Paul flew in the last week in February. His visit had been whittled down to
five days so he had arranged connecting flights straight through from
London rather than spend a night in New York. His flight was to arrive at
five-fifteen, so we planned to pick him up and go out to eat before heading
home. Brenda and Sandy would go to a movie after dinner to give us some
time alone.
We arrived at the gate and watched the passengers disembark but he wasn't
on that flight. After a few panicky minutes, we were told that his flight
from New York had been delayed so he had missed his connection in Chicago
and had to take a later flight. He would be arriving at eight forty-five. I
crossed my fingers and hoped that with all the confusion his security
escort and airport security in Chicago would keep him safe.
There was little point in sitting at the airport and we were hungry.
Airport food is awful and the price ridiculous, so we left to get something
to eat. By eight-thirty we were back at the airport waiting. So were a
growing number of reporters. Someone somewhere along the line had tipped
off the press and with all the delay they had ample time to send
photographers to cover his arrival. I recognized some of them from their
days of staking out our apartment, and of course, they recognized me. I
smiled and answered their questions as cheerfully, cooperatively,
winningly, and uninformatively as I could.
Yes, Paul was coming to see me again. No, we had no plans to get married.
Yes, they were working on a new album. No release date yet. Yes, my parents
had met him and yes, they liked him.
The reporters were attracting an audience of curious onlookers. Because it
was a weekday, most of the travelers were businessmen, but even so, a crowd
was gathering. In the buzz around us, I heard newcomers asking “Who are the
reporters waiting for? Hubert Humphrey?”
Airport security arrived and kept the onlookers back but the reporters
managed to stay inside the gate. When the plane arrived, they dropped me
like a hot potato, jockeying for position around the entry doors.
Passengers disembarked and with them Paul. He smiled easily at the
reporters and looked around for me. I pushed my way between the reporters
and the two men, his security people, who were trying to keep the reporters
at arm's length. Paul laughed and pulled me through and right into his
arms. He kissed me quickly and smiled down at me. “Hello, love.”
“Hi,” I said, acutely aware of the cameras flashing around us.
He turned to the reporters. “Could you hold the pictures for just a
moment?” he asked. They looked a little surprised but one by one lowered
their weapons. “Thank you,” he said and then he kissed me, long and warm
and oh so sweet. I put my arms around his neck and gave it back to him. I
heard the laughter of the reporters but it was somewhere far away. My world
was the strength of his arms holding me, the feel and scent and taste I had
been missing.
One of the reporters announced “Time's up,” and the click and whir of their
cameras started up again. I started to pull away, anticipating that the fun
was over, but Paul pulled me tighter and went on kissing me. “I love you,”
he whispered when he finally stopped and just held me.
“I love you, too,” I said. “That mustache is real!”
He laughed. “Do you like it?”
“I don't know yet. Kiss me some more and I'll decide.”
“Let's get out of here,” he said, then added in a murmur in my ear, “I want
to do more than kiss you!”
We turned and, with the help of security, tried to make our way past the
reporters, searching for Brenda and Sandy while blinded by flashbulbs. I
finally spotted them at the back of the crowd. Brenda pantomimed driving a
car, I nodded and waved, and as we were whisked away by security, they went
to get the car.
We were escorted to the private waiting room and airline personnel
descended on us in droves. Paul sent one of his security people along to
get the luggage, concerned that his guitar might disappear. It seemed to
take forever for them to find Paul's luggage and we didn't have a minute
alone. Having had hours for the word to spread that a Beatle was arriving,
everyone from stewardesses and skycaps to baggage handlers was hoping to
see him. He smiled, signed autographs, and talked with them in his usual
easy-going way. Hubert Humphrey running for office couldn't have done
better. Of course, Hubert wouldn't have been wearing black velvet bell
bottoms, a long jacket in black velvet, and a psychedelic scarf worn as a
tie over a sky blue silk shirt—Haight Ashbury and Carnaby Street all in
one! Mrs. Humphrey wouldn't have been waiting for him in a red mini-skirt,
white rib-knit turtleneck with a fringed, crocheted red vest, fishnet hose,
and white go-go boots either, but there I was, complete with love beads, as
color coordinated as Doris Day and hip as Cher.
I watched as he talked, signed autographs, posed with strangers for photos.
I couldn't decide if I liked the mustache or not, but I noticed he looked
tired. All I wanted was to get him home and hold him. I wanted to breathe
him in, saturate my fingers with the feel of him, fill up the empty space
in my life and hold on until the minute he had to leave again. I had five
days to make up for two months and tide me over for another month until I
could spend Spring Break in England with him.
Finally, his suitcase and guitar case arrived and we escaped to the car.
