Yesterday (McLennon)

Chapter Four: 1980

His face is on every newspaper in the morning.  This isn’t new; there were times we couldn’t walk down the street without seeing our faces staring back at us, but now, suddenly, the flatness of the image seems unfair.  He had his life made for him already, and he was practically just on the verge of an entirely new stage of his life.  But now, all he’s in the newspaper for is dying.  And that’s what so many people will remember when they think of him.  They’re going to remember this flat image John looking out from behind his glasses, expressionless.  I can’t stop staring at the images until Linda helps me stagger away, back towards the house. 

“I need to go to the studio,” I insist, but she shakes her head, ushering me back home.

It is only when I’m back inside that I remember the reporters from last night, remember that I am a Beatle.  I don’t want to face another camera, or another microphone.  

“Do you think we’re safe?” I ask suddenly, wondering if this was why Linda brought me back inside, back home, if she thinks I could be next.  The thought should send shivers through me, but instead, part of me wishes it would be true, so I wouldn’t have to be in this much pain.

I mentally punch myself.  Why do I suddenly chose to be weak?  But I know.  Deep down, under the repressed memories, I know.  Because I loved him, more than I can ever admit to anyone, ever.

“I need a cigarette,” I say, sitting down dully in a chair, my fingers gripping the edges shakily.

I feel so lost.

Linda comes over and wedges herself on the couch next to me, and I drink in her smell, breathing deeply, trying to relax.  I feel myself melt into her, so glad she’s here, that I’m not alone in this grief, that I have a shoulder to cry on.  Temporarily, I lose myself in her, until nothing else exists in the world, until; I am literally paralyzed, my mind drifting somewhere in between consciousness and unconsciousness.  She strokes my hair, and I concentrate on the rhythm, the way it feels to let all my walls down, and I am reminded of the loss I once shared with John, one that brought us closer together, back when I hardly knew John, not like I do now.

At some point, I finally bring myself to my feet, light myself a cigarette, make dinner, just so that I’m doing something.  But having Linda here to help me has reminded me of something.  Reminded me that John and I once had something, together.  Thinking about it so lucidly is strange.  To admit it to myself, remember the period in my life where I was so utterly confused by a relationship that could never be brought out into the open.  And then I am reminded of when things started to go wrong.