Chapitre 53: American Dream
Being back in the United States felt like a dream to Alistair Bowmore. He caught himself casting glances out the window every so often, almost as if he was peering onto the freshly trimmed lawn of the white house to search for a carriage or even a tank. Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia had taken a toll on his mind and his sanity.
Vice President Gibson entered the room and greeted him with a polite but somewhat empathetic smile. The dark circles under his eyes told her his story silently: another row of sleepless nights. His hand moved slowly as he stretched it out to shake hers, and it trembled ever so slightly. Drugs, she guessed.
"Alistair, I wanted to talk to you about the last few weeks, since the meeting with the German chancellor we've fallen behind our schedule, I understand you're facing a hard time, but I was wondering-."
"No need to instate some emergency protocol," here he paused and waved his hand a bit, his fingers twitching in the air as if they could feel her name above them but just couldn't grasp it, Vice President Gibson realized that he had indeed, at least momentarily, forgotten her name. "We should stop investing in those anyway, it's not like I'm going to be..." he muttered quietly, the rest of his sentence died on his lip. He rested his face in the palm of his hand and gazed at his subordinate. "So, what have you come to tell me."
"I wasn't going to tell you anything, Alistair, I was going to remind you that you have lots of help, including me, who can take over for a bit."
"I'll never leave the fate of my country in your hands." He said sternly. After speaking the words he realized he'd said it to the wrong person, in his mind she'd turned into Malinkow for a second, with his cheerfull whistle. That man could not be trusted. He was, most definitely, a very important man in the Soviet Government. With another turn of the tongue he realized that he, Alistair Bowmore, was helping the Soviet Government in an attempt to stop the Germans from starting the war. Exasperated he lay his head into his hands. After rubbing his eyes in a failed hope to clear his mind he looked back up at his Vice President who stared at him in a puzzled manner that didn't suit either her make-up or her position. "I didn't mean you, Lottie. I meant...I was talking to myself. I didn't...take over, Lottie. You know what to do. And is the doctor still here?"
"You spoke to him this morning." She said softly.
"Alright. I must have forgotten. I will go to him now. Perhaps an adjustment of medication will be enough. When is the next time I have to appear publicly?"
"Tomorrow Mr. President." She answered dutifully.
"I'll see to it that I'm fit by then." He got up. The fashion in which he raised himself from his chair could only be compared to the way an old man leaves his lazy-box, with a groan on his lips and the fear of toppling over and breaking into a hundred thousand shards of glass. Whiskey glass. Glasses he'd toasted to Hitler with. "Or actually, Lottie, you know more about whatever the meeting is going on about, tell them I'm unfit to go, that your'e stepping in for me, make up some bad flu, the swine flu if you can, just something that will keep me down and out for a while, something about that way, please Lottie." His grumbling was getting harder and harder to understand.
Vice President Gibson took it onto herself to see the man out of his room and past the secretary who eyed the both of them worridly, then she handed him to a tall bodyguard who accepted the frail President under his wing.
Alistair whispered and moaned all the way to his room. Monica was doing her make-up when he entered. She looked up, thanked the guard and took her husband into her arms. "Sit down Sweetie, how do you feel?" She pressed her hand to his forehead. No fever. "Oh, I know you shouldn't be taking those sleeping pills, they make you like this..."
"I need them Anne," the wrong name slipped out, "otherwise I'll have nightmares. I don't want to have them. I need them." He gestured to the pills that Monica had clenched in her right hand. She'd felt a pang in her heart as he'd uttered the wrong name, but she pushed it to the side, he was insane, it was more likely a figure of his imagination than another woman.
"I'll ask the doctors for a different kind cheri." She kissed his cheek. "And I'll get them to you as soon as I can." She kissed him on the other cheek as well and hurried out of the bedroom in search of the doctor. In mere minutes she'd have the pills, other pills, pills that wouldn't destroy her husband. As many pregnant women do, she walked with one hand over the little bump that jutted out from her belly. She remembered the appointement for an Ultrasound today, and she made a mental note to ask a nurse to pay attention to her sickly partner.
But Alistair fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He didn't see his wife rush in with the new perscription and neither the woman nor the doctor she'd trailed in thought to wake up the poor soul. They let him rest, put the pills on the nightstand and chatted quietly about his well-being. "A psychiatric screening will need to be done," the doctor said with a taste of regret, "I'm sorry, Monica, but I don't think you're husband can remain in this position. I fear an actual mental illness, some kind of hallucination scheme, one that has far too-."
"Don't say that. It'll be alright, now please. I'd like to hear about the screening, but not about what you think might result. My husband isn't crazy, I've known him for a long time. He's a strong man. Very stable."
"You know you're lying, Mrs. Bowmore."
"God knows we all are." With a mistrusting look at her husbands peacefully asleep face she turned away. "Lead the way, doctor."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone