My Love, My Drug, My Release

Early May, 1969

The days in hospital stretched into weeks, but, thankfully, they moved me from the ICU to a general room where I only had one IV in me and they came in to take vitals twice a day instead of hourly. I didn't know why they insisted on holding me for so long, but I didn't dare complain. As far as I was concerned, I should be dead and didn't have a right to criticize the people who'd saved my life.

But, after three weeks of lying in bed, only getting up to get x-rays or examinations, I was starting to experience pain in my back and legs, and had to speak up. "I think I'm getting bed sores," I told Linda. "Do you know when I can leave?"

She'd chewed her lip, avoiding my gaze. She and Paul had been by my side every day, except when my step-father left to 'discuss business', which I deduced as a euphemism for breaking up the Beatles.

"Why don't you take her for a walk, Paul, so she can stretch her legs. I want a private word with the doctor anyway."

He nodded, helping me out of bed. They'd tied one hospital around my front, and the other around my back like a cardigan, and stuck little yellow socks on my feet. The socks only lasted around four days a pair, starting out as a bright, canary yellow and rapidly fading to the color of bile. 

"Are you steady?" he asked as we paced up and down the hallway.

"Yes," I said, even as I clutched his arm for dear life. I probably looked like Bambi, only fatter. My stomach was mostly back to normal, save for the tiger-stripe stretch marks, but the weight I gained scarfing down crips and ham sandwiches would be harder to lose.

"We'll get out of here soon," Paul promised, turning us around to start back the other way. "You're going to love Scotland."

I nodded, unexpected tears pricking my eyes. It took me a moment to identify their source. "Thank you for loving Linda so much. I know the reason you're taking such good care of me is that you want to take care of her, and that means the world to me."

Paul stopped, turning me to face him and kneeling down, taking my hands. "I'm taking care of you because I love you. The baby Linda and I have won't be my first child; you are my daughter."

I don't think I said anything in respond- what the hell could I say? He led me back to my room where Linda was sitting in the chair beside my cot, rubbing her stomach, not in an absent-minded way, but very purposefully. "Did you meet with the doctor yet?" I asked.

She nodded. "Paul, would you mind if I spoke to Lorraine alone, please?"

"Of course." He gave her a kiss on the brow, squeezed my hand twice, then left us in silence.

"Sit down, baby." Linda patted the bed and I climbed on, feeling like a little girl again. My real mother died when I was still a baby, and Dad started dating Linda when I was only five or six years old, so she'd been the one to read me bedtime stories and sing me lullabies. "I just spoke with Dr. Kelly, and he had some... pretty upsetting news."

"I'm alive, you still love me, I can handle anything else."

Linda smiled sadly, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. "Because of the complications with your, um, termination, you have some internal damage. They think- Dr. Kelly said it is unlikely you'll ever be able to have children."

The words barely touched me, small pieces of snow on a thick winter jacket. After what this last pregnancy put me through, why would I want to do it again? I didn't really want to get married or have a family anyway, probably.

"It's okay, sweetie," Linda said, pulling me into a warm embrace. "There are other ways to have a child other than giving birth yourself."

"I know, I'm not upset."

Despite my words, she started to weep, hugging me tighter. "It's a girl, I'm having a girl. You're going to love her, I promise."

"I'm sure I will, don't worry about me."

"You're my daughter, I'm always going to worry about you."