Elvis and Me
The intimate story that could have been written only by the woman who lived it . .
(Sprache: Englisch)
The hardcover spent months as a #1 national bestseller with over 820,000 copies in print. Now it's in paperback and promises to be an even bigger success!
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The hardcover spent months as a #1 national bestseller with over 820,000 copies in print. Now it's in paperback and promises to be an even bigger success!
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OneIt was August 16, 1977, overcast and dreary, not a typical Southern California day. When I walked outside, there was a stillness, an unnatural calm in the air that I have not experienced since. I almost went back into the house, unable to shake my uneasiness. I had a meeting that morning and by noon I was racing to meet my sister, Michelle. On my way into Hollywood I noticed the atmosphere had not changed. It still seemed unusually silent and depressing and it had begun to drizzle. As I drove down Melrose Avenue, I saw Michelle standing on the corner, a look of concern on her face. "Cilla, I just got a call from Dad," she said as I pulled up. "Joe's been trying to reach you. It's something about Elvis in the hospital." Joe Esposito was Elvis's road manager and right-hand man. I froze. If he was trying to reach me, something must be terribly wrong. I told Michelle to take her car and quickly follow me home.
I made a U-turn in the middle of the street and raced back to the house like a madwoman. Every conceivable possibility went through my mind. Elvis had been in and out of the hospital all year; there were times when he wasn't even sick that he'd check in for a rest, to get away from pressures, or just out of boredom. It had never been anything too serious.
I thought about our daughter, Lisa, who was visiting Elvis at Graceland and was supposed to come home that very day. Oh, God, I prayed. Please let everything be all right. Don't let anything happen, please, dear God.
I ran every red light and nearly hit a dozen cars. At last, I reached home, and as I swerved down the driveway, I could hear the phone ringing from inside the house. Please don't hang up, I prayed, jumping out of the car and running toward the door. "I'm coming," I yelled. I tried to get my key in the lock, but my hand wouldn't stop shaking.
Finally I got into the house, grabbed the receiver, and yelled, "Hello, hello?"
All I could hear was the hum of a long-distance line, then
... mehr
a stricken, faint voice. "Cilla. It's Joe."
"What's happened, Joe?"
"It's Elvis."
"Oh, my God. Don't tell me."
"Cilla, he's dead."
"Joe, don't tell me that. Please!"
"We've lost him."
"No. NO!" I begged him to take back his words. Instead, he was silent. "We've lost him-" His voice broke and we both began to cry. "Joe, where's Lisa?" I asked.
"She's okay. She's with Grandma."
"Thank God. Joe, send a plane for me, please. And hurry. I want to come home."
As I hung up, Michelle and Mother, who had just arrived, embraced me and we cried in one another's arms. Within minutes the phone rang again. For a moment I hoped for a miracle; they were calling me back to tell me that Elvis was still alive, that it was all right, that it had all been a bad dream.
But there were no miracles. "Mommy, Mommy," Lisa was saying. "Something's happened to Daddy."
"I know, Baby," I whispered. "I'll be there soon. I'm waiting for the plane now."
"Everybody's crying, Mommy."
I felt helpless. What could I say to her? I couldn't even find words to comfort myself. I feared what she would be hearing. She didn't yet know that he had died. All I kept saying over and over was, "I'll be there as soon as I can. Try to stay in Grandma's room, away from everyone." In the background I could hear a grief-stricken Vernon moaning in agony. "My son's gone. Dear God, I've lost my son."
Fortunately a child's innocence provides its own protection. Death was not yet a reality to her. She said she'd go out and play with Laura, her friend.
I hung up and walked around in a daze, still numb with shock. The news hit the media instantly. My phones did not stop ringing, with friends trying to cope with the shock, members of the family grasping for explanations, and the press demanding statements. I locked myself in the bedroom and left instructions that I would not speak to anyone, tha
"What's happened, Joe?"
"It's Elvis."
"Oh, my God. Don't tell me."
"Cilla, he's dead."
"Joe, don't tell me that. Please!"
"We've lost him."
"No. NO!" I begged him to take back his words. Instead, he was silent. "We've lost him-" His voice broke and we both began to cry. "Joe, where's Lisa?" I asked.
"She's okay. She's with Grandma."
"Thank God. Joe, send a plane for me, please. And hurry. I want to come home."
As I hung up, Michelle and Mother, who had just arrived, embraced me and we cried in one another's arms. Within minutes the phone rang again. For a moment I hoped for a miracle; they were calling me back to tell me that Elvis was still alive, that it was all right, that it had all been a bad dream.
But there were no miracles. "Mommy, Mommy," Lisa was saying. "Something's happened to Daddy."
"I know, Baby," I whispered. "I'll be there soon. I'm waiting for the plane now."
"Everybody's crying, Mommy."
I felt helpless. What could I say to her? I couldn't even find words to comfort myself. I feared what she would be hearing. She didn't yet know that he had died. All I kept saying over and over was, "I'll be there as soon as I can. Try to stay in Grandma's room, away from everyone." In the background I could hear a grief-stricken Vernon moaning in agony. "My son's gone. Dear God, I've lost my son."
Fortunately a child's innocence provides its own protection. Death was not yet a reality to her. She said she'd go out and play with Laura, her friend.
I hung up and walked around in a daze, still numb with shock. The news hit the media instantly. My phones did not stop ringing, with friends trying to cope with the shock, members of the family grasping for explanations, and the press demanding statements. I locked myself in the bedroom and left instructions that I would not speak to anyone, tha
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Priscilla Beaulieu Presley
Priscilla Presley with Sandra Harmon
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Priscilla Beaulieu Presley
- 1986, 320 Seiten, mit Abbildungen, Masse: 10,3 x 17,1 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Berkley
- ISBN-10: 0425091031
- ISBN-13: 9780425091036
- Erscheinungsdatum: 07.02.2018
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Her love for him...jumps out from between the lines. Marilyn Beck, New York Daily NewsA sad, sweet book...the story it tells is fascinating. Washington Post
This honest, full-lenth portrait paints him as he really was both in and out of the spotlight...his wife, who knew him better than anyone else, sees him clearly, steadily, and sees him whole. John Barkham Reviews
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