Detox

Chapter 11: Conflict

The Loft
Kabuchiko
Shinjuku, Japan 2002

It’s a glaring contradiction; almost humor-filled if you were in the mood to laugh.

It was a little difficult reconciling the notion that earlier in the day, I stood before a crowd of about three hundred (or more); giving a speech, smiling, and shaking hands with some important dignitaries (read as Michael’s business associates) while handing over a check for almost a million dollars for the opening of a new children’s hospital. It was money donated on behalf of the Heal the World Foundation, and after almost two years in the making, it was wonderful to finally see the finished product.

Just one of his many dreams.

Though it looked like a normal storied building from the outside, the interior was a marvel of modern architecture with help from the Japanese designer, Shigeru Ban. From the moment you stepped into the spacious lobby, you were greeted with a world specifically designed to bring a smile to even the sickest of children’s faces (and even to the most jaded of adults).

“When children come in there, I want them to feel like they are going to get better even if things look bleak,” Michael had whispered that night as we lay in bed (during the -dare I say - very initial stages of his grand plans). “I want to create a world of magic and wonder; of an environment where they’ll be loved and taken care of. That is the kind of hospital…no, the kind of hospitals and care centers I want to build all over the world. It’s not just going to have the negative connotations of bitter medicine, painful needles and injections, but of laughter, happiness, and hope…the most important thing is hope.”

Hope.

It was in every ray of sunlight that drifted from the angled slats in the towering ceiling as we walked through the lobby. Hope was in the painted walls of smiling cartoon children of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It was in the special walls that were nothing short of a virtual reality haven. Ban had created aquariums with actual live fish within thick-paned glass that everyone could marvel at. It was interactive; in that you could touch the pane/glass and the name of each kind of fish would pop up with information about it. It almost felt you could step right into the wall and swim along with the creatures. Hope was in the waiting area where rainbow-themed décor accentuated furniture that was in the shapes of tasty desserts and playful blocks. Even the receptionist desk looked like a stall at a county fair, and I could already picture the nurses dressed in candy pink uniforms and doctors looking like circus conductors. They weren’t though, for when I was later introduced to the new staff, besides some of the nurses wearing child-themed/friendly scrubs, most of them were in the standard white lab coats.

Each floor had spacious rooms for the child (or children), and being in the last stages of my residency, my already critical eye was keen on the state-of-the-art equipment for the oncology, neuroscience, orthopedics, neonatal, psychiatric, emergency departments (which would no doubt be the busiest of them all) among many others. Michael had spared no expense in making sure top-notch devices were purchased, and it was a pleasure getting to see some demonstrations of how the latest technological advances could be used – especially for chemotherapy/radiation treatments.

Children needed to play; to exercise not just their mind, but their bodies if they could manage it, hence seeing the outdoor garden (despite the hospital being smack dab in the heart of Tokyo) was breathtaking. It was like walking into a child’s paradise, and seeing the children (I guess they ‘rented’ some for the day or something because they definitely didn’t look that sick to me) running around the swings and see-saws was a delight. It did make me miss my boys, and there is no doubt Michael would have loved to be a part of this as well.

However, a prior commitment to Dick Clark and his 50th anniversary special for American Bandstand had taken precedence. So guess who had to step in?

Little ol’ me.

It’s not my first time doing something like this, so do not assume that I do not know the protocol by now. These (sometimes) week-long trips around the world to see to the many charities we are a part of, or to attend one fundraising event or another is something that comes with being Michael’s wife. If I’m to be his right-hand ‘man’ (so to speak), I must do my part to see his dreams come to fruition; including sacrificing a few weeks of my time to achieve them.

Though most of these trips are generally fun and enlightening, this particular excursion is one that I … no…that we desperately needed. I had to get away to think; to be away from the animosity and the anger and the accusations and the-

“Watch your step, ma’am,” comes the cautious warning, which I automatically obey as I am led deeper into the underground/basement venue. The dingy tiled walls are free from graffiti (which is surprising), but there are still colorful and eye-catching posters announcing the bands that are due to perform in the next few weeks. Though some have English names, many are local-bred who hope to make the big time. If there’s one thing about the Japanese people that I’ve come to appreciate over the years, it’s their excellent eye for design and advertising. If their glaring neon letters with multiple exclamation marks don’t get your attention, I don’t know what will.

Where am I right now, you might be asking?

If the loud, nearly deafening, bass-thumping sound is any indication, I’d say we have finally arrived at the world-famous Loft, where a certain beloved American punk/rock band is currently wooing the masses with their hits. The main bar (if you can call it that) is packed to bursting point with frenzied, sweat-streaked fans either bobbing their heads or bouncing up and down with fists in the air as the band kills it on stage. The lights in here are dimmed to retina-burning sepias and reds that intertwine with what looks like 70s inspired disco balls, and every now and then bright yellow spotlights dance over the lead singer who belts out her solo on her electric guitar before moving toward to the microphone again to yell out a guttural:

“Heeeeelll yeeeeeah, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, rock and rooooll for liiiife!!”

Which is promptly chanted by her enraptured audience. It’s like watching a cult in action. They seem to be hanging on to her every word with a drunken stupor/frenzy that’s somewhat scary, and if I didn’t know who the singer actually was, I’d swear I really am watching the original punk songstress, Joan Jett, on stage. However, it’s that familiar dragon tattoo that reminds me of who I’ve come to see. It’s definitely no Joan, but Sheila.

Crazy, batshit, insane, but successful and now famous Sheila.

A Grammy and two MTV Awards later, she’s still content to play in small clubs like this rather than do the bigger shows in sold-out stadiums. She has ‘nicely’ said she’d leave that ‘shit’ to my husband. She plays for the ‘real’ fans. Whatever those are.

