Into My Life

Chapter 3

I drove home numbly. As I parked the car in front of the apartment I had one of those "Gee, I don't remember driving home" experiences and wondered if I had stopped for red lights. My roommates had fallen asleep in the living room waiting for me. I tiptoed into the room, tempted to sneak off to bed. Earlier in the day I had thought at times "Wait until I tell them about this!", but right now I was tired, drained, and I didn't feel like sharing anything. It wasn't just a "They are MY Beatles, MINE I tell you!" feeling, though I must admit it was there. I needed time to sort it all out, decide what to tell and what was not to be shared. Not that I knew anything really damaging, (What grass?) but what didn't fall under patient-nurse privilege was somehow even more personal. George's anger. Ringo's gentleness. John in pain. And Paul's outburst as we left the park. Neil had said that even he seldom so Paul so open. How could I share that?

But Brenda woke up, shook Sandy awake, and the interrogation began. I looked at my roommates. Cool, composed Brenda, Sandy bouncing on the couch in her usual happy puppy fashion. Brenda and I had become close friends in our first year of nursing school, and when we had to leave the dorm and find an apartment, we had really lucked out to find Sandy. Sandy wasn't another nursing student. She had a good job as a secretary at the University of Minnesota. Sandy was what I dreamed of being -- financially independent. That didn't mean she made big bucks, it just meant she made enough in a forty-hour week to meet expenses and therefore had time for boys!

The three of us got along great and in the year we had been roommates we had shared confidences and secrets, not just rent payments. They were expecting a full disclosure of everything I saw, heard, and felt on this incredible day. Even though there were some things that I knew I couldn't share with them for professional reasons, and other things I felt I shouldn't share with them just because it didn't feel right, there was more than enough to tell. I gave them the facts fluffed out with little details. Ringo and the ice cream comment. George and the "cold thingy". Neil being "the handkerchief guy". All my crazy, panicky thoughts, the reporters and the fans and the uptight "Christian" nurse. Sandy giggled and bounced, Brenda laughed. When I finished, Sandy asked. "So were they what you expected?"

"Yeah, I guess so in a way. They are gorgeous. Charisma all over the place! But they are so much more. I only got to spend a couple of minutes with Ringo and George, but Ringo -- you just want to hug him!. And George . . . he looks like Rasputin the Mad Monk of Russia one minute and then he smiles and you can't figure out why you ever thought that! John is so . . . so . . . I don't know . . . intense, complicated, funny. And Paul. The man is . . . oh. How can I explain it? He is sexy. Just incredibly sexy."

Sandy and Brenda shrieked. "A walking sex machine?" "Roman hands and Russian fingers?" "Testosterone in a suit?" "Don Juan?" "Fast Freddy?" Every name we had for guys that come on too fast.

"No - No! Not like that! He doesn't do anything! He just walks in the room and you want to touch him. He's like some kind of magnet. Your mind goes blank and all you know is that there is this . . . this MAN next to you."

Brenda was laughing and Sandy was collapsed on the couch screaming "Oh my God! I've got to meet him. Hormonal overdrive! Cold shower!"

We finally calmed down and then Brenda, true to her plans to become a psychiatric nurse asked, "So what will you remember most from this day?"

I sat there for a moment wondering how I could possibly answer that. Wondering if I even knew the answer. "Ringo's eyes, George's smile, Paul's . . . voice, (Big lie. His touch.) and John."

"What about John?"

"Everything."

I slept until ten the next morning. Sleep with dreams of running through a huge building trying to find John because he needed me, George urgently trying to explain that Paul was waiting with the tickets, and Neil with his arms around me, turning into John -- or was it Paul? No, it was Mal holding me to keep me from falling off a ledge with a broken railing.

The apartment was quiet. Sandy and Brenda were both working. Brenda was supposed to working on the fifth floor and I wondered if she would figure out some way to get down to the third floor to see John. Probably not. By now the nursing supervisors had probably clamped down on the staff "needing" to go to third floor for one reason or another.

I wasn't scheduled to work that day, so I planned to catch up on laundry. It was strange having time on my hands this summer. I spent a lot of time just hanging out with my friends, but I still wasn't dating much, since most of the hours I did work were on weekends. So now I spent too many empty evenings feeling the day slide into night, feeling that restless ache inside. Sometimes I felt as if I would explode if I didn't do something. I wanted to go to a wild party, dance until I couldn't think, laugh and flirt and leave with a boy who would try to get to first base in a parked car. I wanted some boy to say to me "Wild thing, you move me!"

Instead I worked weekends and spent week nights sitting on the porch listening to my transistor radio and waiting for the apartment to cool off enough to sleep. Dusty Springfield sang "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me" and, like her, I would have settled for someone who would "just be close at hand." Someone asked Alfie "What's it all about?" and I wanted to learn for myself. To find out what happens "When A Man Loves A Woman." I was tired of waiting. I wanted to fall in love, hold someone close. Listening to the radio was definitely not the way to ease that restless, empty ache. It just fueled the fire.

Now romantic notions were being replaced with financial worries though. If I didn't pick up more hours or look for another job, I was going to be really short on money by the middle of the school year. Brenda's parents were pretty well to do. She didn't have to worry about making anything more than money for clothes and fun. My Mom and Dad were not poor but there was never money to spare. They paid my tuition, but living expenses were all up to me. I had campaigned so hard to go to school in Minneapolis instead of living at home and going to Mankato State. I had been offered a small scholarship for St. Vincent's, so they had agreed to let me go even though it cost considerably more to live in the dorm instead of at home. Then at the end of my first year, it was announced that the student dorm was being torn down and relocated to allow expansion of the hospital. In the fall, first year students would be housed in two big houses near the hospital. Second and third year students would have to find alternate housing. That was even more expensive than dorm fees and worse, to a parent's way of thinking, it was obviously a very dangerous situation. A dorm was one thing, an apartment in the big city a whole different story. Only after much pleading and many, many promises about locked doors, checking the back seat of the car, walking in pairs, etc., was I allowed to get an apartment with Brenda rather than transfer to the nursing program at St. Joe's in Mankato. Asking for help was not something I wanted to do. I could still find myself back at home.

What I had thought would be an easy summer of just working at the hospital was not working out. I needed to earn more money and that meant finding another job. At various times over the last two summers and after school, I had worked in a stifling factory inhaling chemical fumes that made the monotonous work day go by in a haze, waited on tables in a restaurant whose clientele was mainly retired men going out for coffee to escape their wives, sold tickets at a drive-in theater where I could see everyone else my age pairing up for a night at the passion pit, ran a cash register in a grocery store while avoiding the groping hands of the store manager, and worked as a car hop at a drive-in where I fed more mosquitoes than customers. I could hardly wait to see what minimum wage career opportunity awaited me next. Over the weekend I had decided that I would start job hunting this week, but not today. My head was too full of yesterday. Tonight I would go to the concert and scream with the rest of the girls. Tomorrow I would circle help wanted ads in the paper, but today was too soon to let go of that incredible day.

I took a quick shower and started gathering stuff for a trip to the Laundromat. The phone rang at eleven.

"Terry, This is Mrs. Hammond at St. Vincent's." Mrs. Hammond was the nursing scheduler. Great, a chance to pick up some hours! "Would it be possible for you to come in right away?"

"Now? Well, yeah, sure." They must be really busy to bring someone in during the middle of the shift, and I would be off in plenty of time to go to the concert.

"It seems your patient is asking for you."

John! "I'll be there in fifteen minutes!" A chuckle from Mrs. Hammond who was not known for her sense of humor. "Thank you."

I dumped the laundry in the middle of the floor, ran to my closet praying I had a clean uniform left. Yes! Apron? No. Both of mine were crumpled up in the laundry. I ran to Brenda's room and grabbed her extra one. She was several inches taller than I, but when it came to student aprons it was "one size fits none." Nylons. A minute spent searching for ones without runs. Panty hose had just come on the market, but white nursing hose still only came in the standard thigh length -- worn with a panty girdle even if you only weighed ninety pounds. The apartment was hot and I squirmed into the get-up while standing in front of the fan. Hose, girdle, slip, uniform. To the bathroom, pulling my hair back into a bun. ("Hair is to be neat and clean. Hair longer than chin length is to be pulled back or pinned up." Nursing Student Manual, page 9.) As I fumbled with the rubber band and bobby pins, I thought, " I'll need my nursing cap. Where did I put the damn thing?" I remembered having it in my hand as I got out of Paul's car last night. The same hand he had reached over and touched. Warm, strong fingers gently squeezing my hand . . .

