When the Party's Over
"Ma'am, will you be alright?"
Sitting in the back of the SUV, she eyed her assistant. He looked tired as the car slowed, pulling beside the curb. Apparently, Blake hadn't been guzzling his usual order of an espresso martini at tonight's state dinner. Looking him over, she noticed that the worry lines between his eyebrows appeared more prominent.
"I'm fine," she told him. Reaching out, she patted his shoulder. "Go, get some rest this weekend."
Staring, Blake frowned.
For weeks, he'd seemed reluctant to leave her alone. Sometime in January, he'd started accompanying her on drives to the White House. He rambled about an old episode of Cupcake Wars, the new bar opening over in Logan Circle, or the list of fruits and vegetables he needed from the store. When she stayed late at the State Department, instead of going home after being dismissed, he insisted on working at his desk. He put together pamphlets while plying her with tea. Recently, after a night out, it took an extra push to get him out the door when the motorcade dropped him at his apartment. He pulled at his fingers, catastrophizing in his head.
"Are you sure because…"
As usual, his words trailed off before anything serious could be addressed. The unfinished sentences limited the chance of her admitting something that couldn't be walked back. I want to disappear. Something Blake and the rest of her staff wouldn't be able to ignore anymore.
Elizabeth attempted to smile.
"Goodnight," she said.
Hand hovering on the door handle, Blake looked at her like it was the last time that he may ever lay his eyes on her. As if he wouldn't see her in five hours when she was inevitably summoned to the situation room.
"Goodnight, Elizabeth."
Before he had the chance to pop the door open, she whispered, "Blake."
Quickly, he turned back.
Swallowing, she debated shattering their whole world, but she couldn't do it. What would happen? Would he call Henry? Or maybe Nadine? Would he instruct her detail to drive them to the nearest hospital? Although she couldn't do it, his eyes were kind, so her mouth started moving anyway.
"Do you ever think about…"
About stepping off a curb a second too early? She imagined a car coming around the corner fast, blowing through a stop sign. About a crazed gunman opening fire during one of her speeches? She hoped the shot would be right in between her eyes, quick and painless. About going to sleep and never waking up? Some nights she wished for a heart attack.
"Do I ever think about what?"
His eyebrows jumped toward his hairline, waiting.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth mumbled, "Never mind." She touched his arm. "Goodnight, Blake."
When the car door swung open, cold air rushed in, burning her cheeks.
"Home, Madam?"
Before she leaned the side of her head against the window, she nodded, answering the agent in the front seat.
Do you ever think about dying?
As the car pulled away from the curb, she watched as Blake climbed the front steps of his apartment building. Part of her wished that she could follow him. There was appeal to ditching her security detail and wandering in the dark.
I want to disappear.
For the most part, her thoughts were passive. She wouldn't do it herself, but she welcomed the thought of stepping off a curb a second too early, being gunned down during one of her speeches, and having a heart attack in her sleep. Some doctors may say that she was actively suicidal, but in her eyes, she wasn't. At least, not until tonight.
I don't want to be alive anymore.
Not until the thought of I want to disappear turned into I don't want to be alive anymore.
Walking through the entryway, she tugged at her scarf, freeing it from the collar of her coat. Elizabeth tossed it toward the chair in the corner. Then, she shrugged off her peacoat. It was white wool with polished gold-tone buttons. She'd ordered it in November, believing that buying something expensive would make her feel better, but it hadn't— material things didn't make you any less depressed.
If given the chance, Blake would've told her the same.
After stepping out of her heels, she headed toward the kitchen. In the pantry, Elizabeth snagged a bottle of scotch from a cabinet. Even after hitting the champagne hard at the state dinner, she was still too sober. With enough alcohol, she would feel numb instead of jittery.
I don't want to be alive anymore.
Anxiously, she tapped her fingers against the counter. Tonight, the house was too quiet. Almost a year had passed since she'd flown to Iran, but she still heard rapports of gunfire ringing in her ears. Right now, the noise was too loud.
Propping her elbows against the island, Elizabeth leaned forward, covering her ears with her hands.
She wanted to yell, but no one would hear her.
Help!
For months, she'd been silently screaming for it.
Standing in the dim light of the kitchen, she debated calling Henry, but she felt too ashamed. What if he blamed her for letting it get this bad? She wondered whether he would understand.
I don't want to be alive anymore.
Hands shaking, she yanked open one of the drawers.
Help!
It shouldn't be this way— children around the globe were dying of starvation, adults across the country were struggling to pay their bills, and civilians were being killed in their own homes, caught in the crossfires of nations at war. Here she was in her Georgetown mansion, feeling sorry for herself.
I don't want to be alive anymore.
With watery eyes, Elizabeth pushed around containers of vitamins before she plucked an orange bottle of oxycodone from the drawer. She'd been prescribed the medication in Landstuhl for the pain in her back, but she hadn't taken it. Months ago, Henry had said that he would drop it in a drug disposal box, but he'd never gotten around to it.
Her hands shook as she unscrewed the lid.
Help! Help! Help!
Here she was, stuck inside of their home. She was trapped in a choreographed life of long-haul flights to Europe, of midnight phone calls to world leaders, and of pointed smiles during photo-ops at state dinners. Even if she decided to hand in her resignation tomorrow, she would still be a prisoner.
There was no other way out.
I want to die.
Tipping the bottle, she shook the pills out and into her palm.
"Elizabeth?"
Chest heaving, her eyes lifted, staring ahead at the fridge.
No.
Her husband was supposed to be at the farm with the children. Because of tonight's dinner, she'd planned on driving down tomorrow morning. He wasn't supposed to be here!
"Baby?"
No. No. No.
When she turned her head, looking at him, she started to cry harder. He stood near the end of the island, wearing his pajamas. With a book clutched in one hand, Henry eyed her carefully.
"What are you doing?" He asked urgently.
"Oh, Henry," Elizabeth sobbed. Her fist unclenched, causing pills to spill out over the counter. "You're not supposed to be here."
She slipped to the floor, pills scattering around her.
"I need help!"
Quickly, arms were around her.
"We'll get you some help, Elizabeth," he whispered.