The President's Wife Is on Prozac

by Jayne Lind

  First meal together? Those were the words Josh used on the plane. What did Frank mean? Was this a date, was the excuse of collaborating about the President just a ruse?

  He set his glass down on the table and smiled. “I know we need to talk about the President,” he began, “but I’d like to wait until after dinner. You said on the phone that you never have a meal with anyone. I thought about that and tried to put myself in your shoes. You must be very lonely there in the White House.”

  Taylor took a sip of wine before she answered, “Yes, it has been quite a shock. I was told before I came that this would be difficult, but I really don’t think I had any idea just how difficult.”

  Frank nodded. “By the way, dinner is ready. It’s all in the warming oven, but I thought we could relax and get to know each other better first.”

  Get to know each other better first. Where was this leading? This was the first real contact she’d had with another human being in over a month and rather than enjoying it, Taylor was feeling uneasy. She looked around the flat. An open door to one side must lead to the bedroom. Was she going to have to fight her way out of here later tonight? She decided she would sip the wine very slowly. She needed a clear head and perhaps, a strong will.

  Frank smiled. “So tell me about yourself. I can tell from your accent that you’re American, so why do you live in England?”

  “Oh, I went there for graduate school and I just liked it, that’s all,” Taylor replied.

  “But don’t you miss it here? Don’t you miss some things about this great country of ours?” Frank asked, leaning forward.

  She shook her head. “No, I honestly don’t. I guess the British way of life just suits my personality. Anyway, I’ve never wanted to return.”

  Frank got up to pour himself another glass of wine and gestured toward Taylor’s nearly full glass. “Is the wine all right? I notice you haven’t drunk much. I have plenty of other kinds.”

  “Oh, no—it’s fine, Frank. It’s…I just usually don’t drink much without food.”

  “Of course, you must be hungry,” he said. “Come sit over there at the table and I’ll serve our dinner in no time.” A small table was set for two with a white linen table- cloth, sterling silver, and crystal glasses. A perfect picture. Taylor sat down and Frank quickly served their plates. Filet mignon, new potatoes, and French green beans. “Do you cook often?” Taylor asked, noting his practiced way around the kitchen.

  Frank smiled as he sat down across from her. “Well, I have to confess, I didn’t cook this. There’s a catering agency you can phone and they’ll bring you a ready cooked meal. It’s always good and I knew we couldn’t be seen together around here, even miles away. You know, people who work for the government live all over, some commute for hours. So it wasn’t safe.”

  “But Lillian approved me coming here,” Taylor said.

  “Um, yes”, he said, taking a bite of the rare steak. “I told her we needed to confer and we don’t think many people know about my apartment. Hope not, anyway.” He paused for a moment, gazing intently at her as he took a large sip of his wine. “Do you like the meal?”

  “Yes, it’s delicious,” Taylor said, taking small bites and even smaller sips of wine. “One of the things I miss about living in the White House is cooking. My meals are delivered to me. “Do you eat in the Mess?” She knew from her reading that the restaurant in the White House was called the Mess, a military term for dining room. The waiters were all ex-Navy enlisted men.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I don’t know how to cook, hence this,” Frank said, gesturing at the meal and smiling. “Are you a gourmet cook?”

  Taylor laughed wryly, “No, not at all, but I enjoy it, I find it to be meditative. Now my meals are delivered on a tray and it’s always delicious. The chefs there would be top-notch, wouldn’t they, but I have to decide the night before what I want to eat, unless I’m out to a restaurant, and then I’m alone, so it really isn’t that great.”

  Frank nodded sympathetically. “It must be terrible for you, all closed up in your room, all alone. What you need are friends, the comfort of human companionship...” His voice broke off as he smiled at her.

  Taylor didn’t like his tone. His smile was looking less and less attractive and more and more like a leer. “Could I please have a glass of water?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Frank said, as he rose to go into the kitchen. He poured her a glass of water and, to her relief, the conversation turned less personal. When they finished eating, Frank cleared the table and gestured once more toward the sofa.

  “I’ll get us some coffee. Would you like a brandy with it?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.” Actually she would love to have a brandy, but she wanted to remain alert. The coffee maker must have been pre-prepared, because by the time Frank brought out a plate of very delicious looking chocolates, he also brought two cups of coffee and a brandy for himself, all on a wooden tray. Taylor wondered how many times in the past he had gone through this routine. He seemed to have it down pat.

  “All right. I guess we’d better get down to business,” Frank said. “What are we, you and I, going to do about the President?”

  Taylor was sure her face registered surprise. “Me?” she asked. “I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can, but I’m not going to be directly involved, am I?” Did he get her here not to seduce her, but to recruit her into being involved with the President?

  “Taylor, I don’t have to tell you how serious this is. You can’t have a man in the most powerful position in the country if he isn’t thinking clearly. If he isn’t in touch with reality, someone has to step in.”

  Not in touch with reality, that was the definition of psychosis. Was he delusional? Out loud, she said, “Not in touch with reality you said, do you think he’s psychotic?”

