adopt one of these abused children; an international agency had been set up to rehabilitate them, physically and emotionally. When he retired, he wondered if he should do this, wondered if he should dedicate his life to
becoming the father he never had. Doing it over. Making it right. And if he married, it would be even better. Would Taylor want children, he wondered? He crashed onto his pillow. Josh, you’re hallucinating, you need to sleep.

  ***

  It had now been four days since Taylor heard from Josh.. She felt lonely and isolated, bordering on self-pity. When she opened the curtains on Sunday morning, the sun shone invitingly, and needing to go somewhere, anywhere, she decided to go to church.

  In London, she enjoyed going to St. Paul’s Cathedral for Christmas Eve midnight service and once in a very great while, she would step into the Oratory on Brompton Road. Roman Catholic, very old fashioned, with Latin masses held every Sunday, there was something about it that satisfied her soul. The interior was dark, with only the glow of long tapered candles burning at side altars. The choir sang from high up on a platform in the domed ceiling and although she had no inclination to understand the ritual or join in, she relished the anonymity of the darkness, the fact that no one paid any attention to her. She would sit in a pew near the back, just thinking, sometimes praying, and always feeling better after she left. It was a calming place.

  None of her friends in London went to church and she was not brought up in any religion, but she did often ask if she could go to Sunday school as a child. As an adult, and in England, where only six percent of the population go to church, it became a very rare activity for her. The large Muslim population of Britain appeared to be much more religious than the Christians, and there was not a large population of Jews either. Post-Christian Britain was a term she often heard on the radio.

  She phoned Lillian on her cell phone at home to ask if she could go. To Taylor’s astonishment, it was like speaking to a different person than the one who usually made her feel so intimidated.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” Lillian said in a cheerful voice.

  Taylor wondered what she meant by that comment, but dismissing her impression as uncharitable, she asked, “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Yes, the Washington Cathedral is a beautiful place. If that suits you, I’ll arrange it.”

  “Could I walk there?”

  “Yes, I think it would be all right since it is Sunday and not many people will be out and about. It would be a bit of a walk though.”

  Taylor didn’t know what to make of this new Lillian. It wasn’t so much what she said as it was the tone of her voice. She sounded relaxed and even a bit solicitous. Well, she was home and the First Lady was away. She surmised Lillian was able to unwind a bit.

  Her detail man gave her directions as they stepped outside. “It’s a good mile and a half. Are you sure you want to walk?”

  Taylor nodded vigorously. Yes indeed, she wanted to walk. She felt freer that way, more in control. The sun seemed a bit reluctant, coming in and out behind drifting clouds and a chilly wind reminded her that winter was coming. The streets of this government town on a Sunday morning resembled a ghost town. There were very few people out except for her and her loyal band of followers, with the exception of several homeless people.

  Washington, D.C. certainly had a homeless problem, she had come to realize. In her one car ride through the city, she had noticed the littered parks and people shuffling along, pushing grocery trolleys with all their belongings. She knew that Beth’s main focus as First Lady was to work with and for the homeless. She made a mental note to ask Beth about the problem.

  When she returned, she wrote all about it to Josh.

  Dear J: I went to church this morning. It is a beautiful building, reminded me of the cathedrals back home, except it is much more massive. I picked up a brochure as I left which stated that the Washington Monument could be laid down in the aisle! It was very ‘holy’ if you know what I mean, in that the entire service seemed to be designed to put the congregation in awe. Lovely music. At some point in the sermon the priest talked about ‘whited sepulchers’. Seemed relevant to where I temporarily live. I’m not a very religious person, but am wondering if this would help me in my present situation. I usually have Sundays off since she is often gone for the weekend. Besides, it is another place to go, to get out of the cage, and they let me walk! This town sure is deserted on the weekends—there didn’t seem to be that many tourists either. Don’t worry, I won’t become a fanatic, but it was definitely comforting. It soothed my soul. Also saw a lot of homeless people sleeping in the parks. Do you know any statistics on the rest of the population here? I read a lot in the local papers about the crime rate—lots of bank robberies and murder. Is the rate above the national average? I realize all the government workers who have any income at all don’t live here; they seem to live in the neighboring states. Enlighten me please. T.

  Much to her delight he answered an hour later.

