Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story (25 page)

I wasn’t sure you could actually call the game we’d been playing Ping-Pong, but it was fun while it lasted.

Another time, Elvis began showing my sisters and me some karate moves in his bedroom. Rosemary decided to challenge him and asked, “What if you were on the beach and had only one arm, and someone kicked sand in your face?”

Elvis sat on the floor and Rosemary approached him, pretending to kick sand at him. Using one arm, Elvis grabbed her leg and, trying to be gentle, knocked her off her feet. Terry and I were lying across the bed, laughing at the two of them.

Rosemary stood back up, looked at Elvis, and asked, “Okay, what if you had no arms and only legs?” She came walking toward him again.

Using only his legs, Elvis had her back down on the floor in the blink of an eye. Elvis started laughing. Still, Rosemary kept putting his karate expertise to the test by proposing various challenging scenarios.

Elvis demonstrated several moves on Rosemary while Terry and I cheered the two of them on. At one point, they were both down on the floor when Rosemary managed to get Elvis in a headlock.

“I got him!” she shouted. Meanwhile, Elvis was beginning to twist her body into a pretzel.

Terry and I had been mainly rooting for Rosemary. Finally taking a break to rest, Elvis picked up a large glass filled with ice water from his night table and began leering at me.

“I dare you to throw it,” I teased.

Continuing to stare at me, he said with a smirk, “Don’t dare me,” and before I had time to blink, I was covered in freezing water.

I went into the bathroom, dried off with a towel, and filled my hand with shaving cream. I kept my hand behind my back as I walked out.

Elvis was now facing my sisters. Walking up behind him, I said, “Elvis?”

As he turned around, I quickly smeared some shaving cream on his face and hauled out of there. I flew into the main room, passing the Ping-Pong table with Elvis in close pursuit. A few of the guys sitting in the room looked up in surprise as Elvis chased me around the table.

Laughing, Elvis finally gave up and walked back to his room. I waited a bit before going back into the bedroom, unsure if Elvis would have any other tricks up his sleeve. Lucky for me, all was safe upon my return.

Unfortunately, the trip was not all fun and laughter.

On the afternoon of March 9, Elvis saw a television report about twelve Hanafi Muslims taking over three buildings in Washington, D.C., and holding people hostage. I saw Elvis’s deep love for our country as he became furious and talked about offering his plane to assist in some way. He even mentioned leaving Hawaii to go to Washington so he could speak with President Carter. I reasoned with him, along with Larry and Charlie, convincing him there was nothing he could do, and that we’d have to trust President Carter to sort things out. Eventually he calmed down, and fortunately the hostages were released a few days later.

Elvis had been drinking papaya juice excessively that day. He woke up shortly after going to bed, requesting more. He had consumed quite a bit of juice right before going to sleep, and my mind flashed to his problem with fluid retention and bloating.

Against my better instincts, I went into the kitchen to get him more papaya juice, but there wasn’t any left. I came back and told him we had run out. Elvis then wanted me to wake an aide and send him out to get more. “Can it wait, Elvis?” I asked.

In a more normal situation, I would have been happy to see that he got some juice, but I felt it would be better for his health if Elvis curbed his intake. I was hoping he would just doze off again, but he became increasingly adamant about getting some more juice.

I remembered that Vernon had once asked Elvis if I did little things for him. I usually did, but I decided to resist this request for his own good. “Elvis, this much juice isn’t healthy,” I said.

I could tell he was angry by the way Elvis left the room without speaking and went into his cousin’s bedroom, shutting the door.

I hadn’t expected this reaction, and wondered what Elvis would tell Billy and Jo. Now I felt anger welling up inside me, too. Here I was, trying to do the right thing for him, but Elvis was behaving like a little boy. I stood firm and didn’t follow him.

A little while later, Billy came into my room. “Ginger, Elvis wants to see you,” he said.

I thought it was odd that Billy didn’t bother to ask what was going on. I followed him back into his room and saw Elvis seated on the bed. Hoping he’d calmed down, I was prepared to tell him again that I was just trying to help. But, before I could say anything, Elvis looked at me and announced, “We’re leaving Hawaii because of you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Were we actually going to leave Hawaii over
papaya juice
?

