by Jayne Lind
Taylor smiled at him and stood up, moving a bit so she could see out onto the ellipse. A giant fir tree rose to the sky on her left. She had read in one of the books about the White House that it was planted some years ago and decorated at Christmas time. Beyond that, rising higher, stood the Washington Monument. She spotted several men dressed as policeman at various points on the ellipse. “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t it boring—what you do? I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it would seem to me to be a boring job.”
He smiled. “Well, mam, it’s what we do. We have to work our way up through the service to get to the White House and it’s our aim to move up to being allowed inside. That would really be a privilege—to guard the President and his family.”
He seemed so sincere that Taylor then understood. She wondered if any other world leader was as protected as this one was. It seemed so restrictive. “Do you know the history? I mean, when the president and his family began to be so tightly protected?” By this time they were walking along the lower garden and as they disappeared from view into a clump of bushes and trees, she stood talking to him face to face.
“I’m not sure, mam, but I imagine it was after President Kennedy’s assassination. I do know that in 1995 a man with a machine gun shot at the White House from outside the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue. Since then, that’s been closed to traffic.”
Taylor recalled the pictures of President Kennedy, riding in an open top convertible in Dallas, an easy shot for a skilled marksman. She smiled at the guard and, since she had thought to bring her glasses, put them on to read his nametag. “Thank you, thank you very much, Dan. It’s not natural for me to be followed like this and to not have any kind of conversation with the people around me. So I appreciate your risking talking to me.”
He nodded and proceeded to distance himself the requisite number of yards away. Things were back to normal.
Taylor returned to her room to get dressed for a session. As she unlocked her door and stepped inside, she had a strange feeling. Something was wrong…was someone there? “Hello?” she said, tentatively. No answer. Gathering courage, she walked to the bathroom door and opened it. No one in there either. Beginning to feel foolish, she knelt down and looked under the bed. No one. But why did she feel that way? She intuitively knew that someone had been there, someone other than the cleaning lady, who, for security reasons, came only when Taylor was in the room. She came every other day and usually just changed the bed linen, cleaned the bathroom and left her fresh towels. A couple of times a week she vacuumed the carpet. It was always the same person, an African-American woman who was impossible to talk to; she had a permanent scowl on her face and was all business.
Had someone tampered with her computer? The safe was locked. She opened it and took out the laptop, rushing to turn it on. She had a password to get into it, but knew very well that the secret service people had experts who could, would, by-pass any small thing like that. Josh told her that he could do that, in fact. He warned her to change her password frequently, even daily, but she hadn’t. She had only changed it a few times. Though the safe was locked, she knew that someone else would know the combination.
Nothing was amiss. It was just a feeling. And feelings are based on thoughts, interpretations, she told herself, being a true cognitive therapist. Yet she had had no thoughts before she entered the room about someone having been there. It had been a real feeling, a feeling of fear, a feeling that raised hairs on the back of her neck.
The White House was like a mini-city, with layers of staff who performed every job one could imagine. The only authorized persons to come into her rooms were the cleaning people. The operative word was authorized. There were so many people working in the White House in so many different capacities, that it wouldn’t be too difficult to slip in a ringer. It was like living in a hotel in that respect. Someone vacuumed the hall carpet outside her rooms every day. Taylor wondered if the cleaners could be trusted completely, not in terms of theft, but in terms of being undercover themselves, for a newspaper, for instance In London, there were several tabloids that sometimes sent reporters disguised as footman or some such to the palace. The tabloid would scream the headlines the next week. Rubbish, but a lot of people read those tabloids. She wrote to Josh.
Dear J: I am feeling rather, or actually quite a bit, low at the moment and a bit frightened as well. I came back to my room just now after being outside and had a premonition, an intuition that someone had been in my room. Nothing is out of place. It’s just a feeling, but it is very strong. My computer was locked in the safe. I have deleted your emails and mine to you and one can’t get into it without the password. I know you’ve told me that people like you can do that, but you can’t do it without taking the computer away, can you? And wouldn’t that take time? Do you think someone is snooping in my rooms? When I was in the garden, I was able to entice the person who watched me, followed me, to talk to me a bit. This level of security must be necessary because of this country’s position in the world or is it exaggerated? I don’t think this is done to this extent in the nation where I live. But you should know. Can the protective service people be trusted? Don’t they know all kinds of things they shouldn’t? Don’t some of them write memoirs after they’ve retired? Seems to me to be a boring job. But then so are a lot of jobs. Maybe it’s the feeling of importance, of necessity, like the military. The sun is out today. What a difference it makes, even if it’s chilly. I turned my face up toward it and soaked it in. I feel like a prisoner who is let out for exercise time in the prison yard now and then. T.
Chapter Thirteen
As Taylor left her room for another session, she looked around, trying to memorize where everything was. The laptop had, of course, been stowed away in the safe. Was someone coming in her room when he or she or they, for that matter, knew she was out? Such as now, when someone knew she was working? Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Except worry.
