Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story (37 page)

“Well, when we get the pool in, maybe, Mrs. Alden, you can sell it and get more money for it,” Vernon said.

Vernon had just admitted that Elvis wanted the home paid for. As I looked at my mother sitting there, my heart broke a second time, this time for her.

I was still trying to process what was happening here when Joe appeared from the kitchen, said a quick hello, then told Vernon they needed to hurry, as there was more business to be done.

It hit me that I had been here for a few minutes, yet not once had any of us talked about how much we all missed Elvis and how terrible it felt to be at Graceland without him being there.

I felt like I’d been strapped onto some sort of conveyer belt and Joe was moving things along. If this was “taking care of business,” it wasn’t being taken care of in the right way this time.

In a state of twisted emotions—loss, confusion, anger—I stood up in a daze as my mother and I said our good-byes to Vernon and Joe, walked out to the car, and drove away from Graceland. The hopes, dreams, and plans Elvis had been sharing with me up until five nights ago had vanished. It was being made clear to me by many around him that I was on my own.

My mother and I were silent on the ride home from Graceland. I looked over at her from time to time, my eyes getting misty. Elvis had been talking about buying a new home for my family since January, and had promised my mother that he would help her. I couldn’t believe that something he’d wanted to do so badly, something that we all thought had been taken care of—including Elvis—hadn’t been done at all.

Looking at the predicament my mother was in now, I wanted to ask God why, on top of me losing Elvis, was this happening to her?

Since my father had been paid his equity in the house, she held the mortgage and he was paying his own rent on an apartment. This meant that making the house note payments as well as paying her other bills would be a terrible financial burden on my mother. At the same time, she didn’t want to sell the house. We had to live somewhere.

The next day, my mother called the collections department to explain her situation. She wrote a letter and sent in a payment, concerned about foreclosure. A nice man who worked there told her if there was anything he could do, he’d be glad to try. He was kind enough to waive the late fee charges. The mortgage company was going to let her pay partial payments for a few months, until she caught up.

•   •   •

My depression deepened as the days slowly passed. I cried often and wouldn’t leave the house. My mother slept with me some nights as our family continued trying to process the tragedy.

We received odd calls during this time. One lady told my mother she was Gladys Presley and would watch over Lisa and me. Going from one extreme to the other, I even got a death threat. My mother did her best to protect me, fielding calls or refusing to answer the phone altogether.

I began to heed Elvis’s lessons and started meditating as I searched for answers to the many questions I had about my life. Why had Elvis and I met? What was the meaning of what I’d experienced with him? And why would I experience this amazing relationship, only to have it disappear almost as quickly as it had materialized?

The book written by some of Elvis’s former bodyguards had been released earlier that summer, but I made a conscious decision not to read it. I was in serious mourning, and these were people I didn’t know, talking about a time before I met Elvis. All I knew about the book was that it had wounded him, and that was enough reason not to touch it.

Ed Parker called to see how I was, which I deeply appreciated, and sometime later, George Klein took me out to lunch. During our meeting, George told me that, about three weeks before Elvis passed away, he had thanked George for introducing us.

This made me feel good. “Thank you,” I said. I needed to hear that. It was a glimmer of light during a very dark time.

On August 26, I saw in our local paper that Vernon had moved Gladys Presley’s body to the mausoleum to reside next to her son’s. I knew Elvis had been very close to his mother while she was alive, so I was glad that the two of them were in the same resting place. I hoped it brought Vernon some measure of comfort and closure after Elvis’s death, too.

On August 29, there was an attempt to steal Elvis’s body from the mausoleum. I was saddened by the bold move. Who in the world would do such a horrible, insensitive thing? Shortly afterward, Vernon petitioned the Memphis Shelby County Board of Adjustment to have the bodies of both Elvis and his mother brought to Graceland for burial.

That same week, my mother received her payment cards back from Beecher Smith, along with a letter stating that, had Elvis lived, the balance on our home would have been paid.

The days following Elvis’s death blended into one another. The few times I left the house, I wore sunglasses and even tucked my hair into a turban to disguise my appearance. I could barely function.

Sitting in our den one morning, I heard a commotion outside. Large cranes had pulled up to our curb.
Oh my God, the pool!
Part of the gift Elvis had intended to give my family had just arrived. They began work and, by Labor Day, the job was complete.

Vernon called my home again, this time inviting me to his house on Dolan Street. He’d dropped such a bombshell on us last time, I was nervous about seeing him alone. I asked my mother to accompany me.

When we arrived, I could see Vernon was visibly disturbed. He took a seat in a chair while my mother and I sat on a couch and began talking about the morning Elvis died. In a pleading voice, he asked, “Ginger, do you remember seeing anyone upstairs who had no business being up there? Ginger, please try to remember.”

I was stunned. Was he trying to imply that someone could have been involved in Elvis’s death? This was the first time that thought had ever occurred to me. But I could only shake my head. “I was asleep, Mr. Presley,” I replied.

