For the second time that evening, a woman was crying. Linda had not dared to think her husband could be dead, but he was. She knew that now. Paul was dead.
Seated in the waiting room, Linda had yet to call Heather and Louise. She was uncertain if Paul was actually dead. She had not heard any beeping from a machine, like how the movies had it. She had only heard the words of a doctor,
"Your husband, he's not doing alright. He may succumb to the coma soon. I'm sorry, Mrs. McCartney."
It was ridiculous, stupid for her to believe the doctor, but Linda could not form her own opinion of the manner as she had not been admitted to the hospital room of Paul. She should have been, Linda knew. But the doctors were doing their best to revive Paul, or so they said. Linda did not know what to believe.
She sat in a hardback plastic chair, head in her hands. She was not crying; she was too tired for that. She could not grieve properly if she did not know the answer she was waiting for. Her blonde hair was a mess, after having run a hand through it several times over the past hour. She was confused, in denial, and certain. Certain that Paul was a fighter, would fight for her and the kids. And John. The Paul Linda knew was more determined than anyone to fight through something blocking his way. Paul would succeed; he would survive. All Linda had to do was hope her assumptions were the truth.
She sat there in the chair for a while. Linda was not counting the minutes. What she did count were the moments she had spent with Paul; it pained her to think her last conversation with Paul was an argument about the death of John and if Yoko had felt sorry for what had happened. Linda could care less about what anyone else felt in the moments she spent there in the hospital, sitting and sitting and sitting, without an answer, without a clarification of what had really happened when she had found Paul in their hotel room, passed out and alone.
It had scared her at first, seeing her husband like that. But she had phoned the hospital, and Linda had watched an ambulance arrive and took Paul away to the hospital. She had gotten a ride from the local police, who were investigating the scene. It was a terrible occurrence, a terrible coincidence to have both John Lennon and Paul McCartney die in a matter of days between where one death began and the other ended. Linda could hardly think of it as an actual reality, but the feeling she was alone was not a fantasy. She was alone in the waiting room, left alone to listen to the screaming fans outside the hospital. Some were calling her name and sending her condolences through the glass window. The majority of them were crying. Linda looked away from them.
She started humming, "Another Day." She tried to tell herself that was all it was, just another day in her life. There was nothing to be worried about, nothing at all but another day. Just another day.
The door to the waiting room opened. A doctor different than the first entered the room. He said, "I'm sorry," and that was all he got out before Linda burst into tears.
"Mrs. McCartney, please."
After a short while, when Linda had composed herself with thoughts of Paul well and happy and alive (or so she thought), she snapped at the doctor, "Just tell me he's alright, please."
The doctor looked at the grieving woman once then shook his head and left the room.
That one singular motion told Linda all she needed to know, that Paul was not alright, had not been alright. That he - he was dead.
The waves of sorrow and grief had overtaken her again. Linda leaned over and down until her head had met her open hands. The tears fell from her eyes and slipped through the spaces between her fingers, onto the cold, tiled floor of the room. Linda was crying, for the uncertain and the certain; for Paul's death and Paul's life. Certainly, he was not dead. Certainly, her husband was alive.
What a funny thought it was for Linda to think that Yoko Ono had been through the same thoughts she was having; that Yoko had been grieving a man surely to be dead, as Linda did the same. But there was one considerate difference: John was dead, and that was certain. Paul was not dead - but he was also not not dead - and that was uncertain. To Linda, it was uncertain. To the doctors, it was uncertain. Linda did not know what to believe or expect what came out of the doctor's mouth next.
He must have returned sometime when Linda had been lost in her thoughts. His hair was ruffled, his eyes wide with an emotion she could not decipher. His voice was quiet, but she still heard it over the fans and their own outcries. What the doctor said would change her life forever, for the better or the worse:
"Mrs. McCartney, what I was trying to say earlier was, I'm sorry our prior assumptions were incorrect, as your husband's health has recovered and he is waking up as we speak."
Linda stood up out of the chair quickly, with a newfound excitement to replace the dread and grief she had felt only moments before. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" She followed the doctor to a room off the hall, a room where she knew Paul was on the other side. Linda smiled at the thought, and entered the room after the doctor.
He was still pale. That was Linda's first thought when she observed the man lying on the hospital bed. His skin was whiter than the gown he wore. It was not a gown she would have liked to see on her man: it was a gown for a patient, a person in pain. Linda did not like seeing Paul like that, but she had to. It was either this or not seeing her husband. She had no other choice.