Paul hugged and kissed each of my roommates, put his things into the trunk,
shook hands with the two men who had accompanied him.
I told Brenda, “You drive!” Paul and I got into the backseat. He put one
arm around me and held my hand tightly with the other while Sandy went nuts
over the mustache
“It tickles,” she laughed. “I love it! I'm going to get Dave to grow one!”
“Dave? Who is Dave?” Paul asked. “I thought somebody named Mike had
replaced Chuck.”
“Mike was a drip,” Sandy explained.
“Followed very briefly by Rick who was a hoodlum, and then Dave,” put in
Brenda.
“Who has definite potential,” I added.
Paul laughed and congratulated Brenda on her engagement, dutifully admired
her ring, and listened to the wedding plans. While we chatted his hand was
holding mine, his fingers caressing mine, sliding up to stroke the
sensitive inside of my wrist. I had held other people’s wrists thousands of
times as I checked their pulse and never realized how erotic that spot
could be. I was having a hard time paying attention to the conversation.
“I can't believe all you birds go through just to say 'I do,' Paul laughed.
“All you need is ten minutes at the Magistrates office with a couple of
witnesses and a ring.”
“You go to the Court House with witnesses when you want to fight a traffic
ticket!” Sandy objected. “You get married in a church with all your family
and friends around to wish you well,” she informed him. “That is the
romantic way.”
“I come from Liverpool. We do it the fast way because the girl has morning
sickness too bad to get through a big ceremony,” Paul laughed.
We booed him and his unromantic ways. He looked at me. “I suppose you have
all kinds of notions of what you want for a wedding.”
“I guess it depends on the situation,” I said diplomatically. “Dad has a
shotgun that would look stunning in pink organdy, so I could combine both
traditions.”
He didn't answer, just smiled and tilted my chin up to kiss me.
“See, Sandy,” I heard Brenda say. “You just talk around it. Sound each
other out.”
I don't know if Paul had any idea what she meant. I don't think he was even
listening. He was too busy tickling me with his mustache, tickling my
mouth, my cheek, my neck. When he came back to my mouth I wasn't listening
anymore either. I opened my mouth to him for a real kiss and felt his arm
tighten around me as the rest of the world spun away. His hand slipped
inside my coat and mine in his. I'm not sure how long that kiss went on,
but then his hand touched my bare skin where my sweater was riding up in
the back. He groaned and I gently eased him away. He came right back,
sliding his hand up my hip, under my sweater, and up my side, his thumb
easing out along the side of my breast. I grabbed his arm and pried him
away. He drew back to look at me, his gaze a little unfocused and his voice
husky.
“Come on, Tess,” he groaned. I just grinned at him, thinking how crazy this
was. The look on his face was what I had expected to see that first time I
went to bed with him. “Men turn into animals and lose all control.” My
reaction, although reasonable considering that my roommates were in the
front seat, was a little odd too. After two months apart I was experiencing
some kind of retro-virginity! Worse in fact. When had I ever been aware of
my surroundings when Paul was kissing me and when had I ever stopped him—or
even wanted to stop him? All I could think was that he was so important to
me that I needed to reconnect, to see the love in his eyes before I could
even think about sex.
Paul sat back and took a shaky breath. “Sorry, love,” he said softly,
looking embarrassed. I started to laugh and he grinned and laughed with me.
“Oh look, Bren,” Sandy said, turning around at the sound of our laughter.
“They've come up for air!”
Brenda looked up in the rearview mirror and said, “I was beginning to think
I should pull the car over so Sandy and I could just tiptoe away.”
“Great! Tess likes parked cars!”
I elbowed him and Sandy said, “Don't we all?”
We laughed and started telling stories about the hazards of parking such as
getting stuck on a muddy side road and having to call your dad to pull you
out, having a policeman with a big flashlight check things out, being
visited by sneaky kids with firecrackers, and Sandy's all-time best,
accidentally knocking the shift gear into neutral and having the car roll
into the lake.
Dinner plans ruined, we went back to the apartment and I asked Paul if he
wanted something to eat. He grimaced. “No, just something to drink. They
brought me dinner during the layover in Chicago but it didn't go down well.
I was still half sick from the flight from London.”
“Bad flight?” I asked as I got him a Coke.
“The worst.” He took the Coke with one hand and my hand with other and
pulled me down onto his lap. “I was OK until some guy behind me got
airsick. It was contagious. Everybody had a paper bag. We were late getting
into New York, so I had to wait a couple of hours for a flight to Chicago.
They stuck me in a waiting room. I asked one of my guys to bring me a
toothbrush or some mouthwash, and he brought me some Dramamine along with
it.”
“How did he get it? You have to have a prescription for that,” Brenda said.
