Huddled on the front step in a pale blue housecoat, she waved at her boyfriend until he rounded the corner and headed out of their quiet neighbourhood to work. With cold digits, she turned the doorknob and let herself into the house again, stopping only once to retrieve the newspaper from the mailbox.

On any other day, she would have gone back into the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of tea - a throwback to her youth spent in England - sat down at the kitchen table with a buttered bagel or a muffin from the bakery on the corner, and she would read The Globe and Mail for those first glorious morning hours between six and eight, when the world was still waking up. The simple knowledge that she was one of the first people every morning to see the sunrise brought a smile to her face.

But, this wasn’t any other day.

Before she read the headline, the worst of her worries was thawing her frozen fingers. As soon as she saw his picture on the front page, however, she realized that her heart, her mind, her very soul, was frozen over.

For a long moment, she tried to digest what her eyes were seeing. It’s easy to close the eyes and block something out, but the words were still emblazoned on her inner eye, and no matter how hard she tried to shut those, she could still see it. Still see the face, the words that were, at this very moment, telling a nation to begin mourning the loss of a hero.

Her still-numb fingers traced the outline of his face – the wide jaw, thin lips, long nose, bespectacled eyes – as if by rubbing the ink off the page she could erase the reason that they were there in the first place. She glanced at the clock, noting that he hadn't even been gone for twelve hours yet, and yet she could almost hear the voices of the mourners outside the Dakota, raised in song.

"All we are saying is give peace a chance."

"John Lennon Shot Dead In N.Y."

Almost.

A tear cascaded down her cheek and landed on the page, blurring the first few sentences of the next story down. Hastily wiping her eyes, the woman stood up, and without thinking, went to the stairs leading up to her room.

The bed was not made. Dirty laundry overflowed from the hamper beside the door – it was laundry day – and, looking down, she noticed that the carpet could use a good vacuuming.

So that's what she did. She pushed her thoughts away and started hauling laundry to the basement laundry room, and when she’d thrown the first load in the washing machine, she marched all the way upstairs, not daring to look at The Globe and Mail on her kitchen table, and began to make her bed – arranging the blankets with the utmost of care, something she'd never before taken the time to do – and then she took the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed until she was sure that the carpet had never looked as nice as it did that moment.

Every room in the house got the same treatment, until a good two hours passed and there were four loads of laundry in the basement and every room was worthy of a five-star rating. But it wasn’t enough, and she knew it - because she could still hear his song.

Wash the walls and the floors. And then do the bathrooms – tackle that mildew – and when that's all done, go out shopping and buy the biggest roast and…

She saw her boyfriend walk in through the front door. She wondered why he wasn’t at work, but she couldn’t ask him that. He knew what she wanted to ask anyway; he could read it on her face.

"You know, then?" he asked, but she didn’t hear. He stepped across the hardwood floor and embraced her, and she felt the cold of his shirt and his face as he held her close; his heartbeat, wildly out of time with her own, beating from under the thin cotton. His breathing was warm on her ear as he whispered to her, but what did she hear other than the sound of his song playing in her head?

Still, she clung to him, knowing that she would have gone mad with anger and grief had he not stepped through the front door at that precise moment to comfort her. He knew that she was a fan of the Beatles, that she had been all her life, and so was he, but with her it was different. Sure, The Beatles made a bond with every person who ever listened to their songs, but it went so much deeper than that with her.

Because of John.

He let her go for a moment and told her with his eyes that he'd be right back. She slumped against the wall and tried desperately to control her emotions, but all the restraint in the world couldn't stop her from sobbing as he brought down the one thing she couldn’t bear to look at, not now, not after what happened.

The guitar.

"Play," he said, and she stepped back, away from the guitar and the man holding it. Without saying a word, she turned around deftly and walked into the kitchen, where the paper sat, exactly how she left it, except that the teardrop on the page had dried up by then.

Moments later, she felt the front door close. The vibrations of the floor let her know in more ways than one that it had been slammed shut in anger. He’ll never understand, will he? she asked herself, as she put her head in her hands and wept.

