Storms (12 page)

The band members followed Annie meekly into a back bedroom as I made myself comfortable on Lindsey's couch. Knowing the size of his extra bedroom and the number of people and the amount of equipment that had been crammed into it, there was no way I could follow them. I flipped through magazines and listened to the laughter echoing down the hall. In
less than an hour the shoot was finished, and forty-five minutes after that the house was empty except for Lindsey and me.

He pulled me up from the couch and led me into his bedroom. As he showed me the Polaroids that Annie'd left for him, I could see that the cover shot was amazing.
Rolling Stone
was going to be thrilled. Mick had Stevie curled up beside him, looking like a child next to his gangling frame. Lindsey and Christine were wrapped around each other and John, shirtless and barefoot in jeans, was reading
Playboy
off on the right side of the bed. It was a classic shot which really did tell the story of the
Rumours
album. I knew the underlying big message as I looked at it: incest!

Lindsey took the pictures out of my hands and laid them on the battered little table beside his bed. Brushing my hair out of my eyes, he said, “Carol, I have two things I need to talk to you about.”

I looked up at him and saw with a start how unusually pale and gaunt his face looked, his cheekbones sharp. “What is it? Is something wrong?” I asked fearfully.

“I want you to come to Europe with me”, Lindsey replied quietly.

I started to speak, but before I could say anything he placed two fingers over my mouth. I sat stunned as he told me how much he'd missed me over the past month and that he felt another month was far too long for us to be separated. So, he finished, I had to go with him to Europe.

Without hesitating I answered, “God, Lindsey, of course I want to come. I haven't even been able to think about what it would be like for me when you leave again. I hope I can take a leave of absence from Producer's—”

Lindsey cut in quickly. “You have to. I want you there and that's that.”

I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I wouldn't have to say goodbye to Lindsey in a week and a half! At the back of my mind, though, nagging doubts tried to force their way to the surface.
We've only been together five months, and for the first time we're going to be with each other twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, in a foreign country. Is it too soon for us to handle that?
I pushed the thought away as hard as I could, but still it lingered inside my head. I'd been to Europe with John twice, and Japan once, before I met Lindsey. I knew how hard it could be on a relationship when you're jet-lagged, eating bad food, and dealing with winter weather. And it wouldn't be just Lindsey and me. We'd be with the entire entourage of band, roadies, and technicians. Not to mention Stevie Nicks.

Will my being there with him make the uneasy truce between them break down and become an all-out war?
I thought nervously. I knew from talking to Julie that Lindsey had never taken another woman on the road with him. I'd be the first. I thought back to the vow I made during rehearsals:
I'll never do anything that will come between Lindsey and his music.
Biting my lip, I wondered how hard it would actually be for me to keep that vow if I went on tour with him.

I knew that the working relationship between Lindsey and Stevie was very precarious, and thus the balance within the band itself.
Of course
, I told myself,
with or without me on the road, that's a storm waiting to break.
One look at Lindsey's pale, gaunt face and the wistful look in his eyes made me lock my fears away and cover his face in kisses as I said, “Yes, yes, yes … I'll come!”

Almost as an aside, Lindsey casually informed me that his wisdom teeth were impacted and he had to have oral surgery. I looked at him in concern.
That's why he looks so pale! Why didn't he tell me sooner that his mouth was hurting him?
I wondered.

“‘I'm obviously not looking forward to it—I just hope that it goes well. I've been warned that getting your wisdom teeth out is a major deal. Richard will take me tomorrow, but can you come over after work? I'll try not to be too boring.” I quickly nodded yes and for the rest of the night we tried not to think about hypodermic needles and drills.

For the first few days Lindsey seemed to weather the surgery well. The dentist had given him Percodan for the pain and he was stoned but happy when I arrived to spend every night with him. We lay in his bed and watched TV, talked about the upcoming European tour, and listened to his collection of the Beach Boys. Lindsey idolized their music. He played each song for me, pointing out the harmonies, the beautiful arrangements, and the sheer genius of Brian Wilson. I listened quietly as he told me stories about Brian's life as a tortured musician. Lindsey believed it was just the sheer weight of Brian's genius that was his greatest enemy.