I sit through three more numbers; hidden within the shadows with my companion/translator – Hamazaki Miura (he’s a nice kid who has been working for me for quite some time now) – who seems to be a fan of the band as well. Though he looks like the typical geek – yes, thick glasses and goofy haircut included – he’s pretty level-headed and still in the process of getting his Masters in Engineering at the University of Tokyo. His eyes, surprisingly enough, are his most startling feature; as they tend to blaze with either excitement or intelligence (or awe) depending on the occasion. Tonight, they seem to be leaning more toward the ‘awe’ side of things especially when we are eventually taken backstage to see the band at the end of their show.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” are the first words out of Sheila’s mouth once I manage to wedge my way between managers, entourages, and goodness knows who else is back here and into the safety of her dressing room. Thankfully, she realizes I’m not here to deal with her cohorts and shuts the door to the curious ones who might have finally recognized who I am.

“Hello to you too,” I reply with a wry smile as I plunk myself on the worn-out couch with its ugly green upholstery.

The dressing room is not exactly A-List material. Stifling with its stench of old cigarettes and stale alcohol, its once white walls tell of the countless musicians that must have left their marks in one way or another. Though the establishment has done its best to keep things clean, there’s no getting rid of some of the scuffing, dents, cracked or peeled paint, remnants of old posters that didn’t quite get removed completely and new ones doing their best to take their place. The dressing table itself needs a makeover, but Sheila doesn’t seem to mind as she settles into the swivel stool to peer at her sweat-drenched reflection in the mirror. She runs a hand through her short, spiky jet hair and makes a face at the gothic-inspired creature before her. Black lipstick, black eye-liner, and yes, you guessed it, a black leather ensemble complete with spiked chokers, rings, bracelets, a sleeveless black tee that looks like it was dragged through a graveled path, and ripped in various places to show off glimpses of her pale skin beneath. The black pants are molded to her hips and legs like a second skin and they seem to shine beneath the fluorescent lights with every move she makes. Her black boots are kicked off and tossed to a corner, where she proceeds to wiggle her toes before swiveling around to face me again.

“You can take off that ridiculous disguise now,” she says with a smirk; but then seems to reconsider. “No…maybe you should keep it on. I need a drink.”

“What?”

“We’re going to one of my favorite bars slash restaurants in Shinjuku,” she explains while rising to her feet and not giving a damn that I’m in the room still, begins to peel out of her clothes. I try not to wince at the sight of the scar on her stomach; a gruesome reminder of my handiwork all those years ago. Though it’s not as bad as it had looked the first time I saw her at the gas station, the puckered, keloid formation is still there as a memento. Doubt it will ever go away unless she decides to do some reconstructive surgery.

“Still as flat as ever,” I remark with a shrug.

“Thanks, Miss Boob Wonder,” she snaps back, though it’s not laced with venom as it might have been in the past. I’d like to think we’ve matured from the early days of our petty bickering. Who has the time for that these days?

“Better boob wonder, then flat pancake,” I quip while thrusting out my chest for good measure. I earn a rolling of the eyes for that one, though there’s a semblance of a smile there somewhere.

Thanks to having to do costume changes over the years, her transformation into a pair of blue jeans, another tee-shirt (this one with Iron Maiden written on it), a black bomber jacket, a Yankees baseball hat, another pair of black boots, and dark sunglasses – takes less than ten minutes. Make up wiped off (save for the black lipstick and nail polish), she could pass for any hyped up teenager instead of her real age of thirty-something.

After several quick words with her band mates and her manager (who looks this close to having a heart attack just because Sheila wouldn’t stay for a few interviews with eager Japanese reporters though she does stop long enough to acknowledge some fans who won backstage passes), we finally head outside where it’s as chaotic as it is a mesmerizing Shinjuku late evening. Think of it as Times Square in New York…only a little bit crazier. It’s a neon-frenzied mecca of movie theaters, hotels (love hotels at that), hostess clubs, shops, restaurants, night clubs, you name it – they’ve probably got it in here somewhere.

It’s almost one in the morning, but Sheila’s favorite place is apparently open 24/7, which is why we step into the ramen shop to familiar hails and greetings from the cheerful cook behind the counter and his lovely wife – who both look as fresh as daisies with their enthusiasm. You’d think they had just opened their doors for business, and though it’s a small establishment (squeezed between two other businesses); the noodle shop is quaint and cozy. At the moment, there are only six patrons, all in their booths and lost in their worlds of large steaming bowls of ramen, udon or yakisoba. No one pays us much attention, which is good. I know my baseball hat, blonde wig, and sunglasses are not much of a disguise, but compared to the pricey outfit I was forced to wear for the better part of the day, my plain black pants and cutesy Hello Kitty! T-shirt hidden beneath one of Michael’s many varsity jackets - I borrowed for the trip - makes me look sort of unrecognizable. Though Hamazaki and I had a little bit of trouble slipping past my curious and worrywart entourage back at the hotel.

In impeccable Japanese, Sheila greets them with polite bows (which I repeat as is custom) and introduces me as ‘her American friend’. No need announcing who I really am. I am sure the media would have a field day wondering what the wife of Michael Jackson is doing in a supposedly seedy section of Shinjuku. Nothing seedy about this place, that’s for sure.

“So what’s it gonna be?” she asks once we’ve been ushered to a closed off section of the restaurant, and I use that term ‘closed’ lightly because it’s only a traditional Japanese screen that’s been drawn around the booth to enclose us like a cocoon. The good thing is that we’re at least some distance away from the rest of the patrons (not by much), but we can talk without the fear of being eavesdropped upon.

I stare at the menu blankly- wishing they had at least put the English translation or pictures of what the meal looks like. Hamazaki has been doing his best to teach me the language, and it’s slow going, but I think I’m getting there.

“You order,” I decide after giving up at staring at the unreadable kanji for about five minutes. I close the menu and take a sip of the cups of water they had already placed for us. “What’s good?”