I glanced at Billy, but he and his wife sat quietly, watching the drama unfold. I wondered what Elvis had said to them and what everyone would think. But I was determined not to back down. Meanwhile, Elvis was clearly bent on staying mad at me. He started saying some unkind things, insinuating that I didn’t love him because of this. This shocked me; I was standing up to him because I
did
love him! His reaction hurt me deeply. I had been trying to do a good thing, and this wasn’t the Elvis I loved. I was pretty sure now that the medication he had taken must be responsible for the inexplicable change in his personality.

My confusion and embarrassment were overshadowed by my anger and hurt over Elvis actually saying we’d leave Hawaii because of this. I walked out of the room while Elvis was still talking, shut the door, and ran down the hall to our room. I closed that door as well, hoping Elvis might return to normal if I gave him time to calm down.

I sat down on the bed. Moments later, I heard Billy’s door fly open and heavy footsteps marching down the hall. Our bedroom door flew open, Elvis stormed into the room with a wild look in his eyes, and slapped me on the side of my rib cage. “No one ever walks out on me when I’m talking!” he said.

I started crying, more surprised by his furious action than hurt by the sting of his open hand. I was afraid to move on the bed. Who was this person? Where was the Elvis I loved?

When he saw how upset I was, Elvis quickly realized what he had done and bent down to put his arms around me, saying he was sorry. He told me we really weren’t leaving, but that he had just said that.

Why? I wondered. Had Elvis just said that to scare me, and what was the purpose in that? I continued to cry in his arms. Although Elvis hadn’t hit me hard, he had done the inconceivable: He had hit me. This was more traumatic emotionally than physically.

I could tell by his voice that Elvis was deeply remorseful for having struck me. Still, he didn’t say what I needed to hear: “I understand you were only trying to help me.” He had been used to getting his own way for so long, that I think Elvis honestly felt he knew what was best for his own health.

The dark mood that had transformed Elvis into someone I didn’t recognize reminded me of the incident in Palm Springs over the yogurt. There, too, I’d only been trying to help him. If this was his reaction over yogurt and papaya juice, how could I ever say anything to him about his sleep medication?

I had never spoken to Elvis about the concern I had over that. When I had first become aware of the sleep packets being left for Elvis each night, I had questioned whether Elvis’s insomnia was just in his mind. In my experience, I’d never known anyone who couldn’t sleep. My view was confirmed when, one night, I had witnessed Elvis going to sleep without taking his nightly packet at Graceland. If Elvis could do that once, I believed he could do it again. With practice, I thought Elvis could learn to fall asleep unaided by sleep medicine over time, especially if he got out and exercised more. I began to question whether anybody had ever seriously tried to wean him off medication.

I wanted Elvis to try going without the pills, or to at least try cutting back on the dosage. This definitely wasn’t the time to bring up that tender subject, though. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I loved him deeply, and I wasn’t going to let over-the-top reactions like these deter me from trying to help him.

I didn’t say anything to my sisters about the juice incident. It was over and Elvis was in a better mood. I was disturbed, however, that his cousins had seen Elvis angry, yet had never tried to intervene or asked me what happened.

These people would become my family when Elvis and I were married. I wanted to feel close to them, but I was the newcomer. I wondered why they didn’t go out of their way to approach me. I only had Elvis’s best interests at heart and wanted them to know that. In this moment, however, I was simply too embarrassed to confide in them, so I let things slide.

•   •   •

On March 11, Ed Parker set up an evening for us at the Polynesian Cultural Center at Brigham Young University so we could enjoy a night of Hawaiian dances. Elvis had his hair styled and wore a gorgeous two-piece black-and-white outfit with Native American beadwork on the cuffs and at the waist. He looked so handsome, I wanted to take a picture, but I was out of film and so were my sisters.

When we arrived at the center, we discovered that word of Elvis making an appearance had spread fast. Fans were milling about outside the roofed amphitheater, eager to see him. The show was already in progress when we walked inside; thanks to the dim lighting, we were safely ushered to our seats.

