Blue Like Elvis (24 page)

I shook my head as
I walked back to the office to get my purse and finally call it a day. Sandra
grabbed my arm, dragging me alongside her out of the building. “Hurry! I’ve got
to get home and change!”

“Why? Another date
tonight?”

“Not just any
date. I’m going out with Trevor Knight!” She let out a little squeal and did
her signature dance right there on the sidewalk.

I had to laugh. “Have
I ever told you how much I love you?” I asked, drawing her into a side-hug.

“Huh? I love you
too, but why’d you say that now?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s
been such a sad day, but you always know how to bring a little sunshine when
the clouds roll in.”

She hugged me
back. “Ah, I’m so sorry about Dr. Love. He’s such a nice man.”

“That he is. But tell
me about your evening. Where’s Trevor taking you?”

“He has tickets to
see the Commodores! I can’t wait! How did he know I
love
them?!”

“The Commodores?
Oh, I’m feeling some major envy coming on here.”

“Hurry!” She
looped her arm in mine and propelled me toward the employee parking lot. “I
want to take a shower and have time to do my nails!”

“All right, all
right. I’m hurrying! Besides. I need to get home too.”

“Yeah? You have a
date?”

We climbed into
Sandra’s car. “No, but I have to write a letter.”

She cocked her
head and pinned me with a glare as only Sandra could do. “You have to write a
letter. Pray tell who you’re writing?” She roared the engine to life.

“Pedro, who else?
I think your ‘boyfriend’ back home should know about your big date
tonight. . .”

C
hapter 35

I was clearly
experiencing déjà vu. I’d been in bed a couple of hours, unable to sleep.
Sandra had returned home earlier and already gone to bed after her “dream date”
with Trevor. But once again, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Love. I kept
picturing him in ICU, lying there with all those tubes and monitors hooked up
to him. I’d prayed and prayed but couldn’t seem to find any peace in it. I kept
feeling the strongest pull on my soul to be there. At the hospital. Ridiculous,
right? He was no doubt still unconscious. And even if he wasn’t, they’d never
let me in ICU the way I’d snuck in to see him last time. Still, I knew I had to
go.

About 1:00, I
quietly got dressed, slipped out the door, and made the six mile drive to BMH.
The streets seemed unusually eerie this night. I literally felt my skin crawl.
Twice.
But I knew I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know why. I just knew.

I showed my ID at
the ICU desk and told the receptionist I was also a friend of Dr. Love’s. Of
course, she couldn’t give me any information—patient privacy rules—but she did
tell me he was still unconscious. I thanked her and took a seat in the waiting
area, unsure what to do. At that point, I felt so silly for being there. I
noticed a sign over at the hostess desk:
Back in 20 minutes.
I couldn’t
remember who was working tonight, but I wasn’t really in the mood to talk to
anyone. Then I remembered the prayer room down the hall, and once again, feeling
that earlier tug on my soul, I went in.

It was quiet in
there. So quiet. Soft lighting, extremely low. And nothing but the occasional,
rhythmic clicking from a ceiling fan to disturb this peaceful haven. I made my
way to the front, put my purse on one of the front pews, then knelt on the
padded kneeling bench. At first I just repeated some of my earlier prayers, the
ones that hadn’t seemed to help at all when I was home in bed.

Then I just
started thinking about Dr. Love. About that first time we met in the church
library. I remembered the faint scent of cigar that I later learned was so
characteristic of him. His hidden little secret . . . though I’m
fairly sure everyone in the church probably knew. I smiled at the memory. I
remembered how quickly he put me at ease, how genuine he was, and how
surprisingly “normal” he seemed for one who pastored such a large metropolitan
church.

I remembered my many
visits to his office and all of our chats. How he always made it seem like he
had all the time in the world for me.

All the time in
the world . . .

Oh God, please
give him more time.

The tears came
slowly at first and then something inside me seemed to break free. Like a dam
that finally gave way, I couldn’t stop crying, my heart in so much pain for
this good and godly man.

