Storms (49 page)

I closed my eyes for a second, then told them everything that occurred between Stevie and me the night before. As I talked Lindsey's face went
from concern to fury and then settled into grim determination.
“Fuck!
I fuckin' don't believe it!” he shouted.

Taking my hand, he told me to leave it to him—he was going to handle it. Richard's eyes were wide and his face solemn as he walked beside us out to our waiting limo. Both he and I knew that there was going to be trouble, no doubt about it.

Once on the plane, Lindsey made sure that I was comfortable and then walked like a panther back to Stevie, who was settling herself into a seat. He leaned over and talked to her for about two minutes and as I watched him walk away, I saw her stricken face and felt a sorrow that surprised me. I knew that I'd every right to feel furious, but knowing that didn't change the fact that I felt responsible for making her a target of Lindsey's anger. His wrath was no laughing matter and it was about to fall on Stevie. As he settled himself beside me he smiled grimly and told me that he and Stevie would have a private meeting once we got to our hotel in Brisbane. I nodded, then stared out of the window, trying to ignore the pangs of anxiety that were shooting through me. I really did like Stevie and this setback in our friendship truly upset me.

As soon as we reached the hotel Lindsey handed me our room key and told me he was going to see Stevie. I watched him follow her into an elevator and I took the next one alone up to our suite. Lighting a cigarette, I sat in the semi-dark room, waiting for his return. After an hour, a feeling of panic swept over me unlike any I'd felt before. And with the panic, nausea clenched my stomach and I couldn't seem to catch my breath. I stood up shakily, made my way to the bed, and lay down. I'd never felt anything like this before and it scared me. Trying to slow my breathing, I lay with eyes closed for what seemed like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes. And then the panic and nausea slowly gave way to exhaustion and weakness. I stared at the darkening sky outside my window, waiting for Lindsey—and my strength—to return.

I heard the door slam and within seconds Lindsey was sitting down next to me on the bed. Stroking my hair, he told me that everything was fine. He looked calm as he told me that he loved me and that when it was time for us to get married we would. And then he said that I'd see for myself at the show that night that I'd never have to worry about Stevie seeking retribution again.

I didn't ask any questions. I didn't really want to know what happened between them. But I was glad that it seemed to be resolved. I just wanted everything to be OK again. I didn't tell him that earlier I'd gotten sick out of the blue. We'd both been through enough for one day, and in two hours we had to leave for the show. This was one show I was not looking forward to, but I was going and that was that.

As soon as I walked into the dressing room Christie came running toward me. “Stevie wants to see you in the next room. Will you come, Carol?” the makeup artist asked in an urgent whisper. With a nod I followed her as Lindsey watched, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

Entering the makeup room, I stopped dead in my tracks as Stevie rushed toward me. Pulling up her shirt, she showed me her stomach, which was covered in ugly red blotches. She told me over and over again how sorry she was about what happened the night before as she pointed to her stomach as proof of how much she was suffering over it. “I broke out in hives! That's how upset I am, Carol! I don't remember much about last night, but I never meant to say those things and I'm really sorry. Don't be mad at me. OK?”

As she threw her arms around me I whispered that I was sorry too. “I just want us to be friends, Stevie”, I said in a hushed voice. “I'm sorry that I had to tell Lindsey. I just didn't know what else to do.” Seeing her poor stomach and the distress that was she going through, I knew that the few hours she'd spent with Lindsey that afternoon must have been intense.
The whole episode has been awful for both of us
, I said to myself miserably as I hugged her.
My head hurts and I don't think I can stand thinking about it any longer. Enough. This is dreadful and I hate it.
And I backed out of the room after giving Stevie one last hug.

Later that night during the show I was sitting with Sara backstage when Greg walked into the room. “Carol, I can't believe you're back here! Stevie just dedicated ‘Landslide' to you!”

“She did?” I asked in surprise. As Greg nodded I groaned, “Sara! I probably just got my first and only dedication from Stevie on stage and I missed the whole thing! Don't tell her I missed it, Greg, OK?” A little confused, he left the room and I leaned back, closing my eyes as I thought,
I hope that's the end of it. I don't think I can take this drama any longer. Surely after tonight, everything that could happen has happened.

