Storms (59 page)

And for the first time in years I realized how much I'd missed that feeling of pride and accomplishment. But hearing my concert albums brought it all back. A longing to find another field where I could once again do something, once again
have
something all my own, swept over me. And I knew that somehow, someway, I was going to find it.
I'll talk to Lindsey about it after the tour—surely by now, it will be possible for me to have a career of my own. Modeling just isn't enough
, I told myself while trying not to think of his reaction years before when Bob Ezrin offered me a career on a silver platter.

In true Fleetwood Mac style the party went until almost sunrise. After everyone left, Lindsey and I sat out by our pool and watched the dawn break over Los Angeles.
It's the perfect end to a perfect evening. And maybe the beginning of a whole new world for me after the tour
, I thought happily as the dark night lightened around us.

The next day, Lindsey had a surprise for me. He walked into the bedroom holding a small gray and white kitten and I screamed in excitement when I saw it. I'd been begging for a kitten for years—my love of cats knew no bounds—but Lindsey had rightly believed that because we were on the road for such long periods of time, a cat just had to wait. And so when I saw what he was holding, I couldn't believe my eyes.

“I told Bob to find you a kitten, and he did. Do you like him?” he asked with a grin.

“Oh my God, I love him! I adore him! Thank you, Lindsey … you've made me so happy!” I gushed as I cradled the small, fat ball of fur in my arms. I sat the kitten down on the bed and took a good look at him.

“He's going to be
huge
, Lindsey. Look how big his ears are! He looks like Dr. Spock! What shall we name him?”

“He's your kitten, but I kinda like the name Eddie Clift”, Lindsey answered.

“I love it! It's perfect! Are you sure you don't want to call him ‘Charlton'?” I answered as I started to giggle.

With a groan, Lindsey shook his head, “I'd never do that to a defenseless animal. I don't want him to be a failure. Jesus, that book is unbelievable!”

He was referring to a biography of Charlton Heston that I'd bought for him. Lindsey had read it three times. He said that to him, the story of Heston's life was a study in failure. Charlton Heston had made the wrong career choices over and over again and Lindsey was fascinated by Heston's mindset.

Lindsey with our kitten Eddie Clift.

His other favorite book was a biography of Montgomery Clift. Clift, who changed his first name from Eddie to Montgomery for the stage, had been James Dean's idol—and his story was tragic. He was a brilliant actor who had seen his career and personal life go spiraling out of control after a horrific car crash that smashed every bone in his face. His addiction to painkillers and alcohol sent him into the sordid underbelly of Hollywood life and brought him to an early death. Lindsey loved the Clash song “The Right Profile” about Montgomery Clift and I'd given him three framed Montgomery Clift movie posters for his birthday—so naming our kitten after him was a no-brainer.

Two weeks later Lindsey and I were once again starting to pack for another tour. My movements were slow and sluggish. I hadn't been feeling well at all since the night of the
Mirage
listening party, and it worried me. I had an appointment to see Dr. Weiss in an hour and I gave up on the packing and threw on jeans and a shirt. Afterward I would wish I'd never gone.

Dr. Weiss didn't want me to go on the road. He was worried about my health and knew full well the extent of the partying that was the mainstay of each and every show. I'd told him all about it. Because if you couldn't tell your doctor the truth about what you'd been doing, then what was the point? I wasn't the only patient he had in the entertainment business so he wasn't exactly shocked, but he wanted to keep me a safe distance from life on the road until he'd had a chance to run more tests to see what was causing me to feel so ill. And reluctantly I'd agreed.

Standing in our driveway, I gave Lindsey one last kiss before he climbed into the waiting limo that would take him to the Fleetwood Mac jet. It felt strange to not be climbing in right behind him, but I'd be joining the band soon—after my tests were finished. As he promised me again that he'd call as soon as he got to the hotel, I nodded and told him not to worry.

“I'll be fine, Lindsey. I have little Eddie to keep me company. And anyway, Walter and Tom should be here any minute. So if I get sick, they'll be here for me. Just have fun—but not
too
much fun without me. I'll talk to you tonight, OK?” I said brightly, trying to hide my disappointment that I'd have to stay behind. I watched his car pull out of the driveway before walking slowly back into the house.

Walter Egan's band would be recording in Lindsey's studio while he was on tour, and I knew that I'd have little time to be lonely. I would have preferred to be on my own, since I wasn't feeling well, but Lindsey had offered his studio to Walter's band at no cost. And I loved Walter. I'd been the model for the back of the record cover of his hit album
Magnet and Steel
and I got along well with the rest of his band.
It's probably going to be quieter on the road than up here in BelAir once Walter's gang arrives
, I thought with a shake of my head.

Carol Ann and Annie McLoone, singer in Walter Egan's band, in Bel-Air.

A few nights later I decided to drive out to Mick's house in Malibu to spend the evening with Sara. She too had stayed behind but, unlike me,
was used to it. I'd been by Lindsey's side on every single tour and it felt strange not to be with him at the beginning of this one. All in all, since I'd met him, I'd probably only missed three weeks out of the
Rumours
and
Tusk
tours combined. And I couldn't wait until I could join him.