After the session, Taylor opened the door to her room with apprehension, alert now for any feelings or evidence of someone having been there. Nothing. No evidence and no feeling either. She decided it all must have been her imagination. She wrote to Josh again, rationalizing he was probably worried about her previous email.
Dear J: My room seems okay this time. It was probably a kinesthetic hallucination, right? Sorry about your family. So we both escaped as soon as we could and I’ve been so dedicated to my career that there wasn’t much time left for relationships. I’ve had lots of them, all rather short term, six months to a year. But I guess you already know that…. I’ve wondered if there is something wrong with me—so many men seem threatened by a woman who is intelligent, as intelligent as he is and successful. I’m making myself very vulnerable to you by saying this, I realize. But I sense you are going to remain my friend, and all single women need faithful men friends. Besides, you are my lifeline. I don’t know how I would survive this loneliness if I couldn’t write to you. T.
Was she pushing the boundaries? Absolutely. Was she going to scare him away? The self-doubts came rolling in. Yet he was all she had. She threw caution out the window and pressed the send button.
The next day Lillian phoned, saying there was no work today. What was she going to do with the time? She felt she had to get out, go somewhere, anywhere. In desperation, she phoned Lillian to ask if she could go to a park, away from the White House, somewhere she could walk or jog.
“Yes,” Lillian said crisply. “You will be picked up at the southwest gate and told where you can go, and of course, you will not be alone.”
Taylor dressed in a navy blue tracksuit and trainers. Escorted, she made her way down the stairs to the entrance, where a black SUV was waiting for her. There were two men in the car, neither of whom she recognized.
“Where do you want to go?” asked the driver.
She shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know. I just want to be to be away
from this…house.” Calling the White House a house sounded silly to her ears. “Could you suggest a park? Where I could walk or jog?”
“Sure,” he answered, with a nod to his companion. “Sunflower leaving.”
She noticed a GPS on the dashboard and tried to follow it as they drove away. As they went past the Capitol Building, where the Congress and Senate meet, she wondered if she would be allowed to go there. Wherever she was, she liked to do everything on offer. She was the consummate tourist and always took the city tour bus rides in a new city, the ones with a guide who points out all the historical sites, famous and/or infamous. Well, settle down, she told herself. You’re free now, as free as you’re going to be for a long time.
After half an hour of what Taylor suspected was random driving, the car entered a park. “This is Rock Creek Park,” the agent said. He drove into the parking lot and stopped the car. “We’ll wait for you here. Will an hour be enough?”
She said yes, getting out of the car eagerly, liberated for one glorious hour. The air was crisp, the leaves, both on the trees and at her feet wore wonderful Halloween colors, and the cloudless blue sky made a perfect backdrop to the scene. She stood still for a moment, drinking in the feeling of being out, free from the cage, as Beth called it. She could see a small pond in the distance and began walking briskly towards it. Leaves rustled and crunched under her feet. How nice, she thought, no one has picked them up, the park wasn’t neat and tidy. It was natural, the way parks are supposed to be.
As she walked, she pictured the trees in Hyde Park as they would be now, pictured the plane trees which line most London streets, and realized how much she missed London. She was homesick. This was the country she was born in, this was the country she’d spent half of her life in, where her relatives were, where her ancestors had come to from England centuries ago. Yet, she had lived in London for twenty years and it felt much more like home. She never planned to move back to the States. Although her British friends and clients certainly always caught her accent and asked whether she was Canadian or American, she felt she spoke some ‘British.’ Yes, she was homesick.
Taylor knew someone was probably following her, but didn’t want to turn around to see. She wanted to pretend she was alone. Privacy was such a gift, one she had previously taken for granted. She thought of her flat in Notting Hill; she missed it as well. She could leave it anytime she wanted, and when she was home, she felt secure, no one was watching her.
She shivered as a cold whiff of wind passed by and through her. She began a slow jog and quickly realized she was out of shape. After five minutes, she had to go back to walking and knowing that the detail was somewhere, watching her, felt inhibited. They, those men in dark suits, must be in excellent shape.
She was almost to the pond, when she saw a woman in a navy blue track suit jogging toward her at a fairly fast pace. The woman waved and smiled as she approached and Taylor recognized Susan. She expected her to keep on running, to ignore her as the secret service always did, and then it registered that it was unusual for any of them to act as if they knew her.
When Susan reached her, she stopped, out of breath, and said, between pants, “Please, we have to get you out of here. Act like I’m a friend of yours who you’re happy to see, say something right now. Binoculars are probably trained on you.”
“Who? Am I in danger?”
“Please gesture like you would if you were having an animated conversation,” Susan said, in a commanding voice. “I want you to turn around and let’s jog together, back to where the car is waiting.”
Taylor turned around and they began jogging slowly, Susan’s face turned to hers with her mouth moving silently at times. She could feel her heart beating fast and tried to obey her. “Who is watching us?” she asked, breathless as she was, trying to keep up with her. Even though she resembled her in stature and hair color, Taylor thought Susan must be at least ten years younger.
