Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story (10 page)

Elvis was in the master bedroom when I returned, sitting on the bed and still in his pajamas. “Let’s see what you got,” he said. “Try them on for me.”

Feeling shy again, I ducked into the bathroom and slipped into the white dress. I paused for a minute in front of the mirror, hoping Elvis would be pleased.

When I walked out, a big smile flashed across his face and I felt a mixture of pride and relief. “I love it!” Elvis said. “You look like a Greek goddess.”

Feeling more confident now, I quickly tried on the other dresses and he complimented those as well. I sensed the white one had been his favorite, though, and decided to choose that one to wear for his opening show.

I put my new clothes away and, since Elvis was in pajamas, changed back into mine as well. I might as well get used to wearing them, I decided, since he appeared to live in his.

Elvis handed me one of his robes and picked up Cheiro’s
Book of Numbers
. I followed him into the living room, taking a seat beside him on the sofa.

Elvis had earlier told me that his number was eight. Now he pointed out passages about certain colors of stones that, according to Cheiro, were lucky for those who were a number eight to wear. One of these stones was a black diamond, so he’d had that stone placed in a few of his rings.

“I lost one of the rings and another got broken when I slammed my fist on the floor during a show,” he said.

Listening to him talk about lucky numbers and stones, I sensed that Elvis felt a strong desire to feel protected both on- and offstage—not just physically, but psychologically and spiritually as well.

Elvis stood up and went back into the bedroom, then returned with a magnificent ring I’d seen him wear during his performances. Proudly rotating the ring in his hand to catch the light, he told me it was custom made of gold with black onyx. The center stone was an eleven-carat diamond. Below it, the letters
TCB
were in diamonds surrounded by diamond lightning bolts.

“I wear Band-Aids on my fingers while performing to guard against cuts,” he said, “and so no one can pull my rings off.” Then he asked, “Did you notice how, onstage, I keep a side stance when I bend over to accept a gift or give a kiss?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why is that?”

“So nobody in the audience can pull me off the stage.”

As Elvis began talking about his upcoming shows, he seemed a little more nervous about these than he had about the previous ones I’d seen.

“I’m not being judged by just the general audience here,” he pointed out, “but by my peers as well.”

At one point, Larry Geller walked into the suite. He hesitated, silently signaling to Elvis, “Should I stay or go?” Larry wanted to color Elvis’s hair—a fact that shocked me. I had no idea that Elvis’s hair color wasn’t natural. Looking slightly annoyed, Elvis dismissed Larry and asked him to come back the next day.

The interruption made Elvis change the subject. Now he brought up the theory of soul mates. He believed two people could be fated to be soul mates and play certain roles in one another’s lives.

“They’re meant to meet and be part of a larger, inevitable picture,” he told me.

This was the first time I’d ever heard of this concept. I was intrigued, but I wondered why Elvis was mentioning it to me.

I thought back to his earlier comments about being engaged, envisioning me in a white gown, and me being like someone he’d known and yet never known. Was Elvis thinking that we could be soul mates?

Again, I experienced conflicted emotions, wanting to believe Elvis thought I was special in his life, while at the same time trying to protect myself against being hurt.

Our conversation continued, alternating between numerology and delving deeper into Elvis’s thoughts about soul mates. I learned as we talked that Larry was the one who’d given him most of the books we’d been reading.

Deciding he wanted to learn more about soul mates now prompted Elvis to ask an aide to contact Larry, hoping he might have some books on it. Larry reappeared almost immediately, eager to speak with Elvis. However, seeing that Larry didn’t have a book with him, Elvis spoke to him briefly and Larry left.

We continued talking through the night, with the notion of soul mates and a possible future with Elvis swirling through my mind. Near dawn, Elvis took the contents of a yellow packet that, once again, had been left on his night table. I noticed the word
sleep
written on the outside of it. This was only the second time I became aware of Elvis needing help to get to sleep; I hadn’t noticed any packet the previous morning, and assumed he’d gone to bed without any medicine.

After taking the sleep medication, his speech began to slow down as it took effect. I hadn’t noticed this before. Shortly, Elvis lay back in bed and I helped pull the covers up around him. I rested my head on the pillow beside him and reflected on the things we’d read and talked about for the past several hours. His powerful belief in certain things like numerology and fated soul mates was persuading me to broaden my horizons beyond the traditional Christian beliefs of my childhood. Our dialogue had also shed more light on how Elvis saw the two of us through the filter of what he was studying. That he saw us as possible soul mates was a profound thing.

•   •   •

That next afternoon, I met Elvis’s father, Vernon Presley, for the first time. Vernon was sixty-one years old and close to Elvis’s height (five feet, eleven inches according to army records), but Vernon was thin and frail looking. His hair and mustache were both silver, but I could see the strong resemblance between Elvis and his father.