It occurred to her that the world had been conditioned to mourn – that she had been conditioned to mourn. Every time a soldier died, or someone like Ghandi or Kennedy was killed, everyone went through the same grieving process, dictated by the media and popular beliefs, guidelines for how the world was supposed to react. That time, it wasn’t a war hero. It wasn’t a political leader or a monarch. It was somebody who dedicated his life to music, to the only language that everybody in the world could speak fluently, regardless of their mother tongue.

How could anyone murder somebody who created music?

It wasn’t until eleven that morning that she walked back through the living room. He left the guitar propped up against the pillows. A beautiful guitar - it must have cost thousands, at least – that was given to her as a gift.

She remembered how it felt to hold a guitar in her hands for the first time. She was sixteen, and if it hadn't been for her father's last minute offer for her tag along to the studio, she never would have learned how to play. Her life would have turned out very differently.

The EMI Studios at 3 Abbey Road, St. John’s Wood, London had, for as long as she could remember, been the place her father had left for every morning. As a record producer and a musician, it was hard to stay away from the studio for any length of time, though this meant that she spent a large portion of her childhood fatherless and most of her days in the care of her mother or sitters. She didn’t know much about what he did, but she did know that he disliked, in particular, one group that recorded at the studio…

Obvious surprise filled her when, early in 1969, her father came home with a new album under his arm; it was the new Beatles album, simply titled The Beatles, though it would later be christened as "The White Album". Never before had a Beatles album been played in the house. But this one had to be. He put it on in the living room, and she watched as her father made wild gesticulations with his hands, explaining to her mother why it was the best thing he had heard in years and how jealous he was that George Martin was producing this amazing music when all of his own groups were still stuck in their pre-psychedelic, pre-Sgt. Pepper stages.

The album played through, and the tightly-knit family sat enthralled. Especially Julia, cross-legged beside the speaker with her ear pressed to it as she did every time a song was played. She heard four very separate, very distinct vibrations, and though she couldn’t hear the words, the lyrics the voices were singing still managed to touch her. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” made her heart soar, despite the sadness Julia could feel when she read the words; “Don’t Pass Me By” made her giggle; “Mother Nature’s Son” made her smile.

But then there was the last song on the first record. A vibration so pure, singing to her. She could see it, a cool blue fog in front of her eyes. She could feel it, from her toes to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair.

She waved to her dad when the song was over, signalled for him to play it again. He did. Again and again and again.

And all she did was follow the shiver of excitement as it ran its course throughout her entire body.

Naturally, she was not a fan of the group, per se. So when her father invited her to go to the studio with him to see them, she didn't know that she was getting the chance to do what millions of teenaged fans had wanted to do since the advent of Beatlemania struck the north of England back in the dusky autumn of 1963.

Anticipation filled her heart the next morning. She got up early, smelled the earthy scent of rain coming in through her open window, and butterflies flapped nervously in her stomach. Whenever her father stopped at a red light on their way there, and they’d be sitting there under the heavy overcast sky, she couldn’t stop smiling, thinking about the magic she had felt by the speaker the night before. And when she got there, she felt her heart rate increase exponentially. All on its own, for a band she’d only come to love less than 24 hours before.

She later realized that this was part of their magic. At the time, it was intoxicating. Looking back, it was normal, expected. That’s what they did.

She passed George Harrison, who was rushing out of the studio. The livid lead guitarist nearly ran right into her, and after he had passed, he turned around, smiled graciously, tipped an imaginary hat and she saw his lips form the words: “Pardon, miss.” She laughed, and his smile broadened slightly until he turned around and continued on his way.

Her father led her into Studio 2, and she saw the other three faces that belonged together with the one she'd seen on her way in. There was Ringo, behind his drums, feet perched on a footstool next to him, smoking a ciggie and holding his drumsticks in his lap. And there was Paul, leaned against the wall in his chair, absently tuning an acoustic guitar, his right ankle crossed on top of his left knee.