“It’s a reporter, we don’t know if he knows who you are or not, but we have to get you out of here.” They jogged to the car, which was different than the one Taylor came in. Susan went round to the driver’s side. “Get in the front seat, as if we’re going for a cup of coffee.”
Taylor sank down in the seat and tried to catch her breath. Her mind raced—what if she hadn’t recognized Susan? What if she had been kidnapped? Who would want to kidnap her? A reporter, Susan said. Anything for a good story. Or, the enemy as Beth said Sam called them, the opposition party. Susan didn’t drive back toward the White House. They were leaving the city, leaving the Beltway and Taylor saw by the roadway signs that they were driving out of town towards Baltimore. “Are we being followed?” Taylor asked.
“I don’t know, but we have to be sure we’ve lost them before we take you back home.”
Home. That wasn’t her home, but right now, she longed to be back there, at least it was safe. They drove for half an hour and then stopped at a gas station. “Please follow me to the restroom,” Susan said. “We’re switching cars. So use the facilities if you need to and when we come out the door, there will be a different car waiting for us.
Taylor was nervous and certainly did need to use the facilities. When they left, a completely different automobile, with a new driver, awaited them. Taylor’s heart had managed to settle down by this time and she was breathing normally. Susan began chatting about things, the weather, a movie she’d just seen, as if they were old friends out for a drive. Taylor tried to be polite and follow her conversation, even answering now and then, but as much as she needed and wanted companionship, this just wasn’t the time. Who was following her? That question blocked out all other thoughts in her mind.
The car switching was repeated once more half an hour later. Taylor had no idea where they were. She wasn’t familiar with this part of the country anyway and it all looked the same to her, the same birch, elm, and oak trees, the same wooden houses set amongst the trees, the same crowded motorways. She felt a great relief when they finally drove through the private entrance to the White House. Taylor felt her body fully relax for the first time since she first saw Susan jogging toward her. She accompanied Taylor to her rooms and without a word of explanation, said goodbye.
“Wait!” Taylor raised her voice as Susan jogged down the hallway. But she didn’t look back and didn’t answer her.
Dear J: I left this place today—felt I had to get out if only for an hour and there was an incident. Is this how it’s going to be? Being afraid every time I leave the safety of this place? Am I not going to be able to relax, to enjoy myself at all? Is this how your life is? T.
She didn’t want to go anywhere the next day. She felt safe inside her room and had ruminated late into the evening about who was interested in her, interested enough to follow her to Rock Creek Park. She was certain it had to be the press. She didn’t think the opposition party would be that devious. Or would they…. She wrote to Josh first thing after getting out of bed.
Dear J: I am very frightened about what happened in the park. And I’m lonely. I am very isolated here and I’m beginning to think of my room as a prison. Yes, I have two rooms and two bathrooms, and if it is a day my client’s husband is away I can go to the solarium and feel more normal. But each time I step outside my door, I must first contact L. And if I can’t leave my room, it’s begins to feel like a cell. There are three windows in my bedroom, chest high, looking out onto the balustrade. As you know, there are people outside on the roof and they often walk by. I don’t think they ever look in, but it adds to the feeling of being restricted. Please write as often as you can. T.
A response from Josh brightened her mood.
Hi there T: Sorry I’ve been so long. I’ve been away and far, far too busy to do anything—haven’t slept in a few days. Glad you’re okay. Don’t worry about these escapades, they’re a normal part of my life. You are being very well taken care of. We….I value you. I sure don’t think there is a
nything wrong with you and before I say anything else, let me assure you I will always be your friend. I felt you were someone special when we first met, when we had our first drink of champagne together, remember? So I promise you, solemnly, that I won’t go away. I will always be here unless some bad guy eliminates me from this earth. Albeit, it may only be via email, but I will stay. About the level of security, you’re right; it is more than other countries, but it is necessary, believe me. You asked about memoirs, one of them, at least, has, but it was just about the job. I’ll contact S. and have her get it for you. In other words, no one has printed state secrets. It’s against the law. They are all very professional; it’s a career, not just a job. Is your work making progress? I know you can’t give me details, but are you optimistic? Be careful on your walks in the garden, as you put it. The press is always on the lookout for what’s going on there and that perimeter fence is open to the public. So if you are seen day after day—do you know what I mean? Also, I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you live in the country you live in? Was that part of the escape? J.
He would always be her friend. What did he mean by that? More importantly, did he mean it?
She answered him immediately.
Dear J: Why do I live where I live. I was there for years in graduate school and by the time I finished with all my placements for training, I was just completely comfortable there. I like the people; I like the ethos. It’s not a perfect country, but then no place is. I especially love the city I live in—the pace, the theater, the museums—it just seems to have it all. And of course, I had also built up a lot of professional contacts by then. It’s difficult in my profession to move and begin all over. So I just stayed, year after year, and finally applied for dual citizenship. There are a lot of us from across the pond there. I’m sure you know that. Yes, I think there is progress in my work. Better living with chemistry, I always say; the antidepressant has helped. But she also desperately needed someone to talk to. Thanks for saying you will always be my friend. That helps a lot. T.