“You can get a lot of things you are supposed to have prescriptions for,”
Paul said with a laugh. “Anyway, it helped. I'd have slept all the way to
Chicago, but I think I must have signed autographs for a thousand people
instead.”
“I was really worried when I found out you got held over in Chicago,” I
told him. “Too much time for a crowd to gather.”
He shrugged it off. “Airports are safe enough when no one knows you are
arriving. Might draw a crowd, but they aren't screaming girls who want a
handful of hair or a piece of my shirt.”
“When you got stuck in Chicago for hours, what did you do?” Sandy asked.
He shrugged. “They put me in some VIP's office, brought me food, and all I
had to do was pose for pictures with a dozen gorgeous stewardesses.”
“That must have been difficult,” I teased.
“Yes, it was very hard,” he laughed with a look that told me the double
entendre was intentional. Brenda and Sandy didn't catch it. They didn't
know that half of what Paul said had sexual connotations. John they
expected it from, but Paul? He got by with a lot just because he could look
totally innocent while he said it.
“You look tired,” Brenda said. “What time did you leave home?”
“Around seven this morning. We were at the studio until about four so I
didn’t try to go to bed. Packing and such. Thought I could sleep on the
plane!”
“It's almost ten o'clock for us and ... what? ... 5:00 a.m. for you, “ I
said. “You've been up for more than twenty-four hours and we have to be up
at 6:30. Let's get to bed.”
Brenda and Sandy burst out laughing. “Like you guys are going to sleep!”
“Eventually,” Paul said.
“Come on,” Sandy said to Brenda as she headed to their bedroom. “Let's hope
WLS is coming in good tonight. Bedsprings or not, I think a little music
might be needed.”
“Ok,” Brenda teased, “but could you guys make it fast? I can never get to
sleep with the radio on.”
“Very possible, that,” Paul assured her.
I closed the door and went to Paul. He lost no time on preliminaries, just
took me right down on the mattress and started undressing me. He stopped
only long enough for kisses that were somewhere beyond passionate, out in
the region of frantic. In no time he had tugged my boots off, tossed the
vest and sweater aside and unbuttoned and unzipped my skirt. Half on top of
me, he started pulling the skirt off. It wouldn't move and he slid his hand
up underneath it instead, reaching for the waistband of my hose. My mind
had been pleading “Wait!” and the threat of seeing my expensive fish-net
hose torn made me say it out loud. He stopped, lifted away, and I pushed
him back so I could sit up.
“Let me do it. You'll ruin them,” I explained. I pushed away and carefully
slid them down and rolled them off my legs. In the time it took me to do
that and take off the skirt, Paul stripped down to his underwear. I
intended to go over and turn off the overhead light but he stopped me.
Before I could say anything, we were back at it and he was unhooking my
bra. His hands were all over me, and my underwear was gone and my mind was
again saying “Wait! Please slow down!” To ask for the time to catch up
seemed about as useful as asking an avalanche to wait for you to adjust the
laces on your ski boots. He was going for it.
“Wait, Paul,” I said trying to push him off. He didn't even seem to hear
me. I pushed harder and this time he groaned and eased back.
“Not on the bedspread,” I explained, “and let me turn off the light. It is
right in my eyes.”
He let me up, and I turned off the light and stopped to set the alarm
clock. It was 10:02. This time, when I came back to him, he just pulled me
under the blankets and into his arms. “I'm sorry love,” he said. “I just
need you so bad.”
“I know. I need you too, but could you just hold me for a minute first? It
just doesn't feel right to go straight from gate 12 on the blue concourse
to bed!” Even though I wanted him, I needed to go more slowly. It was like
diving into a pool on a hot day. The first reaction is not pleasure even
though you know that in a few minutes you will be enjoying it. I wanted to
wade in, not dive.
He held me, kissing me as gently as he could. I told him how much I had
missed him, how I had slept every night with his shirt just to pretend he
was there with me. That made him laugh a little.
“I'll take something of yours back with me but you won't want it back when
I'm done with it!”
I laughed and then we were kissing again, touching, and this time I was
feeling the heat building inside me, slipping into that timeless space
where we made love. Not fast enough though. He was ready and I was just
catching fire. I needed to touch him and stroke him and move under him to
catch up with him but every move I made was driving him crazy. I could feel
him trembling with the effort of holding back. I wasn't ready and couldn't
get ready because everything I did for my pleasure drove him to the edge. I
decided to just let him do it. I wouldn't make it, but there was plenty of
time for that. Right now, this was for him. I stopped holding back and
moved against him, kissing him wildly, urging him on. He responded
immediately, and so did I. I felt the surge of desire and quickly reached
that point where I knew I could make it. It was aching, demanding more,
becoming too intense to bear, no longer seeking pleasure but demanding
release. Just a little more, just touch me again, just breathe my name…
He groaned and thrust into me, stopping my momentum with his abrupt
movement, lifting me against him and pounding into me. Gasping my name, he
exploded in me, groaning with pleasure and relief. I pulled his head down
and covered his mouth with mine to smother the sound and then held him as
he shuddered in the aftermath. He collapsed on top of me and I stroked his
hair, hugged him, and told him I loved him. When he was breathing again
instead of gasping, he started kissing me and between kisses he murmured,
“Tess, I love you. I want you with me. I want to make love to you over and
over and wake up with you in the morning and love you again. I can't stand
being without you.”
