Chapter 2

The ambulance was out in front along with several police cars, motorcycle cops, and a surprisingly small group of reporters already clicking away through the doors. Mal said “Lets go” to the waiting security people and they moved out through the doors, pushing reporters back behind the barricades and making a path to the ambulance. We followed and the crowd of girls standing in the rain began crying “John! We love you, John!” and sobbing very loudly.

“Someone tell them I'm all right.” John said.

The ambulance guys lifted the stretcher in, girls screamed, reporters yelled questions, and cameras flashed. The reporters had elbowed their way in front of most of the girls, but off to the side a couple of girls clung fiercely to a section of barricade. I went over to them and told them John wanted me to tell them he was all right. “Tell him we love him!” they sobbed.

“He knows.”

I darted back to the ambulance, Brian reached out and pulled me up and in, the doors slammed and we pulled out. Mal and Tony got in a limo behind us.

As we pulled out of the hotel parking lot I looked back to see the reporters sprinting for their cars. There weren’t nearly as many of them as there had been outside the door of the Nicolet Room. “What happened to the rest of the reporters?” I asked.

“They probably saw “University Hospital” on the side of the ambulance and are there waiting for us.” Brian answered.

“Shit,” said John.

“We could go to a different hospital. St. Vincent's is close.” I said.

“Do they have ice cream?” John asked.

“Vanilla, strawberry and chocolate, frozen rock hard in little cups” I said. “It's the hospital where I am in training so if you are real good I can get you a real spoon instead of a wooden one.”

“Training for what?” asked Brian.

“Nursing. I'm a student nurse.”

Brian looked startled. John was not paying attention—we had just hit a pothole. I reached out and touched his hand and he held on to my fingers and closed his eyes.

“St. Vincent's has a good orthopedic group. I think that's mostly what we need,” I said. “and it is closer,” I added, thinking of the number of turns and potholes between us and the University.

“We're supposed to transport to University,” said the ambulance attendant.

“St. Vincent's,” said John through clenched teeth.

“St Vincent's!” Brian repeated firmly, almost fiercely.

“OK. The customer is always right,” the ambulance man said. He turned around to the driver's compartment and told his partner the change in plans.

Brian spent the rest of the trip apologizing to John. He was quite emotional and John just kept saying “It's all right, Brian.”

When Brian started with “heads will roll” kind of things, John said, “Come on, Eppy. Bound to happen sometime. Just been lucky so far.”

Brian let it go then, but something in his face told me he was not finished with the topic. Someone was going to get raked over the coals for this.

We arrived at the hospital with a half dozen reporters on our tail, pulled into the ER entrance, unloaded John, and rolled him inside. The ER staff was waiting and things moved quickly. Brian and Tony were dealing with reporters, so Mal was grabbed by a clipboard-toting desk nurse. Forms needed to be filled out. John was moved immediately into the trauma room, and I went with him.

By the time the doctor arrived a minute later they had already done a primary assessment and were cutting John's clothes off of him. Knowing what to expect, I grabbed a towel and covered him as they pulled his trousers and underwear away. The doctor went over John, poking and prodding chest and stomach, arms and legs, and “Hmm-ing”. Nurses barraged John with questions about allergies, medical history. One of them took his contact lenses out.

A flash of light from above and to the side startled everyone. I spun around and looked up to see a man with a camera snapping shots over the top of the curtain that separated the cubicles. Blinded by the repeated flashes as the camera man kept on, I simply reached up and grabbed. I connected with a strap on the camera and pulled. The man behind the camera hung on, but because he had the strap around his neck he was pulled forward. He had one arm over the curtain rod and was trying to pull the camera back from me. I didn't want to let go, but I really didn't know what I would do with it if I did get it away from him. I couldn't exactly take it and run, or smash it on the floor. All I wanted was the pictures… or at least the film. I began fumbling around trying to figure out how to open the film compartment.

He roared in protest at that and tried valiantly to pull the camera back but his struggles only succeeded in knocking over the chair he was standing on. He clutched wildly to hang on and got both arms over the rod. The rod began to give. Because it was a U shape, attached to the wall only at the head of the stretcher, it began to sag at the bottom end. The man began to slide down the rod. When he reached the point where he could get his feet back on the ground, he gave a big yank and pulled the camera out of my hand. He made a beeline for the door, and I let him go—but I had gotten the film compartment open and grabbed the film. As he reached the door he realized the film was gone and wheeled around to face me. I held up the film and tugged, unrolling it and ensuring the entire role was ruined. With an indignant snarl, he turned and left.

Everyone was laughing, and one of the nurses said “You just ruined that guy's chance at a Pulitzer Prize!”

“And me big chance to be a centerfold,” added John.

“Well, maybe your x-rays will make the New England Journal of Medicine,” said the doctor. “Time to get some pictures and sort what is broken from what is bruised.” He turned to pick up the chart and began giving orders as he wrote. “We need full skull, spinal—include a swimmer's view in the C-spine—AP and lateral chest, right forearm, right wrist… let's do the right hand too… left shoulder, left clavicle, left knee all views, left hip… hmm… and just to be sure, get film of the pelvis too. I don't think we need to do a belly tap but we'll get a urine for blood. Set up a suture tray. I'll take care of the laceration after he gets back from x-ray.”

As the doctor went on writing orders, one of the nurses grabbed a stack of x-ray requisitions and began filling them out. The other went to the phone and called for an orderly, then called x-ray to tell them what was coming over to them. Mal came in with Brian and Tony just then one of the nurses moved to block them from the room. “It's OK. They are with John,” I said.

They eyed the curtain dragging on the floor and the bent rod. “Giving them trouble, John?” Mal asked.

“Nothing Terry can't handle,” he replied.

I still had the film in my hands and I handed it to Mal. He looked bewildered, but the nurse on the phone was saying to someone “We've already thrown one reporter out. He came right into the exam room and was taking pictures!”

