Storms (62 page)

As the summer passed, I continued with my acting classes and Lindsey stayed holed up in the studio. Having finished two songs for
Vacation
, he was now in the beginning phase of recording his second solo album. The only time I saw him was a few minutes each morning and late at night. Unlike
Law and Order
, where he was free and open with the music he was recording, this time he had become a recluse in the studio. No one was welcomed in, not even me. It wasn't that I was banned from entering, it was just that when I did, he seemed frustrated and angry that I'd bothered him, so after a while, I stopped walking through the studio door. He seemed glad that I was spending time with Sara as often as I could instead of being isolated in our house. Once or twice a month he drove with me to Malibu and we stayed until dawn, partying together at the Blue Whale. And these nights I treasured, for without them I would barely be able to spend time with him at all.

In August, Lindsey did a music video for his
Vacation
soundtrack song “Holiday Road” and I was incredibly excited. It was a chance for me to be on another shoot. After being on the set for Fleetwood Mac's music video of the track “Gypsy”, I'd been enthralled not by what was happening in front of the cameras but what was happening behind them. While the Fleetwood Mac family sat in their dressing rooms, I'd been out on the soundstage inspecting the makeup and wardrobe trailers and talking to the crew, trying to learn as much as I could about everything that was happening around me.

On the set for “Holiday Road”, I stood and watched the video crew go about their jobs as they made what was essentially a mini-movie. The director, Mark Resycka, was warm and friendly. He spent the entire day giving me a play-by-play of everything that went into making a music video. As I listened and learned I discovered an element of the film industry that
was so appealing and refreshing that it blew my mind: no one in the large crew behind the camera was starstruck. It didn't matter who the band was or how famous they might be: in the eyes of the director and crew, the band and/or actors were just another tool to use to create a piece of art.

Whether the shoot was for Fleetwood Mac or a movie starring Al Pacino, it was the piece of film that was the star, not the talent. And by the end of the day I knew that I'd found an industry that was perfectly suited for me. I felt at home standing behind the camera. I felt comfortable talking to the director and producer—and I knew that this was where I wanted to be. This was the career that I'd been looking for. As I watched the costume designer working in her wardrobe trailer I realized that I could do her job—and I'd be good at it. And the best part of it was I would need to prove my worth as myself, not as Lindsey Buckingham's girlfriend. To Mark and his crew, Fleetwood Mac was just a great band: nothing less, nothing more. The power of Fleetwood Mac, Mark told me, had no bearing on whether I could succeed in the film industry.

But he wanted me to try. While Lindsey performed, Mark and his wife Mary encouraged me to visit their production offices. They offered to help me learn firsthand the ins and outs of the movie business. And over the next months I visited often. While Lindsey worked in his Bel-Air studio, I drove to Hollywood and spent hours at Pendulum Productions. With Mary, I stood on the set of “Dancin' with Myself”, watching Billy Idol perform as Mark sat in the director's chair; I stood behind the monitor as he directed AC/DC, Quiet Riot, Journey, and Lionel Richie. And before I knew it, I was learning just about everything I needed to know to work as a costume designer. It was a career that would not only prove to be successful beyond my wildest dreams, it would also be my salvation.

At night before we went to bed I talked to Lindsey about what I was learning from Mark and Mary, my excitement dulling my senses to the ever-increasing tension that played across his features each and every time I chattered on. At first his facial expressions were those of a man indulging a child in her fantasy. He listened with an air of not-so-amused tolerance as I recounted my adventures and what I was learning about the film industry. But as the weeks passed, that tolerance changed from indifference to cold cynicism. Cutting remarks and impatient glances were his response whenever I spoke of my hopes for a career in costume design, and I knew
that either he didn't think I was capable of achieving it, or he hated the idea of it.

And I realized that it would be a long time, if ever, before Lindsey reconciled himself to the fact that I needed more in my life. That I needed interests other than being a supportive girlfriend—a girlfriend whose world revolved just around him and Fleetwood Mac. But a stubborn voice inside my head refused to accept what my heart already knew—that anything that seemed to draw my attention away from life in the world of Fleetwood Mac was unacceptable to Lindsey.