“I know, baby. I know. I'll come to you as soon as I can. I need you too. I
am just marking time until school is out and I can come to you. It is as if
that is when my life will start.”
His kisses went on and I knew it was my turn now. He rolled off to my side
so he could touch me. He touched my cheek, telling me I was beautiful,
soft, so warm. Slowly his hand moved down, stroking my neck, my shoulder,
and stopping at my breast. It felt so good but I wanted more, needed more.
He was in no hurry now. Gently, slowly, he played with me, caressing my
breasts, tormenting me with slow, soft touches. I was loving it but more
than ready for him to move on.
Finally, his hand slid down, onto my belly. He stopped. I waited, not
wanting to believe what his slow, regular breathing in my ear was telling
me. I reached down and took his hand, moving it down between my legs. He
didn't react. His arm was dead weight. I turned on my side to face him,
kissing him gently. Nothing. He was out. Dead to the world.
I groaned and debated waking him, but I knew he would never have left me
hanging if he weren't absolutely done in. OK. Maybe he would wake up during
the night. Or, maybe a quickie in the morning. He had me so hot, it
wouldn't take me long. I lifted my head and looked over his shoulder at the
clock. 10:09.
I lay there for a few minutes but decided that lying there next to him
wasn't going to ease the aching need I felt. I needed to get away and cool
down. He didn't even move as I untangled from him and slipped out of bed. I
went into the bathroom and washed up, and, on my way back to bed, I tiptoed
into the other bedroom to turn the radio off. As I expected, they were
still awake.
“That was quick!” Sandy whispered.
“If I had any doubts whether he was being faithful, he just proved he was,”
I said. “He needed it bad. Two months worth of bad. Then he fell asleep or
passed out, I'm not sure. He was beat.”
They giggled. “Oh, sure, you can laugh, “ I said, laughing with them. “You
didn't just get left at the starting gate. I waited two months for seven
minutes of sex. That was not enough. I am so horny and he is unconscious!”
They buried their faces in their pillows, laughing wildly.
“Now you know how we feel after lying here trying not to listen but knowing
what is going on!” Sandy said.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “We'll get an apartment.”
“Wouldn't help,” Sandy declared. “Just seeing the way he looks at you makes
me crazy! I want somebody to look at me that way, and when somebody does, I
don't know if I am going to be able to hold out. I always said I was going
to wait until I was married, but watching you two, I can't remember why.”
“That's just how I felt with Paul,” I said. “I wanted him so bad and I
couldn't think a reason not to except that I might get pregnant. With the
pill... " I shrugged. “I guess I am just not as strong as Brenda.”
“I'm not that strong,” Brenda said quietly. “I am going to go on the pill.
I think we could hold off, but I'm afraid something will happen, that some
night we will just not be able to stop.”
“But if you do go on the pill it will be even harder to stop,” I pointed
out. “If you really think you should wait... "
“I know,” Brenda said. “I have been thinking about it for months. I always
believed premarital sex was wrong, but that was before I had any idea of
how it felt.”
“How does it feel?” Sandy asked.
Brenda and I looked at each other. “I don't know how it feels to do it,”
she said, “but when you get turned on, you just can't get close enough. You
just want more until you want it so bad, you think you'll go crazy so you
go a little farther and it only makes it worse.”
“Like scratching a mosquito bite?” Sandy asked, sending Brenda and me into
hysterics.
“Yes, except you don't have an orgasm from scratching a mosquito bite,”
Brenda gasped out between pillow smothered yelps of laughter.
“You have orgasms?” Sandy squealed.
“Sometimes,” Brenda admitted, suddenly sheepish.
“Only sometimes?”
“Well, we aren't actually doing it!” Brenda protested.
“But if you were, you would be having them all the time, right Terry?”
“Well, no. Not every time.”
“You don't?” they both asked.
“Usually—with tonight being a notable exception,” I said sending them off
into hysteria again.
“Oh, this is so unfair!” Sandy gasped out. “I don't even have a real
boyfriend and you guys have orgasms!”
We were laughing so hard, tears were rolling down my face.
