I slept until ten the next morning. My sleep was full of dreams: Running
through a huge building trying to find John because he needed me. George
urgently trying to explain that Paul was waiting with the tickets, Neil
with his arms around me, turning into John—or was it Paul? No, it was Mal
holding me to keep me from falling off a ledge with a broken railing.
The apartment was quiet. Sandy and Brenda were both working. Brenda was
supposed to work on the fifth floor today and I wondered if she would
figure out some way to get down to the third floor to see John. Probably
not. By now the nursing supervisors would have clamped down on the staff
needing to go to the third floor for one reason or another.
I wasn't scheduled to work that day, so I planned to catch up on the
laundry. It was strange having time on my hands this summer. I spent a lot
of time just hanging out with my friends, but I still wasn't dating much,
since most of the hours I did work were on weekends. So now I spent too
many empty evenings feeling the day slide into the night, feeling that
restless ache inside. Sometimes I felt as if I would explode if I didn't do
something. I wanted to go to a wild party, dance until I couldn't think,
laugh and flirt and leave with a boy who would try to get to first base in
a parked car. I wanted some boy to say to me,
Wild Thing, you move me!”
Instead, I worked weekends and spent weeknights sitting on the porch
listening to my transistor radio and waiting for the apartment to cool off
enough to sleep. Dusty Springfield sang “You Don't Have To Say You Love Me”
and, like her, I would have settled for someone who would “just be close at
hand.” Someone asked Alfie “What's it all about?” and I wanted to learn for
myself, to find out what happens “When A Man Loves A Woman.” I was tired of
waiting. I wanted to fall in love, hold someone close. Listening to the
radio was definitely not the way to ease that restless, empty ache. It just
fueled the fire.
Now romantic notions were being replaced with financial worries. If I
didn't pick up more hours or look for another job, I was going to be short
on money by the middle of the school year. Brenda's parents were pretty
well-to-do. She didn't have to worry about making anything more than money
for clothes and fun. My Mom and Dad were not that well off. They paid my
tuition, but living expenses were all up to me. I had campaigned so hard to
go to school in Minneapolis instead of living at home and going to Mankato
State. Because I had been offered a small scholarship at St. Vincent's,
they agreed easily, but at the end of my first year, it was announced that
the student dorm was being torn down and relocated to allow expansion of
the hospital. In the fall, first-year students would be housed in two big
houses near the hospital. Second and third-year students would have to find
alternate housing. That was more expensive than dorm fees and, to a
parent's way of thinking, obviously a very dangerous situation. A dorm was
one thing, an apartment in the big city a whole different matter. Only
after much pleading and many, many promises about locked doors, checking
the back seat of the car, walking in pairs, etc., was I allowed to get an
apartment with Brenda rather than transfer to the nursing program at St.
Joe's in Mankato. Asking my parents for more financial help was not
something I wanted to do, and probably not something they could afford. I
could still find myself back living at home and commuting to school in
Mankato.
What I had thought would be an easy summer of just working at the hospital
was not working out. I needed to earn more money and that meant finding
another job. At various times over the last two summers and after school, I
had worked in a stifling factory inhaling chemical fumes that made the
monotonous workday go by in a haze, waited on tables in a restaurant whose
clientele was mainly retired men going out for coffee to escape their
wives, sold tickets at a drive-in theater where I could see everyone else
my age pairing up for a night at the passion pit, ran a cash register in a
grocery store while avoiding the groping hands of the store manager, and
worked as a carhop at a drive-in where I fed more mosquitoes than
customers.
Knowing that the low pay, long hours, and other problems were bringing me
closer to my goal of being a nurse made it tolerable. I knew that nursing
was not a glamorous job and certainly had its share of drudgery,
aggravation, and tired feet, but I was happier walking a little old lady to
the bathroom or rocking a croupy baby or even emptying bedpans than doing
anything else. Nursing school was nerve-racking. In addition to the
expected jitters over learning to give shots and watching surgery without
fainting, there were the unanticipated pressures of assessing patients and
praying I hadn't missed anything, writing in the patient's chart while
thoughts of malpractice suits danced in my head, and just never seeming to
know enough. But the rewards were incredible; seeing a ten-year-old fall
peacefully to sleep after I gave her a pain shot I was as afraid to give as
she was to get, being able to calm a patient's fears by explaining in plain
English what the doctor had said, spotting a problem before it became
life-threatening. Scary, exhausting, but worth it.
Right now though, I needed another job. I could hardly wait to see what
minimum wage career opportunity awaited me next. Over the weekend I had
decided that I would start job hunting this week, but not today. My head
was too full of yesterday. Tonight I would go to the concert and scream
with the rest of the girls. Tomorrow I would circle help wanted ads in the
paper, but today was too soon to let go of yesterday.
I took a quick shower and started gathering stuff for a trip to the
Laundromat. The phone rang at ten. “Terry, This is Mrs. Hammond at St.
Vincent's.”
Mrs. Hammond was the nursing scheduler. Great, a chance to pick up some
hours!
“Would it be possible for you to come in right away?”
“Now? Yeah, sure.” They must be really busy to bring someone in during the
middle of the shift. I would be off in plenty of time to go to the concert
so it was no problem.
“It seems your patient is asking for you.”
John! “I'll be there in fifteen minutes!” My eagerness got a chuckle from
Mrs. Hammond who was not known for her sense of humor.
I dumped the laundry in the middle of the floor, ran to my closet praying I
had a clean uniform left. Yes. Apron? No. Both crumpled up in the laundry.
I ran to Brenda's room and grabbed her extra one. She was several inches
taller than I, but when it came to student aprons it was “one size fits
none.” Nylons. A minute spent searching for ones without runs. Pantyhose
had just come on the market, but white nursing hose still only came in the
standard thigh length and were worn with a panty girdle even if you only
weighed ninety pounds. The apartment was hot and I squirmed into the get-up
while standing in front of the fan. Girdle, hose, slip, uniform and then to
the bathroom to pull my hair back into a bun. (“Hair is to be neat and
clean. Hair longer than chin length is to be pulled back or pinned up.”
Nursing Student Manual, page 9.) As I fumbled with the rubber band and
bobby pins, I thought, “ I'll need my nursing cap. Where did I put the damn
thing?” I remembered having it in my hand as I got out of Paul's car last
night. The same hand he had reached over and touched. Warm, strong fingers
gently squeezing my hand…
Good grief. Delayed reaction! I laughed at myself, thinking at first that I
was acting like an over-emotional fifteen-year-old Beatlemaniac. Then I
realized my thoughts had not gone along the lines of “Paul McCartney
touched my hand! I'll never wash it again!” Who he was didn't seem to
figure into it—just the fact that he was male and it felt good. Boy, I
really needed to find time for a boyfriend and some physical contact with
the male of the species!
My cap was on the back of the couch. Thinking if I stayed late I'd need
something to do while John slept, something besides stare at him until my
hands ached to touch him, I grabbed the paperback lying next to it. I
picked up my purse, made sure I had my hospital name tag, backtracked to
the kitchen, slapped together a peanut butter sandwich, and flew out the
door.
Traffic near the hospital was awful. Kids were everywhere, and if they
weren't causing accidents as they circled looking for parking places, they
were stepping out in front traffic as they hurried to join the crowd out in
front of the hospital. Reporters and camera crews made things worse. I
finally got into the hospital parking lot, parked, and checked the rearview
mirror for peanut butter on my face. I was in the back of the hospital and
hadn't driven past the front so I wondered how bad it was out there. I knew
as soon as I got out of the car. Horns were honking and I could hear police
whistles. The crowd burst into song and the words they were singing were
impossible to make out, but the song ended with a clear, resounding “We
love you, John.” Apparently reassured that John wasn't going to die, the
gathering had taken on a party mood and the “Quiet, Hospital Zone” signs
were ignored. John was probably right that I was going to get in trouble
for bringing him here, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t a student at University
Hospital so I wouldn’t have been allowed to stay with him all evening
there, much less be called in today. The time with John and Paul was well
worth being reprimanded.
I reported to the third-floor nurses' station. The charge nurse was Mrs.