Good grief! Delayed reaction! I laughed at myself, thinking at first that I was acting like an over emotional fifteen year old Beatlemaniac. Then I realized my thoughts had not gone along the lines of "Paul McCartney touched my hand! I'll never wash it again!" Who he was didn't seem to figure into it, just the fact that he was male and it felt good! I really needed to find time for a boyfriend and some physical contact with the male of the species!

My cap was on the back of the couch. Thinking if I stayed late I'd need something to do while John slept, something besides stare at him until my hands ached to touch him, I grabbed the paperback lying next to it. I picked up my purse, made sure I had my hospital name tag, backtracked to the kitchen, slapped together a peanut butter sandwich, and flew out the door.

Traffic near the hospital was awful. Kids were everywhere, and if they weren't causing accidents as they circled looking for parking places, they were stepping out in front traffic as they hurried to join the crowd out in front of the hospital. Reporters and camera crews made things worse. I finally got into the hospital parking lot, parked, and checked the rear view mirror for peanut butter on my face. I was in back of the hospital and hadn't driven past the front so I wondered how bad it was out there. I knew as soon as I got out of the car. Horns were honking and I could hear police whistles. The crowd burst into song and the words they were singing were impossible to make out, but the song ended with a clear, resounding "We love you, John." Apparently reassured that John wasn't going to die, the gathering had taken on a party mood and the "Quiet - Hospital Zone" signs were ignored. I headed for the employee entrance. Two girls were lurking between two parked cars. They darted out to me. "I'll pay you fifty dollars for your blue uniform thing and cap!" one said. I just laughed and hurried inside. There were security guards in the main lobby, security questioning people getting on the elevators, and security stopping anyone who tried to get off on the third floor, but no one questioned me. The girls in the parking lot were on the right track. Nobody questioned anyone in an outfit as silly looking as a student uniform!

I reported to the nurses' station. The charge nurse was Mrs. Stevens, a no nonsense woman with a posture and attitude that indicated a military background and her nursing pin confirmed that she was an old army nurse. She informed me that Mr. Lennon had dismissed his private duty nurse shortly after nine a.m. and she had been caring for him since. Vital signs were stable, circulation good although his right hand was somewhat swollen. He had last been medicated for pain at nine-thirty for headache and shoulder pain. He had been sleeping since. The physician had rounded at eight and left orders for oral pain medication, and to have him sit up this morning and out of bed this afternoon. He was allowed partial weight bearing on his left leg. He had refused breakfast but was taking fluids. She handed me his chart and looked at me over the tops of her glasses.

"He has not been bathed or shaved. He stated that he never gets up before noon. That seems to have been the source of the friction between him and the private duty nurse." There was a twinkle in her eye and a smile tugging at her mouth by this point. "When Mr. Lennon asked to have his young student back, there was some speculation about his intentions. But it was quite obvious to me that his differences with the private duty nurse were indeed related to care and not any filthy desires on the part of Mr. Lennon -- She had boobs like Mae West, and a uniform not intended to hide them!"

I was astonished at her comments, his actions, the whole situation. Mrs. Stevens dismissed me with a brisk "Call me if you need anything, Miss Martin." Then she precision marched down the hall and into a patient's room.

Two other nurses were in the nurses' station. As soon as she was out of ear shot, one said "Call ME if you need help with anything -- Please! She wouldn't let us near him. I just want to be able to say I saw him! I won't ask for an autograph or anything!" I laughed and said I'd call her if I needed help fluffing a pillow or anything.

John's room was quiet and the curtains pulled. He was sleeping. I put his chart on the bedside table and paged through it. From the nurse's notes I saw that he had not slept especially well during the night, sleeping only for an hour or two after a pain shot. It was a little before noon and he had last been checked at eleven. I could let him sleep. I settled in the chair by the window with my book but ended up watching the crowd outside.

"I hear you are going to a concert tonight."

I looked up to see John smiling at me. I got up and went to him. "Fire the evening nurse, too. Then I can stay here with you."

"Consider it done."

"How are you doing?"

"I want to go home. I'll even settle for the hotel."

"Maybe we can talk them into that tomorrow."

I touched his chin feeling the prickly beard. "Will you fire me if I ask to shave you?"

"She didn't ask, and it wasn't the shaving part she was interested in! She wanted to give me a bath and the way she was giggling . . . Well, I wasn't havin' it. Where the hell did Brian find her? I thought at first it was a set up, that the others hired her to pretend to be a nurse just as a lark!"

"She was probably just nervous," I said, feeling the need to defend a fellow nurse.

He laughed. "You were nervous, she was eager. She just wanted a look! Ciggie?"

I helped him with a cigarette and the urinal and started on his shave and bath. Neil had been in earlier to bring his shave kit, more cigarettes and the news that the concert was on. I told John that I was surprised that Paul had decided to go ahead with it. He shook his head. "I knew he would. Paul is careful. He plans ahead. Never burns bridges behind him. He doesn't believe we aren't ever going to tour again so he's doing what he can to keep that door open."

"He didn't seem too thrilled with touring last night."

John tried to shrug, but that turned into a lopsided lift of his shoulder and a grimace. "He always liked it better than the rest of us, but this tour really got to him. They put us in a cage in New York."

"What?"

"The stage. It had this high fence around it with a second fence around that. They usually put a fence between us and the fans, but this . . . There was a space between them where the guards patrolled. Just like a prison except it didn't have barbed wire or electricity. At least I don't think it did!" He shook his head. "We couldn't believe it. I think that is what topped it for me. I knew then I wouldn't do another tour. The "bigger than Jesus" shit wasn't all of it."

"But Paul wants to?"

"The cage was bad, and Atlanta had Paul in the bogs puking his guts out before the show, but, yeah, he's willing to do it. I'm not. George is not. So the promoters get their show tonight and it is over."

I thought about what Paul had said the night before. "He didn't want to go on without you. If you had asked him not to, I think he would have gone with that."

John looked away from me and said quietly, "Yeah. He would have."

He changed the subject and we talked about nursing school while I finished his bath. Like any healthy young patient, he was not especially comfortable with having someone bathe him, but I just kept the conversation going and we got through it. When I had his bath all done except for his back, I got Mrs. Stevens and the nurse who so badly wanted to meet John. Together we rolled him on his side, cringed at the bruises, now black and purple all down his left shoulder, ribs, and hip. We washed what we could around the tape and changed the sheets.

When lunch came he ate unenthusiastically and I could tell his head and shoulder were starting to hurt again. I put the head of his bed down and pulled the curtains hoping he would be able to doze off for a little while since it was too soon for another pill, but when the room got quiet the sound of the mob outside filtered in. Outbursts of songs, police whistles, honking horns, a bull horn demanding that they clear the street. Mrs. Stevens came back in to tell John that he had another dozen floral arrangements sitting in the hall. There was no place left in the room. He told her to give them to the other patients or to the nurses.

John was quiet. Too uncomfortable to sleep soundly but too worn out for conversation. He drifted in and out of a restless sleep as I sat in the quiet room, thinking how thrilling it was to meet him, wishing for his sake it had never happened, glad that circumstances had led me to be there at the hotel. John had dropped into my life . . . and now, things were about to escalate.

Mrs. Stevens came back in and said John had visitors. She looked a little less composed than usual. Brian came in accompanied by two hospital bigwigs and Dr. Latham. The hospital administrators were concerned about the hospital being under siege by fans. Visitors were inconvenienced, staff couldn't get to work, patients disturbed by the noise, traffic was hopelessly snarled, and ambulances were having difficulty getting through.

Dr. Latham felt that John was not ready for dismissal, but was willing to consider care "in another setting" by private duty nurses. The hospital was willing to provide any needed supplies and equipment and to assume all additional costs of transport, etc., if John were to be moved. Since Brian had already engaged private duty nurses, all that needed to be done was make arrangements to move him when the doctor approved it.

"I thought it best to consult with you before deciding, John," said Brian.

"And just where would I be off to?" he asked.

"I believe that the hotel would be fine," said Dr. Latham.

"And when?"

"We could make the arrangements for tomorrow morning," said an administrator.

"This afternoon," said John.

The administrators happily consulted and said they believed it might be possible if Dr. Latham had no objections. The doctor looked unsure. "He has not been out of bed yet. Perhaps this evening. I would like to have him ambulated first."

John looked at me, uncertain if ambulated meant what he thought it did. "Walk" I said.

"To the door and back" said Dr. Latham.

