The President's Wife Is on Prozac

by Jayne Lind

  Sighing, Taylor rose from the bed, went into the sitting room, opened the safe and removed her laptop. She emailed Karl, telling him the story about her mother. He probably wouldn’t believe her, but then he was difficult to get along with anyway. Not for the first time, she asked herself why she had stuck it out with him. Not that it had been that long—six months. This seemed to be the longest any of her relationships with men lasted. It was always the same story—the men she wanted to marry didn’t want to marry her and she didn’t want to marry the men who did want to marry her. She smiled wryly at this tongue-twister in her mind. Well, relationships were complicated. Why am I so good at helping others with their relationships and not my own, she asked herself, for the hundredth time? She knew the answer, but didn’t like to go there. Karen, her best friend in London, a successful barrister, said they had trouble with lasting relationships because men didn’t like intelligent women. Taylor had protested, saying that surely that wasn’t true of all men. She said she knew lots of happy relationships in which the woman was highly intelligent. Lots? Karen had countered. Well, no—not lots, Taylor had had to admit. We just haven’t met the right man yet, they consoled themselves, and then erupted in helpless laughter.

  She shook herself out of her reverie and began writing other emails. She wrote to Tina, telling her she had arrived safely, was shocked at how ill her mother was, that she spent the entire first day at the hospital. That was one of the benefits of email, you could be anywhere and yet say you were somewhere else. Then to Karen, an almost identical story. What was she going to do or say when she was once again back in London? Carry on lying, she supposed, say that her mother had recovered and was doing well, thank you. One lie after another. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, Shakespeare said. Once you tell one lie, you have to keep on perpetuating the story. She wasn’t comfortable with this, but she knew, or thought, she would probably get good at it. She also knew why it bothered her so much.

  She didn’t write to her mother. That took more inner strength than she was feeling at the moment.

  Chapter Five

  Beth, Elizabeth Underwood Carlson, First Lady of the land, left the room after meeting Taylor with a feeling of relief. Having never been in therapy before, she was reassured to find she thought this woman could help her. It felt good to talk frankly to someone, even if the session was short. She liked her instantly, and even though she knew Taylor came from London, her accent sounded Bostonian. What she responded to most, and now remembered so clearly, was the look of total empathy in Taylor’s soft brown eyes. She looked and sounded as if she understood.

  She had been surprised when Frank told her she needed a therapist. Then she was completely taken aback when he proposed the idea that she needed someone who could be on call night and day. Was she that bad? And was it wise, having her sequestered here in the White House? As she walked back to her office, she recalled the meeting with Lillian and Frank two weeks ago. Frank, as usual, was brusque and commanding.

  “Mrs. Carlson, I have prescribed Prozac for you and am supplying it to you myself, so that there will be no paper trail. There is no shame in taking an antidepressant. It is a wonder drug, but, unfortunately, if the press were to find out you were taking it, all hell would break lose. And it is imperative that you be seen by a good therapist.”

  “Someone here in D.C.?” she asked.

  “No, it has to be someone who is unknown. I’m working with someone in the secret service who has the authority to bring someone here without the President knowing. I’d rather not say who it is, Mrs. Carlson. All I want you to do is get well and get well fast.”

  Beth knew she had never felt this way before, she knew this depression had completely taken over her life, but Frank’s concern for her worried her even more.

  Frank had continued, “And that’s not all. This person who will come to help you must be here in the White House. You need continuous help and he or she needs to be on call, especially with your schedule. So we can’t escort you across town to a therapist once a week. You need more intensive therapy and eventually the press would find out if you went to a therapist’s office.”

  She had protested. “But I’m worried about someone being here, won’t people be suspicious? The cleaning staff, for one thing.”

  He shook his head. “The drug itself isn’t going to lift you out of this. And if you went to see a therapist now and then, someone, somewhere would see you. No, this is the only way. We’re getting someone from London, who obviously speaks English, someone who is unknown by sight here. You know, as well as I do, Mrs. Carlson, how volatile the press is.”

  Lillian had spoken up for the first time. “If the press found out, it would be all over the papers and it would greatly affect your husband’s re-election chances, and also, it would affect his ability to govern for the rest of this term.” Lillian had paused for a moment. “But that’s not my main concern. I want you to be well, to be the person you really are…” She had broken off in mid-sentence.

  Beth saw tears in her eyes. She cherished her loyalty and commitment to her. She’d never had a secretary before, much less a staff. Lillian shielded her from appointments on days she just couldn’t face anyone. She covered up for her, defended her, and most of all, cared about her. But she wasn’t a confidante. As loyal as she was, Beth couldn’t tell her what she herself suspected was the source of her depression.

  All this went through Beth’s mind as she resignedly returned to the East Wing, sat down at her desk, and was briefed by Lillian about the people she was seeing next. At least this was someone she wanted to see, a delegation of the Homeless Alliance of Washington, D.C. This was her main project since coming becoming First Lady. When she and Sam first arrived in Washington, D.C., she was shocked to see people asleep on park benches, huddled up in fetal positions, trying to keep warm.