“She strangled him with his camera strap, hung him over the pole, and stole his film.” John said. Mal looked at me, but I was looking at John. He was trying to smile, but it was plain he was really hurting.

Brian was talking to the doctor, and I walked over to them and took a deep breath. Student nurses do NOT speak to doctors unless spoken to.

“Excuse me, Doctor.” I said. “Could you order something for pain before he goes to x-ray?”

He put the chart down and headed for the door, tossing orders over his shoulder. “75 of Demerol now, 50 - 75 every four hours PRN, and find out if Latham is in the house. The ortho boys will be furious if we leave them out of this.”

“OK” I said and sent a panicky look at one of the other nurses. I wasn't allowed to take a verbal order from a physician. Only an RN could take it and write it on the chart. I couldn't get the medication because it was in a locked narcotic drawer, and I had no idea how to find out if Dr. Latham was in the building. Mighty slayer of reporters one minute, lowly student the next.

The other nurse said “It's OK, I'll write it,” and picked up the chart. She unpinned the narc keys from her pocket, handed them to me and gestured to the drawer. “You can get it out but I'll have to sign for it,” she said.

I went to the cabinet, unlocked the drawer, got the Demerol and handed the narcotic record sheet to her. She finished the order in the chart, then scribbled her signature on the narc record. She loaded the Demerol into the syringe and tapped the syringe to move any bubbles to the top. As she held the syringe up pushed the plunger slightly to remove the air, I thought “It's a good thing it's not George!” thinking of the needle scene in Help!. Then I realized how ridiculous that thought was. I had no idea if George was afraid of needles! It was a movie! I realized with a little shock that everything I thought I knew about the Beatles as individuals was based on the naive assumption that they were being themselves in the movies. Were John, Paul, George and Ringo anything like the Beatles in their movies? John the troublemaker, Ringo the sad eyed clown, Paul the flirt, and laid-back George. Was any of that real? I remembered George roaring with anger, Paul seemingly unaware of both Connie and me, Ringo talking softly to John when John was in pain. And John… swearing, sarcastic, with a dirty mind. Troublemaker? No doubt… but there was so much more in his eyes.

The nurse was explaining to John about the pain shot and I watched as she smoothly darted the needle into his thigh and injected. The orderly arrived to move John to X-ray. As he entered the trauma room, he looked in mild surprise at the curtain sweeping the floor and the rod hanging at head collision level. Then he saw his patient. His mouth dropped open and for a moment he looked really idiotic. I wondered if I had looked as silly when I first saw John. Geez, I hoped not! The orderly recovered quickly though and managed to stammer “Hello John… err... Mr. Lennon.”

“John” said John.

“X-ray” said the nurse shoving the chart into the orderly's hands. As they moved the stretcher out the door I grabbed a blanket from the linen cart knowing that x-ray was a chilly place. Out in the hall, the nurses' station was full of nurses, hospital security guards, housekeepers, and anyone else who could make up some excuse to visit the ER that afternoon. They gawked as we moved past them to the x-ray department Brian and Tony went off with a hospital supervisor and the head of security to plan the impending media circus but Mal stayed with John and me.

As we arrived in x-ray, it was pretty obvious the word was out as to who the multiple trauma was. Every radiologist, tech, receptionist, file clerk and gopher in the department was waiting and trying to look as though they were busy, not rubber necking. It was a relief to get into the privacy of the x-ray room. The tech lifted the phone and paged overhead “Lifting help in Room 3, please.” There was a stampede to our door and the orderly and I looked at each other and laughed, knowing that even a STAT page seldom got that kind of response. They slid John onto the x-ray table and this time he yelled. I leaned over him. He was as white as the sheet. “My shoulder,” he finally managed to say.

“The Demerol will kick in soon,” I promised him.

The radiologist arrived and I put on one of the lead aprons so I could stay in the room. We were in x-ray for over an hour. The positioning for the various x-rays wasn't too bad unless they had to move his shoulder, and things got better quickly as the Demerol kicked in. The lead apron I was wearing felt like exactly that and my shoulders and back ached by the time they were done. As we waited for the last x-rays to be developed in case a retake was needed, John drifted in and out of a hazy sleep. Finally the radiologist announced we were done and we headed back to ER.

Brian and Tony were waiting. John listened foggily as Brian told him he would call his wife, Cynthia, as soon as he talked to the doctor. “And Aunt Mimi” John said as he fell back to sleep.

The ER doctor came in and pulled over the tray the nurse had set up to suture John's head. A brief discussion of how much hair needed to be shaved, (I was more concerned than John seemed to be!) some xylocaine to numb the area, and John fell back to sleep while the doctor put in a half dozen stitches.

Dr. Latham arrived, x-rays in hand. He introduced himself to John and said “So you are one of the Beatles my daughter is so crazy about. I'd ask for your autograph for her, but from the looks of these films, you probably would rather not.” He put some x-rays up on the viewer and began to go over the results. “No spinal fractures. Your right lower arm has a break. Not displaced so no surgery will be needed. We'll just get a cast on that.”

He pulled the sheet back and examined John as he went on. John gritted his teeth as the doctor prodded and poked and continued, “You've got three cracked ribs over here, so we'll tape you up. Your left clavicle—collar bone—is broken. It’s a little out of alignment, but I think a figure-8 splint and arm sling will take care of it. The x-rays show your shoulder isn't dislocated. I suspect it may have been somewhat, but it slipped back in place on its own, but you do have a fractured scapula—shoulder blade. That's what is hurting so bad. There's not much we need to do about that. It will heal on its own.” Again a long pause while he looked at John's knee, poked it, lifted it, turned it. John gritted his teeth again, but this time managed to swear profoundly. The Liverpool accent was so strong I couldn't make out all of the words, but I had no doubt of their nature. Dr. Latham went on with his exam, with a brief, perfunctory, “Sorry.” Finally he said, “Your knee is only sprained, nothing broken and I don't believe there are any torn ligaments. We'll put that leg in an immobilizer for a while, then see if a knee brace will do… Questions?”