“Did you hear anything?” he pressed.

“No,” I said.

Vernon was quiet for a moment, then said, “If I only knew.”

If he only knew what? I realized that I’d never had a chance to speak with him about his son’s death. I was still struggling to understand the events myself, but I carefully recounted my memories of that horrible morning as best I could.

When I was finished, Vernon said he’d been told that David Stanley had rushed a friend off the property that day for some unknown reason. Vernon even mentioned something about a suspicious shot that could have been given to Elvis without the drug showing up in Elvis’s bloodstream.

This sounded crazy to me. Who would do such a thing, and why? Was Vernon, in his own cloud of grief, grasping at straws? It was clear that he was a grieving father searching for answers and someone to blame.

I silently reflected on what I’d seen in the bathroom. I still felt Elvis’s heart had just stopped.

“I didn’t realize how important Elvis was until he died,” Vernon was saying, shaking his head.

It was an odd statement for Vernon to make, but maybe, like me, he hadn’t been prepared for the magnitude of the worldwide outpouring of support. In any case, it was obvious that Vernon was as tormented as I was about Elvis dying so suddenly. To both of us, it seemed inconceivable that Elvis could just be taken from us at such a young age when he still had so much to live for and was actively planning his future.

Vernon then changed the subject. “I don’t know what to do about Charlie,” he said. “I need Charlie like I need a bunch of weeds in my yard.”

From that, I figured Charlie was still residing at Graceland. Vernon also went on to say that he had tried for a long time to get Elvis to fire Sonny and Red West, the bodyguards who’d written the negative book on Elvis.

Vernon said he’d told Elvis, “Can’t you see they’re hanging on for what they can get?”

In response, Elvis had replied, “Daddy, I see beyond that. You see their wants, I see their needs.”

Vernon added, “I dropped it then.”

Vernon obviously wanted to open up to us. My mother and I let him, but we could only listen. We had no answers for him.

As we left Vernon’s house, the conversation left me slightly unsettled. I felt it was preposterous to think that someone had purposely done something to Elvis, but now I wondered,
Could someone have accidentally given Elvis something that would have contributed to his death?

Whatever the answer to that question might be, I understood Vernon’s desperation to explain the incomprehensible. At a time like this, all you could do sometimes is keep asking why.

•   •   •

In early September, the interview I had granted the tabloid came out. The cover of the issue featured a photo of Elvis in his casket.

I was horrified by this invasion of privacy and mortified that my story was associated with such a picture.
Who could have taken that photo?
As for the article, the word
sensationalism
came to mind, and that was an understatement. My story was not fully told, and there were quotes attributed to me that I did not say.

I was getting a crash lesson in the ways of the press. It would later come to light that a cousin of Elvis’s had been paid to take the photo of Elvis in his casket. The threatened Linda Thompson interview was not in the issue but would appear shortly afterward in another.

Not long after that, I decided I wanted to visit the mausoleum again. Rosemary and I took a ride over to the cemetery. It was a desolate place now that all the flowers were gone from the lawn; only a single large wreath had been placed on the locked door.

Even so, as Rosemary and I stood there together, it made us feel inexplicably closer to Elvis. My own faith and our discussions of spiritual possibilities now flooded my thoughts. Whether out of need or real truth, I momentarily felt as if his spirit was all around us.

I began having strange dreams after Elvis died and would wake many times during the night. Each time I woke, I thought Elvis was still alive. Then reality would sink in and drag me down again.

In one dream, Elvis was wearing a turban. He and I were inside a hotel, walking down a long hall, while a party was going on. People were standing in doorways, laughing and partying. Then some of them began turning to look at us in surprise, as if asking, “Is Elvis alive?”

In another dream, I was with a much younger Elvis at a carnival. We were holding hands and running, looking in some shop windows.

I even dreamed that Elvis walked into his bedroom, naked, while I was sitting on the bed. It was after his autopsy and he was stitched down his stomach, legs, and arms. I was frightened as he sat beside me, but Elvis said, “Everything is going to be all right.”

In an even more terrifying dream, Elvis was trapped in a large crowd. I struggled to get through to him, hoping he would recognize me, but I couldn’t reach him.

And, each time I awoke, I missed him more.

•   •   •

The tragedy of Elvis’s death brought my father back into the family circle. He saw what we were dealing with, and in his way wanted to help with all that was going on.

In late September, my father offered to drive us to Los Angeles to help us escape Memphis and the haunting events that had taken place at Graceland, which hung over us like a dark cloud. Terry and my brother were unable to take off work, but my mom, dad, Rosemary, and I headed west in the Lincoln Continental Elvis had given them.

It felt good to be away. In Los Angeles, my family and I just drove around for a few days, seeing the sights.
Star Wars
had just been released, and as we passed a few theaters, I was amazed by the number of people standing in line to see a movie.

Ed Parker had continued to reach out to us and took me under his wing. I told him we were coming to L.A. and he invited us to his home. Another evening, he took us to dinner and a taping of
The Tonight Show
. Ed even managed to have one of the show’s aides get us backstage before the show started.