Vernon entered the suite with an attractive blonde in her thirties. I learned that Vernon and Elvis’s stepmother were no longer together as Vernon introduced the woman as his fiancée, Sandy Miller. (Vernon and Dee Presley had been separated since 1974; Sandy was a divorced lab technician and nurse from Colorado.)

Elvis spoke with Vernon about how things were going, and I could tell that Elvis took his father’s opinions and thoughts to heart. Vernon was pleasant to me, but he didn’t say much, understandably focusing his attention on his son.

After Vernon and Sandy left, Elvis asked Larry to come in and color his hair. Closer to showtime, Elvis invited Joe into our room and wanted to speak with him in private. I stepped into the living room to give them time alone.

After a few minutes, Joe reappeared and left the suite. I thought Elvis would ask for me, but instead Joe returned, went back into Elvis’s bedroom, and hastily exited the suite again. Joe did this a few more times.

When Elvis did finally call for me, no sooner had I sat down beside him on the bed, when Elvis got up and walked into the living room. I was completely mystified.

Then Elvis returned to the bedroom once more, sat across from me on the bed, and asked me to close my eyes and hold out my right hand. I did as he asked, trembling a little with nerves by this time, and felt him slip a ring onto my finger.

Opening my eyes, I saw that he’d given me a gorgeous gold and diamond cluster ring. I was trying to wrap my mind around this generous gift when Elvis asked me to hold out my other hand. This time he placed a ring of sapphires and diamonds onto my left ring finger.

“Here,” he said cheerfully. “You have to have backups.” Bringing one hand from around his back, he proceeded to give me two more rings! One of them was set in rubies and diamonds, and the other was a second diamond cluster ring.

“Man, this one reminds me of my birthday,” Elvis said, pointing to the free-form diamonds on the ring. “They’re set in the shape of the number eight.”

Any one of these rings was more than I’d ever been given. I was speechless and overwhelmed. I felt that all of Joe’s comings and goings must have had something to do with Elvis putting him in charge of securing the rings.

It was all too much and I felt slightly awkward. I didn’t want Elvis to feel like he had to do this. Hesitantly, I tried to explain this to him.

“Elvis, these rings are beautiful, but I’ve never really been a jewelry person.”

Undaunted, he said, “This is only the beginning! You’ll learn to like it.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I guess I will.”

While Elvis got ready to go onstage that night, I went into the bathroom and made my own transformation. I changed into my new white gown and buckled the straps on my rhinestone shoes. I placed my new rings on four of my fingers, still amazed that Elvis had thought to buy them and managed to pull off such a huge surprise with everything else on his mind.

Finally, feeling much like Cinderella after her fairy godmother has waved her magic wand, I walked into the living room and discovered a few other women waiting there. They were dressed more casually than I was, and I worried that I had overdressed. I was afraid this would alienate them, and I really wanted to fit in.

You’re wearing what Elvis likes,
I reminded myself. I had to admit, I liked it, too.

A thin young woman with short blond hair introduced herself as Shirley Dieu, Joe Esposito’s girlfriend. I didn’t get a chance to speak with the other women there, however, as one of the aides appeared and quickly led me downstairs to the Hilton showroom.

Once again, I was awed by the splendor of my surroundings. The showroom was absolutely beautiful, with chandeliers, a large stage, and stylishly dressed men and women in the audience, some of them sitting in curved red booths. I was escorted to a center booth, where I took a seat beside Vernon and Sandy.

As the opening act concluded and the lights dimmed, I was shocked when someone approached our booth, stuck out a piece of paper and pen toward me for an autograph, and said, “Priscilla?”

How odd. Did I look like Elvis’s ex-wife in the dark, I wondered?

Vernon immediately shooed the fan away with his hand. The Joe Guercio Orchestra began to play, and Elvis walked onstage wearing a King of Spades jumpsuit. Right off the bat, he had the audience captive in the palm of his hand. This was a much smaller venue than I’d ever seen him perform in before and the show felt more intimate and personal. Elvis joked around with the audience, and they felt comfortable enough to yell back at him, making comments and requesting songs.

Elvis was clearly enjoying the interplay with the audience and seemed to be in great spirits. At one point, he introduced the actress Vikki Carr, singer Glen Campbell, and Vernon. When he sang “Softly I Must Leave You,” I remembered the story he’d told me about the dying man lying next to his wife and got chills.