  Hi there T: Sorry I haven’t written. I’ve been far away and too busy for anything personal. I’m not worried about you becoming a fanatic. I’m glad you went. I do the same now and then when the opportunity arises. I’ve been to most of the big cathedrals in the world and I know exactly what you mean—it’s a soothing place. About the homeless, yes, it is not as bad as some of the cities south of the country you’re in now and of course, there are refugees in many parts of the world. But where you are now is supposed to be an enlightened, wealthy nation. It is wealthy, but not very enlightened in terms of poverty. I pulled up some statistics for you. It is estimated there are 12,000 homeless people in the metropolitan area. More than 40 percent are families and about a third are children. Your client has done a lot for these people, or at least she’s tried to. The problem goes back to Monopoly—do you like to play that, by the way? It’s the landlord’s fault. When rent controls were lifted in the city where you are, it became too expensive for people to rent accommodation. Talk to your client about it—I don’t think she’s been given enough credit for what she’s tried to do. Change of subject: what about your father? You haven’t told me anything about him and there isn’t anything in our records about him. Cheers, J.

  She wrote right back:

  Dear J. I don’t know much about my father. I hadn’t said anything about him because I never really knew him. He left when I was five and I haven’t seen him since. Don’t even know if he’s alive. Maybe you can find out for me, you and all your u/c friends. He sporadically sent checks, but there was no communication. If it hadn’t been for my grandparents, we probably would have been destitute. My mother didn’t like to work. She held odd jobs now and then, but we mainly survived on welfare checks and the generosity of my grandparents. Now, looking back as an adult, I can understand the depth of sacrifice they made for me. We didn’t live near them but once or twice a year they would visit and that meant that I was taken on a shopping trip. I was outfitted for the coming six months this way. Nothing expensive, just essential items. And Christmas was always exciting because rather than Santa, there were always several packages from Grandma and Grandpa. They’re both dead now and I miss them. They were good, plain, hardworking people who had saved their money for retirement and yet must have given up some things they would have liked to do for my sake. They flew out to Boston for my graduation from university and were very proud of me. My mother said she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t come. Maybe my inner strength came from them, DNA and all that. I don’t really care whether my father is alive or not. Ah, families—aren’t they great? I’ve known people who have had a great family, who felt loved, cared for, cherished. Usually not my clients, but friends. And I’ve always envied them having such a good foundation. I always tell clients they need to build the kind of family they would like to have had. And here I am, not doing that. And the biological clock is getting closer and closer to stopping. You know, I am becoming very vulnerable to you. It’s this whole email thing—I wonder if I were face to face with you if I would say these things. But it’s comforting, knowing you seem interested in what makes me tick. Thx for the info on the homeless. By the way, you did
n’t tell me anything about yourself. T.

  When she hit the send button, she was instantly full of self doubt and recrimination. As she said in the email, she was making herself very vulnerable to him. Why? She guessed because she was so lonely. If she never saw him again, it wouldn’t matter what he thought of her. And if she did see him again, why wouldn’t it turn out like all her relationships? Would she trust him, another traveling man? Still no word from Karl. These long distance romances certainly had drawbacks.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was late in the afternoon before Lillian phoned on Monday. “Sorry about the hour, but we didn’t know until just now if it was possible,” she said, back to her cryptic words and crisp tone.

  Taylor had been in all day and it felt good to open the door, step into the hall, and walk down the stairs to what was now the Queen’s Sitting Room. She knew from her reading about the White House that this room had been used for many things in the past, but she was certain this use must be unique.

  Before the West Wing was built in 1902, all the offices surrounding the President were on this same floor. So the room where she now met with Beth had been used in the past as part of the president’s offices. Years later, Lady Bird Johnson enjoyed this room’s privacy and used it as a retreat.

  She thought Beth looked relaxed after the weekend away and told her so.

  “The press isn’t allowed at all which is a relief,” Beth responded. “And I can read and walk and think. I usually don’t have any duties. And Sam was busy almost the entire time with congressmen and military officers. They just come and go, and other than appear at dinnertime, I don’t have to entertain them. So, yes, it was good to get away. I walked a lot in the woods. Even though I’m followed, the detail does stay at a respectful distance. So I had time to think about our last session.”