Buckingham Nicks Shorts

Escape Act

1987

He could see her slipping; slipping back into old habits, slipping back into her old lifestyle, just slipping. Her perception of reality was turning to mush, and there nothing he could do to stop it. Sure, she’d got off the coke. But this was something new; he thought it might even be worse. And it wasn’t just her; others around him, others he also cared about, were slipping too. But he cared more for her, because she was his; always his, forever his. And if Lindsey lost Stevie, he’d never forgive himself for not doing anything to help her.

Stevie finally showed up; they been there for months, while she’d danced across all the stages of the United States. And, of course, there had been the rehab stint, which had consoled Lindsey’s guilty demons, but only by a small percentage. When she showed up few weeks later, the demons began draw blood again.

She was there, but not all together, like a normal, sober person should be. Stevie was herself one moment; witty, creative and ready to get to work. And then there were other times where she was someone else entirely, someone Lindsey didn’t know; out of it, distracted… high. He watched from his place at the mixing desk, and saw the walls he’d spent the last 5 years building around his heart and his mind begin to crumble.

The album was a success, but Lindsey couldn’t care less. He just wanted out. He could no longer stand to watch the people he loved so much it consumed him kill themselves; John was still drinking, Mick was doing anything and everything, and Stevie… He just wanted his Steph back. So he told them: this was the end of the road for him as far as Fleetwood Mac was concerned. They shrugged it, thinking he was joking. But then he refused to come to a rehearsal, so a meeting was called. The band gave him an ultimatum, and Lindsey flipped. “You’re all so wound up in your own little worlds that you just don’t get it. You don’t see anything going on that happens outside your bubbles. You’re fucked, all of you.”

Christine paid him a visit one night, long after the drug tainted trailer had been removed from his driveway and signs of his (former) band mates were gone. “Why’re you leaving us, Linds? What’s really going on in that curly head of yours?” She asked him, sipping on her wine. He had to laugh, because she was as disillusioned as the others, but at the same time, just as sane as he was. “I can’t watch the destruction anymore, Chris. I can’t watch the people I care for and love so deeply kill themselves just so they can have a good time.” Chris glanced at her wine, before deciding to put it aside. “You mean Stevie.” She said. “No, I mean all three of them.”  “But it’s mainly Stevie you’re thinking of.” Lindsey looked away; damn, she was good. “She’s been to rehab, Linds. She’s good now.” Chris tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t accept it. “You didn’t notice?” “I don’t notice the things about Stevie that you do.” “She’s not Stevie; she’s not my Steph. I don’t know who that person is.” Lindsey started to cry, an unusual thing for him to do in front anyone. Chris was defeated; there was nothing she could do for him now.

3 years later – 1990

Stevie was gone; she was physically there, standing beside him, serenading her fans. But this wasn’t the Stevie that Lindsey knew. He’d had his suspicions; about interference, about influences that were beyond even Stevie’s control. She’d greeted him the day before for rehearsals, and he was shocked by what he saw. That night, as he drove away from the stadium, he knew he’d made the right choice to leave. It was too painful to watch Stevie on her road to self destruction.