Stevens, a no-nonsense woman with a posture and attitude that indicated a
military background and her nursing pin confirmed that she was an old army
nurse. She informed me that Mr. Lennon had dismissed his private duty nurse
shortly after 9:00 a.m. and she had been caring for him since. She reported
that his vital signs were stable and his circulation good although his
right hand was somewhat swollen. He had last been medicated for pain at
nine-thirty for headache and shoulder pain and had been sleeping since. The
physician had rounded at eight and left orders for oral pain medication,
and to have him sit up this morning and out of bed this afternoon. He had
refused breakfast but was taking fluids.
Having completed the official nurse to nurse report, she handed me his
chart and looked at me over the tops of her glasses. “He has not been
bathed or shaved. He stated that he never gets up before noon. That seems
to have been the source of the friction between him and the private duty
nurse.” There was a twinkle in her eye and a smile tugging at her mouth by
this point. “When Mr. Lennon asked to have his young student back, there
was some speculation about his intentions. However, it was quite obvious to
me that his differences with the private duty nurse were indeed related to
care and not any filthy desires on the part of Mr. Lennon. She had tits
like Mae West, and a uniform not intended to hide them!”
I was astonished at her comments, his actions, the whole situation. Mrs.
Stevens dismissed me with a brisk “Call me if you need anything, Miss
Martin,” then precision marched down the hall and into a patient's room.
John's room was quiet, the curtains pulled shut, and he was sleeping. I put
his chart on the bedside table and paged through it. From the nurse's
notes, I saw that he had not slept especially well during the night,
sleeping only for an hour or two after a pain shot. It was a little before
noon and he had last been checked at eleven so I didn’t need to wake him
yet. I settled in the chair by the window with my book but ended up
watching the crowd outside.
“I hear you are going to a concert tonight.”
I looked up to see John smiling at me. I got up and went to him. “Fire the
evening nurse, too. Then I can stay here with you.”
“Consider it done.”
“How are you doing?”
“I want to go home. I'll even settle for the hotel.”
“Maybe we can talk them into that tomorrow.”
I touched his chin feeling the prickly beard. “Will you fire me too if I
ask to shave you?”
“She didn't ask, and it wasn't the shaving part she was interested in! She
wanted to give me a bath and the way she was giggling... I wasn't havin'
it. Where the hell did Brian find her? I thought at first it was a setup,
that the others hired her to pretend to be a nurse just as a lark!”
“She was probably just nervous,” I said, feeling the need to defend a
fellow nurse.
He laughed. “You were nervous, she was eager. She just wanted a look!
Ciggie?”
I helped him with a cigarette and the urinal and started on his shave and
bath. Neil had been in earlier to bring his shave kit, more cigarettes and
the news that the concert was on. I told John that I was surprised that
Paul had decided to go ahead with it. He shook his head. “I knew he would.
Paul is careful. He plans ahead. Never burns bridges behind him. He doesn't
believe we aren't ever going to tour again so he's doing what he can to
keep that door open.”
“He didn't seem too thrilled with touring last night.”
John tried to shrug, but that turned into a lopsided lift of his shoulder
and a grimace. “He always liked it better than the rest of us, but this
tour really got to him. They put us in a cage in New York.”
“What?”
“The stage. It had this high fence around it with a second fence around
that. They usually put a fence between us and the fans, but this... There
was a space between them where the guards patrolled, just like a prison
except it didn't have barbed wire or electricity. At least I don't think it
did.” He shook his head. “We couldn't believe it. I think that is what
topped it for me. I knew then I wouldn't do another tour. The “bigger than
Christ” shit wasn't all of it.”
“But Paul wants to keep touring?”
“The cage was bad, and Atlanta had Paul in the bogs puking his guts out
before the show, but, yeah, he's willing to do it. I'm not. George is not.
So the promoters get their show tonight and it is over.”
I thought about what Paul had said the night before. “He didn't want to go
on without you. If you had asked him not to, I think he would have gone
with that.”
John looked away from me and said quietly, “Yeah. He would have.”
He changed the subject and we talked about nursing school while I finished
his bath. Like any healthy young patient, he was not very comfortable
having someone bathe him, but I just kept the conversation going and we got
through it. When I had his bath all done except for his back, I got Mrs.
Stevens and together we rolled him on his side and cringed at the bruises,
now black and purple, all down his left shoulder, ribs, and hip. We washed
what we could around the tape and changed the sheets.
When lunch came he ate unenthusiastically and I could tell his head and
shoulder were starting to hurt again. I put the head of his bed down and
pulled the curtains hoping he would be able to doze off for a little while
since it was too soon for another pill, but when the room got quiet, the
sound of the mob outside filtered in. Over the general noise of the
gathered crowd, there were outbursts of songs, police whistles, honking
horns, and even a bull horn demanding that they clear the street. Mrs.
Stevens came back in to tell John that he had another dozen floral
arrangements sitting in the hall. There was no place left in the room and
John was obviously disinterested in them. He told her to give them to the
other patients or to the nurses.
John was quiet, too uncomfortable to sleep soundly but too worn out for
conversation. He drifted in and out of restless sleep as I sat in the quiet
room, thinking how thrilling it was to meet him, wishing for his sake it
had never happened, glad that circumstances had led me to be there at the
hotel. John had dropped into my life and now, things were about to
escalate.
Mrs. Stevens came back in looking less composed than usual and said John
had visitors. She was followed by Brian, two hospital bigwigs, and Dr.
Latham. The hospital administrators introduced themselves to John and
announced that they were concerned about the hospital being under siege by
fans. Visitors were inconvenienced, staff couldn't get to work, patients
disturbed by the noise, traffic was hopelessly snarled, and ambulances were
having difficulty getting through. They didn’t even glance at me and I
breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, my part in his being here hadn’t
been reported to hospital management.
Dr. Latham felt that John was not ready for dismissal, but was willing to
consider care in another setting by private duty nurses. The hospital was
willing to provide any needed supplies and equipment and to assume all
additional costs of transport, etc. if John were to be moved.
“I thought it best to consult with you before deciding, John,” said Brian.
“Just where would I be off to?” he asked.
“I believe that the hotel would be fine,” said Dr. Latham.
“When?”
“We could make the arrangements for tomorrow morning,” said an
administrator.
“This afternoon,” said John.
The administrators happily consulted and said they believed it might be
possible if Dr. Latham had no objections. The doctor looked unsure. “He has
not been out of bed yet. Perhaps this evening. I would like to have him
ambulated first.”
John looked at me, uncertain if ambulated meant what he thought it did.
“Walk,” I said.
“To the door and back,” said Dr. Latham.
John looked at me. “Nurse, I should like to ambulate to the door, please.
Now, if you please, Miss.”
I didn't think he could do it, but I knew he would pass out trying. Mrs.
Stevens must have had similar thoughts. “First a pain pill. Then you sit up
on the side of the bed for a while. Then you walk,” she said.
Dr. Latham said, “I will be back later to see how he did. If all goes well,
I'll write dismissal orders then.”
“Excellent!” said the higher-ranking suit. “Nurse, see to the arrangements.
Just let the supervisors know what supplies you need.”
The doctor and administrators left and Mrs. Stevens and I looked at each
other, then she shook her head as if to clear it. Her military training
didn't fail her, though. She could take charge of this sudden change in
plans.
“All right.” She flipped the clipboard to attention and started writing. “A
wheelchair with a leg rest.”
”Lots of pillows,” I added.
“Pain medication”
“Betadine for the incision”
“Suture removal kit.”
“Could we get a shampoo board?”
“Enema kit,” Mrs. Stevens added.
“What!” John said.
“Narcotic pain medications tend to be constipating—”
John looked at me. “You wouldn't!”
“I told you I know worse things than bend over and cough!”
John rolled his eyes. Brian snickered. “Definitely an enema kit,” John
said, glaring at Brian. “I won't use it but I'm sure Brian would love to.”
Brian turned very pink. John laughed.
“You'll need acetone when the adhesive tape needs to come off,” went on
Mrs. Stevens.
John stopped laughing abruptly.
“Urinal,” I added.
“Bedpan,” said Mrs. Stevens.
“No!” said John. “If I have to be able to walk to get out of here I'll not
be needing that.”
“I'd better get arrangements made for the ambulance.” Mrs. Stevens headed
for the door.