However, as soon as I sat down beside Elvis, a few audience members looked our way. Slowly, other heads began turning to stare. Many people seemed more interested in seeing Elvis than they were in watching the show.

A man seated in front of us suddenly turned around, plopped his young daughter in Elvis’s lap, and requested a photo. Elvis politely obliged.

As Elvis held on to the little girl, he leaned my way, shrugged his shoulders, and joked, “He’s not getting her back.”

I laughed and was glad that others in the audience who had also become aware of Elvis’s presence were courteous and let him enjoy the show.

It was quite the spectacle, too! I’d never seen anything like it! There was a wide stage, tropical landscaping, waterfalls, and a spectacular mountain backdrop with volcanoes. Performers from all of the islands, in full costume with body and face paint, danced to the beat of drums and used fire, spears, and fans in their routines.

Close to intermission, we were escorted to a private room so Elvis wouldn’t be disturbed. After visiting with a few people, we returned for the second half of the show, but left shortly before the finale to avoid the crowd. Still, as we were walking toward the car, we suddenly became enveloped by fans.

The driver opened the car door and Elvis was able to make his way inside along with my sisters, but I got caught in the group. I panicked as the car slowly began pulling forward. Luckily, the rear door was still open, and a guard was able to help me push through the crowd. I scrambled into the car. It had been an amazing night and I’d had a great time. I could tell Elvis had, too, since he talked about the show almost all the way back to the beach house.

Yet the next day, Elvis again seemed to experience another inexplicable mood swing. I was standing in the kitchen talking with Rosemary when his stepbrother David Stanley walked by and playfully punched me on the top of my arm.

“Keep your fucking hands off her!” a voice exclaimed.

Turning around in astonishment, I saw Elvis standing in the center of the hallway. Glaring at David, he angrily said, “You don’t punch a lady. That’s redneck shit!”

I was shocked by his fury. Where had that come from?

David was stunned, too. “I was only joking!” he yelled back at Elvis, then retreated.

Elvis returned to his room and I followed him. His prior good mood had completely evaporated. He started talking about “rednecks hitting ladies,” and I tried to reassure him.

“Elvis, David was only being playful,” I said.

But Elvis’s mood wouldn’t lift. “If David touches you again, I want to know,” he said.

I left things there, wondering whether Elvis was acting like this because he felt bad about the earlier incident, when
he’d
been the one to hit me.

Elvis chose to mainly stay in his room that day and I read with him for a little while. Later, I went outside with Rosemary and Terry. At one point, we began talking to David and Ricky.

Shortly, someone came out and said Elvis wanted to see me. I returned to our room, where Elvis was seated on the bed. “What were you, Ricky, and David talking about?” he asked.

Our bedroom window faced the lawn where we’d all been gathered outside; now I realized Elvis must have been watching us. “Nothing in particular,” I said.

Did he think we were talking about him? Or could something else be going on between Elvis and his stepbrothers that I didn’t know about? I didn’t dare ask what was going on; I was still feeling a little tentative around Elvis after the juice incident and didn’t want to chance upsetting him in any way. I chose to change the subject.

Elvis never explained what he’d been worried about, but he continued to look at David in a strange way that day, as if he were trying to keep an eye on him.

•   •   •

Elvis and I went down to the beach the following afternoon. The wind kicked up, blowing sand in his eyes, and they got irritated. Discouraged and uncomfortable, Elvis wasn’t really able to enjoy himself now, so he decided it was time for us to head home.

On March 13, we boarded the plane back to the mainland. Elvis carried the mother-of-pearl crucifix he had purchased, but he dropped it and the base broke off. His frustrated mood quickly lightened when we entered the plane and saw a photo of Elvis when he’d pounced on top of Rosemary taped to Elvis’s bedroom door. We all got a chuckle out of that.

During our return flight, Elvis mainly stayed in the back of the plane with my sisters and me again. At one point, he reflected on the trip and talked about how his guest invitations had escalated in number beyond what he’d expected.

“Next time, I’m only taking about eight people,” Elvis said, adding that Dr. Nichopoulos had told him he wouldn’t come unless his wife and daughters came, too. “I’ll never have that many again,” he vowed.