by Claire Adams
The people ran into the hallway to grab their coats and head into the fall day. I stayed behind, toward the whiteboard, taking final notes for the day. Even Jason nodded toward me with a sense of near decency, telling me to enjoy my afternoon. I wanted to kick him in the shin, but I held back. “Have a good evening,” I told him. My voice was brimming with constricted hatred.
As everyone left, I was still very much aware of the final, dark figure lurking at the top of the conference room. I turned to the left and turned off one of the central lights, leaving my area in grey. I walked up the steps, clinging to my folders. I swallowed. “Hello,” I nodded coolly to the president. “How are you today?”
But Xavier stepped forward with such an anxious ferocity, I nearly stepped back—a step that would have forced me to fall down the steps. “Amanda. I need to talk to you. Immediately.”
I raised my eyebrows, my heart quickening in my chest. I didn’t allow my eyes to meet his. I knew this eye contact would churn me into a sense of sadness, of remorse. The last time I had looked at him, really looked at him, he’d told me that I wasn’t worthy of his campaign. He’d told me to leave. He’d essentially taken back every expounding of love he’d ever given me. It was over. It had to be.
“I actually can’t talk right now,” I stated, looking down at my folder as if to check something. “I’m on my way to meet with a member from Congress.”
His head reared back. “Which one?”
I raised my eyebrow, still peering somewhere over his left shoulder. “Jimmy Everett.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “That old crabby man. You don’t want to talk to him.”
I felt offended for Jimmy, even though I was lying. “I’m certain you don’t mean to speak of your supporters that way,” I reprimanded. I readjusted my folders. “You’re going to need all the help you can get next fall. I crank these numbers every day. Talking to Jimmy is going to give me insight on how to proceed.” My words were so forceful, brimming with anger. I could feel him deflating before me, and the thought of his sadness brought me a small sliver of pleasure.
He brought his hand out to grab my wrist as I walked by. I turned my head, frowning. I still didn’t give him my eyes. “I told you. After the meeting with Jimmy, sometime before the next re-election campaign. Please respect that I’m doing everything in my power to get you re-elected.” These final words were my stand, assuring him that I was capable, that I wasn’t some silly 29-year-old bimbo. I wasn’t Clinton’s intern. I had pounded my way to the front door of the White House and I wasn’t turning away without a fight.
“But—Amanda.” He was pleading with me now. I could hear it in his voice. “Know that this isn’t a work matter. I need to speak with you about something private.”
I spun toward him once more on my way to the door. I was sure that the president was not used to being walked out on. I tipped my head to the right, thinking that a private matter was nothing I wanted to talk about then. Not now. Perhaps not ever. “A private matter?”
“Yes. It’s incredibly urgent.” More words of pleading, of anxiety. His heart was clearly lurking beneath his eyes.
But I just turned my eyes toward my papers. “I’m incredibly busy the next few days. But I’ll see what I can do,” I said to him, still speaking as if this was about the campaign. My voice was rimmed with authority. “My best to you and Mrs. Callaway.”
And then I was out of there, leaving that final spurn in the air between us. I caught my things up at my desk, and then I spun toward the door. I sped down the steps, my heart still in my throat. I couldn’t believe I’d just turned away from the man I truly loved. I felt so strong, so empowered in this moment—even as I felt that my heart was breaking.
I soon found myself speeding away in a taxi. I felt myself diving into a state of solitude. I couldn’t even dredge up the words to say thank you to the taxi driver. I found myself dragging up to Rachel’s apartment, feeling so low. I thought of the events coming over the next few days, and I couldn’t picture myself at any of them. Something was shrouding over my mind, over my muscles. It forced me into the chair by the window, a glass of wine in my hand. I didn’t know yet that I was coming into sadness, into a sense of mourning. I had never fallen in love before; I’d never lost love before. I sipped at my wine.
Rachel burst through the door about an hour later. She placed her bag on the table and sat beside me, placing her hand at my back. She pursed her lips before asking, “So. Did you tell the media? His wife?”
