A Little Thing Called Life

by Linda Thompson

  “I appreciate that, Linda,” he finally replied. “And I appreciate that you were good to him, and he loved you, and we all love you.”

  As I listened to him sigh heavily on the other end of the line, my heart broke for him. I recalled one of the many occasions on which I’d ridden in an elevator with Mr. Presley. He’d suddenly looked at me.

  “Linda, I honestly believe you are the kindest person I have ever known,” he said out of nowhere.

  I was so taken aback, because Mr. Presley rarely let his defensive guard down.

  “Gosh, thank you, Mr. Presley, that means so much to me,” I stammered.

  And it truly did.

  “I once had an aunt back in the day that I always thought was the kindest person on earth, but I believe you’ve got her beat,” he explained.

  It was a beautiful compliment to give, and now, listening to the devastation in his voice, I hurt knowing that part of his being was empty.

  “The Lisa Marie will be out there to pick y’all up for the funeral sometime tonight,” he continued, referring to Elvis’s private plane. “Have your things ready to come back home. I reckon the plane will take off from L.A. about, oh hell, I don’t know. I’ll let you know, hon, what time to be there, or better yet, you can just call Priscilla and y’all coordinate it.”

  “I’ll be happy to call her, and I appreciate so much your thinking of me,” I said. “I of course was planning to get to Memphis as quickly as I can, so I thank you so much. I’ll work it out with Priscilla.”

  I really did appreciate the fact that Mr. Presley had thought of me when he was trying to orchestrate the logistics of getting loved ones back to Memphis. He was so shaken by Elvis’s death, and yet he’d had to plan and organize the unthinkable task of burying his only child. I wrote down Priscilla’s number. And then, after we hung up, I resumed my silent grief in my lonely L.A. apartment.

  A short time later, I called Priscilla about flying on the Lisa Marie as Mr. Presley had instructed me. Before I dialed her number, I gathered my thoughts about what I might say. Because I’d always been respectful of the relationship Priscilla had with Elvis regarding Lisa Marie, I measured my words carefully now.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I just got a call from Mr. Presley. And Lisa Marie had called me earlier today to let me know about Elvis.”

  “That’s what I understand,” Priscilla said.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I know it’s a tremendous loss for all of us, and I’m so sorry for little Lisa. It’s an unthinkable tragedy.”

  “Yes, it’s a terrible thing,” she said.

  “Mr. Presley said he’s sending the Lisa Marie for us to come back on,” I said. “And he just said to connect with you, and to find out what time.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, I don’t really feel comfortable with that,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Yes, well, I don’t want to land in Memphis and get off the plane to a three-ring circus of the press saying ‘Linda and Priscilla flew together on the Lisa Marie,’ ” she retorted. “I don’t think you and I should arrive together. I should be the only one like that on the plane.”

  Like what? I thought, flabbergasted. Like someone Elvis loved? To my knowledge, the trip to Memphis from Los Angeles on August 16, 1977, would be the first time Priscilla had ever flown on the plane. I was so stunned by her attitude, but I wasn’t about to create any discord by just showing up at the airport and barging my way onto the plane.

  “You know what, Priscilla, don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll make it to Memphis to honor Elvis if I have to scoot on my butt to get there.”

  I was hurt, to say the least, but there was no way I was going to add to Mr. Presley’s anguish by calling him back and making this his problem. I would never have bothered Mr. Presley with something like that in his darkest hour. Instead, I let him grieve in peace, and made other arrangements to get to Memphis in time to pay my respects. Luckily, I was able to book a midnight commercial flight, and thus my backside was spared the wear and tear.

  To her credit, Priscilla approached me right away when I arrived at Graceland the next day.

  “I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry for not allowing you on the plane,” she said. “It was just a crazy time.”

  I understood—it was a devastating time for all of us. And I truly did accept Priscilla’s apology, knowing we are all capable of saying and doing unusual, even inappropriate things, when under duress. Priscilla also surprised me, and made me understand that we’d had more in common than I’d ever known, with the confession she made to me next.

  “When you were with Elvis, I didn’t hear from him very often at all, only very occasionally when it had to do with Lisa, so I knew that he was happy and well taken care of,” she said. “I just want you to know that, that I felt like you took really good care of him. I started to hear more from him since you’ve been gone, and I was a little worried about him.”

  It was bittersweet to hear her say so, but then again, those days at Graceland following Elvis’s death were alternately painful, humorous, healing, confusing, and deeply cathartic. Just walking up the steps to the front door had been hard enough, observing the stained glass climbing roses on either side of the door, and the monogram above, all of which I’d designed and had installed during the renovation. It was profound to see them there now, a symbol of the life I’d lived there with Elvis. When the door opened, I was welcomed by the familiar smells, and sounds, and energy of people milling about, but there was something profoundly missing: Elvis’s laughter, warmth, and boundless energy.

  I kept expecting him to come down the stairs and say, “Hey, Mommy, I’ve missed you.” I kept expecting to feel that familiar hug. But instead, I looked around and saw many other faces: Mr. Presley, and the guys, and my family, as well as some not-so-familiar faces, including Priscilla’s family, and Elvis’s last girlfriend, Ginger Alden, and her family. I felt a kinship with everyone there, even those I didn’t know, because everyone was there because they loved Elvis, and he’d loved them, and so they all belonged.

