The President's Wife Is on Prozac

by Jayne Lind

  “And I have some doubts about him—about his ability to govern.”

  Taylor was stunned. Never had she suspected he would say something like that. She had thought he might say he often acted like an ass, like a bully, but after all, being a bad husband usually has no correlation with ones occupation. After a moment of silence, she said, “In what way?”

  Frank stood up again, seeming to need to move around to break the tension he must be feeling. When he spoke, he once again stopped near her, leaning up against the desk this time. “This is not my field, as you know, I’m an internist, and I only did a three month residency in psychiatry. But I’ve always been interested in it. I’ve always read anything to do with psychiatric problems, especially since many of my patients have some disorder of the mind or other, as well as a physical ailment. An area I’ve been especially interested in is that of personality disorders.”

  Here was a confirmation of what she’d been thinking! In one aspect she felt relieved to know she wasn’t going down the wrong path, that her educated hunches were correct, but following on that thought was fear. What on earth was going to happen? Is Beth in danger? Is the country in danger? “I’ve begun to suspect that as well,” Taylor said, “from what Beth has told me. Based on what you’ve observed, which one? Which personality disorder?”

  “I’m afraid it’s more than one. As you know, some of them overlap. He definitely has anti-social traits, but I think we might have a borderline on our hands with a bit of narcissism thrown in for good measure. Taylor, may I call you Taylor?” He went on without waiting for her to answer. “I’ve seen him blow up at the tiniest little action or word from someone on his staff. He has a horrible temper, and what’s more, I think he’s becoming or is already an alcoholic.”

  Alcoholic! That certainly would complicate matters; alcohol and/or drugs exacerbate any and all other problems. Taylor looked at him intently, “Beth hasn’t mentioned the drinking. Is it out of hand?”

  He nodded, “Yes. Do you have much experience with alcohol abuse in your practice?”

  “Not a lot,” Taylor replied, “but I did do an internship in an alcohol rehab a long time ago. And I keep up with the latest research through journals.”

  “Then, as you know, an alcoholic doesn’t have to drink in the morning or even every day. The definition of an alcoholic is what happens when he or she takes the first drink. The President can go from a glass of wine at dinner to being pretty tipsy very quickly, because he begins to drink a lot and fast.”

  Taylor’s eyes grew wide, as she said, “Surely this is known?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s very careful about appearances. He usually does this at Camp David or in the summer when the family is on vacation, times when the press is kept away. But it’s important for us to learn from the First Lady how much he drinks at night, in the residence.

  “So is it affecting his work? Do others in the administration notice anything?”

  “I don’t know, Taylor. No one has come to me to ask, but then everyone wants to stay on his good side. Anyone who works for him certainly knows he has a temper, something the press hasn’t revealed yet, though I can’t imagine there isn’t someone who has an inkling.” Dr. Bolton shrugged as he looked at her. “So, we, you and I, have a problem. You have to get the First Lady out of depression without anyone knowing she was ever depressed, and I have to watch over the President, to see that he doesn’t ruin the country!”

  Taylor left the doctor’s office with her mind reeling. Back in her room, she retrieved the laptop from the safe. Nothing from Josh.

  She lay down on the bed to think over what Frank had just told her. Was the President a dangerous sociopath? Would he, in an alcoholic rage, harm Beth physically? And could he possibly endanger the country by not being fit, not being of a sound mind? This was getting deeper and deeper, this job she’d taken on.

  Patience, she needed patience, not her strong suit. Very little of this was under her control. Too uneasy to relax, she emailed her mother and a few friends. It was like writing fiction, making up a story and keeping it going. She was getting better at it and her conscience wasn’t bothering her much anymore. Lastly, she wrote to Josh.

  Dear J: This is getting more and more intriguing, more and more worrisome. I don’t know what I would do without you to communicate with. Even though I have to be careful in what I say, at least I’m not lying to you. What a relief! Because I’m getting better at it. Is there anything about your background you can tell me? Did you have a happy childhood? Beware, I’m a therapist and I ask probing questions….. Just kidding – sort of. Do you get breaks, holidays? T.

  Chapter Nine

  A week had passed since Beth told Taylor about being afraid of Sam. There had been several sessions, but it just wasn’t possible to meet every day. Sometimes, appointments were canceled after they’d been arranged. Beth hated this imposition on Taylor as she tried to put herself in her shoes. The sooner she was well, the better. Taylor would be able to go back to her life in London and back to her other clients.

  Beth dreaded Sam coming home to the residence these days. It seemed to her he was becoming more and more belligerent. And that’s not all that worried her—he was drinking more. It had always been a problem; he had always consumed more alcohol than anyone she had ever been around. Growing up in her sedate family, wine with dinner was something reserved for special occasions, like Christmas, Thanksgiving or a birthday.

  Now, standing at a window in the residence, looking out across Lafayette Park, she watched people rushing by on their way home. Ordinary people, on their way to normal lives, to relax, to take off their shoes. No one was following them, no one was listening to their every conversation, and no one was judging them in the press. Living in the White House was not normal, but fearing your husband walking through the door, never knowing what mood he would be in, made it even worse.