  Frank didn’t answer for a moment, looking down into his coffee cup. “I think that at times, he does, has had, a psychotic break.”

  Taylor leaned forward towards Frank. This was more serious than she had thought. “Is this something you just found out? You haven’t mentioned it to me before.”

  Frank spoke in a low tone, as if he thought someone could be listening. “Paul, the President’s chief of staff came to see me at my request after our meeting today. He is very loyal to the President; they go back a long way together, but this incident, when he hit Dominique, made Paul open up, I guess. He told me there are times when President Carlson doesn’t connect.”

  “You mean he doesn’t understand what’s been said to him?” Taylor asked, more and more alarmed.

  Frank was silent for a moment, whirling the brandy around in his glass and taking more than just a sip. “I’m sure you’ve worked with schizophrenics or delusional patients…”

  Taylor shook her head, “Not much. I did a three month placement in my training, but I really haven’t had much experience with psychosis other than brief episodes caused by a deep depression.”

  Frank’s face registered surprise. “Really? Well, that’s too bad. I was hoping you were more of an expert at this than I am. We may have to call in a psychiatrist in that case.”

  “What do you mean when you say, ‘he doesn’t connect’?”

  “You know, when you say something and the interpretation of what you said is entirely different from what you meant, when the way he’s talking sounds like someone who is paranoid.”

  This was becoming far worse than just a personality disorder. “He obviously isn’t a schizophrenic,” Taylor protested, “but he could be becoming paranoid because of an early dementia caused by alcoholism. And he could be delusional.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said in a grim tone.

  “Was anything done about it?” Taylor asked.

  “No. Paul says he would quickly be back to normal. But you know the President—well, you don’t, I guess, except what you’ve heard from
Mrs. Carlson. He is, can be, very, very charming and then he can turn around and be a complete ass. And one never knows which one of him will appear.”

  “Except that in public he’s always ‘on’, he’s always charming,” Taylor commented. Was Beth in more danger than Taylor realized? After all, she was alone with him in the residence and that’s when he did his heaviest drinking.

  Yes,” Frank was saying, “which means that he can control it, but this latest incident, in which he didn’t control it, probably exacerbated by the heavier drinking, is becoming very serious. I tell you, Taylor, you and I need to work as a team. And I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you as a partner.” As he said this, he put his glass down on the table and moved over to the sofa. Moved over right next to Taylor and put one arm around her.

  Taylor sat bolt upright, away from his arm.

  “Oh, come on Taylor,” Frank said softly, “you know you are lonely. What can a little human warmth from a man who finds you attractive hurt?” With that he reached over and before she could resist, she was lying on her back on the sofa and he was leaning over her.

  “No,” she shouted, struggling to push him away.

  He kissed her long and deep. He was now on top of her and she couldn’t cry out because his mouth was over hers in relentless seeking. She tried to keep her mouth tightly closed and tried to leverage herself against the back of the sofa to push away from him, but his strength made it impossible. She was terrified she was actually going to be raped.

  Finally, when he let up just for a moment, she pushed him away, using all her strength, more strength than she knew she had. He rolled to the floor and as he was getting up, she stood up and frantically looked around for her handbag.

  Frank got up and sat on the sofa looking amused. “Oh, come on Taylor. You don’t have to spend the night, just a quick one. I’m awfully good in bed, I’m told.”

  Well, that did it. Her intuition had been correct, he was much practiced. The dinner, the argument, she would be one more on his list of trophies. She straightened her skirt, found her handbag, and without a word and without her coat, walked out the door. When she reached the lift, she pushed the button frantically, wondering if he was going to follow her. One of her ‘keepers’ was there on the ground floor when the lift door opened, talking into his sleeve. Soon a car drove up, the door was opened for her and she literally jumped in.

  She wanted to cry, she wanted to talk to Josh, she wanted to go home. Really home, not the cage. What a mess! She was going to have to work with this man. Would he try again? She doubted it. Men don’t like rejection. Would he allude to tonight?

  Holding back the tears until she reached her room, Taylor collapsed on the bed and sobbed into the pillows. How dare he? What right did he have to assume she was easy bait? It wasn’t as if she could just never see Frank again; she had to work with him. She could still feel his groping hands on her body, his mouth hard against hers. She rose from the bed and rushed frantically into the bathroom. To get clean. Bolting the door, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. And as the water enveloped her, she was once again…there. Where she thought she would never go again. Where she had spent years in personal therapy trying to eradicate the memories.

  Ralph was her mother’s latest find. The latest man she brought home. Taylor was twelve and she didn’t like him. But then she never liked any of her mother’s ‘friends’. He moved in within a couple of days, as the men always did. He went to work in the daytime, which was a relief. And her mother eventually got a waitressing job—the first work she’d had in a long time. So there was a bit more money. But that meant Taylor was home at night with Ralph.

  Taylor stood stock still in the shower with the water pouring over her. The memories overtook her. She wasn’t in her private bathroom in the White House.