I shook my head slowly, feeling a bit of laughter churn up from my stomach. Of course I didn’t tell on him. He was my love; he’d been my life. I was trying to shell myself to him. But I was rattling around, feeling empty. I laid my head on my friend’s shoulder, and she sighed beside me. “It’s going to be okay, Amanda. Do you think—do you think you could stay home?” she whispered.
I shook my head, feeling the anxiety ramp through my arms, my legs. “I have so much to do for the campaign. I can’t stay home. Not tomorrow, not ever.” I felt my voice break as I said the words. I felt myself begin to shake.
“Shh,” Rachel began. She rubbed at my neck and held me. I didn’t realize that I was crying so profusely, that I was allowing all the emotion from the previous few days to exit my body. She brought a Kleenex toward me, and I sighed into it, quaking.
“What am I going to do?” I kept asking her—her and the world. I hadn’t realized that all this emotion had been brimming to the surface all along. The stress I had been under was too much, far too much for any one person to handle. However, I had thought I could handle it, like I could handle anything else. I had thought that it would work itself out. I had thought I could beat Jason at his game.
As I sat and cried with my friend that evening, I knew that I had to stay home, at least for the rest of the week. I knew that I needed to escape the penetrating anxiety of the White House if I was going to live through the campaign. This would be the wayward way I worked through the emotion of the previous few weeks. I would release the emotion I held inside of me. I would say I was sick—say anything at all to get me out of the office. Then, I would return a brand new person, the type of person who would never be caught with her skirts up around the President of the United States. No. Never.
Rachel tucked me in that evening, and I stayed in bed the following day until noon. I stretched my arms high above my head, still feeling the stifling anxiety glimmer through my brain. I knew this meant I wasn’t ready, that I couldn’t face the music. I reached toward my cell phone and dialed a number I thought I’d never dial again.
“Jason,” I croaked into the phone. I even sounded sick to myself. My heart pumped slowly in my chest.
“Amanda,” Jason hissed, his voice urgent. “Where the hell are you? We’re supposed to have the re-election campaign meeting in 10 minutes. I don’t have any of your notes.”
I nearly laughed out loud, but I kept it cranked in tightly. Clearly, Jason hadn’t been doing his job. If he’d been following along in our countless meetings, during our countless discussions about the campaign, he should have everything he needed to guide the troops, so to speak. But he didn’t. Not even close.
“I’m sick, Jason,” I said sweetly. I turned over on my pillow and gazed toward the wall. “I’m so, so sick. I probably won’t be there tomorrow, either. Please. Just do the best you can. Fake it till you make it. I know that’s what you do, anyway.” My voice croaked a bit as I spoke, but the sentiment lingered strong.
He paused, huffing into the phone. “If you don’t get here immediately, I’m going to tell your boyfriend I know all about yours and his little shenanigans.”
This threat didn’t make me quake, even for a moment. My “boyfriend” already knew about Jason’s comprehension of our non-relationship. But I just giggled into the phone. “I’d love to be there when you tell him, so please, please don’t yet.”
“Um.” Jason’s surprise was apparent over the phone. “Well. You’re sick, huh? Okay
. Um. I can get through this. Just—if you could send me a few of your notes?”
I snorted and pretended it was all a part of my illness. “Oh, excuse me. Um. I don’t honestly know where they are right now. I’m on my way to the doctor. But I’ll try to get them to you as soon as possible. Okay, Jason? You can do this, man.” I hung up the phone with a smile, loving the feeling of tossing Jason out on a lifeboat, into the wind-tossed sea. Would he sink? Would he float? One was better for me, as a campaign leader. And one was far more likely and far, far more hilarious.
But this happiness—this joy at his struggles—flushed away in the following few moments, as I lay in silence in that comfortable cloud bed. I tucked the sheets around my shoulders and zoned in toward the ceiling, counting the wayward lines in the whitewash. Work was calling to me. But I had to rebuild myself from the inside. I remembered pushing myself through every illness throughout my life; I remembered bickering with my mom about not wanting to stay home because of my flu—telling her that I wouldn’t fail any quiz just because of some microbe lurking in my body. I remembered turning my nose toward people who fell prey to the workings of their tumultuous bodies.