“Why him? Of all
the people You allow to get sick—why him, God? I just . . . I
just don’t understand. This kind and gentle man, so beloved and so cherished by
so many people. Why him?” A sob caught in my throat. I reached for the box of
tissues on the edge of the platform then tried to dry my face. A useless
attempt.

“Oh God, please . . .
please spare him. Don’t let him die. Not now. Not like this. Surely there’s
more You have for him to do on this earth.” I hiccupped a couple of times and
continued. “He did so much for me, Lord. He helped me learn to trust again. To
find my way again. And I know I’m just one of thousands he’s helped guide back
to You. So why, God? Why?”

I cried silently, shaking
my head, wishing I could find answers to my questions.

“Excuse me.”

I jumped up,
startled at the sound of a man’s voice. He was sitting on the back row, the
light all but non-existent in that corner of the room. And for the third time that
night, my skin crawled. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know anyone was—”

“No, I’m the one
who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.”

My heart was
pounding so hard in my ears, I had trouble hearing him. I tried to take a
breath but it kept catching.

“I couldn’t help
but overhear and wondered if there’s anything I could do to help?”

Something in his
voice sounded familiar. Still, this was awkward.

“No, but thank
you. I’m sorry I was speaking out loud. I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

I noticed he was
fairly large as he stood up and started toward me, but oddly enough, I wasn’t
frightened. Something in that voice was very reassuring. As he neared, he took
off his glasses, and I felt my jaw drop. He made his way past the four short
rows of pews until he was standing only a few feet away from me . . .

Elvis Presley.

“May I?” he asked,
indicating he’d like to take a seat on the front row.

“Uh . . .
uh . . .” Nothing else would come out of my mouth.

“Please,” he said,
this time indicating I should sit down just across the aisle from him.

I nodded, unable
to get anything else to come even close to my lips as I slowly took a seat.

“I truly didn’t
mean to eavesdrop, ma’am. But if you don’t mind my asking, any chance this good
man you’ve been praying for is Dr. J. Thomas Love?”

“Yes,” I said in
something like a gasp. “Yes, but how—”

“Oh, that’s easy,”
he said with that world-famous crooked smile. “Because that’s why I’m
here.”

I grabbed another
tissue, trying to restore some dignity to my hopeless appearance. “Mr. Presley,
how do you know Dr. Love?” Of course, I remembered as soon as the words were
out of my mouth, but I just let him tell me anyway.

“Please—call me
Elvis. Oh, Tommy Love and I go way back. We first bumped into each other a
long, long time ago at the Cadillac dealership in town.”

“You both bought
your Cadillacs from my dad.”

“You’re related to
Franco Brentwood?”

“No, my father is
Jack Colter.”

“Cadillac Jack is
your daddy? Well, what d’ya know. How’s that for a small world? Wait a minute.
Are you the one I—”

“Met on Christmas
eve a long time ago? You were there letting your friends pick out cars for Christmas.
Yes, that was me.”

“That shy little
girl I had to coax to sit on my knee? That was you?” His smile grew bigger.

“Yes, it was.
Although, I have no memory of it. I’ve just heard the story told over and over
my entire life.”

“Well, ain’t that
somethin’? I hope you’ll forgive me for not remembering your name.”

“I’m Shelby.
Although, at that time I went by my real name, Rayce.”

“That’s it—Rayce.
And you were the prettiest little thing. Why, I can’t believe that little girl
was you.”

I toyed with the
rumpled mess of tissues in my hand. I realized there wasn’t a trace of mascara
on them. Which made sense since I hadn’t put on any make-up before leaving the
house.
Oh great.
I finally meet Elvis Presley—again—and I look like a
train wreck.

I looked back up
and found him staring at me. The hair was still jet black and thick, and he
still had those beautiful blue bedroom eyes. His face seemed a bit puffy but I
figured it was due to some of the medical issues he faced. I’d heard there were
many. Still, the charisma was there. I could finally understand why hearts
broke all over the world for this man. There was an aura about him, impossible
to put into words.

“How’s ol’ Jack
doing? Sure miss him.”

“He’s good. Still
down in Birmingham. Still selling Cadillacs.”