John looked at me. "Nurse, I should like to ambulate to the door, please. Now, if you please, Miss."

I didn't think he could do it, but I knew he would pass out trying. "First a pain pill. Then you sit up on the side of bed for a while. Then you walk," said Mrs. Stevens.

"Well," said Dr. Latham, "I will be back in about an hour to see how he did. I'll write dismissal orders then."

"Nurse, see to the arrangements. Let the supervisors know what supplies you need." The doctor and administrators left, Mrs. Stevens and I looked at each other, then she shook her head as if to clear it. Her military training didn't fail her, though. She could take charge of this sudden change in plans. "OK, . . . " She flipped the clip board to attention and started writing. ". . . a wheel chair with a leg rest . . . "

"Lots of pillows," I added.

"Medication -- pain pills"

"Betadine for the incision"

"Suture removal kit."

"Could we get a shampoo board?"

"Enema kit," Mrs. Stevens added.

"What!?!" John said.

"Narcotic pain medications tend to be constipating--"

John looked at me. "You wouldn't!"

"I told you I knew worse things than bend over and cough!"

John rolled his eyes. Brian snickered. "Definitely an enema kit." John said, glaring at Brian. "I won't use it but know a good place for it!" Brian turned very pink and John laughed.

"You'll need acetone when the adhesive tape needs to come off," went on Mrs. Stevens.

John stopped laughing abruptly.

"Urinal," I added.

"Bedpan," said Mrs. Stevens.

"No!" said John. "If I have to be able to walk to get out of here I'll not be needing THAT."

"I'd better get arrangements made for the ambulance." Mrs. Stevens headed for the door.

"No ambulance," said John. "I'm leaving here sitting up in the biggest limousine you can find!" Mrs. Stevens looked blank. Ambulances were part of her life. She could arrange that -- or maybe a tank. But arranging for a limo was another thing all together. Brian assured her he would take care of that end of it.

"Well, lets get on with the walking, then" John said.

I went after a pain pill and grabbed some ammonia ampules while I was at it. Good old smelling salts had kept many a patient upright on their first jaunt out of bed. The discussion at the nurses station was about a reporter who had just been escorted off the hall. He was looking for nurses who would like to tell their story about caring for a Beatle -- and he was asking who the nurses were who had been at the hotel yesterday.

"Oh, geez!" I groaned.

"Don't worry," said one of the nurses. "We got a lecture on confidentiality first thing this morning. No one told him anything."

Well, that was a start. But I wondered what would happen if they did find out my name. The idea of having a reporter turn up at my front door asking questions was unpleasant. I couldn't talk about John as a patient and even discussing yesterdays non-medical events with my roommates had left me feeling that I had somehow invaded the Beatles' privacy.

Back at John's room, John took the pill and I sat down to catch up on my charting and give the pill a chance to kick in. John told Brian I was staying for the evening and he could cancel whatever private duty nurse he had arranged for then. Brian laughed and said, "Well, that's two out of three. So far Terry's doing most of the work."

"I like this arrangement," John said. I'm used to her. She's seen everything there is to see. I don't reckon on someone new checking me out every few hours!"

"Perhaps I could find a live-in nanny," Brian teased.

I looked at John. He was looking at me.

"What do you think, luv? Would you have a go?"

I understood exactly what he was asking. "Sure . . . but I'm not sure Dr. Latham would agree to a student nurse. Besides, I'm scheduled to work here tomorrow night."

"Can you do it, Brian?" John asked.

Brian looked dubious.

"Oh, come 'ead, Eppy," John wheedled, sounding miserable. "Get me outta here, mate."

"Well, yes, I suppose we could try," Brian said. That was all John needed to hear.

"A limo and Terry as a live-in nanny, Brian. By four." John ordered. "I want to get to the hotel before they leave for the concert."

Brian shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was agreeing to. "OK, John." "I'll do the best money can buy."

"That's how its done, son," and they laughed. It was an inside joke, apparently.

Brian went off to see what money could buy. Fortunately, I didn't have time to dwell on what I had just agreed to. I probably would have panicked if I really stopped to consider that I was going to be on my own in taking care of John, but right now, the priority was getting John up and walking so the doctor would OK the plan. I cranked the head of his bed up high, explaining to John that he wouldn't be as likely to get dizzy if he sat up for a while first. (Dizzy, hell! He was going to pass out.)

Mrs. Stevens came in with two other nurses. Apparently she thought the same thing. We swung John around so his good leg hung over the side of the bed. Mrs. Stevens and one of the others held his left leg in its immobilizer brace out straight. He grimaced a little, then smiled a very obviously forced smile. "Dead easy. Now what?"

"Now you sit a minute," I said. We adjusted the sling on his arm and discussed putting one on the casted arm but decided it wasn't necessary and would just make him harder to hang on to. "Ready?"

"Ready."

We stood him up. I was on one side, Mrs. Stevens on the other. The other two hovered. He sucked in his breath as all his aching muscles protested and wobbled a little as he tried to balance, but he was up. I tucked the hospital gown around him and put an arm around his waist. "OK, lets take a few steps. Try not to put your full weight on your left leg." We walked slowly across the room. At the door we pivoted him around.

"Let's rest a minute," Mrs. Stevens said. "How are you doing, Mr. Lennon?"

"Grand. Just grand." Spoken through clenched teeth.

I had been looking down, watching his feet. I looked up. He was pale, and breathing those short little breaths people use when everything hurts. And he looked different. Standing up he looked . . . he looked like John Lennon! THE John Lennon! Now I was having trouble breathing.

"Slow, deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth," Mrs. Stevens coached. That's what nurses say when they think the patient is going to pass out. That's the last thing patients hear as they slide to the floor. I took a few slow deep breaths myself.

After a half a minute John said, "OK." We got him back to the bed, turned him around. We sat him down, spun him around and laid him back all in one motion. I cranked the head of the bed down, and John gasped, "Where's me Limo?"

By four o'clock everything was ready. Supplies were ordered and on their way to the hotel. A guy named Terry with an accent that was more Irish than the Liverpool one I was getting used to showed up. He had brought clothes for John from the hotel, and the strange questions about "Which Terry?" the afternoon made sense.

John called Cyn and told her he was leaving the hospital. I talked to her, updating her on how he was doing and explaining that I would be with him. Brian had been kept busy talking to the hospital administration, the Dean of the nursing school, and Dr. Latham. Getting permission for me to accompany John to the hotel was no problem, until they realized I was to be his only nurse, not just a temporary assistant nurse. Brian had argued that John was comfortable with me, and that because of his being a Beatle, it was necessary to limit the number of nurses for the sake of his privacy. But the idea of entrusting him to a student nurse was not acceptable to them. Brian persisted, pointing out that I had been caring for him all along and that John had already fired one of the nurses he had arranged for. Perhaps I could care for him if an RN was brought in to check on him a couple of times a day? That seemed like a workable solution to them but only after Mrs. Stevens had been called into their meeting to testify that I seemed capable enough to handle it. She had apparently given me solid backing because the idea was then approved.

Dr. Latham had been back and had ordered a generous dose of Demeral for the trip. We gave John the shot, got him dressed, put the immobilizer and arm sling back on, and put him in a wheelchair. Brian, Mal, and Neil were in and out and John was irritable. I knew he was tired and uncomfortable, but something else was going on. He was not looking forward to this but when I suggested we wait a few more minutes for the Demeral to take effect, he growled, "No, let's get it over with."

"OK," I said. "I guess we are ready then." We headed out into the hall where nurses waited for a glimpse of John. That reminded me of what was to come and once in the elevator, I hurriedly removed my name tag.

Reporters had been cleared from the hospital lobby and banned to a position outside. The fans were fifty feet back behind barricades. The limo was out front surrounded by motorcycle police. Crews from NBC, CBS, and ABC had big cameras set up and even lighting strung under the covered entrance. We went through the doors and were met with a roar of sound. Reporters surged forward yelling for John's attention, fans shrieked, reporters shoved microphones in our faces and asked questions we couldn't make out over the noise. Police shoved them back, and we managed to get John into the limo and situated with his leg up on the seat. Over his objections, I had brought along some pillows and managed to get him halfway comfortable even though all he wanted was to get away from the prying cameras. John looked grim and swore at everybody. "Fuckin' freak show," he muttered. "Get in here so we can get the fuck away from the bloody bastards," he ordered me.

I sat in back with John and Brian, and Mal got in front with the driver. Several security people got in a second limo and we were off to the hotel in a cavalcade of police, limos, and reporters as we pulled away from the hospital.