Two days later Lindsey and I sat at Brisbane Airport in a private room with the band. As glad as everyone was in the beginning to be out of Japan, the fact that we didn't have the Fleetwood Mac plane on this leg of the tour was now a source of much irritation to the band. Used to the luxury and privacy of their own jet, they were now quite pissed off about having to travel as “punters”, and J.C. was once again the target of a lot of bitching and moaning about the hardship of flying commercial airlines.

But I wasn't complaining. Lindsey and I had just spent a very romantic night together and I sat contentedly in my chair watching him rummage through a carry-on bag. He was looking for an empty cassette to use to record a song idea that was going through his head. Holding up a tape with my name on it, he asked if he could have it. Assuming that it was one of the many assorted music tapes that I'd made at home upon which I'd recorded my favorite songs, I nodded and smiled as he sat down on the floor crosslegged and popped it into his cassette player.

He was humming as he pushed “record” and after less than a minute, he rewound the tape, put on a set of small headphones and pushed play. A minute passed, then another. He was lost in his own creative space, his fingers keeping time with the music. Suddenly, his hands froze. He looked confused, startled. His hands became fists and an empty look replaced his rapt expression. With a sense of foreboding, I reached out my hand to him. This morning's love was gone. He stared at me with accusing blue eyes that held only icy calculation. He ripped off the headset and threw it at me. “Put these on, now!” he commanded.

I put them on and heard Sara and me talking. It was one of my many “girlfriend” tapes that I'd made with Sara during the
Tusk
album. I was telling Sara about an incident on the road where one of J.C.'s paramours spilled a drink on my dress. Recounting the incident to her, I was saying what a great road manager and friend J.C. had been to me, that he always took care of me, and that I felt safe when he was around. He's a gentleman, I heard myself tell Sara earnestly.
Could this be why he's so angry? But there's nothing on that tape that should upset him! What is he hearing on that stupid tape? Oh my God, what did I say? Is he this angry because we're praising J.C.?
I wondered in disbelief.

I jerked the headset off and tried to explain to Lindsey that what he was listening to was just a silly “girlfriend” tape—and that when I said good
things about J.C., it was all meant in the nicest way possible. But Lindsey wasn't hearing me. He put the headset back on and, as our flight was called and we walked onto the plane, continued to listen.

All through the two-hour flight, Lindsey listened to the tape. He sat stiffly in his seat, headphones clamped tightly on his head as he pushed play, rewind, play—over and over again. And he stared at me with eyes full of angry accusation. I knew that face. I'd told myself that I would never see it again. I knew that face and I was terrified of it. My mind raced back to the night of the Elvis Costello show and then leaped to what had happened at Christine's after my sleepover. Images of his face full of rage, hands reaching for my throat, a car screeching down a driveway, and handfuls of long blonde hair floating away in a bathtub tinted pink with blood.
No, it can't happen again, it can't … it won't, it won't …
I began to chant over and over as I clasped my hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

A feeling of dread descended upon me, so powerful that it silenced my frantic internal dialogue. Like a mental anesthesia, this total absence of thought was calming. I looked past Lindsey to the small window, and saw the terminal growing larger and larger. I hadn't even felt the plane land.

In a little while, we would be alone at the hotel. The numb silence inside of me dissolved my fear and my jangled emotions. Most of all, it took away my confusion. What was there to be confused about? My path was clear. In a few moments I would walk off the plane with Lindsey, and whatever was going to happen would happen. Maybe someone in the band would step forward, take my hand, and shelter me from Lindsey's anger—for his face signaled his rage. If not, then I would hold on to what I'd always held on to: the knowledge that this was the man I loved and who loved me. That was all that mattered, wasn't it? It was all I had.

As the plane came to a stop, Lindsey stood up, his eyes never leaving my face. Within seconds, I felt the cold, hard grip of his fingers encircling my arm. Without a word, he pulled me into the aisle and shoved me toward the exit. When we stepped into the terminal, he wrapped his left arm around my shoulder and gripped me to him tightly.

As we walked through the terminal, the band members spoke to each other in hushed voices, as they watched Lindsey almost drag me. I was gripped so tightly to his side that I kept stumbling every few steps—and I would be jerked back upright and pushed forward—over and over again. I
looked up as Lindsey roughly pushed the huge doors open to the sidewalk outside and saw Stevie staring at us with a shocked expression on her now white face. She looked into my eyes and took a few steps toward us, only to be pulled back by an equally white-faced wardrobe girl, Sharon Celani.

