Lovely Rita
Chapter 61 Part 2
Paul had been in the little hospital room for a good half an hour before anyone that was still awake noticed and, being the only one awake, it was me who noticed. Ringo had left already to get to Boston for his daughter, so I had to enjoy my own company until Paul returned.
I heard the door across the room creak, so I stood up and walked over to it to greet Paul as he left, as he had done for me.
“Hold on Paul,” I heard George croak as loudly as he possibly could. I stood in a place that meant I could see in but George (he was facing me; Paul had his back to me) couldn’t see me watching. Paul leaned down as George grabbed his arm, and George whispered something to him, though through the walls, hospital noises and only-just-ajar door it was impossible for a mere mortal to hear.
Paul turned away after that, smiling thoughtfully through salty tears.
“Do you need a Kleenex?” I mumbled to him, handing him a tissue as he met me on his way out. He took it and thanked me, that sad smile still playing about his lips as he wiped his tears. I furrowed my eyebrows in an attempt to work out from the limited evidence that I had what was said that had made Paul so thoughtful.
“They’re staying here overnight, so we better scoot. Olivia said not to worry if she falls asleep. George was falling asleep too.” Paul said hastily.
We dropped ourselves into the car, drained and exhausted, and instantly Paul pulled me over the handbrake below into a hug, letting go of all of the overwhelming heaviness of the atmosphere in the hospital. I just closed my eyes, breathed slowly and let the tears fall down silently onto Paul’s coat, and his onto mine. Our hands roamed each other’s backs as though it was all of the sympathy, condolences and protection we would need through this. I had to admit, it was the first time I had felt safe and content after a day of feeling like my world was crumbling to dust around me once again.
The darkness was enveloping as we drove back peacefully to Paul’s home.
“What did George whisper to you as you were leaving?” I asked after a pregnant but non-awkward silence. I looked across to Paul who was looking out front, dewy and blotchy still (like me) from the crying. His eyes made a trip down to his hands on the steering wheel, and then out front again. Guilty, he was going to lie to me!
“Just that I need to look out for you is all.” He replied with consideration.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, keeping my eyes on my housemate and old flame. A small, disheartened twitch of a half smile flitted to his lips for a second. “James Paul McCartney, I know damn near everything about you, I know when you’re lying. You do that thing.” I concluded, establishing my point. He laughed at me.
“Fine, you got me. It was just a joke about one of the nights in Hamburg. I didn’t really want to repeat it to you because it’s embarrassing!” He said more defensively. I rolled my eyes and felt a mediocre satisfaction with that answer. “What thing do I do?” He said, clearly irritated that I could tell when he was lying.
“I’m not telling you because you’ll stop doing it!” I told him. That smug bastard wasn’t getting anything out of me now. He grunted in reply and kept his eyes on the road.
After that slightly more jovial moment however, the realisation of George’s rapidly declining health hit me once again and I started sobbing uncontrollably into my lap. Paul put a hand on my knee comfortingly as he drove. I yawned unintentionally widely.
“Go to sleep if you’re tired, honey pie,” Paul said, referring to a name he hadn’t used for me since the 60s (he used it over and over whenever I played my copy of the White Album CD, however). I looked over at him, feeling guilty about leaving him to drive when he was just as tired, possibly even more so, than me. He glanced at me quickly, reading my expression.
“It’s fine, I can carry you in.” He said, smiling at me sweetly as he drove towards our home. I thanked him, curling up on the passenger seat and trying to get the rest I so desperately needed. Today had been heartbreaking and wonderful all in one, and I was feeling such a cocktail of emotions that I needed my mind to take a break. I had a feeling that Paul was just feeling completely numb and shell shocked. I couldn’t blame him.
My eyelids caught a glimpse of Paul putting his hand on my knee, before I fell under the sandman’s spell as if I was on morphine (it must be the influence from all of those patients). I slept through the night without a dream, without an interruption...
I heard the door across the room creak, so I stood up and walked over to it to greet Paul as he left, as he had done for me.
“Hold on Paul,” I heard George croak as loudly as he possibly could. I stood in a place that meant I could see in but George (he was facing me; Paul had his back to me) couldn’t see me watching. Paul leaned down as George grabbed his arm, and George whispered something to him, though through the walls, hospital noises and only-just-ajar door it was impossible for a mere mortal to hear.
Paul turned away after that, smiling thoughtfully through salty tears.
“Do you need a Kleenex?” I mumbled to him, handing him a tissue as he met me on his way out. He took it and thanked me, that sad smile still playing about his lips as he wiped his tears. I furrowed my eyebrows in an attempt to work out from the limited evidence that I had what was said that had made Paul so thoughtful.
“They’re staying here overnight, so we better scoot. Olivia said not to worry if she falls asleep. George was falling asleep too.” Paul said hastily.
We dropped ourselves into the car, drained and exhausted, and instantly Paul pulled me over the handbrake below into a hug, letting go of all of the overwhelming heaviness of the atmosphere in the hospital. I just closed my eyes, breathed slowly and let the tears fall down silently onto Paul’s coat, and his onto mine. Our hands roamed each other’s backs as though it was all of the sympathy, condolences and protection we would need through this. I had to admit, it was the first time I had felt safe and content after a day of feeling like my world was crumbling to dust around me once again.
The darkness was enveloping as we drove back peacefully to Paul’s home.
“What did George whisper to you as you were leaving?” I asked after a pregnant but non-awkward silence. I looked across to Paul who was looking out front, dewy and blotchy still (like me) from the crying. His eyes made a trip down to his hands on the steering wheel, and then out front again. Guilty, he was going to lie to me!
“Just that I need to look out for you is all.” He replied with consideration.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, keeping my eyes on my housemate and old flame. A small, disheartened twitch of a half smile flitted to his lips for a second. “James Paul McCartney, I know damn near everything about you, I know when you’re lying. You do that thing.” I concluded, establishing my point. He laughed at me.
“Fine, you got me. It was just a joke about one of the nights in Hamburg. I didn’t really want to repeat it to you because it’s embarrassing!” He said more defensively. I rolled my eyes and felt a mediocre satisfaction with that answer. “What thing do I do?” He said, clearly irritated that I could tell when he was lying.
“I’m not telling you because you’ll stop doing it!” I told him. That smug bastard wasn’t getting anything out of me now. He grunted in reply and kept his eyes on the road.
After that slightly more jovial moment however, the realisation of George’s rapidly declining health hit me once again and I started sobbing uncontrollably into my lap. Paul put a hand on my knee comfortingly as he drove. I yawned unintentionally widely.
“Go to sleep if you’re tired, honey pie,” Paul said, referring to a name he hadn’t used for me since the 60s (he used it over and over whenever I played my copy of the White Album CD, however). I looked over at him, feeling guilty about leaving him to drive when he was just as tired, possibly even more so, than me. He glanced at me quickly, reading my expression.
“It’s fine, I can carry you in.” He said, smiling at me sweetly as he drove towards our home. I thanked him, curling up on the passenger seat and trying to get the rest I so desperately needed. Today had been heartbreaking and wonderful all in one, and I was feeling such a cocktail of emotions that I needed my mind to take a break. I had a feeling that Paul was just feeling completely numb and shell shocked. I couldn’t blame him.
My eyelids caught a glimpse of Paul putting his hand on my knee, before I fell under the sandman’s spell as if I was on morphine (it must be the influence from all of those patients). I slept through the night without a dream, without an interruption...