The Demeral hit John hard on the way. "Thank God!" Brian said fervently when John sighed and fell asleep abruptly. I had to awaken him when we got to the hotel but things went more easily now that the drug was working. At the hotel the crowds were smaller, but it was the same process in reverse. The lobby was crowded with photographers, reporters, and assorted people who seemed to think that they were all going up to the room with us. I had all I could do to maneuver the wheelchair without bumping John's leg on something or someone. Finally we were in the elevator, the doors sliding shut, leaving the mob outside. Up to the penthouse floor.

It was grand. High ceilings, marble floors, huge arrangements of fresh flowers. I never knew that there was anything that classy in Minneapolis! There were big double doors on either side of the hall. The doors on the left were open and everyone was waiting for John. The whole road crew was there and they cheered as I pushed him through the doors. Everyone crowded around to welcome John. Stepping back out of the way, I watched them laughing and joking. As I watched, I realized I was in a room with over a dozen men and they all seemed to be young and British. Most of my life was spent in classrooms with other girls and female instructors, on nursing units with ninety nine percent female coworkers, in an apartment with two female roommates. This much maleness was intoxicating! I was grinning ear to ear when Neil came over to greet me.

"Hullo again!"

"Hi Neil...I can't believe this!."

He looked around momentarily puzzled, then smiled. "You've done it? You found away into the Beatle's hotel rooms?"

"Oh no! Not that! It's just that Mom and Dad have spent the last year worrying because I'm living in an apartment rather than a safe, all girl dormitory, and I just agreed to spend the next couple of days in a hotel full of wild, long haired, British rock and rollers!"

He laughed, then suddenly realized it might really be a problem. "If you are worried, perhaps we . . . "

"It's OK, Neil" I reassured him. "Really. In fact, it is fantastic!" I said it with so much enthusiasm that he laughed.

"I should think your boyfriend might not agree."

I recognized this as a carefully worded question. I looked at him, thinking "Not bad, not bad at all. Great smile. And nice . . . really nice.

"No boy friend," I said. He smiled.

Brian looked around, spotted Neil. "Neil, Wendy says the tailor is on his way up to fit Terry's suit. Take them down to your room."

I was confused, but Neil moved over to a guy standing near John. He put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Come on Terry. Let's see how you look as a Beatle." Apparently this guy was also named Terry!

Neil hadn't spoken loudly but those standing closest went silent. Their eyes went to John. John watched Neil and Terry as they headed out of the room, then he turned to look at Paul who was sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. A long look passed between them. Finally Paul said "We've been working on the play list. Do you think we should --"

John was looking up at him, head tipped back, jaw up, looking down his nose at Paul in a classic Lennon pose that made my heart do a funny little flip. But he wasn't interrupting to say "Give us a kiss." Or even "You're a swine." Instead he said coldly, "It's your fuckin' concert, Paul. Do what you want," and turned away from Paul. "Can I get something to drink?" he asked. "No 7-Up. The hospital has turned me off 7-Up for good."

Paul stared at John for a moment then abruptly got up and moved away. George and Ringo looked at each other, then at Brian. Conversation resumed. Jokes about hospital food. Brian went to get a drink from the buffet table near the door. Paul walked past me and the look on his face was tight, but not just with anger. John's words had stung.

Brian returned with a glass of Coke for John. I said to Brian, "He'll need a straw." A moment of confusion ensued as several people searched for a straw.

"Call room service and give some lucky girl a thrill!" " Ringo said and everyone laughed.

Someone found a straw. I took the Coke from Brian, put the straw in it, and sat down on the coffee table. As I gave John a drink, his eyes met mine. In the day we had spent together so far, there had already been a couple of times when I felt like he could read me like a book. This time it worked in reverse. I could read him. He looked miserable.

I also saw that he was tired. He had been up in the wheelchair for over an hour and was groggy from the pain shot. "I think he's been up long enough," I said to Brian. We moved across the hall to another suite of rooms. Another sitting room, two bedrooms on one side with a connecting bath. Mal helped me put John on the huge bed. He moved easily, Demeral doing a good job, but tilted dizzily.

"Whoa! Good stuff, that!" he laughed. I propped him into a sitting position with pillows. People wandered in and out. George and Ringo wandered in and stayed, sitting cross-legged on the bed with John. While I unpacked supplies, they helped John with a cigarette. I tried not to stare as Ringo, in snug jeans and a T-shirt, knelt on the bed and made a long stretch across from the bed to the table to pick up an ashtray. Great buns, narrow hips, muscular arms. Amazing what those suits we always saw them in covered up!

I was listening to their conversation and suddenly realized I couldn't understand half of it. Between the inside jokes I didn't get, the British expressions I didn't understand, and the accent, I almost felt I needed an interpreter! I hadn't had trouble understanding any of them before, but here, in the relaxed privacy of John's room, they fell back into what I assumed to be the famous Liverpool scouse. The main parts of the conversation were clear; Have you talked to Cyn? How many stitches? ? Great swimming pool here, too bad John! It was like listening to a poorly tuned radio station though, with the indecipherable comments making little blank spots here and there.

I hadn't let my roommates know what was going on, and I didn't have so much as a toothbrush with me so when I finished unpacking John's things, I used the phone next to the bed to call. Brenda answered and I told her where I was. Cool, calm Brenda said in disbelief, "You're where?!?" I explained the arrangement and asked her if she would pack a suitcase for me. "I need my uniforms but they are in the wash----"

"Good," John interrupted. "Can't you just wear real clothes? I feel ridiculous enough with out having a sister in white hovering about."

Brenda heard him and lost her normal cool. "That's John Lennon!" she squealed.

John heard her and yelled "Just send her regular clothes. All those short skirts and tight sweaters she usually wears!"

"Short shorts!" yelled George.

"A bikini!" yelled Ringo.

"Oh my God!" gasped Brenda and in the background Sandy shrieked "What? What?"

"It's George and Ringo!"

Sandy let out a scream any Beatlemaniac could be proud of.

"Just pack a bag with whatever you can find and bring it to the Radisson." I tried to tell them, but Brenda was busy relaying to Sandy the details of how I ended up at the Radisson and Sandy was going nuts as she listened. When I finally got them settled down, I said "Just bring me enough clothes and stuff for a couple of days. When you get here, just tell them at the main desk to call me--"

"They'll never get past the door," George laughed. "We'll send someone over to your place to pick it up."

With that arranged, I had one last request before I hung up. "Please don't tell anyone where I am."

"Why?"

"The reporters. They want to talk to me and I sure don't want to talk to them! I don't want to come home and find them waiting on the front steps. Or a bunch of fans who want to touch somebody who touched a Beatle!"

"Well, most of our friends already know."

"Tell them not to tell anyone my name or where I live," I told her.

John, George, Ringo and Mal were listening and all were laughing.

"You'll never get away with it, girl, "George advised me.

"You're a marked woman," said John, "and the hounds of hell are after you!"

"Brenda," I sighed, "just try to keep it quiet, OK? I'll talk to you later. Bye"

As I hung up the phone, Paul appeared in the doorway. "Time to get on with it," he said quietly and left. George and Ringo sat for a bit longer, but the conversation was suddenly awkward. When they reluctantly got up and moved to the door, George turned back and said "I voted no."

"I know," John said.

It was quiet. John closed his eyes. I checked his hand. It seemed a little more swollen so I put an extra pillow under it to elevate it more. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah" he said.

"John . . . "

"What?"

I hesitated.

"Last night, I caught a ride back to the hotel with Paul and . . . He really had a hard time deciding what to do about the concert."

John just looked at me. "So?" he said coldly.

I cringed. "I know its none of my business--"

"Right," he said. "But you're going to say it regardless."

My face burned, and I don't know where I found the nerve to go on. I was not exactly known for being outspoken, but the image of Paul at the lake and the hurt on his face just a little while ago was fresh in my mind.

"Tell him he did the right thing," I blurted out.

John knew right away what I meant, I could see that in his eyes. He looked at me, looked right into me it seemed. "There is no "right" thing," he answered sounding defensive and irritated.

"Then just tell him that it's OK."

John looked away. He looked really pissed off, and I took a deep breath before going on. "John, it was a hard decision and he didn't want to make it."

He looked back at me with such misery on his face I wished I had kept my mouth shut. "Well he's done it. My group is making its last appearance without me!"

"That's not fair," I said more gently, knowing he was hurting too. "You knew how he would decide, and you knew all you had to do was ask him to cancel it. You can't blame him. He didn't really make the decision. You did."

