Storms (57 page)

But just because it was invisible didn't mean that it wasn't destructive. Angry words and brooding silences filled the air of our Bel-Air mansion. I never knew before that it was possible to feel lonelier
with
Lindsey than without. But I knew now. And it left me with feelings of inadequacy and despair. Sometimes it felt like I was living with two different men who just happened to share the same face and body. One I knew and loved, the other was a frightening stranger. But I told myself that after both records were finished things would return to normal. Because if they didn't, I didn't think that I could bear it.

My terrifying attacks of illness came back with a vengeance as I struggled with the stress and anxiety that were now a part of my everyday existence. I took my medications religiously, but nothing seemed to stop the episodes that struck me out of the blue and left me sick, helpless, and scared. I returned to my neurologist and after more tests he called me into his office to deliver news that left me stunned. He explained to me that he felt my episodes were not linked to a physical disease or injury, but were instead triggered by psychological stress while I looked at him in dismay.

It was inconceivable to me that stress alone could cause the vomiting, chest pains, and room-spinning disorientation that had now become so violent that I was literally incapacitated when it happened. But if it was true, then it seemed that there was nothing I could do to make these episodes stop. I lived in a world where anxiety and chaos were considered normal. Fleetwood Mac's world and everything that came with it had been my environment since the day Lindsey and I fell in love, five long years before. Now one of the world's top neurologists was telling me that he believed my life by Lindsey's side was destroying my health.

Not willing to face what he was telling me, I desperately searched for a simpler, easier reason to blame for what was happening to me. “Is it because I did cocaine on the road, Dr. Weiss? Did that do something to damage me?” I asked in a small voice.

“Carol, it didn't do you any good, but that's not what's causing your illness. What you've been experiencing are known in the medical profession as ‘panic attacks.' Yours are quite severe, as you already know. And they're caused by stress and pressure that is so intense that your subconscious is triggering these attacks as a warning to you. Panic attacks are the mind's way of letting a person know that things are too much for them. When they're as severe as yours are, then we have to find a way to help you deal with the root cause. And once we do, they'll stop. Is there something you're not telling me about your home life? Something other than your unorthodox lifestyle that could explain what's happening to you?”

I shook my head and lowered my eyes. No one knew how bad it could get behind the closed doors of my life at home. No one knew how Lindsey's anger burned and threatened to consume me with its intensity. I wouldn't talk about it. I couldn't talk about it. How could I explain something that I myself didn't understand? When the anger came, it was never because I'd done something to set it off; it seemed to come from out of nowhere and then afterward our lives would return to normal, as though nothing had happened. I'd learned to lock away these “bad memories” in a corner of my mind. I never, ever let myself think of them—much less talk to anyone about them. And, panic attacks or not, I had no intention of starting now.

Dr. Weiss told me that he'd arranged for one of his colleagues, a top psychiatrist, to oversee my treatment with him. This doctor had a lot of experience with people in the entertainment industry, he said. He felt that
I needed to talk to someone I could trust. Someone who would be bound by professional ethics not to disclose anything I might need to “talk about.” And he told me he wanted to check me into a hospital for observation. A place that would take me away from my home environment and allow them to monitor my panic attacks. These were devastating to my physical health, he reiterated, and we had to find a way to make them stop.

As I listened to his words I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. It wasn't that I was taking anything he was saying lightly. On the contrary, I was scared and shocked by the diagnosis that he'd given me. But on the other hand, the sheer irony that it was I, of all the members of my Fleetwood Mac family, who was being told to see a psychiatrist and check into a hospital was so ludicrous that I was finding it hard to keep a straight face.

To say that the band members were eccentric was putting it mildly. The behavior I'd witnessed over the past five years made anything I'd ever done seem like a child misbehaving at Sunday school. The anger and vendettas among the band members made the Mafia look tame in comparison. Not to mention the incestuous relationships, drugs, drinking, and insane antics. Granted, I could be crazy, too—but my only vices were sarcasm, doing blow with the band, and a fondness for shopping. I could easily see that each and every member of the Fleetwood Mac family would benefit from a little therapy, but I was the only one being forced to seek medical help. Go figure.

If it weren't so depressing, I'd die laughing
, I thought to myself. With a sigh I stood up and nodded my head. “Fine. You don't have to convince me, Dr. Weiss. I'll do whatever I need to do to stop my panic attacks.”

Seeing the look of resignation on my face, he took both my hands in his. “You have to do this, honey. You're suffering physical pain and damage and it's got to stop. There's nothing to be afraid of. Ridge Hospital is more like a country club than a hospital. Just think of it as a vacation. OK? It's my job to take care of you. Trust me. Do you want me to call Lindsey for you and tell him what's going on?”

I nodded gratefully and gave him the private number that Lindsey and I used for each other and a handful of intimates. As I sat and listened to him talk to Lindsey, I stared off into the distance. After he hung up the phone he told me that Lindsey was upset and worried and that he was sending a limo
to pick me up. Lindsey didn't want me to drive, and he'd told the doctor to make arrangements for me to check into the hospital in two days.