  Beth stood up as the three women entered the room. She smiled, greeted them, and switched into work mode. So what if her therapist had just arrived, so what if she desperately wanted to talk to her, to get help, to climb out of this black pit she was in. So what? It was time to go to work.

  ***

  Josh Harmon slipped out of bed quietly. When he arrived back in London, Brittany was waiting at a hotel and he was given a day of leave. A day to rest, a day to stay in bed with this woman who satisfied him sexually as he had never, ever known. He knew he wanted to be with her whenever he could, and he did care about her, but he also knew what it was he mostly enjoyed about her. He often asked himself if he was simply addicted. She was intelligent, but her interests were rather superficial. Besides, he wasn’t up to all day sex anymore, much as he would have liked it. He was pushing fifty and knew that it wouldn’t be too long before he was assigned a desk job. Where, he didn’t know, wherever he was needed, but he dreaded it.

  He signed on to this work because he loved adventure, loved physical challenges. He also had a strong altruistic streak and the longer he worked for MI6, the more he witnessed in the world, the more dedicated he had become. He knew that his contribution was small, but he was determined not to waste away his life as he had seen his father do. If he died young, it would be for a cause.

  This morning, as he shaved and showered, Josh wondered if in some respects he was following in his father’s footsteps after all. His father’s taste in women was young and blonde. Josh wasn’t interested in women a lot younger than he was, but he definitely was attracted to blondes. He was spending all his spare time with a woman with whom he really couldn’t have a decent conversation. And last night, even as he was with Brittany, he found himself thinking about Taylor. He wondered how she was getting on. He told her he might email her, but that was the only method of communication he could have with her. Was it too soon? Did she want to hear from him?

  He thought back, remembering how he had kissed her as they were leaving the plane. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. She seemed so fragile, so vulnerab
le. He found himself wanting to take care of her. He knew from the portfolio that she was in a relationship, but he also knew something she didn’t. Or did she? That this jerk had a wife and three kids in Germany. Should he tell her? She was bound to find out sooner or later; maybe he would be doing her a service.

  He dressed quietly and left the room. He had written Brittany a note saying he would phone her later on, that he had urgent business. But he didn’t. As he ate breakfast at his favorite restaurant, Patisserie Valerie on the Brompton Road, he realized he needed to face the truth. He was bored with Brittany. Yet, could he give her up? He didn’t know. He buried his thoughts in the Guardian and tried to forget about women all together.

  ***

  Taylor slept like the dead and awoke feeling entirely rested for the first time since leaving London. She retrieved the laptop from the safe and turned it on, hoping that someone, somewhere wanted to contact her. There were five emails. One address was unfamiliar and thinking it was probably spam, started to delete it unread, but something held her finger back as it almost hit the delete key and she opened it.

  Hi there T: Well, you’ve been there two days now and I’m wondering how you’re doing. This is my personal email address and I’d like to hear from you if you would like to hear from me, if you know what I mean. Don’t use any names in your emails and don’t mention places, allude to them by description. Sign your name T. All right? Cheers, J.

  Well, talk about how our feelings are changed by events and our interpretations of them, she thought. She was utterly transformed by this one, not very personal, communication. His job was over; he escorted her here, briefed her—that was surely all he was obligated to do. Did he write because he was interested in her or was it part of his job, to keep in touch with her for security reasons? She didn’t know, but she was still very happy to hear from him and to know how to write to him.

  Dear J: I am so happy to have heard from you. I’m all right, but I’m not real sure I like this confinement. I can see already that it could be very lonely. Please do write. Yes, I would like very much to hear from you and yes, I would like very much to write to you.

  How should she sign this? In Britain, the word cheers was often used in a casual way, say by a shopkeeper. It was impersonal. Yet this is how he signed off. Should she do the same? Not knowing what was right, she did sign it Cheers, T.

  She finally settled down enough to open the other emails. One was from the office, the other three from friends. Just words of encouragement, asking her to keep in touch and hoping her mother would get better. Taylor answered all of them with a vague, innocuous note. In other words, she lied. It seemed to be the nature of this world. It wasn’t as if she was a perfect person and never told white lies, if there is such a thing, but it always made her feel uncomfortable; she sometimes wondered if she didn’t have an overdeveloped conscience. Yet she knew, deep down, why it bothered her so much.

  Breakfast was delivered. She watched television as she ate and already welcomed the intrusion of voices and pictures of people on the screen. It was company. Sad, I’m probably going to become a TV addict.

  Just as she finished, Lillian phoned. “Can you be available in half an hour? “Yes, of course,” Taylor replied, hanging up the phone and feeling a sense of excitement again. She was needed. The omnipresent protective service was in the hall as she descended the staircase and walked to the sitting room.

  The First Lady was dressed more casually this time, in a pale green two-piece trouser suit with a beautiful silk scarf at her neck. Her eyes were hazel and seemed to change in color depending upon what she was wearing. Taylor caught the lemony scent of her perfume, remembering it from yesterday. White Linen, maybe.

  “How are you today?” Taylor asked when they were both sitting down, thinking that Beth seemed a little less uneasy this time.