But now, I understood. The mind had such an effect on the body. It held you tightly, like a gloved hand around your throat. It allowed you to breathe, but only if you struggled and fought for it—only if you allowed everything else to fall away.
In those days when I avoided work—four days in total—I learned how to breathe once more. I learned how to stand. I learned how to train my thoughts to fall away from Xavier. I learned how to be a better version of myself: one that didn’t require the desire of the President of the United States to survive.
I stood tall on the final day—a Friday, of course. I drank coffee, like a past, stronger version of myself. I pretended to be that Amanda, and not this current shell. I would get through this. I’d scrape the grime from my past life and propel myself into a better future. I was made for this world.
Chapter Four
On that Monday, I rose early and made a pot of coffee, ready to meet the world once more. I showered for a long time, thinking only of Xavier in an abstract way. “So funny that I once thought the entire earth revolved around him,” I murmured to myself, scraping the grime from my shoulders, from my sides. Down the hall, Rachel could hear me singing a bit as I scrubbed myself. She told me later that she knew everything would be all right again in this moment—that I would return to work and meet my success head-on.
I strapped my tights to my body once more and I marched across the guest bedroom, this room that was suddenly becoming so much like home. I slotted my feet into too-high heels, knowing that I could strut around the office with an assuredness in these suckers that I couldn’t create with the other shoes. I knew I had to dress the part, if I was going to pretend that I didn’t hold any sort of emotion toward the president. I knew I had to convince both myself and the outside world of this fact.
The taxi steamed into the White House once more. I blinked up at it as if I had never seen the monstrosity in my life. At one time, I’d thought it was my home. And now, it was far more like my prison, like a cage. I hoped that one day, I could escape it. But I was far too strong to allow this place—and the people in it—to get to my head.
I paid the taxi driver. He gave me a curt nod and eyed my ass. I wanted to smack him, to tell him that I was a high-level official in the White House. But I was keeping my cool, I told myself. This was my journey toward a better self—a self that kept her emotions in check.
I allowed the Secret Service agents to fondle me on my way in, checking for bombs, for guns, for anything and everything. And then, almost immediately, I marched toward the Oval Office, pursing my lips.
The Secret Service agent who stood outside the door held his eyes wide as I approached. He nodded curtly toward me. “I see you’re feeling a bit better. We were worried about you.”
I frowned toward him, as if it were inappropriate for him to even mention that I might have been ill, that I might have been under the weather. “Is he in?” I asked, nudging my head toward the door.
The Secret Service man pulled himself taller. He shook his head. “He is, but I don’t think he’s expecting visitors.”
“You don’t think he’d like to talk to his campaign manager?” I asked him, giving him an evil stare. “I’ve been out of the office for nearly a week. Surely he’ll need to update me on the proceedings of the previous several days. Don’t you think? You don’t want to mess with the intricacies of the campaign.” I raised my left eyebrow at him, giving him a saucy look. The look told him not to take a single step out of line—that I owned this moment and I was not to be messed with. He raised his hands up and allowed me to enter in that moment.
I spun toward the door and clunked into the Oval Office, bringing the president to swing around in his chair. Beside him, standing at the desk, was his wife, Camille. I raised my eyebrow at them both, unafraid but still feeling that emotion-filled pit in my stomach. “Hello, Mr. President. Hello, Mrs. Callaway,” I said to them both, nodding primly. “I’d love a chance to speak with you about the campaign. So sorry, Mrs. Callaway. I’ve been out of the office for several days, nursing this horrific cold.” I clutched at my throat and coughed lightly.
Camille tapped her heels a bit on the floor, giving me an evil eye. I had clearly interrupted an argument between them. The air in the room hung heavy, like clouds. It looked like Xavier wanted to crawl beneath his desk and hide from the two women before him. He looked desperately toward me, his mouth snapping shut as I stood there.