“Maybe I'll let Dave touch me,” Sandy said. “He wants to.”
“Just how far have you gone?” I asked.
“Just petting.”
Brenda asked for clarification. “Over your clothes or under?”
“A couple of times I let Chuck put his hand under.”
“Above the waist or below?” I said, asking the critical question.
“Above!” Sandy said in shock. “I don't think I could ever ... ugh!”
Brenda and I were off again. When we calmed down I reassured her, “When you
find the right guy, you will.”
Brenda amended that. “It isn't just finding the right guy. You have to go
through the steps gradually until you are comfortable. You have to work up
to it. You don't just go from necking to ... to everything else in a couple
of days.”
I considered correcting her. I had done just about that with Paul. One
kissing encounter, two brief petting sessions, and then to bed ... for more
than the basic kind of sex they were talking about. Even more lacking in
stepwise progression was my experience with John. The first time I kissed
him, really kissed him, was only minutes before we did it!
Funny, when I was with Brenda and Sandy, being crazy about sex seemed like
a bad thing, embarrassing to admit to, but when I was with Paul or John
being enthusiastic about it seemed to be something to be proud of. Like
being able to dance or play the piano or type 80 words a minute.
“Oh, man,” Sandy groaned. “This is going to take me forever!”
"The groundwork takes awhile, but we now know doing it takes about seven
minutes!” Brenda giggled.
“No, about four,” I corrected.
“You did it twice?” Sandy gasped.
“One and a half,” I explained. “One for him and a half for me!”
We said goodnight again and I went back to Paul. He hadn't moved a muscle.
I crawled into bed, snuggling up to him, half hoping my cold body would
awaken him. He put his arm over me, his hand automatically reaching to find
my breast, but that was it. He was still asleep.
The alarm clock went off at 6:30 and I jerked awake and reached over to
shut it off. I hoped it would get a rise out of Paul. It did, but not the
kind of rise I was hoping for. He rolled over onto his stomach and pulled
the pillow over his head. I knew from experience he wasn't easy to wake up
in the morning and that in spite of the activity he was still ninety
percent asleep. I sighed and rolled out of bed. It was for the best anyway.
If I woke him up, I wouldn't want to leave the bedroom in thirty minutes,
much less ten, and I had a midterm exam this morning. I could use the time
to review my notes.
It was Thursday morning and we hustled around in our usual morning routine.
When I was ready to go, I looked in on Paul again. He was still sleeping. I
stood there looking at him, as gorgeous in sleep as he was awake and even
sweeter for the vulnerability and softness that sleep brought to his face.
I knelt beside him, feeling a rush of love so strong it took my breath
away. Kissing the top of his head lightly, I resisted the impulse to touch
his bare shoulder and run my hand down his back. I could have stayed there
all morning just watching him sleep, but duty called. I left a note telling
him there was sandwich meat in the fridge, soup in the cupboard, and “I
love you, I'll be home at three-thirty,” and I was out the door.
It was really hard to concentrate that day. I kept seeing the image of him
in bed, imagining what tonight would be like. I hoped Brenda and Sandy
would volunteer to go see the movie they had missed last night. Finally, it
was three-thirty. I was headed to the car when Brenda caught up with me. “I
still haven't read those articles Mrs. Peterson assigned,” she moaned. “I
really should go back to the library and get it over with. I should be done
by five. Could you pick me up?”
“OK. I think Sandy is planning on making lasagna tonight. Why don't you see
if Mark wants to join us.” Mark was always on the lookout for food that
didn't come from the dormitory cafeteria.
“I'll call him from the library. I assume you would like us to go to that
movie tonight?”
“Would you?”
“Sure. If Mark and I ... you may have to pay me back one of these days. If
I am going to do it, I want a bed and privacy!”
I laughed and said, “Sandy or I will pick you up at five. Call if you get
done sooner.”
I don't think I ran any stoplights on the way home. Paul was watching TV
with a cup of tea at his side, guitar on his lap, notebook lying next to
him. I dumped my books on the nearest chair and he put the guitar aside and
made room for me on his lap. We managed to say “Hi, how was your day” kind
of things before we started groping each other.
“Sorry about last night,” he said. “I'll make it up to you tonight.”
“No,” I said as I got up and pulled him to his feet. “Now. Brenda is at the
library until five and Sandy doesn't get home until four-thirty.” He didn't
need any convincing and this time ... this time was wonderful.
I made it out to the kitchen just in time to start on the lasagna before
Sandy got home. While she created her Italian masterpiece, Paul and I went
to pick up Brenda. Over dinner, Brenda and I compared notes on the test we
had just had. It was Pediatrics and I knew I had done OK, but since part of
it was short essay, there was a good chance my nemesis was going to find a
way to lower my grade. I hadn't told Paul about the problem I was having
with that teacher and didn't want to, but I hadn't thought to tell Sandy
that. The inevitable happened.