“Their curry udon is to die for,” Sheila remarks; eyes glued to the menu as she says this. The girl can even read kanji now? Wow. Impressive if I do say so myself. “And you could also try their tsukimi soba-”

“What’s that?”

“Buck wheat noodles with raw egg topping.”

“Oh.”

She raises a brow, and I can tell she’s daring me to refuse. I want to give in to the challenge, but the thought of eating a raw egg at this point in time…

“I’ll have the curry udon.”

“Pansy.”

“Fuck you too.”

“Such language for a mother,” she tsks and wags a finger as if admonishing me. However, she stops teasing long enough to place our order (she ends up getting the tsukimi udon for herself) including a bottle of their finest sake, which I plan to take in moderation. It’s bad enough that Hamazaki has been made to wait for me by doing whatever he wants for the next two hours or so, but if he were to come by to pick me up and see me hammered, I doubt it would leave the best of impressions on him. After all, I’m supposed to be the perfect, wonderful, sweet-

“Trouble in paradise?” comes the question that has me jerking back to reality.

Our food has long arrived, and watching Sheila now as she maneuvers the chopsticks with an expertise that has me slightly envious, I watch as she swirls her noodles around the thick soup in her bowl, before wrapping quite a lot around the sticks and slurping noisily on them as is customary. Apparently, the louder you slurp, the more it tells the cook/chef that you appreciate their meal.

I look down at my still untouched curry udon, and with an inner sigh, begin to eat. I hate when she’s able to pick me apart so easily.

“What about you?” I ask deciding to change the subject. “You are practically Japanese now.”

She laughs and shrugs. “I like it here. The vibe…the people…they get it, you know?”

I don’t know, but it’s clear she’s come to embrace the culture and has adopted this country as her second home. In a way, it’s nice to see her this…at peace with herself after all the shit she’s been through.

“In America, it’s like…you’ve got all these rules to follow and it becomes stifling,” Sheila continues. “The music industry is on your ass all the time. Those shitty execs think they own you just because you signed up with them.” She slurps again before looking up to point at me with her chopsticks; a glint of determination in her eyes. “I told them to go fuck themselves and did my own thing. I ain’t taking shit from nobody. I write and make the music I wanna make. Not what they want me to do. If they don’t like it, they can kiss my ass.”

“It must feel liberating.”

“Of course it’s liberating,” she retorts as if I’ve insulted her. She guzzles down the sake (thank God for the small cups) and refills it just as quickly. “As a musician, your words…your sound…it’s your life. I’m sure you should understand that, being married to Michael and all.”

Yes, I did understand that. Watching Michael when in his element is something to witness.

“Letting someone else dictate or tell you what to do ruins everything,” she declares with a light frown. “How can you find your soul when someone’s shoving a contract down your throat saying you gotta sing this way or write this way or perform this way or do this or do that just to make them happy? They forget that the artist is the one doing all the hard work. All they do is sit on their asses and pull decisions out of it like it’s going outta style. Fuck ‘em I say.”

“Lawsuits?”

“A couple,” she says with a sneer. “Assholes want me to go to court because I reneged on some fucking concert in Philly. Well, they can shove their fuckin’ contracts up their fuckin’ asses.” To emphasize her anger at the head honchos, she raises the bowl to her lips and slurps up the rest of the soup. She finishes with a very unladylike belch that she makes no apologies for. Not like I expected any.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” she states once she’s done. Her intense gaze is unnerving, and I make a show of stirring my noodles; watching as the white strings dip and ebb within the concoction of floating cabbage leaves, pepper (or is it chili?), and thinly sliced chicken.

“What question was that?”

“I asked if there was trouble in paradise?” she queries; now resting her chin in a raised arm to peer at me in curiosity. “You’ve been the perfect wife all week; looking like a mannequin on T.V. in your fancy clothes and impeccable hair. That wig is hideous by the way.”

I touch the stringy strands that fall to my shoulders absently and shrug. “Thanks. It’s the cheapest I could find.”

A mannequin? Was I really that bad?

“I mean, the media and people fell in love with you – as usual,” she explains with a wave of a hand as if dismissing the very idea of adulation. “But I could tell you weren’t all here. It looked like you were miles away. It wouldn’t have to do with those rumors, eh?”

The chopsticks clatter a bit loudly than I want them to against the bowl, and I look up to meet her gaze with what I hope is a wintery stare. “There’s no truth to that. You should know that by now.”

“Hey, I’m just saying what I read in the papers and see on the internet, that’s all.” She holds up both hands as if in surrender.

“You really should stop reading such sleazy material,” I counter weakly. Have I mentioned just how much I hate the internet? Well some part of it at least. There is absolutely nothing sacred anymore. Hell, for all I know someone could have recognized me and be taking pictures-

Stop! Stop! Stop being so damn paranoid!

But can one blame me for feeling that way? Especially with what happened in the last few months? To think that something so innocent could be misconstrued and taken the wrong way…even thinking about it now makes me so furious, and is a painful reminder of our more passionate arguments to date. It’s why this trip was necessary. It’s one of the reasons I had to get away. Let he and the boys spend time together. I had to leave that poisonous atmosphere before I did something we’d both regret.

“Fucking tabloids,” I hiss beneath my breath, and reach for my cup of sake. “Everything…started with…”

__

New Haven
Connecticut, 2001
Fall

“Go, David!” I screamed from the sidelines as I watched my son run around the soccer field in his team colors of green and white. He kicks the ball to his teammate who nearly scores, but misses by a mile as the ball sails over the goal post, much to the parents combined groans of dismay – though it quickly changed back to cheers and claps encouragement.