As I drove down Pacific Coast Highway, I watched the waves crashing on the public beaches beneath weathered small houses with cozy lights burning softly against the black velvet of the ocean. As I neared Paradise Cove and its private beaches surrounding million-dollar mansions, I wondered why the million-dollar homes seemed so cold and lifeless compared with the beach houses a few miles down the road. Listening to Tom Petty sing “Luna” over the cassette player in my car, I felt peaceful, happy, and safe.

After an hour's drive I arrived at Mick's rather strange mansion known within the Fleetwood Mac family as “the Blue Whale.” Sara and I stood under the small fake balcony in the living room looking up at the life-size dummy of a man hanging with a noose around his neck. No matter how many times I saw it, it always creeped me out and I couldn't understand how Sara could bear living with it. But it was just another sign of Mick's twisted humor. Even so, I told Sara that I couldn't bear being in the same room as the “hanging man” and with a laugh she pulled me by the hand to lead me to the large, homey kitchen.

But I didn't make it. Before I'd taken even three steps, everything went gray and then black as I felt myself falling. As from a great distance, I could hear Sara frantically calling my name, and then everything was still. Nausea and shades of misty light that formed into the face of Sara pulled me back from the darkness and I knew that I was lying on the floor—but I didn't know how I gotten there.

“Oh my God, you scared me, Carol!” Sara cried as I tried to focus on her face. “You fainted! Can you stand up?”

Shaken and still nauseous, I managed to get to my feet with Sara's help and make it to her bed. She rushed to the bathroom and brought back a cold washcloth for my face and slowly I began to feel better. I couldn't remember fainting since I was a little girl.
What happened?
I wondered as I clung to Sara with ice-cold hands. Sara insisted that I go first thing in the morning to see Mick's physician, Dr. Unger. “He's really good, Carol. All of us go to him. I know you're seeing a neurologist, but I want you to go to our doctor. Promise me. OK?”

With a nod I told her I would. Afraid to drive home, I spent the night there and then drove back into L.A. and Dr. Unger's office the next day. Dr. Unger was a handsome, friendly man who seemed to brighten the room as he walked into it. He would himself become something of a celebrity when he married the widow of Peter Sellers a few years after we met.

Greeting me warmly, he checked my vital signs and told me he wanted me to have an echocardiogram—a test that allowed him to see my heart beating on a monitor.

After the test Dr. Unger told me that I had a congenital heart defect: a mitral-valve prolapse. It was a defect in which one of the valves of your heart pumped harder than it should and it could easily be the reason I fainted. “You're just more sensitive to everything because of your heart condition. It's not fatal. You can live with it. But you have to take care of your health. Obviously, it makes you a little more delicate and you need to be aware of that.”

Thanking him, I returned home in a daze, finding the house mercifully empty. Crawling into bed, I fell into a dreamless sleep and awoke feeling depressed and listless. I was already tired of dealing with the physical symptoms of my panic attacks, so the news of my heart defect had come as a real blow. I'd always considered myself a healthy person and I wasn't used to doctors and dire diagnoses. And I didn't want to get used to it. So I pushed away all thoughts of being “delicate” and got out bed determined to do something that would prove I wasn't.

Walter's band was playing in our garage studio, and after dressing quickly I crept down the hall away from them. I was sick of rocker boys and their crude jokes and dreams of musical fame. I needed a little time to myself. I needed to be alone. Walking into the rain room, I flipped on the switch and watched as the soft drops of water cascaded over the glass.
I know what I'll do! I'm going to redecorate this room! And I'll start by moving all the furniture around!
I said to myself as I surveyed the rain room.

As I pushed, pulled, and lifted the heavy chairs and tables I felt a sense of inner peace that one only gets from physical labor—and it was wonderful. But after two hours I began to have dull, aching pains in my lower back that became sharper and more defined as each minute passed. I stopped for a moment and sat down, certain that I'd just strained my back. Suddenly
I almost doubled over with the worst abdominal cramps I'd ever had. The pain was excruciating and I gasped as it washed over me in waves.

What's wrong with me?
I thought worriedly as I curled into a ball and closed my eyes tight against the torturous cramping. I lay motionless for what felt like hours, the pain finally eased and I walked slowly back to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.
I'm fine
, I told myself.
I'm probably just getting my period. It's bad, but by morning I'll be OK.

After a fitful night of pain I woke to find that I was bleeding heavily—more than I ever had during my normal periods. With shaking hands I called my gynecologist's office and explained to his nurse what was happening.

“Are you pregnant, Carol?” she asked quickly. I explained that I was on the Pill, so it didn't seem possible. With a crisp voice she told me that the doctor was out of the office for the day but to come in first thing in the morning. After phoning in pain medication, she ordered me to stay in bed until I could get into the office.

During my nightly phone conversation with Lindsey I didn't say anything about my “girl” problem. He'd been surprisingly uninterested when I told him of my heart defect the day before. And to tell the truth, it both hurt and surprised me. So I did my best to make sympathetic noises as he complained about being on the road and how bored he was. Because I was feeling unwell, I got off the phone as quickly as possible.

The next morning I slowly walked into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was so white it seemed translucent in the early morning light, and the skin around my hollowed eyes looked bruised with purple shadows. Wincing in pain as I slowly stepped into the shower, I felt almost otherworldly as I struggled to keep my balance. Slipping into a dress, I inched my way down the hall and out to my car. I was feeling so faint that it took all my energy and concentration not to crash my car on the long drive to Dr. Jackson's office.