“No ambulance,” said John. “I'm leaving here sitting up in the biggest
limousine you can find!” Mrs. Stevens looked blank. Ambulances were part of
her life, she could arrange that. Or maybe a tank. But arranging for a limo
was another thing altogether. Brian assured her he would take care of that
end of it.
“Let's get on with the ambulatin’ then,” John said.
I went after a pain pill and grabbed some ammonia ampules while I was at
it. Good old smelling salts had kept many a patient upright on their first
attempt at getting vertical.
The discussion at the nurses' station was about a reporter who had just
been escorted off the hall. He was looking for nurses who would like to
tell their story about caring for a Beatle and he was especially interested
in finding the nurses who had been at the hotel yesterday.
“Oh, geez!” I groaned.
“Don't worry,” said one of the nurses. “We got a lecture on confidentiality
first thing this morning. No one told him anything.”
That was a start but I wondered what would happen if they did find out my
name. The idea of having a reporter turn up at my front door asking
questions was unpleasant. I couldn't talk about John as a patient and even
discussing yesterday's non-medical events with my roommates had left me
feeling that I had somehow invaded the Beatles' privacy.
Back in John's room, John took the pill and I sat down to catch up on my
charting and give the pill a chance to kick in. John told Brian I was
staying for the evening and he could cancel the private duty nurse. Brian
laughed and said, "That's two out of three. So far Miss Martin is doing
most of the work.”
“I like this arrangement,” John said. I'm used to her and she's seen
everything there is to see. I don't reckon on someone new checking me out
every few hours!”
“Perhaps I could find a live-in nanny,” Brian teased.
I looked at John. He was looking at me.
“What do you think, Luv? Would you have a go?”
I understood exactly what he was asking. “I would but I'm not sure Dr.
Latham will agree to a student nurse. Besides, I'm scheduled to work here
tomorrow night.”
“Can you do it, Brian?” John asked.
Brian looked dubious.
“Oh, come 'ead, Eppy,” John wheedled, sounding miserable. “Get me outta
here, mate.”
“Well, yes, I suppose we could try, " Brian said.
That was all John needed to hear. “A limo and a live-in nanny, Brian,” John
ordered, “and I want to get to the hotel before they leave for the
concert.”
Brian shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was agreeing to.
“OK, John. I'll do the best money can buy.”
“That's how it's done, son,” and they laughed. An inside joke, apparently.
Brian went off to see what money could buy. Fortunately, I didn't have time
to dwell on what I had just agreed to. I probably would have panicked if I
really stopped to consider that I was going to be on my own in taking care
of John, but right now, the priority was getting John up and walking so the
doctor would OK the plan. I cranked the head of his bed up high, explaining
to John that he wouldn't be as likely to get dizzy if he sat up for a while
first.
Dizzy, hell! He was going to pass out.
Mrs. Stevens came in with two other nurses. We swung John around so his
good leg hung over the side of the bed. Mrs. Stevens and one of the others
held his left leg in its immobilizer brace out straight. He grimaced a
little, then smiled a very obviously forced smile. “Dead easy. Now what?”
“Now you sit a minute,” I said. We adjusted the sling on his arm and
discussed putting one on the casted arm but decided it wasn't necessary and
would just make him harder to hang on to. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We stood him up. I was on one side, Mrs. Stevens on the other. The other
two nurses hovered, ready to help if needed. John wobbled a little as he
tried to balance, but he was up. I tucked the hospital gown around him and
put an arm around his waist. “OK, let's take a few steps. Try not to put
your full weight on your left leg,” I told him. We walked slowly across the
room and at the door we pivoted him around.
“Let's rest a minute,” Mrs. Stevens said. “How are you doing, Mr. Lennon?”
“Grand. Just grand” was the reply, spoken through clenched teeth.
I had been looking down, watching his feet. I looked up. He was pale and
breathing those short little breaths people use when everything hurts, and
he looked different. Standing up he looked—Geez! He looked like John
Lennon. THE John Lennon. Now I was having trouble breathing!
“Slow, deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Mrs.
Stevens coached. That's what nurses say when they think the patient is
going to pass out. That's the last thing patients hear as they slide to the
floor. I took a few slow deep breaths myself.
After a half a minute John said, “OK.”
We got him back to the bed, turned him around. We sat him down, spun him
around and laid him back all in one motion. I cranked the head of the bed
down, and John gasped, “Where's me Limo?”
By four o'clock everything was ready. Supplies were ordered and on their
way to the hotel. A guy named Terry with an accent that was more Irish than
the Liverpool one I was getting used to showed up. He had brought clothes
for John from the hotel, and the strange questions about “Which Terry?” the
previous afternoon finally made sense.
John called Cyn and told her he was leaving the hospital. I talked to her,
updating her on how he was doing and explaining that I would be with him.
Brian had been kept busy talking to the hospital administration, the Dean
of the nursing school, and Dr. Latham. Getting permission for me to
accompany John to the hotel was no problem until they realized I was to be
his only nurse, not just a temporary assistant nurse. Brian had argued that
John was comfortable with me and that because of his being a Beatle, it was
necessary to limit the number of nurses for the sake of his privacy. Still,
the idea of entrusting him to a student nurse was not acceptable to them.
Brian persisted and Mrs. Stevens had been called into their meeting to
testify as to whether I was capable of providing the level of care needed.
She pointed out that I had been caring for him all along with RN
supervision and suggested that perhaps an RN could go to check on him a
couple of times a day. That solution was quickly agreed to.
Dr. Latham had been back and had ordered a generous dose of Demerol for the
trip. We gave John the shot, got him dressed, put the immobilizer and arm
sling back on, and put him into a wheelchair. Brian, Mal, and Neil were in
and out and John was irritable. I knew he was tired and uncomfortable, but
something else was going on. He was not looking forward to this but when I
suggested we wait a few more minutes for the Demerol to take effect, he
said, “No, let's get it over with.”
“OK,” I said. “I guess we are ready then.” We headed out into the hall
where nurses waited for a glimpse of John. That reminded me of what was
waiting for us downstairs and of the reporter hunting for nurses involved
in John’s care. Once in the elevator, I hurriedly removed my name tag.
Reporters had been cleared from the hospital lobby and banned to a position
outside and the waiting limo was surrounded by motorcycle police. Crews
from NBC, CBS, and ABC had big cameras set up and even lighting strung
under the covered entrance. We went through the doors and were met with a
roar of sound from the mob of fans held back behind barricades. Reporters
surged forward yelling for John's attention and shoving microphones in our
faces, asking questions we couldn't make out over the noise. Police shoved
them back, and we managed to get John into the limo and situated with his
leg up on the seat. Over his objections, I had brought along some pillows
and tried to get him positioned comfortably. John looked grim and swore at
everybody. All he wanted was to get away from the prying cameras. “Fuckin'
freak show,” he muttered. “Get in here so we can get the fuck away from the
bloody bastards,” he ordered me. I gave up on the pillow placement and got
in the back with John and Brian. Mal got in front with the driver, several
security people got in a second limo, and we were off to the hotel in a
cavalcade of police, limos, and reporters.
The Demerol hit John hard on the way. “Thank God!” Brian said fervently
when John sighed and fell asleep abruptly. I had to awaken him when we got
to the hotel but things went more easily now that the drug was working. At
the hotel, the crowds were smaller but it was the same process in reverse.
The lobby was crowded with photographers, reporters, and assorted people
who seemed to think that they were all going up to the room with us. I had
all I could do to maneuver the wheelchair without bumping John's leg on
something or someone. Finally, we were in the elevator, the doors slid
shut, leaving the mob outside.
The penthouse floor was grand with high ceilings, marble floors, and huge
arrangements of fresh flowers. I never knew that there was anything that
classy in Minneapolis. There were big double doors on either side of the
hall and the doors on the left were open. The whole road crew was there and
they cheered as I pushed John through the doors. Everyone crowded around to
welcome John. Stepping back out of the way to watch, I realized I was in a
hotel suite with over a dozen men and they all seemed to be young and
British. Most of my life was spent in classrooms with other girls and
female instructors, on nursing units with ninety-nine percent female
coworkers, in an apartment with two female roommates. This much maleness
was overwhelming. I was grinning ear to ear when Neil came over to greet
me.
“Hello again!”
“Hi, Neil. I can't believe I’ve done this!”