  The door swung open, startling her. Sam barely looked at her as he went straight to the sideboard to pour himself a scotch. She went over to him, planning to kiss him on the cheek. Sometimes that placated him, sometimes he treated her better if she approached him with some warmth, even if it was an act.

  He shrugged her off and plopped down on the yellow upholstered sofa, not bothering to kick off his shoes. “Don’t talk—okay? Just don’t talk. I’ve had people talking to me all day, one thing after another. And you know what? Most of them don’t agree with me. They actually argue!”

  Beth sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad day, Sam.”

  He closed his eyes and growled, “I said don’t talk! Isn’t there a single person left in the world who will do as I say?”

  She felt the familiar stab of pain, the one she only felt when in her husband’s presence, the one that even the Prozac couldn’t help. She stood up to go into the family kitchen. She hadn’t eaten and was feeling faint.

  “Where you going?” Sam sat up, staring at her and taking another large swallow of his drink.

  Beth froze. She didn’t know what to do these days. If she stood up to him he reacted angrily, and if she didn’t stand up to him, she sank deeper into depression. “What’s the matter with you? You look awful. Are you sick?” His voice was low, almost a snarl, the look on his face of disdain.

  “Yes, I guess you could say that, Sam. I haven’t eaten all day. I thought I would fix myself a sandwich. Have you eaten?”

  Sam nodded. “I ate at my desk, as usual. Why haven’t you eaten all day?”

  For a brief moment, she thought maybe he was concerned for her.

  “I....I just wasn’t hungry...”

  Sam looked at her and smiled. His old, disarming smile. The one that used to work every time. He stood up and went to her, “Come over here,” he said, in a much different tone of voice. He put an arm around her and drew her over to the sofa. “Sit here beside me. You know what we both need? We need to go cudd
le up, you know—it’s been a long time....what do you say?”

  Repelled by his breath and even by his touch, Beth didn’t sit down and even stepped away from him. The next thing she heard was a fist slammed into the coffee table as Sam let out an oath and flung the almost empty glass to the floor. She fled to the kitchen, hoping he wouldn’t follow her. The secret service men guarding the residence were right outside in the hall and she was certain they must have heard Sam’s outburst. But no one interfered.

  ***

  That evening, Taylor settled down in bed with one of the books on past first ladies, reading the chapter about Mary Todd Lincoln. According to a book written by Margaret Truman, who was President Harry Truman’s daughter, Mrs. Lincoln was very unhappy in the White House as well. She was ridiculed by the press, as Lincoln evidently was also. He was called a country bumpkin because he came from the wilds of Illinois originally, although he and Mary met and married in Kentucky, where he was a successful lawyer. She was heavily criticized for her spending habits, not only on redecorating the White House, but also on expensive dresses and accessories.

  It was a difficult time for the nation because of the Civil War and in the midst of all this, the Lincolns’ son Willie died. Although another son had died previously and the death of a child was not unusual in 1862, the loss of Willie combined with the accumulating rumors and gossip about her, and sneers about her impulsive, supposedly tyrannical, attempts to get her way in the White House, was more than she could handle. As the war ground on and the casualties multiplied endlessly, she retreated into a shell of private grief, haunted by imaginary fears and nightmarish dreams. Then her husband was murdered as the couple sat in a box at the theater, shot in the head by John Wilkes Booth. After this, her mental and emotional problems accelerated.

  Mrs. Lincoln seemed to have had an obsession with buying things such as silks, lace, and jewelry. She spent much more money than she had, and after Lincoln’s death, she begged and pleaded with the Congress, through letters, to grant her a pension. This was finally granted, but she traveled in Europe and she kept on buying. Her oldest son, Robert, eventually committed her to an insane asylum.

  In reading all this about the latter days of Mary Todd Lincoln’s life, coupled with her erratic behavior while in the White House, Taylor wondered if Mary Todd Lincoln had suffered from bi-polar disorder. It certainly seemed to fit. It was very late when she finished reading this fascinating account of this former first lady. After she’d turned out the light and lay there thinking about these two women, Beth and Mrs. Lincoln, she realized there was an enormous difference in their lives. Abraham Lincoln supported his wife, loved her, and most importantly of all, understood her.

  It was Saturday and Beth and the President were at Camp David. Knowing no one was in the residence and feeling bored, Taylor decided to risk going to see the Lincoln Bedroom. She figured if she didn’t ask Lillian, she wouldn’t be told no. She knew from a diagram in one of the books on the White House that it was on the same floor as the residence.

  Bursting with curiosity, she crept down the staircase. Would she be descended upon by the Suits, as she had begun to call them? Would an alarm go off? She stood in the hall paralyzed, did she dare? Her heart was racing. Well, Taylor, do something—move, she commanded herself. Then she saw it, a plaque over the door. The Lincoln Bedroom.

  Tremulously, she turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door. Gathering courage, she stepped in and shut the door quietly. An antique bed dominated the room. She knew from her reading that it was six feet wide and nine feet long. The majestic headboard, which reached half way to the ceiling, was a richly carved mahogany piece. Lincoln never slept there, but it was in the White House when he was the President and his eleven year old son, Willie, died in this bed. Maybe that was the source of the ghost stories Taylor had read about, how those who were given the privilege of spending the night there saw ghosts or felt a presence. The sun was streaming in this morning, giving the yellow walls a warm glow, and there was nothing spooky about it at all. It seemed a very peaceful room.