And as he said these words I felt an inner chill. Lindsey was also a musical genius—and even in this early stage of our relationship I had seen a glimpse of his own tortured side. Every time he played “So Afraid” on stage, it was there for everyone to see. But I kept this to myself as I listened to him and tried not to think of it. Instead we listened to
Pet Sounds
in the darkness of his bedroom and fell asleep to the haunting sound of Brian's voice.

On the fourth day after Lindsey's surgery, I let myself into the Putney house and walked into the guitar-strewn living room. “You better go check on Lindsey, Carol. I think something's wrong! He wouldn't let me do anything for him …” Richard said in a rush of words as soon as he saw me. “He's been curled up in a ball for most of the day and won't talk. I think he's in a lot of pain.” Looking at Richard in surprise, I rushed into the back bedroom and sank down onto the bed by Lindsey's side. His face glistening with beads of sweat, he was lying with his eyes closed, the bedclothes twisted around him.

As I called his name softly, he opened his eyes and grabbed my hand. “It hurts, Carol, really bad. I feel like shit. I've taken three Percodan, and it's not helping. Call Dr. Silvers for me, OK?” I ran to the bathroom to get a cold washcloth for his face and then frantically looked around for his dentist's number. Finding it, I clumsily dialed the phone with one hand while holding Lindsey's clammy palm with the other. After the answering service put me through to the dentist, I told him about how much pain Lindsey was in and that he seemed to be running a fever.

Alarmed, Dr. Silvers told me to ice Lindsey's jaw, give him painkillers, and, above all, keep him in bed. I scheduled an 8
A.M.
appointment, hung up, and called my boss to tell him why I wouldn't be coming to work the next day. Ed, as usual, was wonderful and told me to stay by Lindsey's side.

At the dentist's office we were given very bad news. Lindsey had dry socket, which essentially meant that the sites on both sides of his lower jaw where his wisdom teeth had been extracted weren't healing; bone was exposed and it was infected. The pain was made worse by air hitting the wounds every time he opened his mouth.

“I've given him numbing shots of Novocain and another one of Demerol”, said Dr. Silvers. “I want Lindsey to gargle at least five or six times a day with saltwater, take antibiotics, and I'll give him more Percodan. Stay on a liquid diet, use straws—absolutely no chewing or smoking. With rest, in a few weeks he should be fine.”

“Um, sir?” I asked as the full impact of what he'd just told us started to sink in. “Lindsey is supposed to leave in a week for a monthlong tour of
Europe with his band. He has to sing and play guitar for two hours at every show. Is he going to be able to?”

Aghast at my words, Dr. Silvers sharply told us that we were running a huge risk with Lindsey's health and he wouldn't be responsible for what happened. Lindsey and I looked at each other, rolling our eyes as soon as the dentist's back was turned. We took the prescriptions and left.

As soon as we were in the car Lindsey lit a joint. He stared at me steadily and, by the look in his eyes, I knew better than to say anything about the warning about smoking. I mentally shrugged as I turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the parking lot. Lindsey would do what he wanted, regardless of his dentist's warning.
At least I can make sure he takes his antibiotics
, I told myself. Since Lindsey was now truly stoned out of his mind on Demerol and weed, I took him home first and then ran to the pharmacy for his prescriptions.

In the car I started to freak as my mind raced.
How is he going to be able to perform? He's in agony, can't eat, has a fever, and can't rest after this week. I don't know how he's going to be able to manage!
I felt a fierce protectiveness consume me as I drove at twenty miles over the speed limit to get back to him.
Tomorrow I'll talk to Ed about Europe
, I told myself.
It's no longer just about us not wanting to be separated: Lindsey's going to need me to take care of him. Ed will understand.

I had a feeling, though, that he might not be so willing to let me take off from work and go with Fleetwood Mac on the road. I'd been putting off asking him for exactly that reason. Not only would it interrupt my training as a sound engineer, but Ed didn't seem that keen on my relationship with Lindsey. I wasn't sure why, but I could sense it.
Well, nothing for it, girl. You're going to talk to Ed in the morning and that's that
, I said firmly to myself as I pulled into Lindsey's driveway. Grabbing his prescription, I ran into the house to take care of the man I loved.

