I was laid low by these thoughts. And, yes, eventually I sought professional help. The help of a psychiatrist, among other folks. I wanted to know if my destiny had already been determined, if it was written in my genes.
Eventually I came out of what the poets call this slough of despond. But it was not the doctors who lifted me from that dark place. My mother, on hearing that I had sought help, was shaken out of her own disease. You might say it was a wake-up call. She woke up, joined AA and got sober. When she died last October, she was proud to say that she had gone twenty-four years, eight months and nineteen days without a drink. It was a great achievement. Im as proud of her for that as she was of me for getting to the brink of the presidency. But it was private. And I chose to honour that.
Perhaps that was a mistake. But now I hope you understand. Why I needed the help in the first place and why I did not rush to tell you, the American people, all about it. I cannot know how you will react to this news. But I am taking the risk that you will respond as so many American families do when they are confronted with news that disappoints. With the generosity of spirit that made us and makes us still a great nation. Thank you.
Maggie stood, staring, barely daring to breathe. In the silence, she heard the sound of a single pair of hands clapping. Then another and then several more, until there was loud, sustained applause. She was sure she heard Tara MacDonald give a single whoop.
Sanchez passed her his iPhone, already open at the Sullivan blog. She only had to read the first sentence: Stephen Baker has just reminded the American people why they chose him to be their president last fall.
OK, people, Tara yelled, silencing the last few claps of applause. Were not out of the woods yet. Fox and the others are going to be yakking all night about the questions that still need to be answered. We need to be ready. She shot a glare at Maggie and Sanchez standing together. We dont need to be talking to each other, we need to be talking to the American people. I want a list handed to me no more than ten minutes from now, giving the names of surrogates ready to be in front of a camera heaping praise on President Stephen Baker for being brave, for being honest and for being a devoted son. Any questions? She didnt wait for a reply. Good. Now get to it.
Maggie decided to take the hint and leave, mouthing a thank you to Sanchez. Tara MacDonald was right to be cautious, but Maggie had lived in America long enough to know that the public would like what they had seen. They would not turf out a new, young president for the crime of loving his mother and worrying about the inheritance she might have passed to her son.
She was right, too. The cable networks were kind, hosting discussions about whether alcoholism was hereditary and on the usefulness of therapy. For a few blessed hours, authors of books with titles like Please Mommy, Stop and Talking Makes It Better replaced the usual political talking heads. Almost all spoke with compassion for Stephen Baker, though Rush Limbaugh had apparently taken to his microphone an hour after the Presidents personal statement to ask his listeners, Do we really want a whack-job with his finger on the button?
The consensus in the White House was that Baker had dodged a bullet. Indeed, the relief lasted all the way until the next day. Except in the Baker household. Where it was about to vanish in the cruellest way possible.
The consensus in the White House was that Baker had dodged a bullet. Indeed, the relief lasted all the way until the next day. Except in the Baker household. Where it was about to vanish in the cruellest way possible.
5
Washington, DC, Monday March 20, 19.16
Jen, those new sneakers are COOL!
Katie Baker read the messages on her new friend Jennifers Facebook wall and was all set to add her own. But her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Back in Olympia, she would have hammered out a dozen messages by now but here it was so different. Her mom had told her she had to be triple careful. Remember, sweetie: no names, no pictures.
No pictures? That was so harsh! Everyone posted photos on their Facebook page but here in fact, ever since November she was told she couldnt. You can put up pictures, honey, Mom had said. Just none that show you, your brother or any of your closest friends. Nothing that identifies you.
Her brother? Like that was ever going to happen. She didnt mind keeping that annoying jerk out of her pictures. But her friends? Why did she have to be the one who was different?
Oh, yes. Because her father was President of the United States, thats why. Which was cool, no doubt. She had already met several of her favourite stars and she had been in People magazine though in that picture shed had to hold hands with her brother. Yeeuch!
Someone had sent a new message which popped up on Jens wall.
I heard that Brandon invited you to the Zygotes show at the 9.30. Does that mean you two are like going out?!!
She began typing. OMG, Jen! If that is true, I am so jealous! I love the Zygotes!