It was another beautiful autumn day; not too chilly and not too hot. Just the kind of weather that required a light jacket or a simple sweater. Since David’s decision to join the soccer team full time, I’ve enjoyed the days I could get some time off to watch his games. Not only is it a wonderful opportunity to watch my baby do his best Ronaldo (he’s a Brazilian soccer player that my son idolizes), but it’s a chance to mingle with other parents and do my part by bringing in snacks and drinks for the team after the game.

This weekend, it was only David and I as Prince was spending time with his father in Washington D.C. preparing for the concert to honor the victims of the terrible attacks on September the 11th. David and I would be joining them in a couple of days, where he insisted he wanted to join his father on stage when they did the final song or performance. It’s something he has come to enjoy doing as during Michael’s HIStory tour, he had taken to bringing the boys on stage for some performances much to the audience’s delight. Although Prince hadn’t really enjoyed the spotlight that much, he soon warmed up to the idea and would follow his big brother’s footsteps…literally. His eyes would be glued to David’s moving feet when he danced, just so he could mimic them. They were still struggling to learn the moonwalk though, but I think David’s beginning to get the hang of it.

All the same, the terror attacks were quite shocking not just because of how incredibly sudden and unexpected it was, but the fact that we had been there just the night before watching Michael perform in Madison Square Garden to thousands of his fans. I couldn’t help wondering if some of them had gone to work in the twin towers the next day, never knowing it would be their last. It was a numb shock that wracked through us that day, and Michael and I could only sit in dumbstruck disbelief as the events unfolded. Naturally, we were unable to leave town due to everything being shut down, and we were basically ‘trapped’ in the hotel for about a week. Yet despite this, Michael’s ability to ‘take charge’ when needed was a welcome reprieve from the dazed stupor that befell us all. He was able to organize for everyone to eventually leave safely, though we had only about a few hours drive back to our New Haven home. It felt like returning to paradise after the harrowed days spent in New York.

And yet here we were, barely a month later, and we all tried to continue to be as normal as possible. Soccer games and children’s laughter were welcome to the suffering and sorrow the nation still felt. It was in the way the parents still huddled together and talked about the events amongst themselves; some still unable to control either their anger at the terrorists or their tears at the wasted lives.

David – ever curious – had wanted to know more, since he said in school that their teachers had been ‘acting weird’ lately.

“Why did they hit the building, Mommy?”
“What did the people in the building do to them, Daddy?”
“I saw someone falling out of the burning building, Mom.”
“So much smoke, Dad. It looks like the world’s coming to an end!”

And that was when Michael finally decided his kids had seen enough coverage and pretty much shooed/banned them from watching any more T.V. while we were at the hotel. Not that it stopped David anyway. When the boy sets his mind to knowing the answer to anything, there’s no stopping him.

I was glad soccer became a great diversion. It helped to keep his (and my) mind off-

“Your son is a great player.”

“Thank you,” I began automatically; a ready smile on my face at the praise as I turned and lifted my head a little to see who had spoken in the first place.

I didn’t recognize him, but his smile was the kind that could send many female hearts a-fluttering…if they were still single and available. I wasn’t, but I am still flesh and blood, and would have been a fool not to feel a little flustered at how charming he came across. Don’t get me wrong, I have seen tons of handsome and charismatic men (many of whom are shameless enough to come on to me despite me being married – the nerve!) since my marriage to Michael, and besides that little hiccup with Tony Barnes, I’ve been good enough to keep whatever sinful thoughts I’ve had for other males, in the deepest recesses of my mind. In fact, those thoughts have been buried for so long, I was beginning to think I had finally built up that immunity for other men besides my husband, and I was glad for it.

Now, I wasn’t so sure, and I honestly disliked these superficial pangs of physical attraction to a man I was just meeting for the first time. I put up the polite façade and decided to end this conversation quickly by giving another nod and turning back to the game. Fifteen more minutes and David and I should be out of –

“My son is playing center forward,” Mystery Man offered, not at all affected by my ‘brush off’. “Eric is his name.”

“The new student,” I replied absently, now understanding a little more now. It was all David could talk about to be honest.

“There’s this new kid in my class, Mom,” he’d chatter over dinner. “He’s awesome! His name is Eric! Can he come over for a sleepover? Please, Mom? Pretty please?”

It was surprising that for a kid who just joined them a couple of weeks ago had already made the team, but I guess I could see why Coach Peterson had wanted him. He was a natural, and I was already predicting him joining the U.S National Soccer Team when he was older. I wondered if David would want to continue being a part of –

“Yes, we just moved in about a month ago,” Mystery Man continued, and I could sense him moving closer to my side; though I was sitting on a fold-out chair, so his towering figure was slightly unnerving. “Took a while to settle in, but we managed it just fine. I love this town.”

“It is a beautiful place,” I agreed. “Is your wife here?”

Please say she is here and she just went to the car to get something, or she’s at home, or she’s in another state or she’s…

“She passed away at Eric’s birth.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, not quite sure of what else to say.

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Oh, silly me to not introduce myself. I’m Steven Maxwell.” He held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet…?”

The hanging question was obviously for me to answer, and with an inner sigh, I forced another smile on my visage and squinted up to look at him again, while offering my hand to accept his. “Stephanie. Stephanie Jackson.”

I fully expected to experience the electric jolt, but I was pleased to find that I felt nothing of the sort. His grip was firm though; a grip that told of a man who was damn confident and not afraid to show it. He took his time, not quite releasing me yet, and I took a moment (brief as it was) to notice he had grey-colored eyes that were rather warm. Usually those with such eye color were cold, hard asses, but I got the feeling that Steven could be a tough cookie in whatever profession he was in. He could pass off as a weak clone of Robert Redford in his prime to be honest.

It was the shrill sound of the whistle signaling the end of the game that finally had me jerking back to reality and to my feet in a hurry. David was running up to me; sweaty but pleased at how well they did today. Good thing they won, because if they had lost, I’d have a bitchy, whiny, sullen kid on the drive back home.