I told myself that he'd accept it—as soon as he saw that there was no threat to our relationship. With another Fleetwood Mac album or tour not even on the schedule for the next few years, why couldn't I finally have a career of my own? Why couldn't I also have a creative outlet that was as important to me as Lindsey's music was to him? Even if I didn't understand why, I would soon suffer the consequences of asking for it.

It was Thanksgiving morning. While other Americans were celebrating with their families, I was grabbing handfuls of clothes and throwing them into my suitcase. With shaking hands and a splitting headache, I eased it closed. I needed to get out of the house before Lindsey woke up. The night before at a club it had happened again. One moment we were having a good time listening to Walter Egan's band play, and then—just like at the Elvis Costello show—Lindsey had become quiet, seething with fury. All night he'd been laughing and talking and then, over the space of ten minutes, his expression had grown dark and he'd exploded.

Lindsey hadn't screamed at me—instead he'd whispered taunting words as he wrapped his hands around my throat. And somehow, that made it all the more surreal, all the more terrifying, and as it was happening, time slowed down. The noise from the stage and the surrounding crowd of people faded into the background. All that I was aware of was the whisper of Lindsey's voice in my ear and the pressure of his fingers on my neck. Instinct kicked in and I desperately tried to stop what was happening by using the only weapon that I had—my voice. I began to speak softly and reasonably to the man who had his hands around my throat. Answering his taunts with calm measured words declaring my love for him while denying all accusations of infidelity. I had never been unfaithful to him, I whispered truthfully, and I never would be. As I talked, I could feel the
pressure of his fingers lessening as he listened. I knew that somehow I had to get through to the Lindsey inside the stranger next to me. The Lindsey who loved me—the Lindsey who would, I still felt, be horrified about what was happening. For I held firm to my belief that there were two Lindseys—one who loved me and one who despised me. If I could get through to
my
Lindsey, then I could make this stop. In the back of my mind, a voice was pleading,
Scream, Carol, scream … get help …
but I wouldn't listen. There were record executives in the audience and close friends, and I knew that if I screamed for help, the news and gossip of what had happened would spread like wildfire—maybe even to the press. And I was so used to protecting Lindsey and Fleetwood Mac that the thought of doing anything that would bring that kind of attention to us was repellent to me. I knew that it made no sense, but I just couldn't do it.

Instead, I focused on the pitch of his voice, not the words, and I struggled to show no fear, no anger, and I whispered only calm, calm words of love and reassurance, changing only my tone to match the pressure of his fingers. After what seemed an eternity, his hands fell away and I was able to lean back. He stared at me—as though surprised to see that I was free—and with a snarl, he curled his hand into a fist and hit me in the face.

I didn't feel any pain as my head whipped back from the force of the blow. Too stunned perhaps—or just too shocked. There was a voice in my head that keep repeating,
Get up, get away—move slowly—get away …
and without breaking eye contact with him, I did just that. Aware that any sudden movement might make him lunge for me, I carefully stood up, unhooked my purse from the back of my chair, and started to back away.

As I turned to make my escape, Christie Thomason grabbed my shoulder. “I was watching you and Lindsey, Carol. He must love you so much. He was holding you so tight as he whispered into your ear that I wondered how you could breathe!” And then she stopped speaking as she stared at my face. “Your lip is bleeding, Carol. What did you do?”

I looked at her and tried to smile as I wiped my lip with the back of my hand. My mind reeled at her words.
She didn't see that he had his hands around my throat! No one in here knows what happened! I'm glad, I'm glad…
I thought as I struggled to keep my voice steady. “I'm fine, Christie, but I just … I have to go. Make sure Lindsey gets home OK, will you? Tell Greg that
I had to leave and you guys get him home. I can't stay.” And I spun on my heel and ran from the club, leaving Lindsey behind.