“It sounds like you wrote the same stuff as Brenda,” she said helpfully.
“The old witch is going to have to forget her Beatle phobia.”
Paul looked at her, then at me. I think he knew without even asking, but he
asked quietly, “Problems with a teacher?”
Sandy realized immediately that she had goofed. “It's nothing. She can't
flunk Terry. Everybody knows what is going on and she wouldn't dare.” She
was trying to be helpful but mentioning flunking was not the way to go.
“It's nothing,” I said to Paul's shocked look. “She just likes to give me a
hard time. I just ignore her.”
“How hard a time?” he asked. He knew darn well that if it were something
that minor, I'd have been telling him all about it, laughing about it.
“It's OK, Paul. Really. They stopped using dunce caps and haven't caned a
student since '56. The worst she can do is write ‘doesn't apply herself” on
my records.”
He laughed at the reference to his school experiences. “I never got caned
or got a bad report. Michael was the one always in trouble.”
“What kind of stuff did he do?” Brenda asked, picking up on my lead. The
conversation moved to tales of boyhood pranks, of stealing apples and
getting caught, chucking bricks at trains, being what Paul's uncle still
called a couple of ‘right little swine.'”
Later, when Brenda casually mentioned there was a movie she wanted to go
to, I was going to say “You don't have to,” but Paul grinned at me and
squeezed my hand and I let them go on with their plans. When they were out
of the house, we went to bed and talked and made slow, gentle love and
talked some more. Of course, he wanted to know what was going on at school,
so I filled him in.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No. I can handle it. I think she knows I'm keeping records. She hasn't
been as bad the last couple of weeks.”
“I am sorry that this kind of stuff happens because of me.”
“It doesn't matter. Everyone else considers my knowing you to be an asset.
The minute they find out I know you, the kids forget how bad they hurt, how
scared they are. One of the girls is a big fan. She spends a lot of time in
the hospital and she brings her record player in with her so she can listen
to your music. She plays Rubber Soul over and over. Anyway, we have
a hard time getting Debbie to eat. I sat with her at lunchtime yesterday
and just talked to her about you, and she ate her whole lunch.”
“I never thought that kind of thing could really help someone. They are
always trying to bring kids in wheelchairs backstage to meet us. It is so
bloody awful. We don't know what to say to them. Some of them are really in
bad shape. We all hate it. I mean, what can we do? It's like they expect us
to lay our hands on them and heal them. We know that's not true but it does
seem that way. We shake hands, say “Hello, how did you like the show,” and
get the hell out of there as fast as we can. The kids aren't half as bad as
the parents though! They look at us as if we are supposed to give the kid
the one thing that will make their shitty life bearable.”
“I know how parents can be. They get hysterical over the strangest things.
They are fine when the doctor says the kid needs surgery and then freak out
when the kid gets orange jello instead of red. They feel so helpless with
the big things, I guess they figure their kid is damn well going to get the
little things. That's why getting their kid in to meet you is so important
to them.”
“But it doesn't change anything. The kid still has cancer or is crippled.”
“Yes, but now they've had one dream come true. Might be the only one that
ever does.”
He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Would this Debbie like an
autograph?”
“She is nearly blind,” I said softly.
“Is she ... really sick?”
“Yes.” I knew he was asking if she was going to die. I couldn't discuss her
medical problems with him, but Debbie was a severe diabetic. Insulin and
diet couldn't keep her blood sugar under control for more than a few weeks
at a time. The blindness was the result, and so was the kidney failure that
was going to kill her within a year or so.
He changed the subject.
The alarm clock did its thing again at 6:30. “Sag off,” Paul whispered
between kisses.
“Can't. I really can't. Today is a clinical day. Sometimes I can skip a
class, but if you miss a day at the hospital, you have to make it up. I'd
have to do it over Spring break.”
That convinced him. “Get moving, girl. You don't want to be late!”
Morning rush began. Paul made tea, then sat at the table while we cycled
through the bathroom, ironed essential clothing, and planned the day.
Sandy's car needed to go into the shop. She would drop it off on the way
home if one of us would pick her up there. “We can do that and then go to
Angelo's for pizza,” Brenda suggested.
“Could we stop at the hospital?” Paul asked. “I'd like to go visit some of
the kids Tess has been taking care of.”
“You don't have to do that,” I said, coming up behind him to hug him. I
felt bad because maybe what I had said last night made him feel like he
should do something, but Brenda thought it was a great idea.
“They would love it!”
