If I Fell│John Lennon/Beatles FanFiction

Chapter 74 - 29.Aug.1966

Chapter 74 

August 29, 1966 

I sat in the back of a taxi, my hat-covered head in my hands, as I tried to bloody think...because this was the worst possible time for my head to stop working. The flight to San Francisco for the boys' last show was in less than three hours, and I was stuck without a goddamn working brain.

"Ma'am," the man said from the driver's seat, his voice tense. "I can't just take you to 'where the Beatles are staying'. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for something like that."

I cringed and rubbed my eyes behind my sunglasses. I hadn't had a memory lapse this significant in a long while. My memory and concentration had been holding steady, not really getting in the way of my day-to-day life over the last few months. There'd been occasional slip-ups, moments of forgetfulness, but they were usually small and insignificant, and it seemed I had the countless memory exercises to thank for that. Even though I despised doing them, it was worth it if I could stop forgetting half of what John said. I couldn't stand the look he gave me when I forgot something or had to ask him to repeat himself. And I feared the look he'd have on his face when I finally got back to the house...if I ever actually got back.

My head ached, and there was a pounding in my ears which only made matters worse. The more I couldn't remember, the tighter I clenched my teeth and the more difficult it became to think.

"It's a big house on the side of a hill. I mean, it's massive," I mumbled the exact words I'd already said nearly ten times. "Does that help at all?"

"A massive house in Beverly Hills? You know you could be describing every house, don't you?" His tone was clipped and sweat dripped from his sideburns.

"There's a bloody seven in the address. Seven...five...no. No, that's not right. Six...seven. Fuck."

"You're running up an awfully high bill sitting here talking to yourself," the driver said as he tapped his long fingers against the steering wheel. He eyed me through the rearview mirror, his pinched expression showing me just how much he didn't appreciate my colorful word choice. "Why don't you get out, give someone a phone call, and find a new taxi driver to torture?"

"I've got money," I said through gritted teeth as I moved my fingers to the middle of my forehead. "The street is something like Tarson? Tarson Road, or maybe Carson? I don't bloody know."

I sat mumbling to myself for what seemed like hours, my head refusing to work and the driver getting more irate with each passing minute. It didn't help that I was nursing yet another hangover.

"Curson?" I whispered some time later. "Is there a Curson somethin'?"

"There's a Curson Terrace," the man said, perking up for the first time in over an hour.

"Yeah, that's maybe it." I nodded. That sounded right.

"You know the house number?" he asked. He must've thought I was a bit more than barmy because I couldn't remember a damned thing. I wasn't sure what in the hell was with my head, maybe it was the stress of the last-minute travel to America, but the timing couldn't have been worse.

"Seven something. Isn't that good enough to start?" My foot tapped against the worn surface of the carpet in the back seat as I glanced at my watch. I was really cutting it close, and I was sure John was losing it by now. When I'd left in the morning for a bit of sightseeing, I assured him that I didn't need Mal or Neil to join me...and I promised to be back by noon.

"I guess it'll have to do," the driver mumbled as he turned the key in the ignition and peeled away from the curb.

He drove like a maniac for the entirety of the trip, and I gripped the armrest, my knuckles white as I tried to focus on finding the house. When we turned onto Curson Terrace, I kept my eyes glued on each passing house, trying to remember what the driveway looked like from when Neil had driven me from the airport...but I'd been too sloshed that day to pay much attention to my surroundings.