He looked at me for a long moment, then turned his head away. I walked over and looked out of the window. No fans in the parking lot. All on their way to the concert. I waited for him to dismiss his second private duty nurse.

When he spoke, he didn't sound angry anymore, just tired. "Go tell Neil or Mal to send someone after your things. And tell Paul I want to see him and the others before they leave."

Half an hour later I was waiting in the living room of the suite with Brian, Tony, Mal, Neil, and Terry. Mal paced the floor and looked at his watch. Brian stared out the window. Paul, George and Ringo were in with John behind closed doors. Finally, the doors opened and George and Ringo came out. They looked subdued, or maybe resigned. They did not look ready to go out and put on a high energy, enthusiastic performance. Neil silently handed them their jackets and they put them on.

Ordinarily I think I would have been busy noting that their stage suits for this tour were very different from the dark suits of their first tour or the brown military looking ones of last year. When they had walked into the suite, part of my mind had registered the fact that George looked great in the dark red silk shirt, but rather catching my breath at the way Paul looked, I had stared at the tight look on his face as he walked through the room on his way to talk to John. Now I only glanced at them as George, Ringo, and Terry put on the red striped grey jackets. My attention was drawn through the open door into the bedroom. Paul was sitting on the bed next to John. They were talking quietly. Paul stood up to leave but stopped long enough to put his hand on John's arm, lean over and say something to him. John nodded, Paul squeezed his arm and turned and walked toward us. Neil picked the last jacket up off the sofa and Paul put it on. "All right, let's have done," he said firmly, his face and voice giving away nothing, and walked out of the room. The others followed.

I went in to John. He looked up at me and there were tears in his eyes. One thing that I had learned in my short nursing career was that sometimes there just aren't any words that can help. I sat on the bed next to him and reached out to him. He leaned against me, and I put my arms around him and held him. I couldn't exactly hug him because that would hurt, so all I could do when I felt his hot tears on my cheek was stroke his hair and pat him on the back. He broke down and cried then, hard, strangled sobs he tried to hold back because it hurt and because men don't cry. After a minute, he pulled himself together, swore long and hard, and lay back against the pillows exhausted by the day and the feelings.

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed.

"It has been a really bad week for you," I said.

"Weeks," he corrected. "Months. Whole bloody year. Got me out of my fuckin' head, goin' off like that."

"Well I'd rather you cried than get hysterical on me. We haven't covered that in school yet. I guess I'd have to slap you and you'd have to say "Thanks, I needed that" like in the movies."

That got a laugh from him, and he looked better. "You need to sleep for a while," I said.

He nodded, ready to give on to the lingering pull of the Demeral, but he wanted me to promise I would awaken him at nine. He wanted to be up and join the party when they got back, and when my clothes showed up, I was to get rid of the uniform. I turned him on his right side, arranged the pillows under his arm and leg, and he fell asleep immediately.

Neil, who had stayed behind with a couple of security people, was in the living room. He had the TV on, watching the news, but I had missed the headline segment on John leaving the hospital. I was starving, and asked if there was any food left in the other room. Neil laughed and picked up the phone. "What would you like?" he asked as he dialed.

"What do they have?" I asked.

"Everything -- caviar, champagne, steak."

"Hamburger and fries?"

I had told Neil earlier that someone would need to go after my clothes, and now Neil called one of the security guys in. It was the Irish Terry who had brought John's clothes to the hospital. I gave him the directions to my apartment and he said he would go after them in just a bit.

John slept, I had dinner and watched TV, and Neil was in and out several times over the next couple hours. My clothes arrived about 8:30 and I went to my room to change. I looked through the clothes Brenda and Sandy had sent, trying to figure out what would be appropriate. They had sent two dresses and a couple of skirts and blouses. The clothes were not all mine, but instead were the combined best our closets had to offer. I opened the suitcase and found shoes, slacks, tops, shorts, bathrobe, underwear. Instead of my knee length J.C. Penney nightgown, there was one of Sandy's, a light green baby doll shortie. I smiled and was glad that Sandy, the incurable romantic among us, had not sent one of the filmy negligees she had stashed away in her hope chest!

Above the knee A-line skirts were what we usually wore, but mini skirts were the newest fad, and Sandy had sent two of hers. Sandy was the one with the fashion flair. I had no idea how people dressed for an after-concert party, so I picked out one of Sandy's skirts and my favorite blouse. The black mini skirt had a wide belt with a big gold buckle and the blouse was soft pink with big, loose ruffles around the neckline and at the wrists. It was my favorite blouse but one I seldom had any place to wear because it was so dressy and because the neckline, although a V shape, didn't stop until it had revealed a little more than most occasions called for. Then I had second thoughts. I was not here to attend a party. I was a nurse on duty. I understood that John didn't want a nurse hovering over him, but that didn't excuse me from looking professional. I picked out a longer length navy blue skirt and simple light blue blouse and changed quickly, glad to be out of the uniform and into pantyhose instead of a girdle. I took off the cap, but couldn't do anything with my hair. After being pulled back all day it would be all lumpy if I let it down. I put on a little makeup even though it was another no-no in the student dress code. It was a rule we did not follow entirely, but it did make us tone it down, so I wasn't used to wearing a lot.

After changing clothes, I went through the connecting bathroom to get John up. He was just waking up and looked miserable. Before I even attempted to move him, I got him another pain pill. I sat next to him helping him with a cigarette, then a Coke, giving time for the pill to take effect. He didn't have much to say, and finally he said, "OK, lets get on with it."

I got Neil to help me and we got him up into a sitting position. His shirt was all wrinkled and I went to get a clean one out of the closet. He watched me moving around the room and I knew he was watching. My usual reaction to such situations was to suck in my stomach and wish I were in baggy sweatshirt and jeans. Now I found myself wishing I had on the other outfit -- and Brenda's blond hair and Sandy's chest.

"Is THAT what you plan to wear?" he asked.

"You said not to wear a uniform," I explained, "and I thought --"

He made a disgusted sound. "American girls have no style at all. They dress like their mothers!"

Of course I was mortified. I could feel my face getting hot and Neil tried to smooth things over. "She looks just fine, John. And she has great legs, don't you think?"

John didn't answer and I looked at him. He wasn't even looking at me, just sitting on the side of the bed with a look of pain on his face.

"We should have waited longer to get you up," I said. "Let's get you back down until that pain pill takes hold."

He didn't argue as Neil and I laid him back down. "Let's give it about fifteen more minutes," I said.

"Ciggie," John said.

"Would you help him with that, Neil?" I asked. "I am going to go change clothes."

"You don't have to do that," Neil protested. "He is just kidding."

John snarled, "Bullocks! It's true! She looks like a bloody government worker."

Now it was Neil's turn to look embarrassed and my turn to smooth things over. "He is just crabby because he is hurting."

Neil burst out laughing. "Oh, if the world only knew!"

John growled at him, "Shurrup, ya bloody mugger!" but there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

I went back to my room and changed into the short, short skirt and ruffled pink blouse hoping it was closer to Carnaby Street than Hennepin Avenue. I also added eye liner, another coat of mascara, and doubled up on the eye shadow. I simply could not bring myself to do the Elizabeth Taylor/Cleopatra eye look that was making Revlon and Maybelline stock soar, but it was a little more fashionable face that looked back at me. After adding a pair of gold earrings and I was as ready as I ever would be.

At some point in every book, the heroine has to be described and they tend to have red-gold hair, turquoise eyes, willowy figure with long legs, tiny waist, full bosom and other improbable combinations. Well, not me. I thought of myself as "medium," a concept reinforced by my choice of roommates. Brenda was tall, Sandy petite. I was medium. Brenda was a blond, blue-eyed Scandinavian stereotype. Sandy a dark haired, dark eyed pixie. I was medium. I had light brown hair that managed a red tint in sunlight and eyes that with the right clothes turned green. (Not the emerald green of Scarlet O'Hara fame. Olive green, as in army fatigues.) Brenda was slim, graceful. Sandy well rounded but in all the right places. I was -- you got it -- medium. Brenda wore her hair in a blonde version of Laura Petri's bouffant helmet with its perfectly flipped up ends. Sandy had an adorable Sassoon pixie cut. I couldn't afford the time Brenda spent rolling, drying, teasing and I couldn't afford the money Sandy spent an monthly trims. It was easier just to let it grow so I could pull it into a bun for work. The rest of the time I parted it on one side and, if time allowed, used curlers at the ends to curl the ends a bit. Cher was making long, straight hair fashionable, so although I didn't have her flair, I was at least in style.