“We won, Mom!” he announced unnecessarily as he hugged me before dashing off to the snack corner where Mrs. Cartwright was handing out juice boxes and cookies to the hungry kids.

“Mrs. Jackson?”

“Yes?” I spun around at the sound of my name, only to see it was Steven and his son; looking quite bashful at his side (he must take after his mother).

“I just wanted to introduce my son to you,” Steven was saying. “Eric, this is Mrs. Jackson. She’s David’s mother.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” the boy said with a politeness that told me he must have spent his early years in a preppy environment.

“Nice to meet you too,” I replied and shook his hand, just as David returned to grin at his new buddy. Not wanting to be outdone for some reason, I tried to introduce my son to him, but David was his own man and wouldn’t let me get through the ritual. He stuck out his hand to Steven.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is David Jackson. I’m your son’s best friend.”

Steven raised a brow in amusement, and I tried to control my blush (not so much of embarrassment, but at the idea that my son was growing right before my eyes). He was only eight, but I was already envisioning him in his teen years, of how fast he was becoming an adult and how scary it was going to be watching him become a man. Was I really ready for that?

“Well, we must take our leave now,” Steve was saying. “It was a pleasure getting to meet you both.”

I must have replied or said something, but it was drowned out by David waving goodbye and saying something about bringing a borrowed book back to Eric when they met in school on Monday.

Fortunately, all thoughts of Steven Maxwell vanished from my mind as soon as we got home and I checked my emails to see if I had anything from Michael. I guess I’m just too old school when it comes to him, or rather we both are. We’d honestly rather speak to each other on the phone than deal with clinical emails. The good thing is that cell phones these days are so small they could fit in the palm of your hand, and it made calling Michael at any point in the day, from anywhere, possible.

I wasn’t surprised to see there was nothing from him within the last few hours. Getting ready for a concert was grueling work after all, and since this included him participating with several other artists, it would involve collaboration and proper timing and all that musical mumbo-jumbo that made little sense to me.

I will say that the concert was a rousing success and we were honored to be a part of it. It was our way of bringing back much needed smiles to a country in dire need of them, and in the end – that was all that truly mattered.

__

Yale-New Haven Hospital
New Haven, Connecticut
Spring 2002

“Monaco? What do you mean you’re going to Monaco?”

“Keep your voice down, honey. I thought you were at work.”

“I’m in my office right now, so there’s no need to keep my voice down, but don’t try to change the subject, Michael. What’s going on in Monaco?”

“Baby, it’s for a business venture with Prince Albert. We were going to talk about starting up an annual charity event together, remember?”

I rolled the pen between my fingers and avoided the urgent need to drum it hard on the desk with my growing agitation. I really hated whenever Michael did this. His sudden ‘I-need-to-be-somewhere-else-in-the-world-without-telling-your-wife-ahead-of-time’ routine was really beginning to get old. In short, I was getting sick of it, and considering I’ve been working all night and I’m frazzled and short-tempered, he couldn’t have picked a worse time to tell me this.

“Remember?” I tried to say slowly; to show that I could control myself…though I doubt it was going to work this time. “Baby. I think I would remember you telling me you were planning a trip to goddamn Monaco -”

“I sent you an email -”

“You sent me an email about a trip?!” I nearly shrieked in disbelief. “What stopped you from picking up the phone to tell me about this?”

“You are hardly ever around to answer,” came his hard answer that had me flushing with anger and embarrassment. “Getting in touch with you these days is like pulling teeth, Stephanie.”

“Well forgive me for trying to get this mother fucking residency done,” I hiss tightly. “I have to put in as many hours as I can or I’ll never finish. I’ve told you this many times!”

“And I understand or have tried to understand, babe, besides, you check your email often. What’s so bad about me sending one to you about this? All you had to do was click -”

“When was this email sent?” I cut in impatiently, my fingers already dancing across the keyboard as I try to find this mystery/elusive message of his.

“Yesterday…I think,” he mumbled.

“And this trip was just planned or decided yesterday, Michael?” I winced at the ton of email I had to go through; mostly from attending physicians or fellow residents or some nurses regarding my patients. It could be so easy for Michael’s to get lost, but we had both agreed on using special coding that would make our emails stand out from the others, and it almost always got sent immediately to the special folder I had created just for him.

Ah ha…there it is…

@“TheSpyWhoLovesYou” << [e-mail]>> +In Address Book March 15th, 2002 10:23:04 EDT
To: TheLadyInRed (3562492)
Subject: Overseas Business Correspondence

Hey Babe,
I’ll be leaving for Monaco on Friday for the weekend with Prince A. and his family. Talking business about annual charity event he plans to host to help raise funds for the foundation. Will catch you when you’re less busy. Kissy kiss the boys for me, and tell Prince that he’s going to get better.
Love you like candy and all things sweet.
M.

“Well? Now you see it, don’t you?”

I sighed and closed out the email. “Yes, I do see it now, babe. But still…you could have told me this earlier.”

“What difference would it have made, honey?” he asked with genuine bemusement that surprised me. “It’s just for three days -”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Michael! I really don’t like you springing such surprise trips on me. The last time it was to Germany and then you went off to Hong Kong or some place and you actually forgot to tell me. I was panicking like a mad woman when I called you and Steve [Manning] told me you weren’t even in town!”

“And I apologized a million times about that, babe. I just…forgot,” he finished weakly.

“You…forgot.”

Forgot I existed? Forgot that you had a wife and family? Were you so engrossed in your work…in how big you are again, that we have become a side show…some obstacle to conveniently forget when you want?

“Honey?”

“Fine, Michael,” I replied in weary resignation. I was in no mood to argue with him; knowing full well this would not end well and he’d leave me crying with his sometimes scathing words though he would more than make up for being such a bastard later on. “Go to Monaco. Do whatever you have to do.”