She wondered if that gave away too much detail. The 9.30 hardly counted as giving away a place, did it? So the 9.30 Club was in Washington, DC. Was there anyone in the world who didnt know that thirteen-year-old Katie Baker lived in Washington, DC?
She clicked out of Jens and back to her own Facebook page. What she saw when she got there made her frown
Kimberley Baker was preparing supper, doing her best to keep things normal. Partly for her husbands sake, mainly for her kids. Politically, the President of the United States might have survived what had happened today but she was not so sure how Stephen Baker would cope.
The most private thing about him was now public property. When they were going out it had been the last revelation he had made to her. Only once they had been together many months did he tell her about his mothers alcoholism and the treatment he had sought. Once he had spilled everything, and she had responded with a long, tight hug, he had asked her to marry him. And now he had had to expose the secret he had guarded so zealously, on national television. She knew how much he would hate that.
Still, he was a strong man; he would survive. But what about Katie and Josh? To her surprise the kids had seemed to be doing OK. They had started school, made some friends; Katie had even been to her first DC slumber party. Of course, Kimberley had questioned the motives of both Jennifer, the classmate who had been so eager to make Katie her BF, and her equally keen parents. Kimberley didnt need to open the Washington Post to know that the Bakers were now deemed the hottest social property in the city and any contact, even vicarious, was a major trophy.
She had wondered if this mornings revelation would see all that come crashing down. She didnt care about herself; she wouldnt mind if she never went to another Washington party. But she couldnt bear to imagine what her children might be put through. Stephen had agreed they would maintain the no-newspapers rule they had observed back west. Nor was it any kind of sacrifice to ban cable TV. And the staff were wonderful, never mentioning a thing.
But, she knew, that was not where the danger lurked. It was school, specifically the meanness of other children, that frightened her. She knew how cruel they could be. Yes, most of the pupils at the school they had chosen would be fawning over Katie and Josh, but it would only take one rebel, one troublemaker who saw there was sport to be had in teasing the daughter of the President of the United States. And what ammunition any would-be playground tormentor had just been handed. Psychiatric treatment.
And yet the children had said nothing about it. They had come home, picked up from the school gate by Zoe, the Secret Service agent masquerading as an au pair albeit one who drove an armour-plated minivan with blacked-out windows and bounded up the stairs as if nothing were out of the ordinary. In Joshs case, Kimberley Baker knew that meant all had been well. Her son couldnt hide anything, even if he wanted to.
But Katie offered no such assurance. Was her silence proof that nothing had happened, that she had survived the day without mockery or evidence that she had suffered an indignity so great it could not be expressed?
There was a message from her friend Alexis.
Hi K, hope youre feeling OK this evening. Sorry today was so hard. You seemed to be coping really well though. Youre one tough chick!
Katie Baker read it again, checking the name. It was definitely from Alexis, but it made no sense. Alexis hadnt been at school today. Shed got that bug that was going round. How would Alexis know how shed been coping?
She typed out a reply.
I dont understand! Arent you in bed with that yukky bug thing?!!
Katie clicked open another window: tour dates for the band Emily and Hannah had said were the hot group of the year. She was about to hit the preview to hear some of their music when she heard a light knock on the door.
Her agent, Zoe, poked her head round the door, taking care to stay outside her room. Your mom says its time you came down for dinner.
Kay. Be right there.
The door shut and Katie closed the tab open to the bands website. She was about to close down Facebook when she heard the message alert announcing Alexis reply. She glanced back towards the door. It would only take a minute.
The First Lady looked over at her husband, now chopping garlic for a tomato sauce. He was sitting on a stool tucked up against the breakfast bar, both tie and shoes off. Whenever she regretted her husbands choice of career which was often Kimberley Baker fell back on this consolation. She had deployed the same line when he was Governor, too. As he had put it in at least three dozen interviews, before flashing that million-kilowatt smile, At least I get to live above the shop.
So she tried to savour this little scene of domesticity the four of them having an evening meal together and pretend that the National Security Advisor was not waiting just along the corridor.