"What happened?" Linda quietly asked, eyes on where the still body lied.
"You mean, you don't know?"
Linda glanced over at the doctor, but was quick to return her attention to Paul. "No, I do not."
"What I have come up with is," the doctor spared a look at her, "your husband nearly died of a broken heart."
"A broken heart?" Linda repeated.
"Indeed. I am still in disbelief about John's death, though he was treated here, too."
Linda stared at how the doctor was talking about John as if he had known him. She could see at this very moment why Paul had gotten angry at her over the same thing. Nobody knew John, not truly, unless they were John Winston Ono Lennon himself - and this doctor was certainly not John. He did not know John as Paul had. It was so inevitably easy for Linda to see that now, she was amazed how she never realized it before. Paul had loved John, but he loved her, too. Of course, he did. Paul was Paul.
The doctor tilted his head at her. "That expression of your face, you're not believing something..."
"I'm not believing your act of grieving over John Lennon," Linda snapped. "Now, believe me, Doc, I can be a very nice person, but when somebody states their facts like they are actual facts, that's when I draw the line. I am a photographer - Paul once stated me to be a reporter. It was a joking manner, but it is true. I am a reporter, and reporters know nonsensical lies when they hear it."
The doctor's mouth was in a thin line, almost a frown. "I bet you do, but as a doctor, I know when a patient is about to wake up, like your husband is now."
Linda only had time to blush and apologize quickly before turning to look at the bed. The color in Paul's face had returned more. His eyelids flickered. Then, suddenly, they opened, and Paul sat up, his left hand clutching at his chest. He was breathing heavily and looked terrified out of his mind. He said, "What happened? Where's John? Where is he? I know he was shot! He cannot be alright. Where is John?"
The mere fact Paul was speaking about John as if he knew John was dead was enough for Linda to start crying again. At the sight of the tears on his wife's face, Paul said, "I'm sorry, dear. I couldn't believe it, either."
Slowly, Linda made her way over to where Paul lied on the hospital bed. She pulled the sheets back a little then lied next to him, head on his chest. "I'm glad you're alright." She leaned her head up and kissed him.
"I'm glad, too," Paul said. "Glad you are with me." A tear slipped out his eye.
The doctor crossed the room and said, "Excuse me, Mrs. McCartney, but your husband is in need of a few health checks, but you're welcome to watch."
The health checks went fine. Mr. and Mrs. McCartney were both glad of that. Paul was checked out of the hospital a short time after that, thanking the doctors and nurses who had helped him and watched over him while he was in the coma. The couple returned to their hotel and packed their things. However, they still had a couple of hours until they planned to leave.
Linda sat on the edge of the bed, and fell backwards. Her blonde hair spread out behind her head. She smiled at Paul. "I still cannot believe you are alive. I-I thought I was going to lose you."
"I know," Paul said, walking over to her. "You know, if I didn't have such an amazing wife to return to, I may never have woken up at all."
"Oh, Paul, you cannot just say something like that."
"But I just did - and I'll say it again. Without you -"
"Paul, please." But Linda's smile had never left her face.
"I wasn't done. Without you, I don't know who I would love." Paul smiled, too. He got on the bed and lied next to her. He kissed Linda. She kissed him back. For all the strange flashes in New York, for all the symptoms of a heartbreak mixed with grief, Paul was glad to be here in this moment with Lin. All in all, it was a beautiful, wonderful moment. All he had had to do was persist through the times of confusion and uncertainty to end up in the place he wanted most, the place he trusted the most: the arms of a person he loved a lot.
~
"We need to return to England, soon. You're alright, Paul, aren't you?"
The couple was currently seated in an airport, eyes on the sunrise outside. It was a beautiful thing, red and orange streaks of what appeared to be the sun itself mixing with the cool tones of stubborn night. Paul smiled.
"Yes, I'm alright. And you?"
"Alright." Linda's fingers intertwined with Paul's.
"I've been thinking..."
"Yes?"
Paul took a deep breath. "Every time, every eight of December, you and I will go here, to New York, in John Lennon's memory."
"Paul, that's beautiful!"
"So, will you come with me?" Paul looked at Linda with hopeful eyes.
"Yes, I will."
They finished with what had been their traditional farewell but what was now their traditional hello. It was their hello to the world, that they were ready for whatever came their way next.
"I love you, Paul."
"I love you, too Linda."
THE END.