There was a long pause, and assuming he hung up or we got disconnected, I prepared to snap my cell phone shut when he returned with a “Babe? Are you really that upset with me? If you are, I can just cancel it.”

Right. Do that and I’ll never live it down that you missed a very important business meeting. The guilt will pile up like a boulder until it crushes me. Hell no. I won’t let you do that to me.

“Just…” I began, but a sudden knock on my door, which was soon followed by Dr. Shafer’s head poking in with a warm smile had me needing to end my conversation with Michael quickly. “I’ll call you back, babe. Love you,” I said and hung up before he could get another word in.

“I didn’t come at a bad time, did I?” Shafer asked with a chuckle; knowing damn well he interrupted me. However, he is my attending physician …at least until he retires in a few weeks. He’s been like a father to me during my stay here, and goodness knows I was going to miss him.

“I was just finishing up,” I explained as I rose to my feet and matched his smile. “Do you need us again?”

“Oh, not really,” the white-haired guru replied with a wave of his hand. I stood a good inch or two taller than him, though I was wearing comfortable flats. “I just wanted to introduce you all to my replacement. Your team is waiting in the lobby. Will you join us?”

“Of course.” I grabbed my lab coat and shrugged into it as we made our way out the rather small office space and into the bustling lobby of the university’s premier hospital. I could make out the other members of my ‘team’ – two other women and men, who waved or smiled as we approached.

“Are we all here now?” Dr. Shafer asked once we were huddled close to the nurse’s station. “Good. Good. Ah, there he is. Dr. Maxwell? This way if you please.”

Dr. Maxwell? Never heard of him before…

Although as I turned to follow Dr. Shafer’s gaze; my eyes widened in disbelief (and confusion) at the sight of the tall Robert Redford clone walking toward us with a smile on his visage. If he noticed me gawking, he gave no special attention to it, but simply shook Dr. Shafer’s hand, exchanged a few words before looking at us again.

“Dr. Maxwell just transferred from the Harvard Medical School in affiliation with Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center as their director of…”

As Shafer went on and on about Steven’s accolades and prestige, I found myself clutching my clipboard hard against my chest as I tried to make sense of all this. I was going to be working with this man for the rest of my stay here? In fact, he might end up having to give me the final interview, and then what? My life as a professional doctor depends on him?

“…Jackson?”

Why are you so cruel dear God?

“Dr. Jackson?”

“Yes?” I replied with a visible start; my cheeks burning with embarrassment as Dr. Shafer took off his glasses to clean it with the hem of his jacket though he was shaking his head.

“One of my smartest students,” he said, “but does tend to drift away every now and then.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep her in check, won’t I?” Steven said with a chuckle that was matched by my fellow doctors, though I was far from feeling jovial. I couldn’t get myself to even smile, and even when we were finally released and I began my rounds, I was beginning to feel a well of betrayal – not only from Michael’s ‘forgetfulness’, but at Dr. Shafer for choosing Dr. Maxell even though he couldn’t possibly have known of our previous encounter(s). I say encounter with an ‘s’ because Steven has shown up to other games, but I’ve done my best to stay as far away from him as possible. Now, if I could only get David to give up the idea of having a sleepover with Eric. My life would be complete.

“Dr. Jackson?”

I nearly choked on the glass of water I was about to drink (had taken a mini-break in the refreshment room) and spun around to glare at whoever was daring to bother me now. Seeing Dr. Maxwell at the doorway did little to ease my aggravation.

“Yes?” Good. My voice was as frosty as I felt inside.

“Is everything all right?” he asked with genuine concern that made me feel like a heel – almost. “I seem to get the feeling that you’re not exactly thrilled at the prospect of working with me.”

“I have no feelings about it one way or another, Dr. Maxwell,” I replied with a light shrug. “My goal is to finish my residency by the end of the year. It’s been a very long process for me.”

“I understand that. We all feel that weight of needing this whole thing to come to its completion. It’s been almost ten very long years for you, if I’m not mistaken.”

You have no idea.

Instead, I managed a small smile. “It’s worth it. No, it will be worth it when I’m able to begin practicing on my own.”

“I’m sure it will,” he mused; his gaze thoughtful as he continued to watch me as if I was a specimen of some sort. I loathed the scrutiny.

“Is there a problem, Dr. Maxwell?” I finally asked when the silence seemed to stretch forever.

He waved a hand as if to wake himself from a dazed stupor and actually looked embarrassed. “My apologies. It’s just…when I compare your story to the others, it all…really boils down to you being a really strong and amazing…woman. It must not be easy being married to…”

I stiffened and turned away to toss my empty plastic cup into a bin. “Please keep my personal life out of this, Dr. Maxwell,” I began coldly. “My professional life is what you and I share and that is all. My family and my problems should be the least of your concerns…with all due respect.”

His smile this time didn’t quite reach his eyes, and I could tell I had gotten under his skin, but I had to set the rules and boundaries here. I couldn’t let him assume that just because I was here and Michael was…wherever the hell he was…that he could walk all over me or try to make a pass at me. I am no fool. I have seen the look in his (and a few other male doctors) eyes, and if push came to shove, I would not hesitate to write up a letter to the powers that be if he dared do anything unprofessional.

“Rest assured we will keep this strictly professional,” Steven said with a slight bow. There was a hard glint in his eyes now, and I was glad to see that. It showed that he could be serious and that was what I wanted. “I just didn’t want you to assume I was going to go easy on you because of your…background.”

I shrugged and smiled. “Come at me with all you’ve got, Doctor.”

He actually laughed at my challenge and gave a mock salute. “I hope you’re ready for me, Dr. Jackson. I have been known to rule with an iron fist, but I look forward to working with you. So…” He held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it? A start to a rewarding professional relationship?”