“When can I go home?”

“Well, You need to stay here for a few days. You are going to be pretty uncomfortable, and you took quite a knock on the head. We need to keep you under observation for a while.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” said John tiredly.

It was after 7:00 P.M. before we were finally ready to move John to his room. His arm was casted, his ribs taped, a splint put across his shoulders pulling them back, a sling on his arm to keep the weight of his arm from pulling on his clavicle, and a padded thigh to ankle immobilizer brace put on his leg. The Demerol had pretty much worn off and John was in a lot of pain by the time they finished. The orderly was paged once again and we moved him up to the third floor. Our entourage now included Brian, Tony, Mal, a hospital security supervisor, one of the Beatles security people, some hospital big-wig in a suit, and the evening nursing supervisor. As we entered the nursing unit, we were met by his nurse for the evening. Marge was a big, middle aged, motherly woman. I was really glad to see her. She was one of my favorite nurses to work with.

“He needs another pain shot,” I said instead of hello. Without batting an eye she handed John's chart to another nurse and told her to “Bring whatever is on the menu.” We moved John into the room. Marge herded all but Rob, the nursing supervisor, and me out into the hall. Moving John from stretcher to bed took only a minute, but John was white with pain again when we finished. Marge briskly went about assessing him. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature, respirations, breath sounds, abdomen, circulation / motor / sensation of his right hand and left foot to make certain the cast and splint weren't cutting off the circulation, pupils, level of consciousness. The other nurse came in with the pain medication and injected it with a brisk efficiency I envied. We slipped a hospital gown on him, elevated the wet cast on a pillow, and cranked the head of the bed up a bit.

Finally, Marge gave him a sip of water, fluffed his pillow, tucked the sheet in around him, put the nurse call button in his hand and said “Now you just let that pain shot work. You'll sleep for a bit, then we'll see if you are ready for a bite to eat.”

She started to herd us out of the room, but I saw John looking at me and the look was clear. I said “I'm staying.”

She looked at me for a moment, then back at John. “She stays, Mum,” he said.

“OK, CMS checks every hour. I'll bring the chart in to you.”

She bustled out, herding the others in front of her. The door swooshed shut behind them. Silence. Privacy. John turned to look at me. I stepped up next to the bed, reached out and touched his hand.

“Terry… “ he said softly.

“Yes, John” I said, gazing into his eyes and thinking “This is the moment I'll remember forever.”

“Help me up. I really have to piss.”

I went around to the other side of the bed and pulled the urinal out of the bedside stand. “You'll have to make do with this.”

He eyed it disgustedly for a moment. “Bloody fuckin' hell.”

He couldn't use either hand, and I knew from experience the less fuss the better. I lifted the sheet and his gown, put the urinal in place and said “I'll be back in a few minutes” and headed for the door.

“I can't do this lying down!” he said.

I cranked the head of the bed up to forty five degrees. “Just imagine you've been drinking beer all day.” He smiled at that and I left the room.

Outside the door, a security person was posted. I went to the utility room and got a urine specimen container and then to the nurses' station to call my roommates. Sandy answered, and when she heard my voice went off with a squeal. “We saw you on the news! What happened? Is he OK? Where are you? Did you see Ringo?” (Her favorite.)

“I can't talk now. He's fine, but I'm going to stay with him for a while. I don't know when I'll get home.” I verbally pried her off the phone and hung up.

Several nurses gathered around asking questions. I was trying to be polite but I really didn't want to talk about my patient. If I couldn't maintain patient confidentiality, they surely wouldn't. One of the nurses who was actually still working, sitting at the desk charting, had not said anything. She finally looked up and said “I think we have other patients to take care of.” I was grateful to her for about two seconds, then she stood up, slammed the chart back into the rack and said, “That man does not belong in a Christian hospital anyway,” and stomped away.

The rest of us looked at each other in amazement. Someone giggled and said “Not a Beatles fan I guess!” The conversation turned to John's “bigger than Christ” remarks that had made headlines just a couple of weeks earlier and triggered tirades from pulpits, banning of their music on some radio stations, burning of Beatles records and pictures. I slipped away from the group and went back to John.

I took the urinal, filled the specimen cup, relieved to see that it was not blood tinged. I went out to the nurses station and gave the cup to a nursing assistant to take to the lab.

When I got back to John, he wanted to call Cynthia, so I checked to see if he could make a transatlantic call. The hospital operator put the call through, then rang the room. I spoke to Cynthia and explained I was John's nurse. Brian had already called her she said, but she sounded so upset, I went over everything with her again, what had happened, what was broken, bruised, what the doctor had said, and tried to reassure her. When I held the phone for John, he reassured her he was all right. She apparently wanted to fly to the States, because he said “There's no point, Cyn. I'll be out of here and back home in a couple of days.” He asked about their son Julian, laughed about something she told him. Then, “The tour is over. As soon as they let me out of hospital I'm coming home… No, really… I hurt all over but they just gave me a shot and I feel pretty good… getting sleepy… Call Mimi and tell her I'm OK?… yeah… Goodnight Cyn… yeah… Ring you tomorrow… goodnight, Cyn.”

Brian came in about then. I had felt like an eavesdropper during the ambulance ride so I quickly left to wait out in the hall. Brian came out after just a few minutes, said he was returning to the hotel, and gave me instructions to contact him immediately if anything came up. After I had reassured him three times I would do exactly that, he headed off down the hall with a determined stride. I figured that whoever had arranged security at the hotel was about to get his walking papers.

I went back in to John, did a quick check of the circulation to his right hand and left foot and turned off the over-bed light thinking he would fall asleep. The late evening sun was coming in the windows so I went over to close the curtains.

