Alistair was still sick in bed the next day. His doctor had required him to drop all duties for three days with the observation that the President was 'going quite mad' and 'unfit to leave bed, let alone lead a country!' so vice-president Gibson took over for the half-a-week, as she had been prepped too for worst-case-scenarios. Alistair felt no bit better then he'd felt the day before, if anything, he felt worse. In addition to the horrible pictures of Dachau he know lived under the threat of being sent there himself, being interrogated by nazis and being suspected to be an enemy. He also couldn't get Hitler's book out of his mind, the passages and sentences wirred around his brain, creating an urge inside him to read more of it and at the same time, a dull ache from all the hate and the wish to never have picked it up at all.
What definitely didn't lift his mood neither alter the course of his destiny in Germany was Monica's confession of wanting to go to France on a short trip, and later, around the time she should give birth, head to France to bear the baby there. At least her maternal demand distracted him from his work-related worries and make him concentrate on something else for a change.
"France? But then you'll have to leave about two to three weeks before the due-date." He said slowly. He spoke like a man on sedatives, which he currently wasn't.
"I know. But talking to my friend from university...I just know I need to give birth in France. I also want my child to grow up there partially." She was honest and direct as always, something that Alistair had appreciated their whole time together. He always knew where he stood.
"But I can't be there." He said, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. He couldn't tell if he was washing the sweat away or simply combining it with the sweat on his clammy hands. "I can't take off more than a few days."
"I'd only want to be there the first several months-."
At her words Alistair shot up in bed, staring at her.
"Months? Monica I want to be around our child too, I need to bond with it when it's young..." He sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes, unable to finish the sentence or remain upright. His temples had began to throb. "Can we talk about this when I'm feeling better, you're not due for months."
"Fine." Monica agreed a bit stiffly. But she couldn't stay angry long; this wasn't him putting his own work before their unborn child, it was him being, obviously, very sick and tired. She gently sat down on the bed beside him. "I thought you were sick, but the doctors said there's nothing wrong with you."
"Everything's wrong with me, Monica." He said, eyes remaining closed. She waited for him to continue, to tell her why, but he didn't keep going.
"The doctor diagnosed you with anxiety, Alistair." She said slowly and carefully. "He said you've taken too much onto yourself. And he says your very sleep-deprived. Are you still having those dreams? Did you dream about it again last night?"
"Of course I did, Monica. I'm not crazy."
But his wife thought he was.
After she'd left to go on with her day and her duties and attend some kind of baby-yoga-class Alistair was left behind only in the company of his doctor who casually strolled in and out of the room. The doctor tried to make conversation several times but Alistair never responded in more than a grunt. He wasn't 'sick', not really, the doctor couldn't help him, that was for sure, and he didn't feel like chatting.
He compared himself with Rodion Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. He felt similar, as if he was dying but not sick, as if he was delerious but at the same time the only person who knew and saw the truth. He wouldn't have been suprised to see Hitler walk into his very room, and he would have welcomed his company with open arms, but he'd refuse to speak to the doctor, the man who wished to help, and his headache worsened when he saw his wife. He knew the end of the story; he was simply upset and in shock of himself and his own doings, it had nothing to do with the doctor or his wife. He felt judged by his loved ones, felt unworthy of them, felt like he had no where to go anymore, no where except back to Nazi Germany. At the same time he knew that these feelings were exactly what Hitler wanted him to be feeling, these were the sentiments that would turn him into someone that Hitler could use. He was a doomed man.
His worries and worrifull imagination got the best of his mind. He was incapable of thinking more and slowly drifted off into sleep. He tried to fight the drowsiness, but the surrender of his mind meant the lamity of his body. Sleep overcame him, forcing his concious mind to let go. His body could not have known what it did to him, it did not understand that he'd be drowned in his subconciousnes, that he was still awake, even during rest. In a matter of minutes he was back in 1939, and as he lived and breathed there his body went into a short coma. The doctor didn't notice his patient gradually slipping away, he simply saw a sleeping man, and in his eyes, sleep was the number one thing the president needed.