I didn’t want to take it, but it would have been petty of me to refuse; hence I reached out to seal the deal. “Let’s make it a good one, Dr. Maxwell.”

Pity it would all come crashing down because of one very stupid decision on my part.

__

The Loft
Kabuchiko
Shinjuku, Japan 2002

“So?” Sheila asks with a shrug; her features clearly bemused. “What’s the big deal?”

I sigh and chew thoughtfully at the end of my chopstick; curry udon no longer a factor. Besides, it’s beginning to get tepid, and I’m still wondering why the heck I’m sitting in the middle of a tiny restaurant in Shinjuku with the least likely of confidants. It’s like a scene out of a really bad movie, and yet I have to admit it’s therapeutic to let it all out. It’s been like a cancer eating at my insides all this time, and though I might have picked up the phone to call Cheryl or even driven to her house, or confided in any of my many sister-in-laws, hell even Deja – talking to a neutral party in Sheila could turn out to be the best therapy.

I know she’s not likely to blab to anyone about my personal woes, and it is comforting knowing I can really let go in this foreign setting without the fear of being judged or scrutinized.

“The big deal,” I begin quietly. “Is that I had stupidly assumed it was just going to be kept on a strictly professional basis when we made the deal. For some reason I had completely forgotten the David and Eric factor. My son is Eric’s best friend, and their friendship involved me having to meet Dr. Maxwell more often than I would have liked…outside the hospital setting that is.”

“Were you falling for the guy?” comes the blunt question that has me looking at her sharply. I wondered if she was being a smart ass, but her expression was one of genuine curiosity, and I could detect no malice in it.

“No…it wasn’t the notion of me falling for him. Michael is my life, and nothing will change that. It’s just…being around Steven at the time coincided with something Michael did that made me feel…”

Hurt. Angry. Betrayed. Foolish. Insecure.

“Ah that…” Sheila murmured with a nod. “I remember-”

“Do you go about keeping up with everything about Michael and I?”

She snorts and sticks out her tongue playfully. “I gotta know what’s going on with you, darling. You’re the only exciting thing happening in my otherwise boring life.”

She laughs out loud when I give her the finger, but sobers up when she realizes I’m really not in the mood right now for her hijinks. “So,” she states with a light cough. “That thing with Michael…”

Yes.

That thing with Michael indeed.

__

New Haven, Connecticut
Summer 2002

There are a few things that get me really irritated, and though you tell yourself time and time again that it shouldn’t bother you, one would be foolish to assume that it would be easy to just let such things slide off your back.

I love my husband to death, but every now and then it’s easy to get jealous at some of the antics from his female admirers (and I don’t just mean his fans). Just as he gets all uppity, childish, stubborn, and unreasonable at even a glance – that’s just a bit too long - from another man, so do I feel whenever some woman decides to cling to him just a little bit longer than necessary.

I could name a few names, but I’ll spare you the agony.

We sometimes laugh and tease each other about it (which usually ends up with us making out like insatiable teenagers – jealousy can do that to you I’ve noticed). Other times, we get into stupid little arguments that result in him storming out to sleep in the guest room, or when we’re both too stubborn to leave the bed, he rolling all the way to the other end and me at the other side…fuming.

Not to be too predictable, but the make-up sex is usually of the best kind as well, and that takes place in the wee hours of the morning when a restless night of going over why we were arguing in the first place culminates in our traitorous bodies giving in to the pleasures of the flesh.

One very irritating moment came at a small (and I use that word loosely as about three hundred people showed up) party hosted by the Tuckers and Steve Harvey at the Beverly Hilton Ballroom earlier this year in honor of our 10-year-anniversary. I still had to pinch myself to believe it’s really been that long since we’ve been together. How time flies when you’re having so much fun, eh?

Anyway, the party was a lovely affair, and we were serenaded by some of our favorite musicians: Smokey, Diana Ross, Brian McKnight, Luther Vandross (oh, he made us melt when Michael and I danced to his song), Whitney, that up-and-coming wonderful songstress, Alicia Keys, Usher, Stevie Wonder (definitely kicked off our heels for his songs), Mariah Carey, N’Sync…and the list was endless. Even Janet and Michael’s brothers performed some of the J5 classics for us, which I thought was sweet and thoughtful of them.

They tried to get Michael and I to perform on stage, but we did our best not to do so (feeling too shy and embarrassed); although the highlight of the night came when our boys – dressed in matching white tailcoats and top hats walked onto the stage with the largest chocolate and vanilla Neverland replica cake, we have ever seen, wheeled behind them by two members of the crew. David read a little poem he had written when the microphone was given to him, and I think it went a little something like:

To the greatest Mommy and Daddy in the world
Happy ten years of being together
We made you this cake
So you can enjoy
But please promise us one thing…

He had paused for dramatic effect as he came to that part, and at Michael’s amused nod of encouragement (though there were tears in his eyes), our smart-alec of a son smirked and finished off with –

Stop kissing Mommy so much in front of us.
It’s embarrassing, but we still love you forever and ever and ever.

“Why you little…!” Michael began as though to admonish him, even if he covered his face with both hands to hide his humiliation at being called out for his overzealous amorous ways.

It didn’t help that everyone burst into laughter because they knew exactly what the children meant. All the same, we hugged our children tightly as they walked (more like leaped) off the stage to meet us. Prince gave me a giant bouquet of red roses, and though he was seven now, he still didn’t mind being lifted in his father’s arms or adverse to receiving grateful kisses all over his face. David – now nine going on thirty – wouldn’t let us be that loving with him. One kiss was more than enough thank you very much. Still, he did enjoy watching the ladies of Destiny’s Child on stage, and it made me wonder if he was already developing crushes for older women at so young an age.