  I sat on the landing of the stairs leading up to Elvis’s bedroom with Elvis’s cousin Billy, Billy’s wife, Jo, and another of Elvis’s cousins, Patsy Gamble, as his body lay in state at the base of the stairs for public viewing. It was surreal to sit cloistered on the landing, peering down at the open casket, watching the public file through to pay their last respects to their idol.

  The four of us, who understood his heart and his humor, sat for hours, laughing and crying hysterically, and remembering the man we’d all loved so very deeply. We talked about all the good times, riding on the golf carts around Graceland, and Elvis’s kindness and generosity, and his uniquely irreverent sense of humor.

  Later, the body was moved to the living area, and Rev. Rex Humbard led the service. As I sat and listened to his eulogy, I couldn’t help but look at the beautiful stained glass peacocks I’d also designed and had installed in this room. Heartbroken as I was in that moment, I felt some degree of comfort knowing I had created some beautiful details for him to enjoy in his home, things that remained, even now that he was gone.

  I had some long, private moments with Elvis as he lay in repose. Looking down, I can’t say that the body looked a lot like the man I knew in the living years. In no way did death become him. Elvis was such a powerful life force, always in motion, with his knee jiggling, even when he was sitting down, so viewing him, laid to rest, he looked so cold and unnatural. His hair was combed too perfectly. His suit was not something he would have worn, except maybe on a gospel TV special. I studied his hand, still scarred from an infection he sustained due to an overly zealous fan who’d scratched Elvis as he reached down from the stage one night to shake hands. I stared at the perfect face I’d memorized and adored.

  Among the family mourners were only a handful of well-known faces. Colonel Tom Parker was, of course, in bombastic attendance, replete wit
h his firmly rooted baseball cap on his head—indoors and out. His short-sleeved, rumpled casual shirt was dotted with Southern summer sweat. The only “celebrities” at Graceland during the funeral events were George Hamilton, Caroline Kennedy, Ann-Margret, and her husband, Roger Smith. Elvis had been deeply in love with Ann-Margret, and at one time even considered marrying her. He had told me several stories about their courtship, and he had seemed to carry a lasting fondness for her.

  Eventually the time came for close friends and family to get into the long line of white limousines that were to follow the hearse carrying the King of Rock and Roll to his final resting place. As if to say a final goodbye, inexplicably, a large tree branch fell from one of the trees, nearly hitting one of the cars. As I climbed into the third car with my parents and Sam and Louise, I thought how fitting it was that the limos were white, not black. The string of vehicles trailing down the famous driveway toward Elvis Presley Boulevard looked like a peaceful train of pure white light, carrying one of the brightest and most beautiful stars ever to grace our planet.

  Thousands of fans lined both sides of the boulevard as the funeral procession passed. Bouquets of flowers were piled up along the gates of Graceland. (Later, I was not at all surprised to learn that on the day after Elvis died, more flowers were sold than on any other day in history.) People were four, five, and six lines deep, crying, holding their hands over their hearts, and mourning along with those of us who knew Elvis on a personal level. These fans loved him, too, and they stood out in the oppressive heat of August in Memphis to pay their respects to their music idol. The throngs of mourners went on for the entire stretch of highway, all the way up to the Forest Hill Cemetery.

  Riding in the limo, I felt comforted by my family’s presence. We were all stunned by the sudden loss, even though he’d been in bad shape during the last eight months of his life. In fact, when I watched the special that CBS aired about Elvis after he died, and saw how he had gained something like thirty pounds and looked so puffy and unkempt, and not like the man I’d been with, I just stood there in front of my TV and cried.

  During our limo ride, my mama leaned over toward me.

  “You know, a lot of people came up to me and said if you had been with him, he’d still be alive,” she said. “Do you think that would have made a difference, if you’d been there? Not to make you feel bad.”

  “Mama,” I said. “No, I really don’t. I think things happen as they’re meant to happen.”

  I didn’t want to say too much to Mama because she didn’t yet have any idea about his drug use. I knew there were times when I had cared for him when he could have easily died, and that it was unfair to make me or anyone else responsible for keeping him alive, no matter how much we had loved him. I’m fairly certain that, no matter what any news report indicates to the contrary, Elvis most likely did die in the way his innocent Lisa Marie blurted out to me when she called me on that fateful day. “He smothered in the carpet,” she wailed. Whether Elvis ultimately died by suffocation, or of a heart condition that was exacerbated by his prescription excesses, he was certain to have met an untimely end if he didn’t give up drugs. And even someone who had practically watched him 24/7, as I had, could only do so much.

  Elvis’s body was interred in the mausoleum where his beloved mother, Gladys Love Presley, had also been laid to rest years before. That was that. Forty-two years old, and gone.

  After Elvis’s funeral, Mr. Presley came to my house and sat on the floor at my feet.