“Oh my God,” was all I could say. Fans packed the grassy area in front of the hospital and spilled out into the street. The little park across from the hospital was filled. Police were directing traffic and trying to keep the fans behind barricades. Reporters were filming everything in sight. I turned back to John.

“How many?” he asked, knowing without asking what I was seeing.

“I don't know. Hundreds, maybe thousands.”

“If they get out of hand you'll get the boot for bringing me here.”

“No… listen.” I opened the window. There was a constant hum of noise from the crowd, but no screaming, no singing, just an occasional small outburst of noise from a group here or there.

John closed his eyes. “God, they must think I'm dead”

“No, they have all kinds of signs. “Get well soon” and “We love you, John” stuff.”

“I need a cigarette. In me shirt pocket.”

“Well, your cigarettes are here but your shirt is in a trash can in ER.” I lit one up and held it for him.

Big drag, big sigh. “I expect that shirt is now snipped into bits and being sold out front. Someone will make a fortune.”

“Imagine what your underwear is selling for!”

John started laughing, and couldn't stop even though it hurt. “God, I hope it was clean!” he managed to say, and we both were caught up in one of those post-crisis laughing fits, unloading all the tension of the long day. After that we sat quietly in the darkening room while John smoked. He managed to hold the cigarette in his left hand and I sat on the side of the bed holding the ashtray out to him as he needed it. He finished the cigarette and I asked if he wanted anything to eat. He said no, and in another minute he was asleep.

I sat quietly next to him for a long time, just watching him breathe, watching the setting sun pick up the red highlights in his hair, wondering why his hair never looked that color in pictures, thinking he was even better looking in person than in pictures, noticing that he looked a lot thinner than he had in “Help”… wondering if he would wake up if touched his cheek. Finally, hunger and the need to use the bathroom got me up and moving. I asked the security guard to sit with him while I got something to eat and told Marge where I was going.

I went to the bathroom, then to the cafeteria. When I got there, I realized I had no money. My purse was back at the hotel, locked in my car. Luckily, my student uniform got me a sandwich on credit. When I saw the congregation of reporters in the cafeteria dining area, I went back upstairs where I ate my sandwich in the nurse's locker room while I tried to figure out how I was going to get back to the hotel to get my car. I didn't have the money for a taxi. I hoped that if I left when the evening shift got off at midnight someone would drop me off at home or take me over to the hotel.

John was sleeping soundly when I got back. I spent a few minutes writing notes in his chart, then sat by the window watching the crowd. Marge was in and out a couple of times in the next two hours checking on John but mostly delivering bouquet after bouquet of flowers. Mal came in, and after I reassured him that John was fine, he said he was headed back to the hotel. There would be one of his people outside the door and one downstairs working with hospital security and the police. If John needed anything, they could reach him or Brian.

At 10:00 P.M. John woke up as I was checking his cast and fingers. He asked who the flowers were from and I read the tags to him. There were small bouquets from fans, big ones from Capitol Records, Murray the K, and several of the tour promoters. Marge came in and said “You're on TV!” and flipped it on. The report showed film of the scene at the airport, at the hotel as they arrived, and a mercifully brief interview with a hysterical fan who had been in the mob right behind John when he fell. Apparently she had gotten inside the door for a few minutes before being pushed back out, long enough to see what happened to John. “He was just lying there!” she sobbed over and over. That was followed by scenes of the ambulance arriving and John being brought out to the ambulance and a closing shot of my backside as Brian pulled me up into the ambulance. John and Marge laughed as I squirmed with embarrassment.

“Your best side!” Marge teased.

The TV newsman went on to say that John had been taken to St. Vincent's hospital. “A hospital spokesperson denied that the en-route change in hospitals was because he was in critical condition and St. Vincent's was closer.”

“They obviously don't know about the ice cream,” John commented.

“Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager, met with reporters this evening,”—film of Brian appeared in the background— “and stated that the Beatle was in good condition but had sustained a fracture of the right arm and left collar bone. He is being hospitalized overnight for observation.” Brian disappeared and footage of the scene on the hospital grounds at about 8:00 P.M. came on. “Hundreds of Beatles fans are waiting outside the hospital tonight. The question of whether these fans will still have the opportunity to see their idols tomorrow night remains to be answered. Their manager stated no decision had yet been made as to whether the concert will go on as scheduled without John Lennon.”

The news moved on to sports and Marge brought in a big stack of towels and the tray we use to shampoo hair when the patient can't get out of bed. “You've got dried blood all over your hair and the back of your neck” she explained as she lowered the head of the bed. John didn't object, apparently knowing it wouldn't do any good. I poured water while Marge shampooed, working carefully around the stitches. When we finished, I tried to towel dry his hair. Marge got a comb out of his admission kit and slicked it back. I started laughing and took the comb away from her, combed it forward, ran my fingers through it to fluff it up a little. “This is how it's supposed to be.”

“Needs a haircut,” Marge pronounced and John laughed. She encouraged John to try to eat something. He agreed to a cup of tea and she insisted on toast also. He gave in and she went out to fix it for him. I asked John if he wanted to watch TV and he said “No, it makes me head hurt.”

“You can have another pain shot in about a half hour.”

“Good… Ciggie?”

I helped him with the cigarette, and when Marge brought in a tray of tea and toast and I helped him eat. He took only a few bites of toast and sipped a little tea through a straw. He was in obvious pain by then. “How bad is the headache?” I asked.

“Bad,” he said.

“Shoulder?”

“Bad.”

I went to find Marge. The unit was quiet, hall lights turned down reminding me how late it was. I found Marge and told her John was getting quite uncomfortable. She signed out another dose of Demerol and asked if I would give it so she could finish her charting. I went back and gave it, hoping to imitate a smooth technique and settling for just not shaking as I injected.