“It's settled then”, I said resolutely as I got up to leave. “I'll see you at the hospital, Dr. Weiss.”

As soon as I arrived home Lindsey came running to meet me. Speaking to me gently and lovingly, he took me inside and insisted on putting me to bed. His face was full of worry as he curled up next to me. And for the first time since he started working on
Mirage
, I felt that his focus had shifted back to the world outside his studio, back to the life that we shared together, and for the first time in months I felt protected, safe, and completely loved.

I checked into the exclusive Beverly Hills “retreat” known as Ridge Hospital. And I felt like I was on a solo vacation for a week. Lindsey visited me every day and was surprised to find that I was quite enjoying myself. It was completely relaxing and more like being at a spa than a hospital. During my daily sessions with my psychiatrist I only spoke in general terms of my life within the world of Fleetwood Mac. I wasn't ready or willing to talk about my personal life with Lindsey.

The rest of the time I hung out with my wealthy fellow patients. Compared with the people with whom I'd spent the past five years, they seemed both boring and normal. Best of all, I had no panic attacks or weird symptoms of any kind. I felt great and that was all that mattered.
It's time for me to go home
, I told myself as I packed my small suitcase the night before I was scheduled to leave. And I went to sleep with a smile on my face.

At dawn, heavy knocking on my bedroom door awakened me. Looking in confusion at the two detectives standing before me, my eyes traveled from their badges to their grim faces. I listened, stunned, as they told me that the hospital administrator was murdered in the dead of night: shot in the back in the hospital parking lot. I didn't see or hear anything, I told them. After they left I sunk down onto my bed and started to cry.

An image of the kindly, gray-haired gentleman who always had a smile on his face flashed through my mind and I couldn't believe that he was dead. I couldn't believe that anything so horrible could happen to someone that I knew. It was beyond my comprehension how someone could commit
such a violent murder. I wanted to go home. Rushing to the phone, I called Lindsey and he arrived in twenty minutes flat.

I clung to his arm as we walked quickly to our car. I cried silently all the way home. And Lindsey looked as upset as I. It was an act of senseless violence and shocking reality that neither of us knew how to deal with. In comparison, my panic attacks and Lindsey's burden of musical work seemed very small indeed. I sent flowers to the hospital, and Lindsey swore that he'd never let me check into another one. It was too dangerous.

A few weeks later, we hired a woman to be our housekeeper. Her name was Desi Tobias—she was black, she was in her sixties, and she was one of the most wonderful people I had ever known. Her wisdom, humor, and infectious laughter brought a shining light into the house every week when she came to work—and within a few weeks, she'd become a surrogate mother to both Lindsey and me. And from that moment on, she was a member of our family.

Lindsey had a surprise for me. A month after I came home from the hospital he tossed a 45-rpm single into my lap and told me to listen to it and learn the lyrics.

“What for?” I asked as I picked up the record and peered at it. On the label was the title “It Was I” by a singing duo named Skip and Flip.

“We're going to sing a duet on this song. It's going on my album. So learn it fast, OK? We record in two days”, he said with a grin.

“Oh my God! I can't sing, Lindsey! You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding!” I almost screamed as a picture of me behind a microphone made my blood run cold. “I'll sound like a little kid!”

Sitting on the floor next to me, he told me that he wanted me to be involved in his first solo album, and what better way than to sing a song with him? Before I totally freaked out he put the record on our player and turned up the volume. I heard a 1950s pop hit about two ex-lovers blaming each other for the breakup of their relationship. It was very catchy and I understood immediately why he liked it. Despite my pleas for him to find someone else to do it with him, he refused. I was going to sing it with him and that was that.

I was thrilled that he wanted me to do it, but at the same time I'd never, ever wanted to sing. I could carry a melody, but was I a
singer?
Hell no! But apparently that was beside the point. I was about to make my musical debut and there was nothing for it but to learn the words to the song that could make me a laughingstock in the world of Fleetwood Mac. Let's face it, to even try to follow in Stevie's musical footsteps was a ludicrous concept, and no one in her right mind would even try. So I didn't.

I just had fun with it, and with Lindsey by my side the song took on a feeling of teenage angst over the loss of a first love. And thanks to his genius, my harmony sounded childlike and unpretentious. Instead of being laughed at by the band, I received a bouquet of flowers from each and every one of them with notes of congratulations after the recording session—and Stevie's bouquet was the most beautiful of them all. When her flowers arrived, I cried. I had grown to love her as the years passed and it seemed that finally my wish for us to be friends had come to pass.

As I heard the songs on
Law and Order
, I was amazed at the mixture of satirical humor, darkness, and longing that Lindsey was conveying through his music. The first track, “Bwana”, was a slightly sarcastic nod to Mick Fleetwood's solo record
The Visitor
, which he recorded in Africa. “Johnny Stew” was a tribute to our close friend John Stewart, of the famous Kingston Trio. Lindsey had learned to play guitar at the age of seven listening to John's Kingston Trio records and during
Tusk
, Lindsey helped produce Stewart's hit record
Bombs Away Dream Babies.