He looked around momentarily puzzled, then smiled. “You've done what?
Gotten into the Beatle's hotel rooms?”
“No, not exactly. It's just that Mom and Dad have spent the last year
worrying because I'm living in an apartment rather than a safe, all-girl
dormitory, and here I just agreed to spend the next couple of days in a
hotel full of wild, long-haired, British rock and rollers!”
He laughed, then suddenly realized it might be a problem. “If you are
worried, perhaps we —”
”It's OK, Neil” I reassured him. “Really. In fact, it is fantastic!” I said
it with so much enthusiasm that he laughed.
“I should think your boyfriend might not agree.”
I recognized this as a carefully worded question and looked at him,
thinking “Not bad, not bad at all. Great smile and nice.”
“No boyfriend,” I said. He smiled.
Brian looked around and spotted Neil. “Neil, Wendy says the tailor is on
his way up to fit Terry's suit. Let them use your room.”
I was confused, but Neil moved over to a guy standing near where John,
Paul, George, Ringo, and a couple of others were in a huddle. He put a hand
on his shoulder and said, “Come on Terry. Let's see how you look as a
Beatle.”
I looked quickly at John, wondering how he would react to this comment, but
John was not listening to Neil. John was looking up at Paul, head tipped
back, jaw up, looking down his nose at Paul. It was a classic Lennon pose
that made my heart do a funny little flip but he wasn't interrupting to say
“Give us a kiss,” or even “You're a swine.” Instead, he said coldly, “It's
your fuckin' concert, Paul. Do what you want,” and turned away from Paul.
“Can I get something to drink?” he asked. “No 7-Up. The hospital has turned
me off 7-Up for good.”
Paul stared at John for a moment then abruptly got up and moved away.
George and Ringo looked at each other. Conversation resumed. Brian went to
get a drink from the buffet table near the door. Paul walked past me and
the look on his face was tight, but not just with anger. John's words had
stung.
Brian returned with a glass of Coke for John. I said to Brian “He'll need a
straw.” A moment of confusion ensued as several people searched for a
straw.
“Call room service and give some lucky girl a thrill!” Ringo said and
everyone laughed.
Someone found a straw. I took the Coke from Brian, put the straw in it, and
sat down on the coffee table. As I gave John a drink, his eyes met mine. In
the day we had spent together so far, there had already been a couple of
times when I felt like he could read me like a book. This time it worked in
reverse. I could read him. He looked miserable and this time it wasn’t from
physical pain.
I also saw that he was tired. He had been up in the wheelchair for over an
hour and was fighting the groggy effect of the pain shot. “I think he's
been up long enough,” I said to Brian. We moved across the hall to another
suite of rooms. Like the one across the hall, this one had a large sitting
room with a balcony and two bedrooms on one side with a connecting bath.
Mal helped me put John on the large bed in one of the bedrooms. He moved
easily, Demerol doing a good job, but he tilted dizzily.
“Whoa! Good stuff, that!” he laughed. I propped him into a sitting position
with pillows. People wandered in and out. George and Ringo wandered in and
stayed, sitting cross-legged on the bed with John. As I unpacked supplies,
they helped John with a cigarette. I tried not to stare as Ringo, in snug
jeans and a T-shirt, knelt on the bed and made a long stretch across from
the bed to the table to pick up an ashtray. Great buns, narrow hips,
muscular arms. Amazing what those suits we always saw them in covered up!
I was listening to their conversation and suddenly realized I couldn't
understand half of it. Between the inside jokes I didn't get, the British
expressions I didn't understand, and the accent, I almost felt I needed an
interpreter! I hadn't had trouble understanding any of them before, but
here, in the relaxed privacy of John's room, they fell back into what I
assumed to be the famous Liverpool scouse. The main parts of the
conversation were clear: Have you talked to Cyn? How many stitches? Great
swimming pool here, too bad John! It was like listening to a poorly tuned
radio station with unintelligible spots in transmission here and there.
I hadn't let my roommates know what was going on and I didn't have so much
as a toothbrush with me so I used the phone next to the bed to call the
apartment. Brenda answered and when I told her where I was she gasped,
“You're where?”
I explained the arrangement and asked her if she would pack a suitcase for
me. “I need my uniforms but they are in the wash.”
”Good,” John interrupted. “Can't you just wear real clothes? I feel
ridiculous enough without having a sister in white hovering about.”
Brenda heard him and lost her normal cool. “That's John Lennon!” she
squealed.
John heard her and yelled “Just send her regular clothes. All those short
skirts and tight sweaters she usually wears.”
“Short shorts!” yelled George.
“A bikini!” yelled Ringo.
“Oh my God!” gasped Brenda and in the background, Sandy shrieked “What?
What?”
“It's George and Ringo!”
Sandy let out a scream any Beatlemaniac could be proud of.
“Just pack a bag with whatever you can find and bring it to the Radisson,”
I tried to tell them, but Brenda was busy relaying to Sandy the details of
how I ended up at the Radisson and Sandy was having a breakdown as she
listened. When I finally got them settled down, I said “Just bring me
enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days. When you get here, just tell
them at the main desk to call me—”
”Highly unlikely they'll be allowed that far,” George observed, “them being
potty fans and such like. We'll send someone to pick it up.”
With that arranged, I had one last request before I hung up. “Please don't
tell anyone where I am.”
“Why?”
“The reporters. They want to talk to me and I sure don't want to talk to
them! I don't want to come home and find them waiting on the front steps.
Or a bunch of fans who want to touch somebody who touched a Beatle!”
“Most of our friends already know.”
“Tell them not to tell anyone my name or where I live,” I told her.
John, George, Ringo, and Mal were listening and all were laughing.
“You'll never get away with it, girl,” George advised me.
“You're a marked woman,” said John, “and the hounds of hell are after you!”
“Brenda,” I sighed, “just try to keep it quiet, OK? I'll talk to you later.
Bye”
As I hung up the phone, Paul appeared in the doorway. “Time to get on with
it,” he said quietly and left. George and Ringo sat for a bit longer, but
the conversation was suddenly awkward. When they reluctantly got up and
moved to the door, George turned back and said, “I voted no.”
“I know,” John said.
It was quiet. John closed his eyes. I checked his hand. It seemed a little
more swollen so I put an extra pillow under it to elevate it more.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“John... ”
”What?”
I hesitated. “Last night I caught a ride back to the hotel with Paul and he
was having a had a hard time deciding what to do about the concert.”
John just looked at me. “So?” he said coolly.
I cringed. “I know it's none of my business—”
“Right,” he said. “But you're going to say it regardless.”
My face burned and I don't know where I found the nerve to go on. I was not
exactly known for being outspoken, but the image of Paul at the lake and
the hurt on his face just a little while ago was fresh in my mind.
“Tell him he did the right thing,” I blurted out.
John knew right away what I meant, I could see that in his eyes. He looked
at me, looked right into me it seemed. “There is no ‘right’ thing,” he
answered sounding defensive and irritated.
“Then just tell him that it's OK.”
John looked away. He looked pissed off, and I took a deep breath before
going on. “John, it was a hard decision and he didn't want to make it.”
He looked back at me with such misery on his face I wished I had kept my
mouth shut. “Well, he's done it. My group is making its last appearance
without me!”
“That's not fair,” I said more gently, knowing he was hurting too. “You
knew how he would decide, and you knew all you had to do was ask him to
cancel it. You can't blame him. He didn't really make the decision. You
did.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then turned his head away. I walked over
and looked out of the window. No fans in the parking lot, they were all on
their way to the concert. I waited for him to dismiss his second private
duty nurse.
When he spoke, he didn't sound angry anymore, just tired. “Go tell Neil or
Mal to send someone after your things and tell Paul I want to see him and
the others before they leave.”
Half an hour later I was waiting in the living room of the suite with
Brian, Tony, Mal, Neil, and the Terry who was to fill in for John. Mal
paced the floor and looked at his watch. Brian stared out the window. Paul,
George, and Ringo were in with John behind closed doors. Finally, the doors
opened and George and Ringo came out. They looked subdued or maybe
resigned. They did not look ready to go out and put on a high energy,
enthusiastic performance. Neil silently handed them their jackets and they
put them on.