I turned off the light over the bed and sat down to record the medication and circulation check in his chart. When I looked up, he was looking at me. “You must be tired,” he said.

“Yeah, its getting late, and it's been a very unusual day for me,” I said laughing.

“Me too… though the way this summer has gone, this could be considered one of the better.” There was something tight in his voice. Angry. Hurt. I didn't know what to say, so I just got up and walked over to the bed and touched his hand. He smiled a little.

“You have a ticket for the concert?”

“Couldn't afford it. I'm a struggling student. That's why I took the job at the first aide station today. Thought I might get lucky and catch a glimpse of you as you arrived at the hotel.”

“Well, you've gotten more than a glimpse, haven't you now!” he laughed, nodding at the urinal hanging on the side rail.

“One of the fringe benefits of nursing, but we are never supposed to admit we really look!”

He laughed. After a moment he said quietly, “Thanks for coming with me, Terry.”

“My pleasure, John.”

He closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep. I lowered the head of the bed, turned on the night lights in the room and turned off the overhead light. The minute I sat down in the chair next to the bed, I suddenly felt exhausted. It was only going to be a half hour or so until the night shift arrived, though, and as tired as I was, I knew I wouldn't fall asleep easily tonight

I thought John was asleep, but he said quietly, “I should talk to Paul… he's going to have to decide. Brian won't.”

I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but I offered to dial the hotel for him. I heard him laugh softly. “Can't ring him. I don't know the friggin' password.”

“One of your security people is outside. He can get through,” I suggested and started to get up.

“No, luv… never mind… It doesn't matter.” There was a long pause and then, very softly, wearily he said, “It's all over anyway. It's all fuckin' over.”

I had spent the day wincing every time we had to move John, hurting for him, trying to anticipate and minimize his discomfort whenever I could, but as I sat there next to him I felt more helpless than I had all day. I couldn't do anything about the pain in those words.

He went on, speaking softly but in a voice laced with sarcasm and anger. “We went from singing a song for a few bob to singing for an MBE and being the economic salvation of Britain. We ran around in front of a camera and they said we are the next Marx Brothers. I wrote some lines and I am the reincarnation of Lewis Fuckin' Carroll. They've got this idea of who we are—who I am, but it is bullshit. When I tell them what I think, tell them the fuckin' truth—we are more popular than Christ!—they want me dead. But I bash me bloody head in and kids are in a prayer vigil outside the room and I'm getting flowers from people who spent the last three years stealing me money. Bloody fuckin' insane.”

There was no point in trying to answer. His breathing slowed and the Demerol pulled him down into sleep. I sat in the dark, feeling an empty ache inside. Something he had said earlier in the day came back to me. “The last fuckin' day of the last fuckin' American tour.” At the time I had taken it to be just an angry response to having gotten clobbered in a security foul-up but now I knew it went far deeper. Coming right on top of the whole Christ business with its anti-Beatle rallies, record smashing, the attempt at an explanation and an apology that no one seemed to want to hear, today’s accident was the final straw. America wasn't so Beatle crazy anymore, and The Beatles probably didn't have warm feelings for America anymore, either. Even so, as glad as they might have been to end the tour and go home, it had to feel like they were going home having lost something, taking a step back down from being on top of the world.

It was nearly eleven thirty, time to go report off to Marge and see about a ride back to my car. I sat a moment longer, wishing he would wake up so I could say goodbye and knowing I wouldn't know what to say anyway. There was a soft knock at the door and I looked up expecting to see Marge. The door opened and Paul stood there outlined by the light from the hallway. He hesitated then stepped just inside the room as if uncertain about coming in. I got up and went to him.

“He's asleep, then?” he asked. Not a whisper, but soft and low.

“He had a pain shot a while ago. They put him to sleep.”

Paul moved past me and stood at the foot of the bed looking at John, and Neil followed Paul into the room..

“How is he?” Neil asked me.

“He is sore and has a bad headache, but he is going to be fine.”

Paul turned a little and looked back over his shoulder at me.

“Honest,” I said.

He smiled a little and looked a bit embarrassed to have implied he doubted me.

“I think he would want you to wake him up,” I told him. “He wants to talk to you. He talked about trying to call you.”

Paul looked uncertain.

“I need to check his hand again anyway.” I said, stepped past him and turned the over-bed light on low. “Hey, John. Wake up,” I said, leaning over him and speaking softly in his ear. As I checked his fingers for swelling, coldness, or paleness, he stirred, tried to stretch, groaned a little and opened his eyes for just a moment.

“Squeeze my fingers, John.” He squeezed. I went through the rest of the process, asking him which finger I was touching, pressing on the nailbed to see how quickly the color returned to see how good the blood flow was.

“You've got company,” I told him.

He opened his eyes, blinking a little in the light. He looked at Paul. “How did you escape, mate?”

Neil and Paul exchanged a grin. “Well,” Paul said with a telling glance at me, “It seems Brian found a little … um … distraction.”

John started laughing. “Where did you find such a thing here in … wherever we are?”

“I didn't. Honest! Found 'im, it did!” Paul said. “They're everywhere.”

“Eppy really needed to relax a bit tonight,” Neil added.

Paul darted a look at me and I hoped the curiosity his words had aroused wasn't showing too blatantly on my face. What had Brian “found”? I suspected he was referring to a woman of ill repute.

“Oh? I'll bet.” John was laughing, but there was concern in his voice as well as humor. “Did he…?”

Paul knew what the unspoken question was. “Best ever! Never seen him so…” Another quick look at me and he finished with an obviously toned down “upset.”

“Mal?”

“No! No, we got him off that right off. Well, at least no worse than any of our crew,” Paul said with a sympathetic look at Neil, “but some poor local sod…” Paul grimaced and shook his head as if recalling something distinctly unpleasant.