Despite the smaller, lush setting and designer clothing and expensive hairstyles, these fans were only slightly less exuberant than the fans at the Cow Palace. They seemed to have the same uncontrollable need to make physical contact with Elvis. At various times, women in elegant gowns actually lifted their dresses and began climbing over tabletops, hoping to get close enough for a kiss or one of Elvis’s scarves, but they were stopped by security. Children were thrust onto the stage, too, and Elvis never failed to notice, immediately connecting with them. He had a big soft spot for kids.

When the show ended, Vernon, Sandy, and I were ushered into a backstage dressing room while Elvis changed in an adjoining room. I sat quietly on a couch while Vernon and Sandy greeted people. I didn’t think I’d see Elvis until he’d finished visiting with everyone, but after a few minutes an aide made his way through the crowded room, leaned over, and told me that Elvis wanted me with him. Once again, I felt a thrill at being singled out.

As I followed the aide into the adjacent room, I saw Elvis seated and in deep conversation with the singer Glen Campbell and his wife, Sarah.

After being introduced to Glen and Sarah, they continued the conversation they’d been having about the science of numbers and various other topics. I listened carefully and was able to reflect on what Elvis had discussed with me over the last few nights. I was actually surprised that what was brand-new to me seemed to already be something of real interest to another person in the entertainment field.

Thinking and talking about these alternative beliefs didn’t feel threatening to me. Elvis was just deeply curious about life in general, and wondering why his own life had turned out the way it had. Spending time with Elvis often felt like taking a philosophy course, making me open up and consider new ideas.

Despite my interest in the conversation, at one point my thoughts momentarily drifted to the people waiting to see Elvis in the next room. He’d been talking with Glen for quite a while. I wondered if any of the other people would get tired of waiting and leave.

When Elvis and Glen finished visiting and we stepped into the outer room again, however, it was still crowded. Elvis took time to greet all of those waiting for him—he was generous that way—and then we finally returned to the suite, where at last I got a chance to tell Elvis how much I had enjoyed his show.

Elvis ordered room service while his father and Sandy came in to visit. Vernon gave a curt, candid appraisal of the show. I would later feel that, when it came to his performances, Elvis seemed to value his father’s judgment above that of all the other men around him.

At one point, Elvis mentioned to Vernon, “You know, Daddy, Lisa’s comin’ in.” As Vernon smiled, Elvis proudly added, “And, Ginger, I want you to meet her.”

“I’d love to,” I said, looking forward to it.

Once Vernon and Sandy had gone, an aide appeared, laid a towel on the bed, and placed a tinfoil pan full of lasagna in front of Elvis. It was a large amount, not portioned out. I wondered if he was intending to eat the whole thing as Elvis sprinkled it with salt.

Ed Parker and a few other members of Elvis’s entourage came and went. As the men were talking, I sat quietly and noticed Elvis salt the lasagna again. Caught up in visiting, he didn’t take a bite, but ended up salting the food several more times.

When he finally took a bit of lasagna, of course it was cold. Elvis sent it back to be reheated. When the food was brought back, I knew it had to be extremely salty and worried about how that might affect Elvis’s health. Luckily, he didn’t eat much of it.

•   •   •

Late into the night, we were finally alone. As Elvis picked out a book to read and we settled back against the headboard of his bed, he asked, “Do you know what a Ferrari looks like?”

“No, I’m not exactly sure,” I admitted, thinking he must not remember telling me about his Black Mamba.

“If you were me and you were going to buy a new car, what kind would you get?” he asked.

I was flattered he wanted my opinion, but had no idea what kind of car he might like to drive and didn’t dare guess. “Well, it depends what you want,” I hedged.

He pondered this thought for a few seconds, then said, “I don’t know. I need your help.”

I took a deep breath, considering. “A Cadillac or Continental would be nice,” I ventured.

“What color?” he asked at once.

“Blue or white would be pretty,” I said.

A hint of a smile passed over his face. “Thanks, Ginger. I’ve just been thinking about getting a new car lately.” Then we went back to reading.

I continued to be impressed by Elvis’s zealous spiritual appetite. Despite the long day and the energy he’d expended onstage, followed by talking with people for hours, Elvis was still on a spiritual high. He got energized as he read. Whenever he came across a new idea or had a fresh thought about something we’d found in a book, he would discuss his thoughts and ideas with me even at the expense of going to sleep at a normal hour.

“Aren’t you tired?” I asked at one point.

He shook his head. “It’s much better to think at night, when the air is still and others are sleeping,” he said. “Most writers and geniuses work best at night.”

I didn’t know any writers or geniuses, but this certainly seemed to be true for the man I was starting to have strong feelings for, so I continued to read with him.