But once I'd climbed behind the wheel of my car, I knew that I couldn't go straight home. I could barely turn my head without excruciating pain shooting down my spine. I was dizzy and the left side of my face was aching. As tears streamed down my face, I started the car and drove slowly to the hospital down the street from the office of Lindsey's business managers: Century City Hospital.

Once there, I walked numbly into the empty emergency room and asked for a doctor. As the nurse asked probing questions about how I was injured, I felt something give way inside. I just couldn't do it any longer—I just wasn't strong enough at that moment to carry this horrible secret any longer. So there in that antiseptic white room, I started to talk. I felt so alone, so hopeless, and she was a shoulder to lean on. So I told the nurse that my boyfriend, Lindsey Buckingham, had hurt me. It was the first time that I'd told anyone, other than Sara Fleetwood, and the enormity of what I was doing threatened to overwhelm me and I began to sob. Whispering words of sympathy, she placed ice on my bruised face, wiped away my tears, and then walked me down to be X-rayed.

Fifteen minutes later, an elderly doctor entered the room and with a minimum of words, he placed a neck brace around my throat and wrote prescriptions for pain medication. As he handed them to me, he looked straight into my eyes for the first time.

“The nurse reported to me that you received these injuries from your boyfriend. Your neck is badly sprained. There might even be some torn ligaments judging from the amount of pain that you're in. And I can see bruising on your throat. Miss Harris, if you hadn't been honest about how this happened to you, I wouldn't have felt that I could say this to you. But I want to tell you something and I hope that you'll hear my words and think long and hard about it. And what I want to say is this: I see a lot of women come in here with injuries done to them by their husbands or boyfriends and they always go back to their men. And then I've seen a few of the same women come in again—and it's too late for me to help them. They leave here in a body bag. It's not going to stop, Miss Harris. It's going to get worse. I know that you think you love him and that you can stop it, but I honestly
doubt if you can. This is very serious, and you need to protect yourself. You need to leave him. Just think about it, OK?”

I stared at this doctor who looked like someone's kindly grandfather. He had just said things to me that left me feeling even more shell-shocked than I already was. I could only nod my head and whisper, “Thank you, doctor”, as he squeezed my hand. No one had ever spoken to me like that. I'd never allowed myself to believe that things could get any worse than they already were during our fights, but his words rang true—and even though I couldn't deal with it right that minute, I knew that I would never be able to forget what he'd said to me.

And now, the next morning, I could still hear the doctor's earnest words reverberating in my mind. I shook them out of my head as I latched my suitcase. I needed to think for the moment and my only thought now was to get as far away from Lindsey as possible. I was headed to the airport. I wanted and needed my family.

Walking as quietly as possible, I slipped out of the front door and struggled to carry my heavy suitcase down to the large wooden gates guarding our estate and the cab that waited on the other side. Two hours later I was at LAX, waiting to board a plane that would take me to Tulsa and my six sisters. They didn't know that I was coming. I hadn't had time to call. But I knew that I'd be welcomed with tenderness and love. And right now I needed both desperately.

It was dark, cold, and raining in Tulsa as I pulled out of the terminal in my small rental car. It was after midnight, and the roads were almost deserted. I'd had to wait for hours at LAX before I could get a flight out and I was totally spent. After phoning my sister Tommie from the airport, I'd insisted on driving myself to her home.

“I'll be fine, Tommie. I'll drive slowly. I just need you right now. I'll explain when I get there”, I said through my tears. Just the sound of her voice had been enough to break down the thin wall of control that I'd managed to maintain all through the flight. And I knew that once I saw her I'd more than likely fall to pieces. I had no more courage left. I was tired of trying to be strong. All I wanted was to have someone take care of me … and, for a little while, forget that I had to make the hardest decision of my life: was I going to leave Lindsey?

After the bright lights of L.A. I'd forgotten how black and desolate the streets of Tulsa could be in a bad rainstorm. As howling winds made my small car shudder, I leaned forward behind the wheel, trying desperately to see the highway through the heavy downpour. Warm lights spilling through windows of snug houses seemed to mock me as I drove by them. I turned my tear-streaked face away and tried not to think of my own home in Bel-Air.