Obviously they needed a few minutes to talk privately. I said quickly, “John, I just need to check your foot.”

I finished my circulation check and put the head of his bed up a little. “I'll be outside if you need anything,” I said and took the chart and slipped out of the room.

Neil came out of the room a few minutes later and stepped up to the nurses station to ask what he should bring in for John. John wanted his clothes. I laughed and told Neil that John wouldn't be needing them in the morning but to bring them anyway—it would make him feel less like a prisoner here—and to bring his robe, shaving supplies, etc.

Neil was soon surrounded by more staff than any nursing unit ever had during any change of shift. Everyone was talking with Neil but they were watching the door to John's room. I sat down to finish charting, then asked if anyone could give me a ride home, explaining that my car was at the Radisson. Neil said “I'll give you a lift back to your car if you like.”

“Great!”

“Of course you'll have to ride in back with Paul,” he teased. Everyone laughed, a couple of girls asked for rides—anywhere, it didn't matter!

Marge introduced me to Ellen, a private duty nurse Brian had arranged for. I took her aside and gave her the report on John's condition. When we finished, Ellen took the chart and said to everyone, “Well, I'd better go see my patient. Eat your hearts out you guys!”

“Could you wait just a bit?” I asked. “He's talking with Paul right now.”

Ellen sat back down and started reviewing the chart. Most of the evening shift, who usually disappeared like Cinderella's coach at the stroke of midnight, hung around conspicuously. Finally Paul came out of John's room.

Now that he wasn't standing right next to me, I could really look at him. Same light blue shirt as earlier but now with blue jeans. Loafers, no socks, and every bit as gorgeous as he looked in pictures. Lord, that man was a distraction!

“I need a minute to say goodbye to John,” I said to Neil. He nodded and I hurried back to John. He was still awake.

“Brian arranged for a private duty nurse for the rest of the night, so I guess I'll be going…” I said. “ I… I'm glad I got to meet you. I wish it had been different circumstances.”

“I'm glad you were there today, luv,” he said. “I can't manage an autograph and I don't even want to think about hugging anybody, so would a kiss be out of line?”

“I think that would be just fine,” I said. Not very professional behavior I supposed, but I was not going to pass it up!

As I leaned over the side rail, he grinned that wicked grin and said, “Good, I'll get Paul for you!”

I started to laugh, “You are really awful, John Lennon!” And because I liked this guy, not because he was a Beatle, I kissed him on the cheek. He kissed my cheek and I said “Goodbye, John” softly in his ear. I straightened up, looked at him for just another moment, and pulled myself away and out the door.

Paul was at the nurses' station, smiling, talking with the nursing staff. Neil saw me come out of the room, poked Paul, and they said goodnight to everyone. We walked to the elevator and once inside I stole a glance at Paul. The cheerful smile he had given the nursing staff was gone. He looked tired and distracted.

Downstairs in the lobby Mal was waiting for us. The lobby was full of reporters and there was no time for discussion, just a brief interchange between Mal and Neil confirming that Mal would stay at the hospital all night.

Paul's smile reappeared somewhat as the cameras snapped. He stopped long enough to tell them John was fine and to say “Please don't let Brian know that I squeaked out. He'll have me head and put me on curfew!”

The reporters laughed and we moved out the front doors to the waiting car. A wail went up as the fans spotted Paul. Neil opened the back door and Paul stood back to let me in, waving and smiling at the fans, but Neil grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the car. He got in, and I followed quickly, sharing Neil's desire to get him out of there immediately. Neil closed the door and jumped into the front seat and the driver had the car moving before his door shut. We moved around the circle drive and away from the hospital. I was amazed at the size of the crowd. It was after midnight. Didn't these kids have to go home?

The car wasn't air conditioned and, once away from the hospital, Neil and the driver opened their windows. The air was cool and fresh after the afternoon storm.

“Nice night,” Neil said.

“Ya, been really dry, we needed the rain,” said the driver in a plain old Minnesota voice. It sounded incredibly dull after a day of Liverpool accents.

Paul rolled his window down, leaned his head back and stared out the window. After a moment he said, “Drive slowly. I'm in no hurry to go back to another night in a hotel.”

Neil scanned the street behind us, and, satisfied that the police and security had done their job and kept anyone from following us, nodded to the driver and we slowed down. We drove in silence, with Paul just staring out the window but not seeming to see anything. I pulled the bobby pins out of my nursing cap and took it off and sat trying not to stare at Paul. As we passed the street where I turned to go home, I thought about the section of it that curved along a small lake and about Paul’s reluctance to go back to the hotel.

I sat up and touched Neil's shoulder. “Could we take a little detour? I know of a nice drive along the lake.”

He looked back at Paul who didn't seem to have heard. “Yeah,” Neil said. I told the driver to turn left, and we circled back to the street I wanted. It was quiet along the lake with no traffic, no people, just a beautiful summer night. Paul was sitting up now and looking out at the water and Neil was watching Paul.

“Pull over,” said Paul. The driver looked at Neil, Neil nodded, and the car eased up along the curb. Paul opened his door and got out. Neil was out in a flash and around the car. I got out too, and as I walked around the car, Paul leaned back against the car and said “Grass” softly.

Neil looked startled. “I don't …”

Paul laughed. “No. They must have cut the grass today. You can smell it. Martha would love this. She'd be in the lake in a flash.”

“That's what we need—a sopping wet monster of a dog,” Neil joked as he and Paul light up cigarettes. The meaning of that exchange was a little slow in coming to me. Martha as in Paul's sheepdog. Grass as in marijuana, pot. Why was I surprised? Same stupid naivety as thinking they were the people in their movies!

Paul started across the street. “Keep your eyes open,” Neil said to the driver and followed Paul. I hung back, not wanting to intrude, but they kept on going, down to the edge of the lake. The grass looked so cool and inviting that I went ahead and crossed the street to a group of trees along the sidewalk. I sat down on the grass in front of one and leaned back against the trunk. White uniforms and grass don't mix well, but I was too tired and the night too beautiful to care about grass stains.