  She was in the shower at her house and Ralph had just come in the door. She thought she’d locked it. He was smiling, widely, as he reached over and turned off the water. And began drying her off.

  She quickly turned off the water, wrapped herself in her robe, unbolted the door and flung herself on the bed, wet hair and all. Don’t go there. She thought she was through with all those memories, the horrible, vivid memories of growing up, of the men, of telling her mother, who only shouted at her and accused her of lying. She wasn’t lying, but her mother never believed her. If her mother didn’t believe her, then her twelve year old mind told her no one would. Plus, she was ashamed.

  The memories wouldn’t stop. Body memory it is called. Even if some trauma has been thoroughly dealt with, overcome, through time, through therapy, through inner strength, when something occurs which evokes the past body memory, it may all come back. Frank’s attempt brought back the memory of wandering hands as well as the words. The men always told her she was going to like what they were going to do.

  All Taylor could do back then was cry. And keep silent. And escape as soon as she possibly could. And when she qualified as a psychologist, she never dealt with child abuse cases. It was too close to the bone. She had to write to Josh.

  Dear J: Had a traumatic event occur tonight, on top of all the other traumatic events in my life lately. I need so badly to speak to you. Please come soon. Feeling desperate—and very lonely. Too lonely for my own good. Love, T.

  It was a terrible, endless, black night. Taylor tossed and turned, going over every little detail of the evening, wishing she had a sleeping pill. She cried more during the long night, cried out of pure rage. Helping Beth was easy, she was in control; she knew what to do for someone who was depressed. But the circumstances here were getting

  to her in a big way. Josh was right. This was very, very hard.

  Was she naïve for going there in the first place, she asked herself over and over during the night? Yet, she didn’t know she was going to Frank’s apartment and his excuse about it not being safe to meet in a restaurant had made perfect sense. Was she so lonely that in some way she wanted his attention? It was seductive to have the simple luxury of sitting across the table from someone to eat a meal, rather than in front of the television as she always did now.

  She tried to sleep in, even though she knew the phone might ring at any moment. When the cleaning lady knocked on the door, Taylor was embarrassed; it was obvious she wasn’t up yet. She told her to please come back in an hour.

  She finally pulled herself together. Interesting term, Taylor thought, as she went about doing that. One pulls at all the strands of mind and body that seem to be escaping, going out in all directions, out of control. She could pull herself together for a while, but how long until she could no longer? How long until she broke? She had well and truly entered into this dark world of politics and intrigue and it wasn’t as simple as it seemed when one read John Le Carre. Maybe that’s why men were better at it, better at keeping their emotions in check.

  Dressing quickly, in case the cleaning woman came back, she took the laptop out of the safe before she did anything else. Josh had written.

  Hi there T. Worried about you. I’m trying to arrange something. Until then know that you are safe. But it sounds like you’re not talking about being physically safe, but rather, emotionally. I have your picture framed on my desk. I’ve never done that with anyone before. Hang in there. I’m trained to keep my emotions in check and to put the job over my personal life. I signed onto that. You did as well, but you didn’t have time to train; you were plunged right in. It must be tough. Love, J.

  Taylor read the email over and over. He said he had her picture on his desk. Surely that meant a lot, unless he wasn’t telling the truth about it being the first time he’d done that. She hoped it wasn’t her passport picture. And he once again signed the email with the word love.

  She had just finished breakfast when Lillian phoned. “No work today,” she said and with that, hung up. Taylor was getting used to her abruptness, but didn’t enjoy it. Was Lillia
n having emotional problems as well? Was the pressure of this place getting to her? This White House was beginning to seem like a royal nut house—it drove everyone crazy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning Taylor awoke to snow. Standing at the window, she watched the soft flakes falling silently like powdered sugar onto a lawn already blanketed white. She stood at the window for quite awhile, appreciating the beauty of the scene, thinking about how snow covers up all the bald spots, all the imperfections, and makes everything look beautiful, even if it’s not, even if underneath, the earth is bare, brown, and ugly.

  Dear J: It’s snowing!!! Do you like snow? Since I lived on the east coast, at university, it is always something that has brought me joy. There is something magical about snow, especially that moment when one wakes and first sees it, like a wonderful surprise, seeing it blanketing everything. Must rush. Thinking of you. Love, T.

  Josh said he might be able to come soon. That was her pinpoint of hope. But could she tell him what happened? Would that be breaking confidentiality? Beth had someone to confide in; everyone had someone he or she could confide in, except Taylor. She felt herself sinking into self-pity, which was nothing but a destructive pit. The phone rang; it was the one person she most did not want to talk to.

  “Taylor, this is Frank, “he said, in a normal tone of voice.

  She didn’t respond for what seemed to her like a long moment.

  “Taylor? Are you there?” he demanded.

  “Yes, I’m here”, she said, in a voice she hoped was as cold as the outside temperature.

  “I need to talk to you sometime today, I’d rather come to your rooms.”

  “No!” she almost shouted. “No, that is not on.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Taylor, we’re adults. You can’t blame a guy for trying…”