An idea had been simmering in the back of my mind. Debbie couldn't see well
at all but she could hear. He could call her on the phone, but that would
be nearly as difficult as talking to her in person. “Maybe we could get a
tape recorder, I'm sure Carol has one at the dance studio. You could just
record a message for Debbie.”
“Would you get into more trouble if I went to see her?” he asked.
“Mrs. Berghoff would have a stroke and that would be the end of the
trouble,” Brenda laughed maliciously.
Paul laughed but said, “OK, I'll just record something for her.”
“No, wait,” Brenda said. “If you are willing to go... "
Paul nodded, “I will if it is OK.”
“Let him do it, Terry,” she said. “The best defense is a good offense. If
the old bat means to get you into trouble, this will be her chance to try.
She'll have to put up or shut up. If she starts something you can take it
to the Dean of Students, notebook and all. Then she'll have to back off. It
will put an end to her crap.”
Paul waited for my answer. Brenda said decisively, “The kids win, you win,
and Mrs. Berghoff can go soak her head.”
The possibility of getting that woman off my case was too appealing to
resist. “OK, I'll check with the head nurse on Pediatrics. If she thinks it
would be OK, we'll do it.” That settled, we headed out the door.
When the head nurse had a free moment I asked if I could talk to her
privately. I explained that I had told Paul that we had a teenage patient
who was a big fan. He wanted to visit her and the other teens on the
Pediatric ward this evening. She thought it would be very nice if Paul came
in. “Every summer, the Minnesota Twins send players in, and the Vikings
deliver presents at Christmas. This is no different, but we need to clear
it with the Administration before they can take pictures.”
“Pictures?” I suddenly realized that she assumed that like the Twins and
Vikings, Paul would be accompanied by photographers capturing the moment
for publicity. “No. Nobody can know that he is coming! This isn't for
publicity! No cameras, no reporters. He just wants to visit the kids. When
I told him about the trouble I am having with Mrs. Berghoff, he was upset
that he was causing problems for me. So I told him about how it helps the
kids get through some bad stuff just to meet someone who knows the Beatles.
This isn't supposed to be a big deal."
She thought about it for a moment. “Well, that is different but I think I
had better run it by someone in administration first. If he were visiting a
relative, it would be nobody's business, but he doesn't even know the
children. I will get back to you after lunch.”
“Whoever you talk to, tell them they absolutely have to keep it to
themselves. Otherwise, everyone who knows will show up tonight with their
daughters and grandchildren and neighbors kids and they will tell someone
else and it will be a disaster. The nurses working Pediatrics tonight can't
even know he is coming.”
“I hadn't thought about that.”
“Every person who knows increases the possibility of it getting out of
hand. I would rather not bring him in than risk a big scene.”
She sat back in her chair as the difference between a visiting ballplayer
and a visiting Beatle sank in. She contemplated for a moment, then asked
just what kind of plan I had for getting him in and out quietly.
“I thought I would just bring him in through the employee entrance and up
the service elevator. If we only stay twenty or thirty minutes, there won't
be time for a lot of people to find out he is in the building. That's what
we do if we go shopping or something.”
She tapped her pencil on the desk as she thought. When she spoke again it
was with a smile. “You are right. If I talk to anyone in administration, it
will be all over the hospital in no time. This sounds like one of those
situations where you don't seek permission—you rely on forgiveness if they
find out. If you think you can get him in and out without a mob scene, then
Debbie gets her Beatle.”
“Thank you!”
We arrived on Pediatrics at six-thirty. A ten-year-old boy who'd had his
appendix removed the day before was being coaxed out of his room to walk
down the hall. His face was screwed up with pain and fear of worse pain and
he moved gingerly, bent over a little. As we walked toward him, he looked
up from his fierce concentration on putting one foot in front of the other.
When he saw Paul walking towards him, he stopped abruptly and stared. The
nurse with him grinned from ear to ear, but the boy wasn't convinced.
“Are you one of the Beatles?” he asked.
“Yes, I'm Paul. What's your name, mate?”
“Mike. My sister loves Ringo.”
“But you would rather play ball than listen to music, right?”
“Right!”
Paul laughed. “Say hi to your sister for me, Mike.” We moved on and Mike,
now standing up straight and looking over his shoulder at us, continued his
walk.
I wanted to give Debbie some warning, reduce the shock a little so she
wouldn't pass out, and give her a minute to brush her hair. Brenda and
Sandy took Paul in to see another teenager, and I slipped into Debbie's
room. Her roommate Christy, a fourteen-year-old with a broken leg,
recognized me even out of uniform. She excitedly introduced me as “The one
I told you about” to her Mom and Dad who were visiting, and then I turned
to Debbie and her Mom.
“Hi, Debbie,” I said, unsure how to spring this on her.
“Hi! What are you doing here tonight, Miss Martin?”