I could hear Paul and Neil talking quietly. The only words that drifted back to me were “One hundred and eighty thousand.” From behind me I could hear the sounds of a baseball game. The driver had turned on the radio. Were the Twins playing on the west coast? Too late for a home game to be on.

It was a classic Minnesota summer night. Moonlight on the water, a soft breeze, and baseball in the background. Adding one more bit of incredulousness to the night, there were no mosquitoes! Beautiful nights in Minnesota were generally ruined by them. The city must have sprayed the parks recently. I sat in the cool grass thinking , “Of course there are no mosquitoes. There are no mosquitoes in dreams.”

This whole day had to be some kind of dream and this kind of night was the perfect ending. It was the kind of night that always made me feel restless and alone, a night made for romance but there was no time for romance in my life, hadn't been since I started nursing school. As a farm girl from the sticks, living in Minneapolis in an apartment with two roommates was a lot of fun. I was meeting a lot of people, had lots of friends from the nursing school, and knew a number of students from the University of Minnesota. I and really was having a good time in spite of working every weekend, but romance? Someone special in my life? No, that wasn't happening. Working a lot of evening and night shifts and every weekend really made dating difficult. I would occasionally find some guy still unattached when I arrived at a party after I got off work at midnight, even let them drive me home sometimes, but even when they were interested enough to ask me out, “I have to work next weekend, and the next, and the next” just didn't get me a steady boyfriend. Even so, aside from some jealousy as I watched my roommates dressing up for date night while I pulled on a nursing uniform, waitress uniform, or whatever my current job required, and these odd moments of longing for someone, I was really quite happy. I knew all this was temporary. One more year and I would graduate, get a real nursing job and then…

I sat there on the cool grass, watching the moonlight on the water, feeling those restless, wanting feelings and I had to laugh. The perfect night and I was here with Paul McCartney! Heartthrob of the world! An unattainable heartthrob and very distracted heartthrob though. Paul hardly seemed to know I was along.

I pulled my nursing shoes off, wishing I could peel off my nylons. My feet were hot and sweaty and the cool grass felt wonderful.

Paul and Neil didn't seem to be talking now. After a bit Paul moved off along the shore. Neil watched Paul for a moment, and apparently decided he was safe enough on his own and let him go. He looked back and saw me and came and sat on the grass next to me. Paul wandered further down the lake, then stood for a long while, arms crossed, just looking out at the water.

“Is he OK?” I asked softly.

“Yeah,” said Neil. “He just needs to think.”

“John said he would have to decide about something… The concert?”

“Yeah. The promoters want them to go ahead with the one tomorrow night—tonight—without John. They figure most of the tickets are already sold, and all this publicity will make it a sellout. Kids wanting to show they care kind of thing.”

“But they don't want to do it?”

“Want to? Hell, no… they haven't wanted to do any of this tour.”

“Why?” I asked, startled enough by that to take my eyes off of Paul.

Neil sighed. “I guess nobody realizes how bloody awful it is on the road. Hotels and planes, lousy food, no privacy. Locked up with each other day after day. The only other people they see are people who want something from them.”

“They must enjoy playing though. They would never even gone to Hamburg or any tours if they didn't.”

“Yeah, but now there is no music worth caring about. They can't do their new stuff. It just doesn't work on stage. Nobody listens anyway.” He laughed. “Hell, the whole sound system could fail halfway through and no one would know… They have been doing it for years. I guess it was fun at first, but this year… Lord, what a mess.”

“The Jesus Christ thing?”

“And the threats in Japan, and the Philippine Disaster.”

“What?”

Neil told me about threats made and tight security on their Japanese tour because they were performing in an auditorium that had previously used primarily for Shinto religious rites. They were literally locked in their hotel except for the concert itself. When the police found out that Paul had sneaked out in disguise for a tour of Tokyo, they threatened to withdraw their security and let them fend for themselves. Things only got worse on the next leg of their tour. They escaped from the Philippines with half their luggage after being boycotted by the hotel staff, taxi drivers, airport crew, and after running through a gauntlet of angry people who hit, kicked, and pushed. Mal was shoved to the ground and ended up with a cracked vertebrae. They carried their own luggage aboard the plane and breathed a sigh of relief only to have Brian and Mal ordered off the plane. They were allowed to re-board only after agreeing to hand over their share of the concert income. All because no one knew about—or recognized the importance of—an invitation from Imelda Marcos for a luncheon the day after the concert. They didn't show, Imelda was humiliated, and her people were furious at the incredible insult to their adored First Lady.

Then came the United States and all the flak over a comment John had made the year before in a magazine interview. I hadn't known about what happened in Tokyo, and had heard only that some kind of foul up in Manila had irritated some of the people, but I thought I knew about the stuff going on in the Bible Belt of the American South over John's remark. Well, I knew about the bad publicity, the record burnings, but not about the Ku Klux Klan saying in a televised interview that if they didn't cancel the Memphis concert the Klan would stop it.

“We always take threats seriously,” Neil said, “but this wasn't some isolated loony It was a lot of angry people. They are sitting ducks out there on stage and they know it. They hate open limos, too.”

I realized with a horrible shock that Neil was referring to death threats and snipers. Since November 22, 1963, open limos were forever linked to assassinations.

Neil said softly, “I don't how they did it. I never could have gone on stage that night. It was bad enough just watching. Someone set off a firecracker and we all waited for John to fall.”

I shivered and felt goose bumps break out on my arms and a lump in my throat. I looked out at Paul, now sitting at the edge of the lake with his knees up and his arms across them. As we watched, he put his head down on his arms. Tiredness, worry, pressure, uncertainty, unhappiness, it all showed, even from two hundred feet away. After a bit, he raised his head again, got up and started skipping stones across the water.