“Well, who knows.
Maybe next time I get a hankerin’ to buy some new ones, I’ll just run down
there and buy ‘em from Jack. Good man, that daddy of yours.”

“Yes, he is.”

He scratched the
back of his neck and let out a big sigh. “It’s a real shame about Tommy. He’s
been a good friend to me over the years. I hate that he’s in such bad shape. Tore
me up seeing him lying there like that.”

“You saw him?
Tonight?”

“Oh, sure. I made
a call. His doctor’s a friend of mine.”

Well, of course
he got in to see him. He’s Elvis.

I felt my eyes
well up again. “Still unconscious?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m
used to seeing his face all crinkled up in smiles, used to hearing that laugh
of his. Sure not used to seeing him . . . so lifeless.” He shook
his head and looked down.

“He told me you
snuck in to see him last time he was here.”

He lifted his
eyes. “Oh, I do a lot of sneaking around, little lady.” He winked with that
smile this time. “I even drop in for church now and then. Sneak in late. Sneak out
early. Incognito, of course. Story of my life.”

I smiled at the
thought of Elvis in some strange disguise. “He told me you all are good
friends.”

“We are. I don’t
get to see him that much, but sometimes when I’m in town, I’ll call him up. Ask
him out to the house. We always talk for hours. He’s got this gentle way of
telling you what the Bible says, what God says, without hitting you over the
head with it, y’know?”

“I know. He’s been
counseling me for several months. I just hope I get the chance to thank him for
all the ways he helped me get my life—” I choked up before finishing the
sentence.

He reached over
and touched my hand. I looked at that famous hand on top of mine and just could
not get it to compute in my head.
Elvis Presley. Comforting me.

“I hope you do
too, Shelby. But if you don’t, then don’t you worry about it. He knows. Tommy
Love knows.”

I wept quietly, so
frustrated at my inability to turn off the waterworks. He handed me a fresh
white handkerchief. I thanked him.

“Shelby Colter, may
I ask you a favor?”

I wiped my eyes
again, then looked up into his. “Me? You want to ask me a favor?”

“Would you mind if
I sang a hymn for Tommy?”

A baseball lodged
itself in my throat and the floodgates opened again. I nodded, my face crumbling
again at the sweetness of what he wanted to do.

“This is an old
Mosie Lister song called
His Hand in Mine.
Tommy was always asking me to
sing it to him. Somehow it just seems like the right thing to do right now.”

I tried to smile,
couldn’t, so just nodded again.

And then he
started to sing. That famous old hymn in a voice so quiet, I couldn’t hear him
at first. The lyrics, so beautiful, so reassuring, sung in that deeply reverent
way Elvis always sings his hymns. I couldn’t tell which affected me more—those
lyrics or that voice. It was one of the most touching moments of my life.

When he was
through, he bowed his head. I assumed he was praying.

After the longest
time, he looked up, his face streaked with tears.

“I’m real glad I
had a chance to meet you, Shelby—again. You tell your daddy hello for me, okay?”

“I will.”

He took my hands
in his, and I felt every one of those big rings on his fingers as the distinct
scent of Brut cologne wafted over me. “You make me a promise.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You
promise me you’ll keep praying for our friend in there. You and me. Let’s keep
Dr. Love lifted up before the very gates of heaven. Agree?”

“I promise. It was
nice to meet you, Mr. Presley. Again.”

“Now, none of that
Mr. Presley stuff. We go way back, you and me, remember?  You just call me
Elvis, darling.’”

“Nice to meet you
again, Elvis.”

He squeezed my
hand and then he was gone.

My knees gave out
and I dropped back into the pew.

Oh, my goodness.
Oh,
my goodness.
I found it hard to breathe as the reality of what just happened
sunk in.

I met Elvis
Presley.

I had a private
concert by Elvis Presley.

No one is ever
going to believe this.

I sat there for
almost half an hour, going over and over every word, every glimpse at those
beautiful eyes, every tone of his voice, every touch of his hand . . .

And I realized
something. Even
I
didn’t believe it. How would anyone else?

And then I realized
something else. I had a white handkerchief wadded up in my hand. A handkerchief
monogrammed with the initials
EP.