My medium-ness didn't stop with looks. I was medium smart, Brenda a real brain, and Sandy was smart enough in the real world, but not a brilliant scholar by any means. I was medium in age with Brenda several months older and Sandy a year younger. I was medium in personality. Sandy was an outgoing, chatty, fun loving person. Brenda was rather quiet. Definitely not shy, but reserved in a sophisticated, studious way. Brenda was down to earth practical, Sandy a dreamer, and I swung between the two extremes. Brenda came from a wealthy family and her clothes reflected good taste and high quality. Sandy came from a big family where hand-me-downs were the standard. She leaned toward trendy clothes but knew how to find the bargains. I was currently so poverty stricken, fashion was not an issue. I wore what I could afford.

Miss Medium, that was me. Ordinary, average, medium. The only area I could come up with where I wasn't medium was in physical strength. I guess keeping up with an older brother had given me an edge and even after a couple years of city living it stayed with me. I could shovel more snow, lift heavier patients, and dance the legs off my roommates. But all that got me was the heavy end of any furniture to be moved and all the pickle and jelly jars to open! It never seemed to be a very feminine attribute, but it did come in handy.

If asked what my best feature was, I guess I would have said my eyes, or maybe my mouth. I thought I had nice medium lips. Not too big, not thin. For once, medium seemed optimal. If you asked others, they would have said "her smile." One of my uncles always used to tease me just to get me to smile and then he would point out that I had Grandma's beautiful smile. Of course, that was family and Grandma could have had a lopsided, gap-toothed grin and it would have beautiful to us, so I didn't take it seriously.

One day while I was a shy high school freshman, I was sitting with my friends at assembly in the gym. We were laughing and I didn't really notice that a bunch of upperclassmen were sitting behind and to the side of us. Somewhere along the line one of them moved down to talk to us. All I remember of the conversation was that he said to me, completely out of the blue, "You are really pretty when you smile." The fact that he was a Senior made it incredible. The fact that it was well known he had knocked up one of the cheerleaders made it a valuable opinion. I still thought I looked idiotic when I smiled, but I did learn to turn it on and it did seem to work with teachers, patients, and with boys.

So, armed with that smile, a medium body in a short skirt, a plunging neckline revealing a chest that was nothing spectacular, and makeup on a passably pretty face, I went back to John. He glanced at me and nodded. "That's better."

I was relieved, but secretly I had been hoping for a little more. Something a little more like the smile on Neil's face. "You look fab," he said. (Only the English could say "fab" or "gear" and not have it sound phony!) Neil went to answer the phone ringing out in the living room. I unbuckled the sling, got John's shirt off and the fresh one on while John gritted his teeth. As I buttoned it, I asked, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing it wouldn't do any good with John, "So is Neil married?"

"Nobody is married on tour, luv," he laughed, looking at me in his intent way, his face inches from mine. "Nobody." His eyes traveled down the neckline of my blouse.

I jerked upright, removing the view that bending over had given him. He started laughing. "You little tramp," he teased. "Flaunting your charms with me while thinking of Neil. And here I thought you had fallen for the McCartney charm! 'Tis wicked you are!"

"I've hardly even spoken to him!"

He just laughed at me.

He wanted to go to the bathroom rather than use the urinal, so I asked Neil to help. We walked him into the bathroom and, except for a problem with balance, (Medication side effect? The immobilizer and sling? Head injury?) he did well even though it was obvious it hurt to move. John reached for his zipper with his casted arm, but the cast extended down around his thumb, and with his fingers swollen, he couldn't manage it. I did it for him, but had trouble getting the zipper to unzip. I had undressed plenty of patients, but they were always lying down and I wasn't trying to make sure they didn't fall over at the same time. "Not too much practice with men's trousers, eh luv?" John teased.

"Not standing up," I replied honestly, and John and Neil roared. I tried to explain, but they liked their version better. John was in pain from laughing, but he was able to use his hand well enough to finish the job. I helped him get zipped and wash up, and we walked him back to the wheel chair.

We moved across the hall to the other suite. Hotel staff were replenishing the buffet table, and setting up at the bar at the side of the room. Terry was setting up huge speakers for a stereo system I suspected would not be appreciated by other hotel guests. John wanted out of the wheelchair and the wheelchair out of sight. We put him on a couch, one of the small love seat types, with his bad shoulder against the arm rest so no one would touch it if they sat down next to him. A chair was found that was the right height to put his leg on. I said we needed pillows to prop his casted arm on. He looked at me and slowly, trying not to let the pain show on his face, lifted his arm and put it along the back of the couch. "OK, John," I said recognizing how painful that movement must have been. "No pillows, but if it starts to swell, its pillows or back to bed."

"If it swells, you can take me to bed," John promised solemnly. Neil and Terry and the busboys laughed and I turned red. Lord knows, I didn't know much about sex, (I had seen a couple of babies being born, but had little familiarity with the basic process of making babies) but I knew enough to understand that joke!

John hadn't eaten so I brought a sandwich and drink over to him. He could hold the sandwich in his right hand, but the glass was one of those heavy duty hotel things and was too big around for him to manage with the cast and swollen fingers. I got a paper cup and that he could handle.

He had just finished eating when we heard the elevator open. I stood up as the first wave of people burst into the room. In minutes the room was full of noise with laughing, shouting Beatles, security, road crew, managers. The stereo boomed to life and rock 'n roll rattled the windows. The elevator made another trip and another wave of people came in. They crowded around John and I stood back. The elevator unloaded again and the crowd grew. Most of them seemed to be somehow involved with the tour or local promotion or else were reporters. Then what must have been a very packed elevator arrived stuffed with girls. Girls were giggling, laughing, and flirting outrageously as they poured into the room, shrieking and throwing themselves at John. I was stunned but Neil had anticipated their moves and stood along side of John blocking those who wanted to touch. I moved to help but a girl glared at me and elbowed me. Hard. Right in the stomach. I staggered back a step, trying not to double up. Strong arms caught me from behind and steadied me.

"Above and beyond the call of duty, Sister," said George as he guided me to the side of the room and turned me to face him. More people were coming into the room and girls came up to talk to him but he ignored them. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah . . . I think I just learned rule number one. Never get between a fan and her Beatle!"

He laughed and gave me the answer to the question I had asked myself the day before. He put his arms around me and it felt good. Very good. So good it took a moment to realize his shirt was wet. I leaned back and looked up at him. Warm brown eyes, lopsided grin and sweaty, wet hair around his face. "You're drenched!"

"The stadium wasn't air conditioned," he said, letting go of me. He was immediately engulfed by a group of girls and I lost him. Lesson number two: Hang on to them or someone else will grab them away.

I found a spot where I could keep out of the way and still keep an eye on John. Some girl had made herself right at home snuggled up next to him on the couch, one was kneeling in front of him, and a third was perched on the arm rest. John was laughing. Neil stood behind John, relaxed, but still on guard. Ringo was trying to get something to eat, but was handicapped by a girl who had latched onto him with something like a half-Nelson. Another girl tried to help and was practically force feeding him a sandwich. Paul was smiling and chatting up someone I recognized as a local TV celebrity and all the while he had a girl under each arm, draping themselves around him like seaweed.

The bartenders were pouring as fast as they could. Mal patrolled the room. He was smiling and chatting, but as I watched, it was obvious that he was on duty. He was keeping an eye on who was coming in, signaling occasionally to another security person. Brian circulated, shaking hands, smiling. The party escalated. People began dancing in the center of the room and someone asked me to dance. I had no musical talent, but I loved to dance, and, in spite of the fact that I was on duty too there didn't seem to be any reason not to dance. Besides, he had a British accent. Irresistible! So I danced with him and a string of other guys whose names I never got. I kept checking on John in between, but he was fine, surrounded by a harem of adoring girls.

The party rolled on, the room got increasingly crowded. Terry (the guitar player one) was carrying a giggling girl around under his arm. Ringo was dancing with four girls at once. George was across the room standing on a chair auctioning off the jackets from their stage suits. A bunch of girls started bidding on his trousers. Paul was dancing with a girl who really knew how to "Shake, Rattle and Roll" and was doing most of it pressed up against him. John was two rows deep in girls. They were signing his cast and from the giggling I knew it was going to make interesting reading.

I decided to get something to drink and stood in line at the bar. I finally got through the waiting line, got a Coke, and turned and nearly bumped into Paul -- encumbered by two new pieces of seaweed -- headed up for refills. Paul glanced at me without recognition as I said "'Excuse me," and slipped past them. "I really made an impression on him!" I thought dismally.