Ordinarily, I think I would have been busy noting that their stage suits
for this tour were very different from the dark suits of their first tour
or the brown military-looking ones of last year. When they had walked into
the suite, part of my mind had registered the fact that George looked great
in the dark red silk shirt, but rather than catching my breath at the way
Paul looked, I had stared at the tight look on his face as he walked
through the room on his way to talk to John. Now I only glanced at them as
George, Ringo, and Terry put on the red striped gray jackets. My attention
was drawn through the open door into the bedroom. Paul was sitting on the
bed next to John and they were talking quietly. Paul stood up to leave but
stopped long enough to put his hand on John's arm, lean over and say
something to him. John nodded, Paul squeezed his arm and turned and walked
toward us. Neil handed the last jacket to him and Paul put it on.
“All right, let's have done,” he said firmly, his face and voice giving
away nothing, and walked out of the room. The others followed.
I went in to John. He looked up at me and there were tears in his eyes. One
thing that I had learned in my short nursing career was that sometimes
there just aren't any words that can help. I sat on the bed next to him and
reached out to him. He leaned against me, and I put my arms around him and
held him. I couldn't exactly hug him because that would hurt, so all I
could do when I felt his hot tears on my cheek was stroke his hair and pat
him on the back. He broke down and cried then, hard, strangled sobs he
tried to hold back because it hurt and because men don't cry. After a
minute, he pulled himself together, swore long and hard, and lay back
against the pillows exhausted by the day and the feelings.
“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed.
“It has been a really bad week for you,” I said.
“Week? Month. Whole bloody year,” he corrected. “Got me out of me fuckin'
head, goin' off like that.”
“I'd rather you cried than get hysterical on me. We haven't covered that in
school yet. I guess I'd have to slap you and you'd have to say ‘Thanks, I
needed that' like in the movies.”
That got a laugh from him, and he looked better. “You need to sleep for a
while,” I said.
He nodded, ready to give on to the lingering pull of the Demerol, but he
wanted me to promise I would awaken him at nine. He wanted to be up to join
the party when they got back. He also wanted a promise that if my clothes
showed up, I would get rid of the uniform. I gladly agreed to that, turned
him on his right side, arranged the pillows under his arm and leg, and he
fell asleep immediately.
Neil, who had stayed behind with a couple of security people, was in the
living room. He had the TV on, watching the news, but I had missed the
headline segment on John leaving the hospital. I was starving and asked if
there was any food left in the other room. Neil laughed and picked up the
phone. “What would you like?” he asked as he dialed.
“What do they have?” I asked.
“Everything. Caviar, champagne, steak.”
“Hamburger and fries?”
I had told Neil earlier that someone would need to go after my suitcase,
but to wait a while since my roommates needed time to pack. Neil called in
the Irish Terry who had brought John's clothes to the hospital. I gave him
directions to my apartment and he said he would go after my suitcase it a
little later.
John slept, I had dinner and watched TV, and Neil was in and out several
times over the next couple of hours. My clothes arrived at about 8:30 and I
went to my room to change. I looked through the things Brenda and Sandy had
sent, trying to figure out what would be appropriate. They had sent two
dresses and a couple of skirts and blouses, shoes, slacks, tops, shorts,
bathrobe, underwear. The clothes weren’t all mine but instead were the
combined best our closets had to offer. Instead of my knee-length J.C.
Penney nightgown, there was one of Sandy's, a light green baby doll
shortie. I smiled and was glad that Sandy, the incurable romantic among us,
had not sent one of the filmy negligees she had stashed away in her hope
chest.
We usually wore above the knee A-line skirts, but miniskirts were the
newest fad and Sandy had sent two of hers. Sandy was the one with the
fashion flair. I had no idea how people dressed for an after-concert party,
so I picked out one of Sandy's skirts and my favorite blouse. The black
miniskirt had a wide belt with a big gold buckle and the blouse was soft
pink with big, loose ruffles around the neckline and at the wrists. It was
my favorite blouse but one I seldom had any place to wear because it was so
dressy and because the neckline, although a V shape, didn't stop until it
had revealed a little more than most occasions called for.
Looking in the mirror I had second thoughts. I was not here to attend a
party. I was a nurse on duty. I understood that John didn't want a nurse
hovering over him, but that didn't excuse me from looking professional. I
picked out a longer length navy blue skirt and a simple light blue blouse.
I changed quickly, glad to be out of the uniform and into pantyhose instead
of a girdle. I took off the cap, but couldn't do anything with my hair.
After being pulled back all day it would be all lumpy if I let it down.
Makeup was next. Makeup was another no-no in the student dress code, but we
refused to adhere to that rule. It did make us tone it down, however, so I
wasn't used to wearing a lot.
After changing clothes, I went through the connecting bathroom to get John
up. He was just waking up and looked miserable. Before I even attempted to
move him, I got him another pain pill. I sat next to him helping him with a
cigarette, then a Coke, giving time for the pill to take effect. He didn't
have much to say, and finally muttered, “OK, let's get on with it.” I got
Neil to help me and we got him up into a sitting position. His shirt was
all wrinkled and I went to get a clean one out of the closet. He watched me
moving around the room and I knew he was watching. My usual reaction to
such situations was to suck in my stomach and wish I were in a baggy
sweatshirt and jeans. I found myself wishing I had on the miniskirt and had
Brenda's blond hair and Sandy's chest.
“Is that what you plan to wear?” he asked derisively.
“You said not to wear a uniform,” I explained, “and I thought—”
He made a disgusted sound. “American girls have no style at all. They dress
like their mothers.”
Of course, I was mortified. I could feel my face getting hot and Neil tried
to smooth things over. “She looks just fine, John, and the skirt is
shorter. She has great legs, don't you think?”
John didn't answer and I looked at him. He wasn't even looking at me, just
sitting on the side of the bed with a look of pain on his face. “We should
have waited longer to get you up,” I said. “Let's get you back down until
that pain pill takes hold.”
He didn't argue as Neil and I laid him back down. “Let's give it about
fifteen more minutes,” I said.
“Ciggie,” John said.
“Would you help him with that, Neil?” I asked. “I am going to go change
clothes.”
“You don't have to do that,” Neil protested. “He is just kidding.”
John said “Bullocks! It's true! She looks like a bloody government worker!”
Now it was Neil's turn to look embarrassed and my turn to smooth things
over. “He’s just crabby because he is hurting.”
Neil burst out laughing. “Oh, if the world only knew!”
John snarled at him, “Shurrup, ya bloody mugger!” but there was a hint of
laughter in his voice.
Hoping it was closer to Carnaby Street than Hennepin Avenue, I changed into
the short, short skirt and ruffled pink blouse and added eyeliner, another
coat of mascara, and doubled up on the eye shadow. I simply could not bring
myself to do the Elizabeth Taylor/Cleopatra eye look that was making Revlon
and Maybelline stock soar, but it was a little more fashionable face that
looked back at me. I added gold earrings and was as ready as I ever would
be.
At some point in every book, the heroine has to be described, usually as
having red-gold hair, turquoise eyes, a willowy figure with long legs, a
tiny waist, full bosom, and other improbable combinations. Not me. I
thought of myself as medium, a concept reinforced by my choice of
roommates. Brenda was tall, Sandy petite. I was medium. Brenda was a blond,
blue-eyed Scandinavian stereotype and Sandy a dark-haired, dark-eyed pixie.
I was medium with light brown hair that managed a red tint in sunlight and
eyes that with the right clothes turned green. Not the emerald green of
Scarlet O'Hara fame. Olive green, as in army fatigues. Brenda was slim,
graceful, Sandy well rounded but in all the right places. I was—you got
it—medium. Brenda wore her hair in a blond version of Laura Petri’s
bouffant helmet with its perfectly flipped up ends. Sandy had an adorable
Sassoon pixie cut. I couldn't afford the time Brenda spent rolling, drying,
teasing and I couldn't afford the money Sandy spent on monthly beauty shop
trims. It was easier just to let my hair grow so I could pull it into a bun
for work. The rest of the time I parted it on one side and, if time
allowed, used curlers at the ends to curl the ends a bit. Cher was making
long, straight hair fashionable, so although I didn't have her flair, I was
at least in style.
My medium mediocrity didn’t end with appearance. Brenda was a real brain.
