How can they love me? They don’t know me. The bodyguard tells me that entire families have come to Washington to welcome me home they’ve flocked in from every part of the country. Looking down from the terrace, I can see the crowds on the street holding signs and banners and enormous posters with my face printed on them. You don’t want anything to distract me from my task. I assume you would have emptied it even if I’d been old enough to drink. When I’m finished, you’ll let me go home. My instructions are to write a detailed account of my experiences. The laptop you’ve given me sits on the polished dining room table. You reminded me that people from the media have infiltrated the hotel and are waiting for an opportunity to pounce on me, and that the crowds outside are barely manageable. But you suggested, courteously, that I remain indoors for a few days-it’s safer for me, you said, and of course I understand that it’s simpler for you.
I need only pick up the phone and make my desires known. You’ve told me the guards are there to protect me and that I’m free to do as I please. My mom joins me for meals and usually spends the night in the guest bedroom, though she has her own suite one floor down.
Twice a day a nurse arrives to take my blood pressure, and every afternoon a psychologist named Monica comes to visit. There’s an armed guard outside my suite, a bodyguard on the terrace. I imagine movie stars staying in these rooms, or famous world leaders. I can order any meal I want, any time I want it. There’s a fireplace in the living room, heated tiles around the Jacuzzi, a fully equipped exercise room. There are flowers in every room, gift baskets on every table. C., you’ve given me the hotel’s best suite. You’ve brought me to the best hotel in Washington, D.
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