“I brought someone to see you.”
She looked puzzled for just a moment, then, sounding afraid to hope,
whispered, “Is it him?”
“Yes.”
Her hand went up to her mouth and she squeaked, “He's here?”
“Yes. He flew in yesterday. I made him wait outside in case you wanted to
brush your hair or anything.”
“Oh, my Gosh! My hair! Mom, quick, do something with it!”
I wasn't sure if her mother knew what was going on, but she pitched in and
helped Debbie with her hair.
“Makeup!,” Debbie demanded. “I don't want to look all pale.” With the
combined contents of her mom's and Christy's mom's purses, we managed to
put some color in her cheeks and take the shine off her nose. Christy
campaigned for makeup too, but her mom refused.
“Let's get your bathrobe on,” Debbie's mom said. That created a near
crisis. Her robe had narrow sleeves and we couldn't get her IV bottle
through them.
“Oh, no. I can't let him see me in this!” she wailed.
“Try mine,” said Christy. “It has big sleeves. I'll wear yours.” We made
the swap and the girls were ready.
I went out and got Paul and left Brenda and Sandy on sentry duty. They were
to warn us if a suspicious number of people started arriving on the floor.
Back in the room, I introduced Paul to everyone.
“Hello, Luv,” Paul said to Debbie. “I hear you think Rubber Soul is
the best album in the history of music.”
“It is fantastic,” she said trying to focus in the direction of his voice.
Her vision was limited to light and shadows. “Revolver is great, but
I keep going back to Rubber Soul.”
“Well, our next one should be out in a few months. Hope you like it. It is
going to be a little different.”
“Different?”
With that, they were off. Paul told her what they were doing with the new
album, the theme, about hiring the philharmonic orchestra and their
reactions to working on a Beatles album, about the clown noses and hats
Paul had brought in for the orchestra to wear to lighten things up. Debbie
had grown up listening to classical music before rock and roll claimed her,
so they talked about some of the instruments they were now using in their
music. Paul asked if the girls had heard “Penny Lane” and “Strawberry
Fields Forever”.
“Even I have heard “Penny Lane”, Christy's mom said. “I think it is kind of
pretty.”
“Mom hates Rock and Roll,” Christy said in that tone teenagers reserve for
discussing the backwardness of their parents.
“I think parents are supposed to,” Paul said. “My dad still gets a funny
look on his face when I write something that really rocks.”
When there was a lull in the conversation, Debbie sighed, “I can't believe
it is really you!”
“It's me, alright,” Paul said. He had been sitting in the chair next to her
bed, and now he got up and sat on the edge of her bed, facing her. “Mop top
and all.” He took her hand and lifted it to his hair. “See? Beatle hair.
And the latest, a Beatle mustache. We all have them now.”
She giggled as she mussed his hair and I thought about how irritating I had
found girls giggling at Paul to be, but this was so different. I had never
heard Debbie laugh, much less giggle. He was telling her how the mustache
covered the scar on his lip, the motorbike accident that gave it to him
(carefully editing out the fact that he was stoned at the time it
happened), and she was tracing the line of his mustache when I glanced up
at her mother. She had tears running down her face. Christy was watching
with longing on her face, and Brenda, Sandy and half the staff were
gathered in the doorway. A couple of them were fighting tears too. They
knew that listening to the Beatles was one of the few normal teenage things
in Debbie's life, but unlike other teens, there were no pictures to swoon
over. Now Debbie was getting her first real “look” at someone she had only
known by voice. I don't think I had ever loved Paul more than I did at that
moment.
“Paul, we can't stay much longer,” I said after a bit.
“I have to autograph Christy's cast first,” he said. “She can sell it and
pay for her hospital bills,” he joked to her dad as he signed.
“Autograph something for me. I need a new car!” he responded.
We said our goodbyes, Paul gave each of the girls a kiss on the cheek and
left the room.
There were a few extra people in the hallways, but they were mostly
visiting parents who had come out of their kid's rooms when they heard
there was a famous person around. When the doors of the service elevator
closed, I looked up at Paul. It was just like the other time I had been in
a hospital elevator with him. The “meet the press” smile was gone and he
looked drained. I had felt a rush of love for the kind, thoughtful person
he was and I realized how much I respected him. Doing this was not
something he enjoyed at all. He hated it, but he knew what it meant to a
sick child. He could have sent a message or a stuffed animal or an album,
but instead, he came himself. I made a silent vow that I would never again
put him in a situation where he felt he had to do something like this,
hugged him and said, “You were great.”
“He was incredible!” Brenda corrected and joined me in hugging him.
“I always thought you were incredible, but can I hug you anyway?” Sandy
asked. He laughed and gave her a bear hug that lifted her off the floor.