As I tried to work my way across the room to check on John, I saw Neil delivering a drink to him. One of the girls took it and helped John with it. Some guy came over and started up a conversation with me. He wasn't one of the Beatle's people and when he asked me why I was the only girl in the crowd not trying to get my hands on one of the Beatles, I suspected he was a reporter. "I just can't decide which one I want," I answered, trying to think of a way to get rid of him. George, surprisingly with trousers still on, interrupted and ask me to dance. We danced a couple of dances, then I danced with Neil. After the song he took my hand and led me toward the bar. "I need a drink," he said. "Scotch and water" he said to the bartender. Something clicked in my brain.

"Neil, what did you give John?"

"He's a scotch and coke man"

"Oh no!" I said, kicking myself for not thinking about this sooner. I headed for John, Neil following.

His glass was empty. "Could I talk to John alone, please?" I said to his flock of birds. The girls looked at me as if I were crazy. No way were they giving up their spots!

John looked at his hand, then up at me with a big grin. "Getting anxious, luv?"

"I really need to talk to you."

"Give us a minute, will you?" he said to the girls. They got up, glaring daggers at me.

I took the empty glass from the girl, then sat next to John. "John, you can't drink tonight, not with the pain pills."

"Oh come on Terry. I've only had a couple of drinks."

"Please, John. It could be dangerous--"

"It's a big occasion for the Beatles. I think getting stinking drunk is fitting." There was irritation in his voice.

"But John --"

"Pack it in, luv! Neil, get me a drink." He was really pissed off and I figured I was about to be cussed out but I had to stop him.

"Don't, Neil. Please. He really shouldn't. I don't know how dangerous it is. All I know is that alcohol and Percodan are both respiratory depressants. Maybe the pain pills aren't enough to cause an overdose, but--"

"Christ!" Neil looked like he wanted to clamp a hand over my mouth. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. The noisy room made that unlikely.

John laughed sarcastically. "I'm not gonna O.D. If you want to worry, worry about that lot." He jerked his head in the direction of Paul and George. They were arm wrestling at the bar and laughing like maniacs. "They've got more pills in them than I do!"

"WHAT?!"

Neil groaned and John laughed. "Just one of the tricks of the trade. Give 'em a show -- whether you feel like it or not. Uppers to take you to the top!"

I must have looked horrified. Neil took pity on me. "They are all right. Really they are. Worn off by now, and they won't take any more tonight. Mal sees to that. They are just getting old fashioned drunk."

I looked back at Paul and George. How naive could I be? I had thought that the concert, being on stage, the crowds, the hysteria, was responsible for the turnaround from the grim faced guys who had left the hotel earlier. And apparently this was a familiar routine.

"I'll have that drink now," John said.

"No," I said, amazing myself. "I'm not responsible for them, but I am responsible for you." And, I thought, if I screw up, I could lose my nursing license before I ever get it.

"I'm responsible for me!!" he snarled.

"No you're not. I don't think you are in any shape to decide whether you can drink. In the hospital I can't let a patient sign consent forms once they have been medicated with a narcotic. They are not considered competent to make decisions. And you have had alcohol on top of the pain pills."

He stared at me. I stared at my hands. Long silence.

"So you're going to stop me?" Not angry as much as disbelieving.

"Yes. I . . . I think I have to." Why hadn't I paid more attention to the chapters on Legal Issues In Nursing??

"Think you can, then?"

I looked up at him and saw an amused smile and a gleam in his eye. Relief flooded through me. This John I could handle.

"If it comes down to arm wrestling, I know I can take you!"

He laughed. "Neil, go . . . " But as he turned to talk to Neil, Neil was backing away.

"Got to check and make sure we have enough ice and . . . and toothpick thingys for the hors deurves."

"Coward! Bloody traitor!" John yelled after him as Neil turned and ducked into the crowd of dancers. I laughed.

Ringo came over, took my hand and pulled me up. "Can't be keeping her all to yourself, mate," and lead me off to dance. I hesitated, unsure if I should leave John unsupervised, but they were starting up a slow song and I knew I could keep an eye on him. And who in their right mind would turn down a slow dance with Ringo?

He was a great dancer. Smooth, and he knew just how to hold a girl. A little tighter than just touching. Close enough to feel him move so it was easy to keep in step. Close enough to know he could feel you but not so tight that it felt like that was the whole point of his asking you to dance. He said I looked great.

"What, you don't like my uniform?" I asked.

"I like your uniform if I need a nurse. But I'd rather dance with a bird in a mini skirt!"

He asked me how long I had been a nurse and I explained that I was a student. We talked about nursing school and the dance was over way too soon. If I hadn't heard John call "Hey, Terry!" I would have made sure it wasn't the last one. Ringo walked back to John with me, only to find guitar Terry and suitcase Terry responding to his call at the same time. We laughed and Ringo said "You've got too many Terry's. I'll keep this one for you!"

"That's not Terry," he answered. "That is Theresa and she is mine. Find your own." I wondered for a moment how he was sure that was my real name, but realized the name pin I wore with my uniform said 'Theresa Martin, Student Nurse'. I never went by Theresa -- I hated the name -- but school rules required given names on name pins. He'd had his glasses on for a short time today (very short - wouldn't wear them if he thought he was going to be seen in them) and must have noted my name then.

"Terry, would you get me a drink? Rum and Coke," John said to the suitcase fetching Terry, then smiled triumphantly at me. I forced a pleasant smile, wondering what to do. Maybe I should find Brian? But I didn't think John exactly "obeyed" Brian. Mal? I looked around but didn't see him. Paul joined us, casually reaching out a hand to the girl who had taken my place on the couch. She took it, he pulled her up, sat down next to John and pulled her down on his lap. She giggled and I wanted to smack her. That sound was getting very irritating. If he had pulled me onto his lap, I wouldn't giggle like an idiot. I would put my arms around his neck and he would pull me close. I would reach up and run my fingers through his hair, touch his cheek, his lips and . . .

Lord, it was getting worse! John was impossible to ignore from sheer force of his personality, George so intriguing, and Ringo so warm and easy to talk to, but Paul's charisma seemed to be purely hormonal!

George had now wandered over and draped his arm across my shoulders. His lopsided smile was now accompanied by the somewhat unfocused look of someone who has had several drinks.

"You look nice, Terry," Paul was saying. "Took a bit for me to figure out who you were."

"Her name is Theresa and she is mine," John repeated. I cringed at the name. I remembered reading somewhere that John hated his middle name.

"No one calls me Theresa, Winston. No one!"

Everyone laughed and John said, "OK! OK! Not Theresa, but you simply cannot be Terry. We've a surplus of them!"

"Tess," said Ringo.

"As in Thomas Hardy's Tess," John said. "A sweet innocent, ripe for plundering by a rakish cad. Perfect!" Evil laughter that brought howls from everyone.

"I was just thinking of me Auntie Tess," Ringo said and everyone laughed again.

Suitcase Terry had returned with the drink. "Here, I'll hold it for him," I said, moving quickly to intercept the glass. I settled myself on the arm rest next to John and smiled sweetly at him.

"Thanks, luv. I don't know how I'd manage without you." He gave me a rueful smile but there was a determined gleam in his eye. As the party moved on around us the drink, untouched, made its way to the end table. Paul, who was every bit as far gone as George, got up to dance with the girl who giggled yet again when he asked her to dance. As I moved to the more comfortable seat on the couch, John moved his casted arm back up on to the low back of the couch. This time he didn't try to hide the fact that hurt to raise that arm.

"Are you OK?" I asked, turning around to check the circulation in his hand. It seemed a little more swollen but it was warm with circulation.

"The hand is fine. Everything else hurts, but the hand is fine."

"Do you want to leave? I can't give you a pain pill yet, but you could lie down."

He shook his head and the flock of girls moved in again. John asked one to get him a drink.

"Oh, wait, John," I said, reaching across him and picking up the glass. "Here's one you haven't finished!"

John glared at me.

I smiled.

"Just get me a spare, then, luv," he said to the girl. "Scotch and coke. And put it in a paper cup." He smiled at me, a one-up-manship leer.

A slow song came on. Paul was dancing near us with a girl who plastered herself to him. He was smiling down at her upturned face and had one hand low on her hip. They danced on, and his hand slid further down. Now they were cheek to cheek. He nuzzled her ear. She whispered something in his ear. His hand slipped down to her bottom. Not her hip, definitely her ass. The girls around us were all watching intently. I tore my eyes away, knowing John was watching me watching Paul.

