Elvis and Me

by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley

He taught me everything: how to dress, how to walk, how to apply makeup and wear my hair, how to behave, how to return love—his way. Over the years he became my father, husband, and very nearly God. Now he was gone and I felt more alone and afraid than ever in my life.

I managed to get around him occasionally. When he refused to let me wear a tight skirt, I joined the Girl Scouts specifically so I could wear their tight uniform.

He was the sexual idol of millions and could choose whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I quickly learned, for my own survival, not to ask too many questions.

“No. Someday we will, Priscilla, but not now. You’re just too young.”

I want you to promise me you’ll stay the way you are. Untouched, as I left you.”

Occasionally, he’d talk about Anita, saying their relationship wasn’t what he had expected when he returned from the Army. He was no longer sure he wanted to be with her. I didn’t know where I stood. Time and distance had created doubts and questions; I wanted to ask him, “Where do I fit in your life? Or do I?”

In moments of intimacy he would switch to third-person address: Him yuvs you and her yuvs him.

Gross

I was leading a double life—a schoolgirl by day, a femme fatale by night.

“You can’t play without winning,” I yelled, “even with me. You started throwing harder and harder. What did you expect me to do?”

I couldn’t believe this overreaction. It was one of four things: He was innocent, or I had made him feel guilty, or he was guilty, and I’d made him feel even more so, or it was simply his ongoing disgust with the inane plot of the film and he’d chosen me as a target for his anger.

I was relieved and happy to be back in his arms. Anything he’d have said would’ve made sense to me in that moment. What I didn’t realize until later was that this was Elvis’s technique of keeping me under control.

“Nungen,” he whispered, which was his way of saying “young one.” “Us has a little baby girl.” “Her knows,” I whispered back.

Wtf

The man in my hospital room that day was the man I loved, and will always love. He didn’t have to try to be strong and decisive or sexy, he wasn’t afraid to show his warmth or vulnerability. He didn’t have to act the part of Elvis Presley, superstar. He was just a man, my husband.

I stopped apologizing for my opinions and laughing at jokes I didn’t find amusing. A transformation had begun in which fear and indifference had no place. Along with this new confidence, off came my false eyelashes and heavy makeup, the jewels and flashy clothes. All devices that I’d depended upon for security I now shed.

I was confronted with the harsh realization that living the way I had for so long was very unnatural and detrimental to my well-being.

Accustomed to living in dark rooms, hardly seeing the sun, depending on chemical aids for sleep and wakefulness, surrounded by bodyguards who distanced us from reality, I yearned for the more ordinary pleasures. I began to appreciate the simple things that I would have liked to share with Elvis and hadn’t: walks in the park, a candlelight dinner for two, laughter.

“It’s not that you’ve lost me to another man, you’ve lost me to a life of my own. I’m finding myself for the first time.”

“Cilla,” Elvis called. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Maybe another time, another place,” he said slowly. “Maybe so,” I replied, looking back. “This just isn’t the time.” And I walked out the door.