She felt John before she saw him. Seated behind a piano across the room from Paul, he was giving his younger bandmate a lecture on not messing around with the makeup of his band thisclose to finishing the album, and she could tell from Paul’s expression that the diatribe was not going over very well. Her dad introduced her to the three of them - though she felt like they’d already met - and the mood suddenly lightened. A fan! Be on your best behaviour! Paul set his guitar down and ambled over to shake her hand. Ringo joked that he wished the girl would visit more often, just to raise morale a little bit here and there.

John smiled and nodded, then continued to plunk away at the piano.

She looked at her dad, just in time to catch a final glimpse as he left the room.

"Do you play guitar?" Paul asked as the door shut. She shook her head, turning back to face him.

"Do you play anything?" Ringo asked. She went to sign to him - 'I don't play anything' - but realized he wouldn't understand. The dawn of a new round of frustration hit her. It was a bad idea to come here.

The barrier grew thicker.

"Don't be shy, love," Paul said with a warm smile, and she nearly began to cry. She wanted so badly to just isolate herself in the corner to read, but all she could hear was the light vibrations in the air that Paul's voice created when he spoke to her.

"She's not shy," John said suddenly. "She's deaf."

She looked over in the direction of the familiar feel of his vibrations.

"I'm sorry," Ringo said.

"So you read lips, then?" Paul asked. She nodded.

"Show us how to sign?" Ringo asked as he walked over. She sat down on a chair next to the piano bench, and Ringo seated himself in front of her. She showed him how to sign his name: R-I-N-G-O.

"How long did it take you to learn all this?" Ringo asked as he struggled to twist his fingers around the letters in his hands. She shrugged; it was like she'd always known how to do it, even though her legal deafness came at the age of eight.

"Can you sign my name?" Paul asked sweetly, and she smiled and obliged, eager to have an audience. She threw him for a loop and showed him how to sign his real first name: J-A-M-E-S. She couldn’t remember where she had heard that his name was James, but he was obviously pleased. He beamed at her.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" he laughed, patting her on the shoulder, "I'd really love to stay and chat, but I have to go find George," he told her as he hauled himself to his feet. She stood up too.

"Yeah, you'll be lucky if we can get 'im back, son," John said.

Paul shot a look of anger – and maybe sadness? – at John, and then he walked out of the room.

"You didn't have to go and say that, John," Ringo said softly after Paul had left.

"He deserved it," John said.

Ringo shook his head and stood up, “You two can be real arseholes to each other sometimes,” he spoke at John, “and if you keep on doing this, you won’t have much of a band to argue over.”

“Suits me.” John just huffed as he leaned back.

Ringo smiled at her, “It was a great pleasure to meet you,” he said, “Hopefully the next time we meet, it will be under better circumstances.” He directed a cold gaze at John and then turned around to follow Paul. The door slammed for the third time that afternoon.

"Arrogant, the lot o' them," John whispered, "They have no respect for where I’ve got them. If it weren’t for me…” he looked up, just barely, from behind the long fringe of hair that had drifted over his eyes, “I'm sorry you 'ad to see that."

She didn't care. John had picked up his acoustic and was plucking the quiet tune she had grown to love, and her eyes and mute ears were trained on it. He didn't notice her staring intently at his digits on the neck, dancing over the frets, or as he plucked at the strings over the mouth of the guitar. Deep and resonating, the notes penetrated deep within her. She could almost see the notes - C's and D's and G's - as if she was taking dictation, writing down the pretty harmonies and chords John was strumming with deft fingers. She had heard about people like that, those lucky enough to be blessed with perfect pitch. She just figured that, in her case, it was just… magic.
"You can 'ear this," he said, startling her out of her trance. She nodded, realizing that she had been staring at John for a long time even though he hadn't been playing, "How?" he continued.

She went to sign again - 'I feel the vibrations' - but, with a growing frustration, she settled her hands in her lap. John then leaned over to the top of the piano and grabbed a pen and a piece of paper.