I decided to get rid of the drink I was still holding, so I lifted up a bit and stretched across John and carefully poured it into a potted plant sitting at the back of the end table. He turned his head to see what I was doing. "That's one," I said. "If the plant dies, it's your fault."

He turned back to me, his face inches from mine, slipped his arm down from the back of the couch and pulled me to him, the cast hard across my back. "Worth losing a drink for, Tess," he said with a smile. He let go of me and I slid back down, feeling my breast just graze his left hand where the sling held it against his chest. I sat back, not sure if I wanted to laugh or go back for more. "More" was definitely winning but the girl came back with his drink.

John's right arm was now tucked behind me and he couldn't begin to lift the left one. Eyes narrowed, like a chess player planning his next more, he looked at me. "Just set it down," he told her. She did, and I carefully released his arm, knowing that he would be uncomfortable. Instead, I slipped my arm around his, effectively handcuffing him to me. We sat side by side, arm in a arm, hand in hand, alcoholic beverage untouched. People came and went. Girls noted our cozy linking and drifted away dejectedly. George passed by. He looked, raised an eyebrow, smiled at John. "Rakish cad," he said as he walked away.

John chuckled. "Best let go, luv. You're giving people the wrong idea. I'm a married man you know."

"No one is married on tour," I quoted. He started to laugh and I laughed with him and our laughter built until people were turning to look at us.

"Ow, oooh ow," John groaned as the laughter made his ribs hurt. "You win."

Paul was looking at us. "And just what does she win?" he asked.

"Good behavior," I answered.

"Honey, you don't want him if he is behaving!" a girl called out and everyone exploded with laughter.

I turned John's arm loose. "Your hand is really getting swollen," I said. "Can you feel this?" I asked as I began the circulation check.

It seemed to be all right problems, but . . . "You need to get it elevated soon," I said.

"In a bit," he said. "Hey, Paulie," he called. Paul came over to us. "I think our Tess would like to dance with you." Paul smiled at me and said "Come 'ead, luv," and held out his hand. I stood up and took Paul's hand.

"Why don't you get them to play something slow? Give her a real thrill," John suggested. I looked down at him to give him a "please shut up" look, but something on his face stopped me dead in my tracks. Instead of the leering grin I expected, he was smiling sweetly. This was a set up to get rid of me! I looked at Paul, smiling at me albeit a little drunkenly, standing so close, holding my hand. I nearly went with him. But one more look at John and I said "Sorry Paul" and slipped my hand out of his and sat back down. John's face fell.

"You are a conniving, sneaky--" I muttered to him but stopped, unwilling to say the word that came to mind.

"Bastard?" John suggested with a big smile.

"Yes!"

John laughed. "And she's a very good judge of character, right Paul?"

"She's got you down, mate," he agreed mellowly.

"OK, Tess," John said. "Get me back to bed. My shoulder is killing me, my foot's asleep and my head is splitting."

"I'll get the wheelchair."

"No. I'll walk."

I hesitated, doubting he could make it all the way back to his room. "Let me put the chair outside the door, just in case."

He looked at me and I thought for a moment we were going to have another battle of wills, but he nodded. "Just keep the blasted thing out of sight." I went across the hall and got the wheel chair and set it outside the doors.

When I got back, the stereo was cranked up and Paul, George, and Ringo were organizing a line of go-go girls on the bar. I carefully moved the chair from under John's leg and lowered his foot to the floor. Neil had reappeared, and got John on his feet easily, but John swayed unsteadily. Neil shot a worried look at me.

"The chair is right outside the door. He'll get that far," I said. With me holding on to him and Neil close behind, John walked stiffly to the door. As we went out the door I looked back. The gogo girls were gyrating and the crowd cheered them on. I could hear Paul yelling "OOH Baby - shake it Baby!" I had a sudden hunch that the go-go line didn't just happen. Paul wasn't too out of it to recognize that John wouldn't want everyone watching him. He was providing a little distraction so John's exit would go unnoticed.

John was not ready to call it a night but he was glad to lie down. The Percodan was ordered for every six hours, so it would be another couple of hours before I could give him anything. He said he was OK, lying down helped his shoulder and just getting away from the noise had helped his head. He lay quietly while I caught up with my nursing paperwork. I made notes about how far he had ambulated, his balance problem, pain, diet, swollen fingers, and circulation, and a note about patient education. "Patient instructed not to drink alcohol while on pain medication."

I thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke up. "You didn't check," he said.

"Check what?"

"The drink. When you left the room to get the wheel chair, I could have had it."

"And did you?"

"No."

"I guess I am a good judge of character."

He laughed softly.

John closed his eyes and I finished my paperwork. Brian came in to check on John. They talked for a while: The concert had sold out as expected, Seattle and L.A. were canceled, most of the road crew was going back to England the next day. He wasn't sure when the other Beatles were going. They were insisting they were staying until John was allowed to leave, but if that were going to be more than a few days . . .

Mal came in and the three of them talked quietly and I struggled to stay awake. I was worn out. It was about one a.m. when they left. John needed to go to the bathroom, refused irritably to use the urinal or to let me go get someone to help. It was pretty obvious that he did not like being a patient, and just wanted to be a "fuckin' cripple" -- his choice of words -- in private with as little fuss as possible. So I managed to get him to the bathroom and back on my own and really without too much trouble. He pretty much had the hang of walking with the immobilizer on, even though he was dizzy and unsteady. I was getting better with the zipper.

He was thirsty so I went after something to drink. The party was breaking up and people were leaving. I got some cokes and made my way out of the room, dodging a couple of weaving drunks. I passed by Ringo, deep in conversation with a blond on his lap. And George was slow dancing with a girl to a fast beat song. It looked like Paul had started a new dance craze involving the placement of hands. I didn't see Paul at first and wouldn't have if the girl hadn't let him up for air just as I walked past them. She had him up against the wall and was going for his tonsils with enthusiasm. Not that he was fighting it. His hand was sliding up her thigh. Under her skirt.

I went back to John. A drink, one last cigarette, immobilizer and sling off, clothes off. ("Pajamas? I'll wear underwear if you want, but that's it!") Immobilizer and sling back on. Under the covers. Arm up on pillows. One more circulation check. John was asleep before I finished straightening up the room.

I turned out the light, went to my room, put on Sandy's nightgown. As I crawled under the covers, I knew John was going to be awake in an hour or so needing another pain pill. I was so beat, I wasn't sure I would hear him if he called for me even though I had left both doors to the connecting bathroom between our rooms open. So, I got up, pulled on my bathrobe (quilted baby blue polyester with little ribbons and white lace for decoration. The height of 60's fashion.) and went back to John's room and curled up on a big chair by the bed.

John woke me up at 2:30 A.M. "I'm sorry to wake you, but can I have that pill now?" His voice was tight with pain. I got out of the chair, stiff and cold from the unaccustomed air conditioning, and got it for him. "You didn't have to sit up with me, luv," he said.

"I'm afraid I won't hear you if you need me."

I helped him turn on his right side, propping the heavy leg immobilizer on pillows. I pulled the covers over him, went back to my room, got a blanket for myself and went back to my chair.

"Luv, you can't be sleeping there all the night."

"I'll just sit here 'til you fall asleep."

"It's a big bed. Come 'ead. Lie down." There was nothing teasing or suggestive in his voice, just tired pain.

I hesitated for what was probably an indecently short time. It was a logical and simple solution, so I lay down facing him, pulling my blanket over me, and for the next half hour we talked quietly in the dark. He asked about my family, talked a little about his Aunt Mimi, his mother, and a had a few choice words to say about his father. I had heard him swear several times, in anger or in pain, but tonight in the dark he seemed to forget he was talking to a girl and his language was peppered with the "f" word. I wasn't used to that type of language, but somehow it didn't bother me, maybe because it seemed to show that he was comfortable with me, that he could talk to me without editing how he said things. Or maybe just because he said it with an English accent!

The muffled sound of voices out in the hall and the elevator chimes reached us. A girl's giggle, the low sound of a man's voice, the closing of the elevator doors, then silence. John chuckled softly.

"Nobody's married on tour?" I asked softly.

"Right," he said. Then after a minute's silence, he said, "Of course, I never would . . ."

"Right," I said sarcastically.

He laughed. "You know me too well."

"Yeah, but I like you anyway," I teased, making him laugh again.

We talked for a little longer, and he was soon asleep and I wasn't far behind. That night I slept in a bed with John Lennon and dreamed of slow dancing with a man whose face I couldn't see.

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