Storms (64 page)

“The body of Dennis Wilson has been found minutes ago after a search by the Coast Guard. Reports are coming in that Wilson was reported missing by friends after diving off a boat during a party. He has apparently drowned. Dennis Wilson is dead at the age of thirty-six.”

Ed Roach and Dennis Wilson.

As pictures flashed of Dennis playing with the Beach Boys, Dennis surfing and laughing, I started to sob.
“No
, Lindsey! No! Not Dennis! It's
not Dennis!
There's a mistake! They've made a mistake, please, please,
please
…” Crying hysterically, I struggled to stand as Lindsey held me tightly. His face was white with shock as he murmured sympathetic words to calm me. Together we tried to understand and accept what we now knew was true: Dennis was gone. Forever.

In the days that followed we learned that Dennis had been partying for three days straight—something he'd done many times before on the road with us. Only this time the people he chose to hang out with didn't watch over him as the Fleetwood Mac family always did. They either didn't understand or didn't care that Dennis needed special attention when he was that out of control.

We always kept an eye on him. We never left him alone when we knew he was having one of his “parties”, because we knew he was like a child and a danger to himself—at risk of overdosing or just doing something stupid. Like diving off a boat for a swim and hitting his head on a rock, knocking himself unconscious. I could not accept or believe that the people who were supposedly his friends didn't even notice he was missing for quite a while. And when they did it was too late. And I truly believe that if one of us had been there, then maybe Dennis would not have drowned. We might have gotten to him in time. And I know that I'll never get over his death.

As Lindsey spent more and more time in the studio working on his album, tension once again saturated the atmosphere of our house. The success of Stevie's
Bella Donna
had fueled Lindsey's already cutthroat competitive battle with her and it now seemed to be all-out war. I'd never seen him push himself so hard, and I'd never seen him work with this level of feverish intensity. Whenever we were together—on the rare occasions that he ventured out of the garage studio—his eyes seemed to spark and flash with his internal struggles with his own creativity. He'd entered into another world where nothing mattered except for the music. And, for the first time, he was unwilling to let me hear any of it.

He did, however, ask for my help with the lyrics to songs that I'd never heard. With a smile I told him that I'd do my best. Not being a poet myself, I turned to the professionals. I pored over poetry books, copying passages that seemed to create imagery that I felt might be perfect for Lindsey's songs—whatever they might be. As I turned my selections over to him, he seemed both happy and pleased as he disappeared back into the studio, taking my pages with him.

On a day when rain was softly falling outside I walked into Lindsey's studio and asked him plaintively if he could stop recording for a little while. Could he come outside with me and play in the rain? I told him that I missed him and needed to spend time with him. And as I stood looking like a child in a raincoat that hung down to my feet, he gently took my face in his hands and kissed me softly. “I can't, Carol. I have to work on a song.”

the Lindsey in Bel-Air.

As I nodded and walked out the door into the rain I glanced over my shoulder and saw him staring at me with a look that seemed to speak volumes. It was a look of regret and longing in the eyes of a face filled with feverish passion for something that was much more important to him than me:
music.
And as I walked down the beautiful streets surrounding our estate, I felt in my heart that there would never come a time when I—or any woman—would be more important to Lindsey than that. And while I'd always accepted and understood that truth, it was becoming harder and harder to live with.

I walked through the mist, thinking about the man inside the studio. I remembered his smile on the day that we met—the blue of his eyes when he looked into mine, and the passion between us that remained strong as ever. I remembered the laughter as we held hands in countless dressing rooms, breathless with the intoxication of a sold-out concert and the wild nights of crazed fans, cocaine, and limousines that went with each and every show. And I thought about the dark days when his face flickered with self-doubt over music that was playing nonstop through a mind that seemed to never have one second without its drumbeat coursing through it. And I knew that to be with a man like this for almost eight years had been a gift. And to survive it had been a miracle.

It had been the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. I'd had to learn how to deal with a tortured genius, a spoiled rock star, a man who could be so gentle at one moment and a frightening stranger the next. And for the first time I admitted to myself that, knowing what I did now, I should have turned away the day we met. But I didn't know. So on that cold, rainy day in November 1976 we looked at each other and didn't look away for eight years.

Eight years of living in the world of Fleetwood Mac. Eight years of amazing memories of laughter, music, and adventure. Eight years of friendships with people who were brilliant, loving, funny, and complete originals. And eight years in which I'd seen gold and glittering rooms serving as a backdrop to ugly, unforgivable acts of people who were trapped inside a world of which they'd dreamed—only to find themselves imprisoned by their own superstardom. We were all changed now. We were all suffering. I doubted that any one of us could have honestly said that we were happy. And though I knew the reasons why, I refused to accept the fact that there was nothing any of us could do about it. But I knew that I wanted to be happy again. No matter what it took, I wanted to be happy.

I knew that life changed everyone. But life with a superstar band changed people in ways that anyone on the outside couldn't even begin to understand. It had changed me—and I knew that I didn't like who I
was any longer. Before I entered the world of Fleetwood Mac on Lindsey's arm, I was both proud and sure of myself—but not any longer. The only time that I felt good about myself as a person was when I was at a production company learning about the film industry. And I wanted to be the Carol Ann I once was. I needed to find her. But could I do that if I stayed by Lindsey's side? I realized there was a chance that Lindsey wouldn't like me if I changed, but it was a risk that I had to take.