Lindsey came to a dead halt. J.C. was directing the band members to their individual Cadillac limousines, and I watched as Stevie climbed into the second car in line. I heard her call out J.C.'s name after she'd disappeared from view and he went rushing over to her limo. J.C. kept glancing nervously over his shoulder at us. He seemed to be arguing with Stevie.

Lindsey hugged me to his chest. He kept one hand secured to the back of my head as he shouted at J.C., “Damn it, J.C.! Which fucking car is mine?” There was no answer, and Lindsey muttered, “Fuck it, come on.” He let go of my head, jerked me back around, and pulled me toward an empty car, a driver waiting patiently beside it.

“Mr. B.!” I heard J.C. shout. “Your luggage is in another limo! Stevie wants to talk to—”

His words were lost as Lindsey pushed me into the back seat and slammed the door. I pulled my legs up underneath me and tried to make myself as small as possible in the plush leather upholstery.

The driver climbed behind the wheel, powered down the glass partition separating the front seat from the luxurious rear passenger section, and nervously cleared his throat. “Uh, sir, I believe Mr. Courage wants me to wait—” the driver stammered.

“Fuck Mr. Courage!” Lindsey shot back.
“I'm
paying for this car! Take me to my fucking hotel! Now!”

The driver looked at Lindsey with a blank stare.

“Put the window back up!” Lindsey commanded. “I don't like being stared at!”

The driver quickly turned around and slipped on his sunglasses, offering a meek, “Yes, sir.” Smoothly, he pulled away from the curb and pushed a button. The window hissed back up, hiding us from his view.

I quickly glanced at Lindsey and saw he had once again donned the headset. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and waited. The minutes passed. We sat, completely still. Only silence. Loud, loud, silence.

Suddenly desperate to see sunlight, I sat up straight and opened my eyes. Lindsey was staring out the window at the looming city of Melbourne,
looking but not seeing. Only the movement of his hand betrayed the fact that he was not listening serenely to music. The hand that had been tapping out an unknown chorus of musical notes at the airport in Brisbane was now clenching and unclenching in his lap. I kept staring at his hand, as though I could will it to stop.

Our car pulled into a sweeping driveway and stopped in front of the Melbourne Hilton. Lindsey opened the car door and stepped out. I didn't want to move. He loomed over me. “Get out”, he said softly.

I picked up my purse and climbed slowly out of the car. I saw J.C. entering the revolving door to the lobby, and I wanted to break into a run and throw myself into his arms. Lindsey caught hold of my wrist and held it firmly as we walked into the lobby. He left me at the elevator, muttering, “Don't move”, and headed for the front desk. He walked up to J.C., looked him directly in the eye, and held out his hand for the room keys. J.C. handed him the envelope, dropped his gaze, and turned away.

Within two minutes, Lindsey inserted the key into the lock of our door, waited for me to enter, and then slammed it shut. The sound echoed in my head like a rifle shot. Lindsey grabbed my arm and threw me on the bed. “Get comfortable, ‘angel'!” he intoned quietly. “Now that we're finally alone, we can listen to this together.”

“Lindsey, don't”, I begged as tears started to flow.

“SHUT UP!” he shouted as he slammed down the tape recorder and started to rewind the tape. “I want you to hear this with me. Together, baby, so we'll know what a bitch you are. That's what you are, isn't it? A little bitch that I can't so much as FUCKING TRUST!”

He paced across the room, his coldness replaced with anger so hot his eyes seemed to burn with it. I started to move away from him, to the far side of the bed, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. “Don't you fucking move!” he shouted. “I want you to sit close to me”, he commanded in a seductive tone that was far more chilling than his explosive shouts. Moving quickly toward me, he grabbed me by the throat and started to squeeze as he whispered, “I want to look into that pretty face of yours and be close to you—just you and me, alone. No one to disturb us, interrupt us, while we listen. Ready?” Letting go, he picked up a lock of my hair and twisted it in his fingers, pulling it tight as I gasped for breath. “I asked you a question:
Are you ready?”