Sandy was smart enough in the real world, but not a brilliant scholar by
any means. I had a high B average but, unlike Brenda, I had to study. I was
medium in age with Brenda several months older and Sandy a year younger. I
was medium in personality. Sandy was an outgoing, chatty, fun-loving
person, Brenda was rather quiet, definitely not shy, but reserved in a
sophisticated, studious way. Brenda was down to earth and practical, Sandy
a dreamer, and I swung between the two extremes. Brenda came from a wealthy
family and her clothes reflected good taste and high quality. Sandy came
from a big family where hand-me-downs were the standard. She leaned toward
trendy clothes but knew how to find the bargains. I was currently so
poverty-stricken, fashion was not an issue. I wore what I could afford.
Miss Medium, that was me. Ordinary, average, medium. The only area I could
come up with where I wasn't medium was in physical strength. I could shovel
more snow, lift heavier patients, and dance the legs off my roommates but
all that got me was the heavy end of any furniture to be moved and all the
pickle and jelly jars to open. It never seemed to be a very feminine
attribute, but it did come in handy.
So, armed with that medium body in a short skirt, a plunging neckline
revealing a chest that was nothing spectacular, and makeup on a passably
pretty face, I went back to John. He glanced at me and nodded. “That's
better.”
I was relieved, but secretly I had been hoping for a little more. Something
like the smile on Neil's face. “You look fab,” he said. Only the English
could say “fab” or “gear” and not have it sound phony!
Neil went to answer the phone ringing out in the living room while I
unbuckled the sling, got John's shirt off and the fresh one on. As I
buttoned it, I asked, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing it wouldn't do
any good with John, “So is Neil married?”
“Nobody is married on tour, Luv,” he laughed, looking at me in his intent
way, his face inches from mine. “Nobody.” His eyes traveled down the
neckline of my blouse.
I jerked upright, removing the view that bending over had given him. He
started laughing. “You little tramp,” he teased. “Flaunting your charms
with me while thinking of Neil. Here I thought you had fallen for the
McCartney charm! 'Tis wicked you are!”
“I've hardly even spoken to Paul!”
He just laughed at me.
He wanted to go to the bathroom rather than use the urinal, so I asked Neil
to help. We walked him into the bathroom and, except for a problem with
balance, (Medication side effect? The immobilizer and sling? Head injury?)
he did well even though it was obvious it hurt to move. John reached for
his zipper with his casted arm, but the cast extended down around his
thumb, and with his fingers swollen, he couldn't manage it. I did it for
him but had trouble getting the zipper to unzip. I had undressed plenty of
patients, but they were always lying down and I wasn't trying to make sure
they didn't fall over at the same time.
“Not too much practice with men's trousers, eh Luv?” John teased.
“Not standing up,” I replied honestly, and John and Neil roared. I tried to
explain, but they liked their version better. John was in pain from
laughing, but he was able to use his hand well enough to finish the job. I
helped him get zipped and wash up, and we walked him back to the
wheelchair.
We moved across the hall to the other suite. Hotel staff was replenishing
the buffet table and setting up at the bar at the side of the room. Terry
was setting up huge speakers for a stereo system I suspected would not be
appreciated by other hotel guests. John wanted out of the wheelchair and
the wheelchair moved out of sight. We put him on a couch, one of the small
love seat types, with his bad shoulder against the armrest so no one would
touch it if they sat down next to him. A chair was found that was the right
height to put his leg on. When I said we needed pillows to prop his casted
arm on he looked at me and slowly, trying not to let the pain show on his
face, lifted his arm and put it along the back of the couch.
“OK, John,” I said recognizing how painful that movement must have been.
“No pillows, but if it starts to swell, it's pillows or back to bed.”
“If it swells, you can take me to bed,” John promised solemnly. Neil and
Terry and the busboys laughed and I turned red. Lord knows I didn't know
much about sex. I had seen a couple of babies being born but had little
familiarity with the basic process of making babies but I knew enough to
understand that joke!
John hadn't eaten so I brought a sandwich and drink to him. He could hold
the sandwich in his right hand, but the glass was one of those heavy-duty
hotel things and was too big around for him to manage with the cast and
swollen fingers. I got a paper cup that he could handle. He had just
finished eating when we heard the elevator open. I stood up as the first
wave of people burst into the room. In minutes the room was full of noise
with laughing, shouting Beatles, security, road crew, and managers. The
stereo boomed to life and rock 'n' roll rattled the windows. The elevator
made another trip and another wave of people, this time promoters and
reporters, came in. They crowded around John and I stood back. The elevator
unloaded again and the crowd grew and then what must have been a very
packed elevator arrived stuffed with girls. Girls were giggling, laughing,
and flirting outrageously as they poured into the room, shrieking and
throwing themselves at John. I was stunned but Neil had anticipated their
moves and stood alongside John blocking those who wanted to touch. I moved
to help but a girl glared at me and elbowed me hard right in the stomach. I
staggered back a step, trying not to double up. Strong arms caught me from
behind and steadied me.
“Above and beyond the call of duty, Sister,” said George as he guided me to
the side of the room and turned me to face him. More people were coming
into the room and girls came up to talk to him but he ignored them. “Are
you OK?”
“Yeah, I think I just learned rule number one. Never get between a fan and
her Beatle.”
He laughed and gave me the answer to the question I had asked myself the
day before. He put his arms around me and it felt good. Very good. So good
it took a moment to realize his shirt was wet. I leaned back and looked up
at his warm brown eyes, lopsided grin and sweaty, wet hair around his face.
“You're drenched!”
“The stadium wasn't exactly air-conditioned,” he said, letting go of me. He
was immediately engulfed by a group of girls and I lost him. Lesson number
two: If you catch a Beatle, hang on tight to them or someone else will grab
them away.
I found a spot where I could keep out of the way and still keep an eye on
John. Some girl had made herself right at home snuggled up next to him on
the couch, one was kneeling in front of him, and a third was perched on the
armrest. John was laughing. Neil stood behind John, relaxed, but still on
guard. Ringo was trying to get something to eat but was handicapped by a
girl who had latched onto him with something like a half-Nelson. Another
girl tried to help and was practically force feeding him a sandwich. Paul
was smiling and chatting up someone I recognized as a local TV celebrity
and was doing so with a girl under each arm, draping themselves around him
like seaweed.
The bartenders were pouring as fast as they could and Mal patrolled the
room smiling and chatting, but as I watched, it was obvious that he was on
duty. Brian circulated, shaking hands and smiling. The party escalated.
People began dancing in the center of the room and someone asked me to
dance. I had no musical talent, but I loved to dance, and, even though I
was also on duty there didn't seem to be any reason not to dance. Besides,
the guy had a British accent. Irresistible. So I danced with him and a
string of other guys whose names I never got. I kept checking on John in
between, but he was fine, surrounded by a harem of adoring girls.
The party rolled on, the room got increasingly crowded. Terry (the guitar
player one, not the suitcase fetching one) was carrying a giggling girl
around under his arm. Ringo was dancing with four girls at once. George was
across the room standing on a chair auctioning off the jackets from their
stage suits. A bunch of girls started bidding on his trousers. Paul was
dancing with a girl who really knew how to “Shake, Rattle and Roll” and was
doing most of it pressed up against him. John was now two rows deep in
girls. They were signing his cast and from the giggling, I knew it was
going to make interesting reading.
I decided to get something to drink and stood in line at the bar. I finally
got through the waiting line, got a Coke, and turned and nearly bumped into
Paul, encumbered by two new pieces of seaweed. He glanced at me without
recognition as I said “'Excuse me,” and slipped past them.
“I really made an impression on him,” I thought dismally.
Neil had long since abandoned his post by John, but as I tried to work my
way across the room to check on John, I saw Neil delivering a drink to him.
One of the girls took it and helped John with it. Some guy came over and
started up a conversation with me. He wasn't one of the Beatle's people and
when he asked me why I was the only girl in the crowd not trying to get my
hands on one of the Beatles, I suspected he was a reporter. “I just can't
decide which one I want,” I answered, trying to think of a way to get rid
of him.
Neil interrupted and ask me to dance. After the song, he took my hand and
led me toward the bar. “I need a drink,” he said. “Scotch and water,” he
said to the bartender. “What would you like?” he asked me, but something
had clicked in my brain.