As tears spilled down my already rain-streaked face I knew that I had to ask Lindsey for a separation. So many things had made me come to this decision: the deaths of people I loved; my miscarriage and Lindsey's reaction to it; the career that I was longing for but Lindsey didn't support; my own miraculous escape from death in Tulsa and the knowledge that I'd been given another chance to change my life.

And most of all, the realization that no matter what I did or didn't do, no matter how hard I tried or how long I waited, the anger inside of Lindsey that could manifest itself in ways that left me terrified had only grown worse over time. And I didn't know if I had the strength or the courage to withstand much more. I still loved him. And I believed that he loved me. But I now had to face the fact that maybe that wasn't enough to save us from everything that had gone wrong. I needed time on my own to decide what I needed to do.

Over the next few months Lindsey and I spent hours talking about a trial separation. Talks full of tears, love, and pain that hurt so much that sometimes I felt I could barely breathe. But finally it was settled. At my insistence, his business managers had drawn up a prenuptial agreement between us. I didn't want Lindsey's money. I signed papers that gave me $2,000 a month for rent and groceries for a period of three years—and signed away my rights to the fortune that I could most likely have had as his “unofficial” common-law wife in the event of a permanent breakup.

I had a lawyer—legally I had to be represented before signing the agreement—who advised me of what I was signing away. Because we'd lived together for almost eight years, I had established all of the prerequisites for a strong “palimony” case. I could have taken him to court if I'd wanted a large settlement of cash. And I undoubtedly would have won, according to my attorney. I'd lived for Lindsey night and day for almost eight years—made homes for him, took
care of him, and actively participated in helping to further his career. But the thought of all that ugliness if I followed my attorney's advice and sued made me feel sick. I also knew something that my lawyer didn't—that Lindsey could be a very scary person when he was angry, and it just wasn't worth it. Besides, everyone that I knew had a lot of money and they weren't happy. I just didn't want it.

I'd never been with Lindsey because of what he was or how much money he had. I was with him because we loved each other and it was important to me that everyone knew this. That Lindsey knew this. Lindsey and his business managers were understandably surprised and pleased at my decision—and the inner circle was shocked. But to me it was all about my dignity, proving my integrity, and protecting myself. I knew that I'd done the right thing.

I found a house on Benedict Canyon, fifteen minutes' drive away from Bel-Air. Lindsey didn't want me far away, he said. And even after I'd “moved in”, I spent the next four months in Bel-Air, only going to my newly rented house to grab clothes. Even though officially I had the space and independence I needed, my reality was that Lindsey never wanted me to spend a night away from our home. And I didn't. Because I, too, was finding it hard to walk away and do what I knew I needed to do: have time away from Lindsey.

But that was all about to change. Lindsey had to make an unexpected trip to Europe for three weeks. He asked me to go with him, and even though I didn't really want to go, I packed my clothes. An hour before we departed for the airport Lindsey paced while I searched for my passport. I couldn't find it. It seemed that fate had stepped in to separate us for at least three weeks and there was nothing to be done about it. As the limo pulled out of our driveway I got into my car and drove to Benedict Canyon to spend my first night in my house. As the wind blew through my hair from the open car window, I felt a sense of excitement and freedom. For the first time in years, I was truly on my own.

During the days and weeks that Lindsey was gone, I spent time with Mark and Mary learning more about the film industry, and I continued with my acting classes. I was in my coach's regular class now, sharing the stage with about a dozen other actors. And I loved it. As I was leaving class one night Mr. Richards called me back inside.

“Carol, I have to tell you something. I think it's important. When I first met you, you never looked me in the eye. You walked with your head down, never smiling, never laughing. In the past few weeks you're like a different person! You're bright and cheerful and I just wanted to tell you that whatever's happened to change you, you have to keep it up. You can't go back to being the way you were. I've been worried about you since the day we met, but now I hope that I no longer have to be.”

I listened to him, stunned at what he was telling me. I never realized that I walked with my head down. I never realized that I rarely smiled or laughed.
My God, was it possible? Had I been that unhappy? Had I been so lost?
I understood about the panic attacks, but this I couldn't understand. And I didn't want to believe it, but something inside of me knew that it was true. A lost passport gave me the opportunity to be outside the world of Fleetwood Mac and live a “normal” life for a few brief weeks, and in that short time I'd quickly become a different person. And I knew that until I found out why, I couldn't go back to Bel-Air or Lindsey.

Four days later the phone rang. It was Lindsey. I'd spent the past days waiting for this phone call. I'd planned exactly what I wanted to say. But when I heard his voice all of my carefully planned words seemed convoluted and ridiculous. So, in a small voice, I talked to him from my heart. I told him that I couldn't see him for a while. I didn't know for how long. I explained how upset I'd been over what my acting coach had said to me. “I love you, Lindsey, but spending time on my own seems to be good for me. I need to do this for myself—and for you. There's a lot I still need to figure out, and until I do, I can't come home.”