As we stood in a hallway, the aide disappeared into a nearby room and then returned. Shortly, Johnny Carson suddenly stepped out of the room, dressed in a white T-shirt with tissue around his neck, obviously in the middle of having makeup applied. As if just looking to see who we were, he smiled, winked at us, and walked back inside. The aide later told us that he’d never seen Johnny do that while in the middle of getting ready.

We went to watch the show, which I really enjoyed, and for a moment it took my mind off things.

On our return trip to Memphis, we decided to stop in Palm Springs so my parents could see Elvis’s home, since Rosemary and I still had such indelible memories of being there with him. We drove up Chino Canyon Drive to the house, pulled to the side of the road, and got out of the car to look at it for a few moments.

A security car slowly drove past us, then stopped. A guard got out. When I told him who I was, the guard kindly offered to open the locked gate in the front yard. I felt like Elvis was smiling down on us at that moment. What were the odds that a guard would show up at this exact time?

As the guard opened the gate, he told me and my family that he was sorry he didn’t have the keys to the house. That would have been wonderful, but just being able to walk around the outside of the house, I felt happy to revisit a place I had shared with Elvis.

The guard walked with us to the pool in the backyard. It felt eerily dreamlike as I looked out over the landscape. Taking in the serene surroundings was relaxing, as it had been the first time I saw this place, but I felt sad, too, thinking about the changes Elvis had wanted us to make to this house, like the king and queen chairs in his screening room. Now we’d never have the fun of making a home together here or at Graceland. There was an awful finality to that realization.

I thanked the guard as we returned to our car. I knew I had to continue my life without Elvis and that he would want me to be happy. For his sake, as well as for my own, I was going to have to be strong. I needed to find a way to live with my heartache and leave the past behind.

•   •   •

On October 2, I was happy to hear that Vernon’s petition had been granted. The bodies of Elvis and his mother were moved to Graceland and placed in the meditation garden. “Elvis has come home,” I thought—a sentiment shared by many.

The following evening, CBS televised the
Elvis in Concert
special they’d been filming while Elvis and I were touring together. Elvis looked heavier on camera, as I’d sensed he would, but overall he had done a fine job. The special showcased his unique voice and it sounded as strong and rich as ever. As I watched the special, the excitement and concern I’d always felt during Elvis’s shows, as I hoped everything would go well for him, came rushing back.

Elvis in Concert
included film footage of Elvis introducing his father and me. Then, in the middle of Elvis singing the song “Hurt,” an image of my face appeared on-screen beside Elvis. For a few moments, through the magic of editing, Elvis and I were connected again.

It was very emotional seeing our images linked in that way, but I was grateful knowing that our relationship had been acknowledged, and even documented, in such a public way.

I was learning that the death of someone you love is so final, and so terrible, that you try to grasp and hold on to the ghost of the person you lost. You hold on tighter and tighter to whatever you had together, because you don’t want any of it to disappear. Yet, the harder you try to hold on, the more reality takes it away from you.

I didn’t want to let that happen, and so, as the weeks went by, I began devoting my time to writing down my memories of Elvis. I tried to capture the way he sounded, right down to his exact words; the way he felt; the events we’d experienced together; and much of what he’d tried to teach or share with my family and me.

Things remained difficult for a long time, but I gradually began to heal, thanks to the loving support from family and friends. I also received numerous condolence letters from Elvis’s fans. The letters brought me great comfort, and I answered every one I could. Even when the electricity went out in our home once, I got a flashlight and continued to answer those letters of sympathy. Knowing that so many cared about me gave me the strength I needed to get through the first terrible months without Elvis.

•   •   •

I turned twenty-one on November 13. Not long after that, Vernon decided to allow fans to visit the grave sites of Elvis and his mother. I’d read earlier that the divorce between Vernon and Dee Presley had been finalized; remembering Elvis once mentioning Dee, I hoped everything had gone smoothly for his father.

The day before the meditation garden was opened to the public, Vernon kindly called me at home, asking if I would like to visit Elvis’s grave first. It meant a great deal to me that he did. I invited my mother to accompany me.

Driving through the gates of Graceland felt so strange. It was almost as if nothing had changed. For a moment, I could imagine I was just driving to Graceland to see Elvis, the way I had done almost daily for nine months.

My mother and I drove around back, parked, and began walking toward the meditation garden. I saw a large marble statue of Jesus standing off to the side; later, I learned it had been erected to mark Gladys Presley’s former burial site.

Elvis and his mother had been buried near the fountain. Their resting places were covered with bronze and granite grave markers with inscriptions I would later learn Vernon had written. On the marker for Elvis, were the words:

H
E WAS A PRECIOUS GIFT FROM
G
OD

WE CHERISHED AN
D LOVED DEARLY.

H
E HA
D A
G
OD-GIVEN TALENT
THAT HE SHARED