“Neil, what did you give John?”
“He's a Scotch and Coke man”
“Oh no!” I said, kicking myself for not thinking about this sooner. I
headed for John, Neil following.
John's glass was empty. “Could I talk to John alone, please?” I said to his
flock of birds. The girls looked at me as if I were crazy. No way were they
giving up their spots!
John looked at his hand, then up at me with a big grin. “Getting anxious,
Luv?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Give us a minute, will you?” he said to the girls. They got up, glaring
daggers at me.
I took the empty glass from the girl, then sat next to John. “John, you
can't drink tonight, not with the pain pills.”
“Oh come on Terry. I've only had a couple of drinks.”
“Please, John. It could be dangerous.”
”It's a big occasion for the Beatles. I think getting stinking drunk is
fitting.” There was irritation in his voice.
“But John—”
“Pack it in, Luv! Neil, get me a drink!”
He was really pissed off and I figured I was about to be cussed out but I
had to stop him.
“Don't, Neil. Please. He really shouldn't. I don't know how dangerous it
is, all I know is that alcohol and Percodan are both respiratory
depressants. Maybe the pain pills aren't enough to cause an overdose, but—”
“Christ!” Neil looked like he wanted to clamp a hand over my mouth. He
looked around to make sure no one was listening. The noisy room made that
unlikely.
John laughed sarcastically. “I'm not gonna O.D. If you want to worry, worry
about that lot.” He jerked his head in the direction of Paul and George.
They were arm wrestling at the bar and laughing like maniacs. “They've got
more pills in them than I do!”
“What?”
Neil groaned and John laughed. “Just one of the tricks of the trade. Give
'em a show, whether you feel like it or not. Uppers to take you to the
top!”
I must have looked horrified. Neil took pity on me. “They are all right.
Really they are. Worn off by now. They won't take any more tonight. Mal
sees to that. They are just getting old fashioned drunk.”
I looked back at Paul and George. How naive could I be? I had thought that
the concert, being on stage, the crowds, the hysteria, was responsible for
the turnaround from the grim-faced guys who had left the hotel earlier.
Apparently, this was a familiar routine.
“I'll have that drink now,” John said.
“No,” I said, amazing myself. “I'm not responsible for them, but I am
responsible for you.” And, I thought, if I screw up, I could lose my
nursing license before I ever get it.
“I'm responsible for me!” he snarled.
“No, you're not. I don't think you are in any shape to decide whether you
can drink. In the hospital, I can't let a patient sign consent forms once
they have been medicated with a narcotic. They are not considered competent
to make decisions and you have had alcohol on top of the pain pills.”
He stared at me. I stared at my hands.
“So you're going to stop me?” He sounded less angry than disbelieving.
“Yes. I ... I think I have to.” Why hadn't I paid more attention to the
chapter “Legal Issues In Nursing”?
“Think you can, then?”
I looked up at him and saw an amused smile and a gleam in his eye. Relief
flooded through me. This John I could handle.
“If it comes down to arm wrestling, I know I can take you!”
He laughed. “Neil, go—” But as he turned to talk to Neil, Neil was backing
away.
“Got to check and make sure we have enough ice and ... and toothpick
thingies.”
“Coward! Bloody traitor!” John yelled after him as Neil turned and ducked
into the crowd of dancers. I laughed.
Ringo came over, took my hand and pulled me up. “Can't be keeping her all
to yourself, mate,” and lead me off to dance. I hesitated, unsure if I
should leave John unsupervised, but they were starting up a slow song and I
knew I could keep an eye on him. Who in their right mind would turn down a
slow dance with Ringo anyway? He was a great dancer. Smooth, and he knew
just how to hold a girl; a little tighter than just touching, close enough
to feel him move so it was easy to keep in step, close enough to know he
could feel you but not so tight that it felt like that was the whole point
of his asking you to dance. He said I looked great.
“What, you don't like my uniform?” I asked.
“I like your uniform if I need a nurse, but I'd rather dance with a bird in
a miniskirt!”
He asked me how long I had been a nurse and I explained that I was a
student. We talked about nursing school and the dance was over far too
soon. If I hadn't heard John call “Hey, Terry!” I would have made sure it
wasn't the last one. Ringo walked back to John with me, only to find guitar
Terry and suitcase Terry responding to his call at the same time. We
laughed and Ringo said “You've got too many Terry's. I'll keep this one for
you!”
“That's not Terry,” he answered. “That is Theresa and she is mine. Find
your own.” I wondered for a moment how he was sure that was my real name,
but realized the name pin I wore with my uniform said ‘Theresa Martin,
Student Nurse'. I never went by Theresa—I hated the name—but school rules
required given names on name pins. He'd had his glasses on for a short time
today and must have noted my name then.
“Terry, would you get me a drink? Scotch and Coke,” he said to one of the
others and he smiled at me. I forced a pleasant smile, wondering what to do
now. Maybe I should find Brian but I didn't think John exactly obeyed
Brian. Mal? I looked around but didn't see him. Paul joined us, casually
reaching out a hand to the girl who had taken my place on the couch. She
took it, he pulled her up, sat down next to John and pulled her down on his
lap. She giggled and I wanted to smack her. The sound was getting very
irritating. If he had pulled me onto his lap, I wouldn't giggle like an
idiot. I would put my arms around his neck and he would pull me close. I
would reach up and run my fingers through his hair, touch his cheek, his
lips and…
Lord, it was getting worse!
George had now wandered over and draped his arm across my shoulders. His
lopsided smile was now accompanied by the somewhat unfocused look of
someone who has had several drinks.
“You look nice, Terry,” Paul was saying. “Took a bit for me to figure out
who you were.”
“Her name is Theresa and she is mine,'' John repeated. I cringed at the
name. I remembered reading somewhere that John hated his middle name.
“No one calls me Theresa, Winston. No one!”
Everyone laughed and John said, “OK! OK! Not Theresa, but you simply cannot
be another Terry.”
“Tess,” said Ringo.
“As in Thomas Hardy's Tess,” John said. “A sweet innocent, ripe for
plundering by a rakish cad. Perfect!”
“I was just thinking of me Auntie Tess,” Ringo said and everyone laughed
again.
Suitcase Terry had returned with the drink. “Here, I'll hold it for him,” I
said, moving quickly to take the glass. I settled myself on the armrest
next to John and smiled sweetly at him.
“Thanks, Luv. I don't know how I'd manage without you.” A rueful smile was
canceled out by a determined gleam in his eye. As the party moved on around
us, the drink, untouched, made its way to the end table. Paul, who was
every bit as far gone as George, got up to dance with the girl who giggled
yet again when he asked her to dance. As I moved to the more comfortable
seat on the couch, John moved his casted arm back up onto the low back of
the couch. This time he didn't try to hide the fact that hurt to raise that
arm.
“Are you OK?” I asked, turning around to check the circulation in his hand.
It seemed a little more swollen but it was warm with good refill.
“The hand is fine. Everything else hurts, but the hand is fine.”
“Do you want to leave? I can't give you a pain pill yet, but you could lie
down.”
He shook his head and the flock of females moved in again. John asked one
to get him a drink.
“Oh, wait, John,” I said, reaching across him and picking up the glass.
“Here's one you haven't finished!” John glared at me. I smiled.
Knowing that drink would never be handed over, he turned back to the girl.
“Bring on a spare then? Scotch and coke,” and she happily went off to do
his bidding.
A slow song came on. Paul was dancing near us with a girl who plastered
herself to him. He was smiling down at her upturned face and had one hand
low on her hip. They danced on, and his hand slid further down. Now they
were cheek to cheek. He nuzzled her ear. She whispered something in his
ear. His hand slipped down to her bottom. Not her hip. Definitely her ass.
The girls around us were all watching intently. I tore my eyes away,
knowing John was watching me watching Paul.
I decided to get rid of the drink I was still holding in order to intercept
the one on the way, so I lifted up a bit and stretched across John and
carefully poured it into a potted plant sitting at the back of the end
table. He turned his head to see what I was doing. “That's one,” I said.
“If the plant dies, it's your fault.”
He turned back to me, his face inches from mine, and slipped his arm down
from the back of the couch. He pulled me to him, the cast hard across my
back, and smiled. “Worth losing a drink for, Tess,” he said with a smile.