“Why even think about doing the concert?” I asked Neil.

“Because they are going to lose a bundle on the Seattle and San Francisco concerts we have to cancel. If we go ahead with tonight it would help.”

I thought about what I had overheard: One hundred and eighty thousand. Dollars? Pounds?

“Is it a lot of money?”

“Not for the Beatles themselves. Groups don't make money on tours, promoters do, and the promoters are going to lose big. That lot have long memories. If the Beatles ever decide to tour again, they'll need the promoters.”

“If?”

“Well, they surely don't want to. They want to concentrate on recording, but no one knows if they can keep going if they don't pay back the fans by touring. Fans want to see the people whose records they spend their hard-earned money on.”

“What about TV?”

Neil laughed. “All there is on TV is guest appearances where they have to try to look natural while spouting some crap someone wrote for them. They hate that sort of thing. The music doesn't work even on TV. They can lip-synch their way through, but any idiot can tell that the music isn't being done by three guitarists and a drummer.”

“Movies?”

“We have looked through a roomful of scripts and proposals. It is either another “Day in the Life of the Teen Idols”, or another God-awful contrived story line like Help!. Anything else would require real acting and, except Ringo perhaps, none of them are very good at that.”

Paul was walking slowly back up the shore, hands stuffed in his pockets. He stopped to skip a couple more stones across the water. As he turned and headed back to us, my heart did a couple of skips too. He walked over to us and crouched down in front of me and asked “Are you a Beatles fan?”

The odd question jarred me out of the tongue tied fluster I had slipped into when I realized that this incredible moonlit apparition was going to sit down right in front of me and talk to me. I couldn't help laughing a little. “Yes, definitely … but I'm not a screaming thirteen year old!”

“Did you plan on going to the concert then?”

“No. I am saving every dime to finish school.”

“But had you bought a ticket,” he persisted, “would you still go knowing John wouldn't be there or would you want your money back?”

I hesitated, knowing he wanted more than a quick answer. He waited quietly, his dark eyes watching me. I had to look away to think.

“Well, knowing the reason why John wasn't there would make it all right,” I finally said. “Even though John is my favorite, I would still want to see the rest of you and I wouldn't feel gypped.”

Paul smiled and Neil burst out laughing, I guess at the idea of someone feeling gypped by only seeing three of the Fab Four. Paul sat down on the grass and lay back, stretching out in front of me with his hands under his head. I could have reached out and touched his face, his chest, his thigh… and for one awful second I thought my hands were going to do exactly that. I jammed my hands into the pockets of my uniform apron. I had never been so aware of the physical presence of a guy before. It was remarkable. Weird. Irritating! How could a person concentrate when he was around?

“So what are you going to do?” Neil asked after a while.

I didn't think Paul was going to answer, but finally he sat up and said tiredly, “I don't know. Brian says we really need to salvage what we can from this, but he'll understand if we don't want to go on without John. George says—” He stopped and glanced at me. “George says ‘No.’”

That was obviously not how George had phrased it.

“Ringo says he'll go along with whatever the rest of us decide. I thought John would say no, but all he said was, ‘Do whatever you want. I'm out of it.’”

Silence. Crickets, cars in the distance, and from the radio, the sound of a crack and a “line drive to right field.”

“What do you want, Paul?” I asked.

There was another silence. He didn't look at me when he finally answered. “I want to go back to the beginning and start over. Maybe this time we would know how to control it.”

The words were different, but the raw pain in them was like an echo of John saying “It's all over anyway.”

He went on and even though his voice was low and quiet, the frustration and anger in it exploded the still summer night. “If I can't have that, I want this to end with all four of us up there. Not like this. Not without John and not because of the fucking money and not just giving up and slipping out of the country. Not after all the shit we've been through this year… God … not like this.”

He pushed himself up from the ground and headed back to the car.

I sat in stunned silence for a moment. Neil got up. I pulled my shoes on and tied them blindly as hot tears stung my eyes. Neil reached out a hand and helped me up. “I'm sorry,” I said to Neil, my voice shaking. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

Neil put his arm around me. “It's all right, luv. He doesn't let things out much. Sometimes he seems pretty… Well, it's good to hear how he really feels.”

We went to the car and I got in the back. Paul looked at me, no meet the press smile now. He reached over and touched my hand. “Thanks for bringing me here. It's a great spot and a beautiful night,” he said.

I couldn't think of anything to say. I just nodded. He leaned back and closed his eyes, the car pulled out, and we drove back to the hotel in silence. As we pulled into the parking lot, Neil asked where my car was. I pointed it out and the driver pulled up next to it. Neil got out and opened the door for me. As I turned to get out, Paul said, “If you want to come to the concert, I'll see that you get whatever tickets you need.”

I turned back to him in surprise. “You're going ahead with it?”

“We really don't have a choice financially.” His voice was wooden and he was staring straight ahead as he spoke. “We'll drag up some of that famous Beatle pluck and get on with it.”

In spite of the tired emptiness in his tone, there was still sarcasm in that choice of words and there was an awkward silence before I said softly, “I'll be there.”

I got out of the car quickly, eyes burning again, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. Neil walked me to my car and ended up unlocking the door for me. I couldn't see the lock. He opened the door, I got in, and he handed me back the keys. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I took a deep breath, blinked back the tears and managed to smile at him. “I'm fine. It has just taken me twelve hours to get hysterical about meeting the Beatles!” He smiled back and asked how many tickets I wanted.

“Oh! Um, just one.” My friends, roommates, sister and all her friends already had tickets, I explained. He told me the ticket would be waiting at the box office for me, all I had to do was give them my name. I thanked him and said, “Goodbye Neil.”

“Goodbye Terry.”

He pushed my car door shut, got back in the other car, and the car moved away. It was time for me to go home.