As dawn approached, an aide brought in a yellow packet and placed it on the night table. These packets were routine, I realized, delivered in the same casual manner as the jug of water at Elvis’s bedside. He placed a cotton ball inside each ear again, took the packet of medication, and went to sleep.

I fell asleep beside him. A few hours later, I felt movement. Elvis was awake. “Who’s on duty?” he asked. “Can you call whoever it is for me?”

I could tell by his voice and the way he was moving that Elvis was still groggy from whatever sleep medication he’d taken. I quickly looked at his employee contact list sheet and called the room number of the person on duty.

An aide entered, assisted Elvis to the bathroom and back as he was a little unstable on his feet, then left. This was unsettling for me to witness, yet the aide had treated it as completely normal.

Elvis went back to sleep almost immediately, but I lay awake, wondering how long he’d been taking this medication and why he needed it. Because it was delivered in little yellow packets, I had no idea what he was taking, but it seemed quite strong.

I thought, too, about Elvis’s padded bedroom doors and covered windows at Graceland. I felt a sharp pang of sympathy for him. Elvis seemed to have everything, except the ability to do what most of us take for granted: just close his eyes and peacefully fall asleep.

•   •   •

Elvis wanted me by his side nearly every minute. I was his primary focus, and he was mine. Still, I often felt like I’d been transported to a foreign country where I had yet to understand the language or customs.

Getting to know the average person is one thing, but trying to understand Elvis, his job, and the many different people who surrounded and supported him was a steep learning curve. The best analogy I can come up with is that Elvis at work was like a champion athlete competing in an event each day, with trainers, doctors, and staff keeping him in performance-ready shape.

I would often feel tired from not getting a full “night” of sleep, but gradually I was starting to adjust to his schedule and to being surrounded by other people. Most of the people working for Elvis were friendly to me, but a little distant. They were doing their jobs rather than just visiting.

It was now Friday, December 3, and I discovered that Elvis would have two shows on weekends: one at 9
P.M.
and the other at 1
A.M.
It said something about his stamina, I thought, that he had the energy to do both.

We woke around four in the afternoon, as usual, and ate in the living room while members of his entourage visited off and on. A little while later, Elvis was in his bathroom and I was sitting on the bed when the phone on the night table rang. I waited to see if anyone might answer it from an outer room, but the ringing continued.

Finally, I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Is Elvis there?” a woman asked.

“Yes, but he’s busy right now,” I said.

The woman then inquired, “Is this Ginger?”

“Yes,” I replied, my curiosity aroused. “Who is this?”

“This is Linda Thompson. Do you mind if I wait?”

I was shocked.
Linda Thompson?
Why was she calling him now? And how did she know my name?

“No, it’s fine,” I said, and put down the receiver.

Dr. Ghanem walked into the room just then, and I told him Linda was on the phone. He went to the bathroom door, knocked on it, and stepped inside.

Elvis emerged from his bathroom, looking none too pleased. Feeling ill at ease, I left the bedroom to give him some privacy and walked into the now-empty living room, my thoughts whirling. I began to wonder if Elvis had seen Linda recently. I hoped not; I didn’t want to be in the middle of anything.

Dr. Ghanem walked out and Elvis called my name from the bedroom. When I entered, he looked bothered and said, “Sorry about that call,” then asked me to sit beside him on the bed. “Linda and me . . . that relationship’s been over, you understand? We’re friends,” he said.

In recent years, I’d seen some magazines with photos of Elvis with various women and accompanying stories that he was dating them, so I thought he was being honest and hadn’t gone out with Linda in a while. If he had, maybe it was just as friends. Still, I couldn’t help but remember Linda’s pictures in his bedroom at Graceland.

“Okay,” I said, but my guard was up.

Elvis must have read the closed expression on my face. “You know, my bodyguard, Sam, is Linda’s brother,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with that, okay?”

I hadn’t known. But that explained how Linda knew my name. Outwardly I agreed, but I knew this would be awkward, not only for me but for Sam. Accepting the situation would be more easily said than done.

•   •   •

Showtime was nearly here. The bedroom was abuzz with members of Elvis’s staff helping him prepare. Once he was dressed, he saw me watching him use eyedrops. “They help keep the glare down from the stage lights,” he explained.

I sat with Vernon and Sandy to watch his first show, unable to fully enjoy myself because I was still feeling emotionally unsettled by Linda’s call. When Elvis sang a song called “Trying to Get to You,” I focused on the lyrics, one line in particular: “There were many miles between us, But it didn’t mean a thing.” In a way, I thought, that song related to the two of us, with the miles being our age difference of nearly twenty-two years. We were trying to get to know each other, Elvis and I, and our age difference “didn’t mean a thing.” I relaxed and listened to him sing this song, which quickly became one of my favorites.