  A small sofa in the middle of the room sat opposite the fireplace. Another two matching chairs were upholstered in cream-colored silk. Taylor moved to the fireplace to read a plaque on the mantelpiece.

  In this room Abraham Lincoln signed

  the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863.

  A writing desk flanked the fireplace and along the wall by the door there was a full length mirror in which Taylor looked at her reflection. Here she was in the Lincoln Bedroom, not as a guest, but as an undercover psychologist. Her imagination wandered to Mary Todd Lincoln. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if she could have been helped? A bit of lithium and a bit of Prozac would have fixed her right up.

  There was a rocking chair. Dare she sit down? She decided she had pushed her luck far enough and her curiosity was satisfied for that day at least. She opened the door. There was no one in the hall. She walked quickly to the stairway and climbed to the third floor. A man near her doorway put his mouth to his phone and she knew that somewhere, someone heard “Sunflower has arrived.” So she hadn’t been unnoticed; they had known where she was.

  She closed the door and immediately picked up one of the books about the history of the White House to read more about the Lincoln Bedroom. When Teddy Roosevelt was President, he and his wife hired an interior decorator who wanted to get rid of all the Victorian furniture in the White House. This was 1902 and evidently much of it was, indeed, disposed of. But Edith Roosevelt insisted that certain pieces be kept, including the carved rosewood bed now in the Lincoln Bedroom. Although Lincoln never slept in it, Teddy Roosevelt did, as well as Woodrow Wilson and Calvin Coolidge. The table set between the sofa and the chairs was purchased by Mary Todd Lincoln. This room was Lincoln’s office and cabinet room and is the only room in the White House named after a past president. Taylor was particularly struck by some words Jacqueline Kennedy wrote about this room:

  “Sometimes I need to stop and think about it all. I wondered, how are we going to live as a family in this enormous place? I would go down and sit in the Lincoln Room. It was the one room in the White House with a link to the past. Even though it isn’t Lincoln’s bedroom, it has his things in it. When you see that great bed, it looks like a cathedral. To touch something I knew he had touched was a real link with him.”

  Taylor wished Mrs. Kennedy had answered the question, how is this family going to live here? Her family didn’t live there for long because less than three years into his presidency, her husband was assassinated. Interesting that she felt an affinity with Lincoln, yet she felt this not knowing that her husband would be dealt the same fate.

  ***

  Josh was enjoying his email relationship with Taylor. He knew, or thought, he needed to go easy with her. She wasn’t someone who would succumb to his charms as easily as women like Brittany, whom he hadn’t called in days. She was not allowed to know how to contact him for security reasons, and sometimes this regulation was very useful. Like when he tired of someone. Like now.

  He had no idea if he would ever see Taylor again. When she was finished with this job, he assumed she would return to London. He hoped that as they grew to know one another in this slow, long-distance manner, she would want to see him. Taylor wasn’t blonde. She had auburn hair that shone in the light. What’s more, he was sure he had detected freckles underneath her makeup. She was different; she had substance. She would be interesting out of bed as well as in.....well, how did he know that? He didn’t want to be like his father. That was his one desire, goal, not to repeat his father’s life.

  When his father died, Josh felt guilty. He felt guilty because his chief emotion was that of relief. He was sorry that anyone died so young. He died of a heart attack in his early sixties, died in the arms of his latest young, blonde mistress. Yet he knew the heart attack was his father’s own fault; he did everything in excess, whether it w
as eating, drinking, or smoking. No wonder he had a heart attack.

  His father had divorced Josh’s mother long before he died and left her with a generous allowance plus their house in Chelsea. He had never denied Josh anything he asked. Anything, that is, except a relationship with him. Not that Josh asked for one either. It was always awkward when they were together. His father had only one mode of conversation with his son—telling him what to do. And what he wanted his son to do was to join his law firm, to follow in his footsteps. Josh didn’t consciously rebel at first. However, when he studied law he decided it was too staid for him. He watched other barristers and solicitors and realized that most of their time was spent sitting. Sitting at desks, sitting in courtrooms, sitting in meetings. That was when he applied to MI6 and he hadn’t had a boring day at work since.

  Sometimes he wished he would be assigned again to counter-terrorism. Since 9/11 that was where the action lay. Instead, he was working on child trafficking, tracking down pedophiles. And even with his sophisticated, inside knowledge of the evil that exists in this world, he was shocked at the brutality of some men. Men who not only sexually abused children, but tortured them as well. And filmed themselves or had others film them and then sold the pictures on the internet. It seemed like an endless job, but it wasn’t thankless. He had gradually become totally dedicated to these children. He felt if he was able to rescue one child from this horror, his life would not have been in vain.

  He wished he could write to Taylor about his work as she could probably help him with insights into this disgusting addiction. But it was verboten. He would have to wait until this assignment of hers was over; he would have to wait until he saw her again, but at least he could communicate with her.