Giving Lindsey strict instructions to follow his dentist's orders, I left him drowsing in bed the next morning and drove from West L.A. to Producer's Workshop. I checked that day's bookings and waited nervously for Ed to arrive. As if my thinking of him had made him materialize, he was suddenly there, looming over my shoulder.

“How's Lindsey feeling?” He asked as he walked over and poured himself some coffee.

At six foot four, with longish sandy-brown hair and a handlebar mustache, Ed Cobb cut an imposing figure. I could tell that he'd ridden his new Harley to work that day. His hair was completely windblown as he stood in the office in cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a denim shirt, cigar smoke billowing around his head—the exact image of Tom Selleck as the Marlboro Man.

Ed carried himself as someone who was used to getting respect. He'd been a teenage music sensation when he sang in a folk group called the Four Preps. They'd had a string of top 100 hits in the late 1950s and early ‘60s. After that, Ed had gone on to produce, coproduce, or write records with total sales of forty million. Famous as the writer of such classics as “Tainted Love”, “Good Guys Don't Wear White”, and “Dirty Water”, he'd been nominated for three Grammys and received two Record of the Year Awards for sound. Ed's outstanding career had brought him a total of thirty-two gold and platinum records to hang on his wall, for producing and/or sound engineering Pink Floyd, Steely Dan, and Fleetwood Mac, to name just a few.

“Not good, Ed.”

I told him about Lindsey's dental nightmare and then asked him if he had a few minutes to talk to me. I quickly told him about Lindsey's invitation to me to join him on the road in Europe and tried to explain why I wanted and needed to go. He looked down at me from his imposing height, his eyes gentle and questioning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded and he sighed, leaning back against the doorframe, letting an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. And then he shook his head wearily and started to speak. He told me that he was worried that I might not realize what I was getting into: the lifestyle, the drugs, the press, the fans—all part of the rock ‘n' roll world that I was about to enter. He reminded me that Fleetwood Mac was on the verge of becoming a very big band, and anyone with them had better be ready for the glare of a huge spotlight.

“I can handle it, Ed”, I said firmly.

He looked at me, smiling slightly, and asked simply, “Do you love this guy?”

“More than anything in the world”, I answered ferociously.

“Well, then, I won't say no. Your job will be here when you get back. Don't worry about that. Listen, hon, if you change your mind once you're over there and want to come home—call me. I'll wire you the money and
get you back home safe. I'm here. Remember that, Carol. If you need me, I'm here.”

I walked the few steps between us and gave him a long hug, feeling that I might start to cry. I was feeling as though I'd disappointed him somehow, but also knew that he understood why I felt the need to go with Lindsey. I was in love and my guy needed and wanted me with him. I really didn't feel that anything else mattered.

Relieved but subdued, I followed Ed back into the office. Once I was alone, I phoned Lindsey to tell him that Ed had given me a leave of absence. Speaking like his mouth was full of cotton balls, he told me to start packing my suitcases right away. I hung up the phone and went back to work. At exactly 6
P.M.
I grabbed my jacket and walked out into the dark night.

It started to rain again as I pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder as a jagged bolt of lightning lit the sky. The buildings along Hollywood Boulevard looked stark and gray, like monoliths from an ancient time. The figures moving along the sidewalk in dark coats, heads aimed at the ground, seemed sinister and solitary, sharing only the cold, hard rain falling from a sky that had turned L.A. into an unfamiliar landscape of moving shadows and wet terrain.

Palm trees bent as their fronds were ripped from their tops, blowing haphazardly in front of my car and onto rooftops. I strained to see the street, afraid to drive faster than fifteen miles per hour or turn on the radio, as I always did, to listen for Fleetwood Mac's songs.
I've never seen it rain this much in L.A.
, I said to myself.
If I didn't know better, I'd think that God was trying to tell me something.
I shivered as the cold and dampness seeped through the windows into the car.