“Ah, yes. Miss Martin. It’s a sincere pleasure to see you,” Camille stated. She didn’t budge. “You have a good deal to talk to my husband about, is that right?”
I took a step forward, trying to maintain my lack of fear. Unfortunately, I knew that my anxiety was growing. I had plunged headfirst into the deep end. “Yes, Mrs. Callaway. The following next few months are essential to the plot of the campaign. You must understand that, don’t you?” I gave her an evil smile—one so similar to the smile I’d given to the agent outside.
Camille flounced toward the couch then, in an effortless move that caught me off guard. I stepped back, allowing her to bounce on the gleaming fabric. She brought her hands around to the back of her head and gazed at the ceiling, batting her eyelashes lightly. “Go ahead, Amanda,” she sighed evenly. “Speak with him. He won’t find reason with me. I don’t see why you’d have any better luck than I. Of course, you’re not his wife. So what you have to say is far, far more interesting.” She winked at me then. The moment seemed disastrous, like it was about to fall from a precipice, down to a rocky grave.
I stepped toward the president’s desk. With the confusion in this moment, I had actually completely forgotten what I was meant to speak with him about. I cleared my throat and looked toward him, searching for the words. “I’ve been out of the office for several days, and I do apologize for that,” I began. I hoped that his wife wasn’t getting any sort of context clues from what I’d just said; I hoped that she wasn’t assuming something that was—of course—very, very true. “Will you please update me on the events of the previous week?”
Up until this moment, I realized Xavier hadn’t spoken. He gaped at me and then brought his hands toward his mouth, gliding across his cheeks. He shook his head, exasperated. His voice was harsh when he spoke. “Miss Martin. I expect you to do your job.”
His words stung, even though I understood that they were well-acted, beyond anything else. But I still felt his anger deep in my heart. I remembered once more how he had pushed me from bed, how he had pushed me into this cruel world. I shivered at the thought.
“I’m doing my job to the best of my ability, sir,” I responded. Behind me, I heard his wife, Camille, pop a bubble from bubble gum rather loudly, allowing it to echo off the walls. I swallowed, knowing that this sort of observation would get him and me nowhere.
Sure enough, he shook his head toward me
, biting his lip. His expression said so much. It stated that we couldn’t speak plainly, that he regretted everything. In that moment, so much of the strength I had built for myself fell away. I wanted to fall into his arms, to weep about my struggles. I wanted him to take care of everything with Jason. For the first time in my life, I wanted a man to take care of things for me—to hold my hand and fight for me. I had always fought for myself. But this seemed bigger; this seemed like too much.
“If you want to do your job, you had better get back to work,” he finally said harshly. His eyes were apologetic, keeping us in this strange, round and round conversation. I listened only to the expression that churned from his eyes.
I found my voice, finally. I took his cue. “I’ll get back to my desk and have a report to you in two hours.” I nodded curtly and turned back around, toward the door. Camille still laid on the couch, popping bubbles lightly—almost expertly. I imagined her doing them, over and over in the East Wing, waiting for her husband to come home.
“Good day, Miss Martin!” Camille spewed toward me, her voice lined with malice. As I pulled the door closed, I could hear her as she approached the president’s desk once more. “What a dirty cunt,” she flung her words toward him, loud enough for me to hear. I slammed the door and blinked up toward the Secret Service agent, lost in a sea of memories.
He back toward me, shrugging his shoulders. “I told you not to go in there,” he murmured.
But I turned on my heels and swept back toward my desk. I didn’t understand how this man—the President of the United States—could alter my emotions like this. It seemed all too easy, really. I could remember the first day I had ever truly met him, there in the Oval Office. He’d been interviewing me to become leader of the campaign. Me! A 29-year-old—a girl who was meant to grow and flourish in this political world. And then, I’d resisted him. I truly had. We’d become such fast friends, of course. I’d felt safe with him. Had he forced himself on me? Had I forced myself on him? I couldn’t be certain about anything anymore. All I knew was that I was truly, very much in love with him. Beyond that? I knew nothing.