He let go of me and I slid back down, feeling my breast just graze his left
hand where the sling held it against his chest. I sat back, not sure if I
wanted to laugh or go back for more. Going back for more was winning but
the girl came back with his drink.
John's right arm was now tucked behind me and he couldn't begin to lift the
left one. Eyes narrowed, like a chess player planning his next move, he
looked at me. “Just set it down,” he told her. She did, and I carefully
released his arm, knowing that he would be uncomfortable. I slipped my arm
around his, effectively handcuffing him to me. We sat side by side, arm in
arm, hand in hand, alcoholic beverage untouched. People came and went.
Girls noted our cozy linking and drifted away dejectedly.
George passed by. He looked, raised an eyebrow, smiled at John. “Rakish
cad,” he said as he walked away.
John chuckled. “Best let go, Luv. You're giving people the wrong idea. I'm
a married man you know.”
“No one is married on tour,” I quoted. He started to laugh and I laughed
with him and it built until people were turning to look at us.
“Ow, oooh ow,” John groaned as the laughter made his ribs hurt. “You win.”
Paul was looking at us. “And just what does she win?” he asked.
“Good behavior,” I answered.
“Honey, you don't want him if he is behaving,” a girl called out and
everyone exploded with laughter.
I turned John's arm loose. “Your hand is getting swollen,” I said. “Can you
feel this?” I asked as I began the circulation check. No problems but “You
need to get it elevated soon,” I said.
“In a bit,” he said. “Hey, Paulie,” he called. Paul came over to us. “I
think our Tess would like to dance with you.”
Paul smiled at me and said “Come 'ead, Luv,” and held out his hand.
I stood up and took Paul's hand.
“Why don't you get them to play something slow? Give her a real thrill,”
John suggested.
I looked down at him to give him a “please shut up” look, but something on
his face stopped me dead in my tracks. Instead of the leering grin I
expected, he was smiling sweetly. This was a set up to get rid of me! I
looked at Paul, smiling at me albeit a little drunkenly, standing so close,
holding my hand. I nearly went with him. One more look at John and I said,
“Sorry Paul” and slipped my hand out of his and sat back down. John's face
fell.
“You are a conniving, sneaky—” I stopped, unwilling to say the word that
came to mind.
“Bastard?” John suggested with a big smile.
“Yes!”
John laughed. “She's a very good judge of character, right Paul?”
“She's got you down, mate,” he agreed.
“OK, Tess. Get me back to bed. My shoulder is killing me, my foot's asleep
and my head is splitting.”
“I'll get the wheelchair,” I said.
“No. I'll walk.”
I hesitated, doubting he could make it all the way back to his room. “Let
me put the chair outside the door, just in case.”
He looked at me and I thought for a moment we were going to have another
battle of wills, but he nodded. “Just keep the blasted thing out of sight.”
I went across the hall and got the wheelchair and set it outside the doors.
When I got back, The stereo was cranked up and Paul, George, and Ringo were
organizing a line of go-go girls on the bar. I carefully moved the chair
from under John's leg and lowered his foot to the floor. Neil had
reappeared and got John on his feet easily, but John swayed unsteadily.
Neil shot a worried look at me.
“The chair is right outside the door. He'll get that far,” I said. With me
holding on to him and Neil close behind, John walked stiffly to the door.
As we went out the door I looked back. The go-go girls were gyrating and
the crowd cheered them on. I could hear Paul yelling “OOH Baby! Shake it,
Baby!” I knew the go-go line didn't just happen. Paul wasn't too out of it
to recognize that John wouldn't want everyone watching him. He was
providing a little distraction so John's exit would go unnoticed.
John was not ready to call it a night but he was glad to lie down. The
Percodan was ordered for every six hours, so it would be another couple of
hours before I could give him anything. He said he was OK, that lying down
helped his shoulder and just getting away from the noise had helped his
head. He lay quietly while I caught up with my nursing paperwork. I made
notes about how far he had ambulated, his balance problem, pain, diet,
swollen fingers, and circulation then added the note, “Patient instructed
not to drink alcohol while on pain medication.”
I thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke up. “You didn't check,” he
said.
“Check what?”
“The drink. When you left the room to get the wheelchair, I could have had
it.”
“Did you?”
“No”
“I guess I am a good judge of character.”
He laughed softly.
John closed his eyes and I finished my paperwork. Brian came in to check on
John. They talked for a while. The concert had sold out as expected,
Seattle and L.A. were canceled, and most of the road crew was going back to
England the next day. He wasn't sure when the other Beatles were going.
They were insisting they were staying until John was allowed to leave, but
if that were going to be more than a few days…
Mal came in and the three of them talked quietly and I struggled to stay
awake. I was worn out. It was about 1:00 a.m. when they left. John needed
to go to the bathroom, refused irritably to use the urinal or to let me go
get someone to help. It was pretty obvious that he did not like being a
patient, and just wanted to be a fuckin' cripple—his choice of words—in
private with as little fuss as possible so I managed to get him to the
bathroom and back on my own He pretty much had the hang of walking with the
immobilizer on, even though he was dizzy and unsteady. And I was getting
better with the zipper.
He was thirsty so I went after something to drink. The party was breaking
up and people were leaving. I got some cokes and made my way out of the
room, dodging a couple of weaving drunks. I passed by Ringo, deep in
conversation with a blond on his lap. George was slow dancing with a girl
to a fast beat song. I didn't see Paul at first and wouldn't have if the
girl hadn't let him up for air just as I walked past them. She had him up
against the wall and was going for his tonsils with enthusiasm. Not that he
was fighting it. His hand was sliding up her thigh. Under her skirt.
I went back to John. Drink, one last cigarette, immobilizer and sling off.
Clothes off, pajamas on. Immobilizer and sling back on. Under the covers.
Arm up on pillows. One more circulation check. John was asleep before I
finished straightening up the room.
I turned out the light, went to my room and got ready for bed. As I crawled
under the covers, I realized that John was going to be awake in an hour or
so needing another pain pill. I was so beat, I wasn't sure I would hear him
if he called for me even though I had left both doors to the connecting
bathroom open. I got up, pulled on my bathrobe (Quilted baby blue polyester
with little ribbons and white lace for decoration. The height of '60s
fashion.) and went back to John's room and curled up in a big chair by the
bed.
John woke me up at 2:30 a.m. “I'm sorry to wake you, but can I have that
pill now?” His voice was tight with pain. I got out of the chair, stiff and
cold from the unaccustomed air conditioning, and got it for him. “You
didn't have to sit up with me, Luv,” he said.
“I'm afraid I won't hear you if you need me.”
I gave him the pill, helped him turn on his right side, propping the heavy
leg immobilizer on pillows. I pulled the covers over him, went back to my
room, got a blanket for myself and went back to my chair.
“Luv, you can't be sleeping there all night.”
“I'll just sit here 'til you fall asleep.”
“It's a big bed. Come 'ead. Lie down.” There was nothing teasing or
suggestive in his voice, just tired pain.
I hesitated for what was probably an indecently short time. It was a
logical and simple solution, so I lay down facing him, pulling my blanket
over me, and for the next half hour, we talked quietly in the dark. He
asked about my family, talked a little about his Aunt Mimi, his mother, and
had a few choice words to say about his father. I had heard him swear
several times, in anger or in pain, but tonight in the dark he seemed to
forget he was talking to a girl and his language was peppered with the “f”
word. I wasn't used to nor fond of that kind of language, but it didn't
bother me, perhaps because it seemed to show that he was comfortable with
me, that he could talk to me without editing how he said things. Or maybe
just because he said it with an English accent!;
The muffled sound of voices out in the hall and the elevator chimes reached
us. A girl's giggle was followed by the low sound of a man's voice, the
closing of the elevator doors, then silence. John chuckled softly.
“Nobody's married on tour?” I asked softly.
“Right,” he said. Then after a minute's silence, he said, “Of course, I
never would."
“Right,” I said sarcastically.
He laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Yeah, but I like you anyway,” I teased, making him laugh again.
We talked for a little longer, and he was soon asleep and I wasn't far
behind. That night I slept in a bed with John Lennon and dreamed of slow
dancing with a man whose face I couldn't see.