  Beth smiled with tight lips, giving her shoulders a shrug. “Better…some, I think. It was good to talk yesterday.” She looked down and then back up, almost shyly.

  “It must have been terrible,” Taylor agreed, “having no one to talk to all these years.”

  “Yes, it has been a long time. You know, he’s been in politics for a long time.” Beth looked up at her as she spoke, maintaining her gaze.

  Taylor was inwardly exultant. Here was her way in, her gateway to talk about the marriage, which she thought might be part of Beth’s depression. She smiled at Beth with encouragement, trying to restrain her eagerness at this inroad. “Tell me about the beginning. How did you meet?”

  Beth sighed before she answered. “It was at college, his roommate was dating my roommate. You know, one of those arranged meetings. I didn’t like him at first, although I was attracted to him. Sam was devastatingly good looking then, still is, don’t you think?” She looked at Taylor, as if needing her affirmation.

  Taylor nodded. Yes, he was good looking. Not her type, one of those perfectly coiffed men, whose tanned face stayed in an immobile smile when in a crowd, who exuded self confidence, and who, it was said, could disarm anyone after a few moments of conversation. “So did you resist him at first?” she asked.

  “Um, yes. He asked me out several times before I relented. I still didn’t like him.” She frowned, “He was too suave, too polished. He actually rather frightened me.”

  “How? How did he frighten you?”

  Beth paused and looked past Taylor for a moment before she spoke. “I didn’t feel safe with him. I felt he was just too much of a smooth talker and I knew he had a reputation around campus. He was the type who loved to conquer women and then move on to someone else. I didn’t want to be one of his past women.”

  Taylor waited for her to go on. When she didn’t, she suggested, “You probably were more attractive to him than if you had said yes right away.”

  There was a pitcher of water on a tray with two glasses on the table and a small box of tissues, none of which had been there the day before. Beth reached over and poured herself a glass, gesturing to Taylor to ask if she wanted one as well. She shook her head. Beth took a sip of the water before she answered. “Yes, I’m sure that was true. Because he didn’t give up, he just kept trying and finally, I accepted.”

  “What did you accept?” Taylor was speaking in low, gentle tones. When she was doing therapy, deep into a session, everything else was gone from her mind. Being totally present, it was called in training. Her mind was working on two levels: listening to every word Beth said and at the same time, thinking of interventions, what she should say next.

  Beth smiled wryly. “Oh, I didn’t accept his advances, but I did begin going places with him. He had unlimited money and he took me to wonderful restaurants, ones with white linen tablecloths, you know? Places I’d never been.”

  “And that was seductive….”

  Beth nodded. “Sure, I mean I was only twenty, and I grew up in a home with a modest income. I was on a very limited budget, so it was fun, going to those places was exciting. And I guess he grew on me. He seemed to be genuinely in love with me and he was so persuasive. Just like everything else about him, he was a very accomplished lover.” She looked away, as if she was embarrassed. “I know I can’t hold back, I know I have to tell you everything, but it’s hard. I’ve always been such a private person and now, just to tell everything…it’s hard.”

  Taylor smiled and said gently, I know it’s hard, Beth. I. know that from my clients over the years, and I know from my own experience, the first time I saw a therapist.”

  The First Lady looked surprised. “You had to see a therapist?”

  “Yes, all psychologists, when they’re in training, have to have forty hours of therapy themselves. It was invaluable; it showed me what being in the other chair feels like. And I remember the first time I saw someone, I remember how difficult it was to open up, to tell it all, even to trust, so I do understand how hard this is for you. Particularly you, in your position.” Her
e I am, lying again. Actually she had undergone years of therapy.

  Beth sat back in her chair, but didn’t look relaxed.

  “When did you fall in love with him?” Taylor asked. Beth was silent for a moment, looking reflective. Then she began, “I don’t think I ever fell in love with him, unless you count a slow gradual glide as falling. I was flattered by his attention and he seemed more mature than the other guys at school. He took me to my first opera, to the theater, we didn’t just go to a movie. I began to wonder why he was sticking to me, why he wasn’t moving on. I did realize that I hadn’t yet succumbed in terms of…you know, sexually…I…I hadn’t gone to bed with him and I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that when and if I did, that might be the last I would see of him.”

  “Were you a virgin?” Taylor asked. This was a risky question, one she ordinarily wouldn’t have asked at this early stage, but the context seemed to demand it.

  Beth looked startled, “Goodness, you do ask blunt questions!” Then she laughed softly, “I guess that’s what this is all about, baring one’s soul…”

  “Yes, it is part of what it’s about,” Taylor replied, “but just baring one’s soul doesn’t necessarily lift depression. We’ll talk more about that soon. If there is something you don’t want to answer, just say so. It’s all right.”

  “No. I know what you’ve given up to come here to help me, so I think I do need to tell you everything.”

  Taylor was silent, waiting for her to go on.

  “I wasn’t a virgin. In high school, I dated a boy for a year, and so at age seventeen, I had sex for the first time.” She looked at Taylor with an inquisitive glance. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “You know I won’t tell anyone, that everything you say here is confidential,” Taylor reassured her. “What happened to that relationship?”