"Can ye write?"

She took the paper and the pen and wrote out what she had tried to say. He read it and then looked at her quizzically.

"How do ye feel vibrations?" he asked.

She wrote: "Everyone's vibration is different."

Pause.

"I like yours."

John read the words and with one slow move, he shuffled over to the other side of the bench, making room for her to join him.

"Would ye like to learn 'ow to play?" he asked.

Without thinking, she nodded. If she had thought, she would have wondered how John Lennon could teach her to play guitar. But it was reflexive, her little nod. And all John had to do was reach behind him and grab another acoustic guitar of his propped against the wall, and then hand it over. Its weightlessness startled her; she felt as if she were holding air. The curve of the bottom edge fit perfectly onto her thigh and her arm slid effortlessly into the curve on the top. Her right hand was at the perfect height to strum the strings and her left was the perfect length to touch the very end of the fret board. Like it was made to her specifications.

As if he were a certified music instructor, John began to show her where to place her fingers, how to form the chords, which strings to hit and which ones to leave silent.

"First finger on the third fret... no, no, like this," he'd say, and show her, manually placing her fingers where they were supposed to be, "Now, pinky finger on the third fret, too...  Leave the top three strings open, like this.  No, that's A Major, you want A seventh...," He'd take her finger and stretch it across the strings at the second fret. "Right, now... top string, third fret... ."

In this manner, it took her less than half an hour to absorb and memorize everything that he had taught her, and the two of them were playing in perfect syncopation, there on the black piano bench in Studio 2.

Her father came back in and told her that they'd have to leave, that he was done and the magic bus was leaving. John laughed; it was easy for him, because he could come back whenever he wanted, to the studio, to the bench. She had to leave, and there was no guarantee that she would ever be able to feel this way again. She didn't want to go, but she knew she had to. As she said her quick goodbye to John - the others weren't back yet - she scribbled a hasty note on the paper.

"How did you know I liked that song so much?" she wrote.

“You like this song?” he asked her point blank, and she blushed, realizing her faux pas in assuming too much. He just laughed. "Well, yer name is Julia too, isn't it love?"

It was the first time she had heard her name sound that beautiful.

Years later, long after the Beatles disbanded and during the period known as John's "Lost Weekend", a package arrived in the mail at Julia's home. A large gift, definitely the largest she had ever received, and inside was the beautiful honey-blonde, Ramirez classical guitar she had played in the studio that day. Along with the guitar was a note:

Here's to ‘good vibrations’ - John.

It was a definite surprise. She didn’t even think he’d remembered her; in the eleven years since her encounter with John, she had not seen him mention her once, not even a casual reference. But in five short words, he had explained to her what he felt from their brief meeting.

And on that fateful December morning, she finally picked up the guitar, handled it gently, tuned it just as swiftly as Paul had, but with a deaf ear. It still fit perfectly, sat on her thigh and under her arm, her fingers could still reach the strings and the frets. And – though they were soft, un-calloused and hurt more than a little as she tried out the perfectly pitched strings for the first time in many a year – she felt as though a little bit of John was there at her fingertips.

They weren’t frozen anymore.

Neither was her heart.

She played "Julia", there in her living room, in the house on the corner of Kenniston Boulevard and Berry Street in Winnipeg, Manitoba. At 11:30 am, twelve hours from the moment John died, her tears ran their course. She showed John just what their brief meeting meant to her, because she knew he was listening.

Linsday Stamhuis is currently in the twelfth grade in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Next year, she is planning on attending the University of Alberta, with aspirations of either going into journalism (she is already working as an assistant editor of a local alternative magazine here in E-ville) or going even further in her studies and pursuing a degree in Law. Many friends have commented through the years that her wacky sense of style, interest in all things written and, of course, her obsession with The Beatles would eventually lead to the attainment of her goals or her detainment in the provincial mental hospital; she's learned when to turn the volume on her Discman up on account.  Her website is at http://rubbersoul_fanfic.tripod.com -- you can read more of her fan fiction there.

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