  “I want you to know that I realize you kept my son alive for nearly five years,” he said. “I would have lost my boy years ago if you hadn’t been with him, and hadn’t cared for him the way you did. I want you to know how much I love and appreciate you for that. Don’t think that I wasn’t aware of that and that it goes unacknowledged.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Presley,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  “I wish you had been with him,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I did try to take care of him for the time that I was with him, but fate has a way of working itself out. I don’t know that I could have saved him if I had been there.”

  One of the main reasons I left was that I didn’t want to be the one to wake up one day and find him no longer breathing. That would have been even more devastating than opting to walk away from him. I always felt bad for Ginger, who did find his body. That had to be a haunting experience for her. We’ve never met. But I believe she did the best she could, given all the circumstances, which is all that could be expected of anyone.

  After Elvis died, in my naïveté and desire to protect him, when I was asked to comment I tried to dispel some of the drug rumors that surfaced. It wasn’t that I wanted to put untruths out into the world, but I knew that Elvis would have been very embarrassed by the way he died. I don’t think anybody was more surprised than he when his spirit left his body. I could always picture him thinking, Whoa, wait a second, what just happened? That wasn’t supposed to happen. I was going to live to be eighty.

  So, at first when I was asked about his drug use, I always had a strong reply.

  “Oh, that’s just ridiculous,” I said. “He was given a federal narcotics badge by President Nixon.”

  But it didn’t take me long to realize I couldn’t live for him anymore. I had to step away from protecting Elvis’s myth and let it develop as it was going to do. It was time for the truth Elvis had created to reveal itself. I had matured into a woman desirous of living my own life of authenticity and credibility. That seemed more important to me than trying to hide Elvis’s mistakes from public view.

  Even though I feared disappointing his fans who could not conceive of his ever doing anything wrong, my fears were unwarranted. It was so moving to see how fans forgave him when they learned the truth of his prescription drug abuse. It speaks beautifully to the strength of their commitment to his legacy. Even more than that, I think it would have been meaningful and restorative for Elvis to know he was loved, accepted, and allowed to be imperfect, with all that entails. I would offer that this portion of my memoir is dedicated to Elvis’s legions of fans who have accepted his shortcomings and revere him still. To those who honor the man who brought us the music.

  Within the first week after Elvis passed away, I started dreaming about him. Not every night, but often enough that, strange as this may sound, I came to feel like there was a plane of consciousness on which we could visit. As if I were suspended between life and death when asleep, in a different realm, and there we could be together. And while I realize now that it was probably all in my imagination, I’m grateful that I had those moments with him, even just in my dreams. I think it was what I needed at the time in order to say my final goodbye. In these dreams, I was aware that he was gone, but I still got to cuddle and visit with him, and it felt profoundly comforting to be reunited.

  It may have been a comfort to have Elvis visit me in my dreams, but I was well aware that I had to live in the real world. That was a struggle now. When I returned to my apartment after his funeral, I was terribly lonely, and I couldn’t sleep.

  I wasn’t really surprised to hear when Mr. Presley died, on June 27, 1979, destroyed by a broken heart, I’m sure. I was in Memphis at the time, and I went to the funeral to pay my last respects. Elvis was his only child and had been his whole life, his whole world. Saddened as I was by Mr. Presley’s passing, I found some solace in the possibility that Elvis and he had finally been reunited with their beloved Gladys in the place we call eternity.

  “Me Loving You”

  When you see

  A shooting star above you

  That’s just a kiss

  That I’m throwing down to you

  After a storm

  I’ll paint a rainbow on a sky of blue

  Be still, and feel me loving you

  When the moon

  Is smiling through a halo

  Never doubt

  When your deepest wish c
omes true

  You’ll feel me close

  A presence there forever by your side

  You’ll see, that’s just me, loving you

  And sometimes when you dream

  Does it ever truly seem

  I’m lying there beside you while you sleep

  ’Cause I never really left

  And you’re never by yourself

  My love keeps on beating in your heart

  In the night

  The darkness will enfold you

  But don’t be afraid

  Rest assured I’m holding you

  Let others say

  It’s just your imagination—know what’s true

  Be still, and feel me loving you

  And sometimes when you dream

  Does it ever truly seem

  I’m lying there beside you while you sleep

  ’Cause I never really left

  And you’re never by yourself

  My love keeps on beating in your heart

  When you’re tired

  And holding on to nothing

  Velvet nights

  That your tears all melt into

  Only love remains

  A gentle breeze will whisper out your name

  Be still … and feel me loving you

  LYRIC: LINDA THOMSON

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gold Medal Love

  The year before Elvis died, on a hot July Memphis night in 1976, Elvis and I were watching the Summer Olympics, being held in Montreal. We were lying in bed (our usual perch) and had been watching the telecast for days. We were closely following Bruce Jenner, an American who was dominating the decathlon competition. Bruce was on the final lap of his last race, the tenth event, and as he crossed the finish line to win the title of “World’s Greatest Athlete” that connotes the Olympic gold medalist in the Decathlon, Elvis and I were exuberant about the win for the United States. We were also commenting on what an amazing specimen of a man Bruce Jenner was.