I feared the whole event would be televised, but it turned out not to be which was good. I didn’t want something that was supposed to be a celebration of our relationship to become such a worldwide spectacle. Neither did I want it cheapened by the notion that some T.V. station was going to be making money off it. Seemed like everything these days was all corporate and business-related.

The one ugly stain of the night came in the form of seeing a certain woman amidst the guests. For a second, I wasn’t sure if my eyes were deceiving me, but sure enough there she was – Tatiana Thumbtzen – dressed in a slinky black evening dress that literally screamed ‘come-and-get-me’ to any hot-blooded male who cared to look her way. Though she was draped around the arm of a man who looked old enough to be her father, there was no doubt her attention was always directed our way. I knew she longed to say hello to us (Michael), but we were almost always surrounded by celebrities or people who just wanted to have a moment of our time. I would have dismissed her as a non-factor if only the memory of her tell-all book and several interviews where she openly disclosed her so-called relationship with Michael –before I showed up – hadn’t shredded whatever little respect I might have had for her.

What made me even more frustrated was that her story wasn’t such a terrible one – if you truly believed it. It was easy to see how she could have fallen for Michael (hell, who wouldn’t have back then), and then to be dismissed by the ‘powers-that-be’ because of a supposed public kiss. It was a nice sob story. I just wish she hadn’t made the decision to publish a freakin’ book about it. I didn’t confront Michael because I assumed it was a waste of time. I know he has had other women before me, but none of them have gone about writing tell all books about their affairs. When Michael had heard about the book and interviews, it did annoy him that she would go about twisting things to fit her recollection of their relationship. He did try to make his case, but if I know men (and as much as I trust Michael), I do know he might embellish or delete a few things in his story to make it all seem like it was completely one-sided on his part. He did love Tatiana, he had confessed, but it wasn’t that deep. He had felt little to no real emotional connection with her and her book was full of lies.

I told him I believed him and left it at that.

The fact that she had the gall to show up tonight (who invited her?) did leave a bad taste in my mouth.

But being the consummate hostess, I decided I might as well take the high road and not give in to my annoyance. I went out of my way to smile and wave in her direction, and her look of surprise that I had even acknowledged her (though she masked it quickly with a smile as well) made the moment sweeter. Her flustered introduction of her companion – who turned out to be a struggling director (no doubt eager to get Michael’s attention now in the hopes of hitting it big time with his support) – was worsened when Michael finally realized who I was chatting with. He didn’t seem to miss a step or falter as they hugged and he exchanged a few pleasantries with her, but he was quickly distracted again by Steve Harvey who wanted to take a few pictures with Michael and Katherine (yes even his parents and mine were in attendance).

Tatiana must have then realized that whatever sparks she had hoped to rekindle were now nothing more than ashes, and though I was sure some photographers had captured the moment they hugged and would play it up as something other than what it was, her somber goodbyes were, what I hoped, would be the last time she’d try pulling such a PR stunt again.

However, all of that paled in comparison to what I was currently looking at on my computer screen.

Why?

/ I’ll be leaving for Monaco on Friday for the weekend with Prince A. and his family./

Why would you do this to me?

/Talking business about annual charity event he plans to host to help raise funds for the foundation./

Business? What kind of business involves you smiling and getting into a car with Princess Stephanie? What kind of business involves you holding her hand and kissing her cheek (is it even her cheek? It looks as if it’s her lips from this angle) as if you’re long-lost lovers? What kind of business concerns you both talking on the patio of her house, dressed so casually in the morning?

What made it worse was that these were not publicity stills, but paparazzi shots; those candid, caught-in-the-moment pictures that were most definitely not posed for.

“Did you see them?” came the concerned question that had me roughly pulled back to the present. “I know you don’t usually like seeing and reading such tabloid sleaze, but-”

“Thanks, Cheryl,” I said dully; unable to even conjure up any real feelings of anger at this time. I just felt an incredible sadness; a sense of betrayal. If he had wanted to see the Princess again, why couldn’t he just tell me that? I knew they were friends, and there was a falling out at some point, but would it have hurt him to just…

“Stephanie? Are you all right? Oh damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have -”

“It’s okay,” I cut in; wincing as my head began to pound. I had so much to do. “I have to go now. I have rounds to begin.”

“Stephanie, I’m so sorry,” she began to apologize, but I hung up before she could finish and laid my aching head on the desk; trying to ignore it all. In a few minutes I had to get out there and meet my patients with a clear head and clear mind, and yet all I could see was that damn picture of them kissing…holding hands…kissing…holding-

“Dr. Jackson?” came the sudden call of my name with a light knock on the door. The head nurse stuck her head in with a wary smile. “Are you all right? I knocked a few times and got no answer, but Dr. Maxwell is waiting for you.”

I forced a smile on my visage and tried to compose myself quickly. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes. Thank you, Anna.”

Once she left, I reached into the bottom drawer for a couple of Tylenol pills, which I swallowed quickly to aid with the headache that just wouldn’t go away.

It meant nothing, I told myself as I prepared for another day of work. They were only friends, and they were probably just spending a day together. Where’s the law that says you can’t spend time with an ex-lover?

It was one of the reasons why at the end of the day, as I prepared to head home, I found myself saying yes to an invitation I would have otherwise declined if I was not so bothered by all this.

I was shrugging out of my lab coat when there was another knock on my door, only this time it wasn’t a head nurse, but Steven himself sticking his head in with a sheepish expression on his visage.

“Mind if I come in?”

“You’re already halfway in, doctor.”

He sighed and shook his head lightly. “I really wish you wouldn’t be so formal with me. The others call me Steven…when we’re not on the floor that is.”

I shrugged but said nothing. I was already dreaming of my bed, and hoping Michael would call me to explain himself. Even he must have seen the news by now. He hadn’t even sent me an email.

Steven cleared his throat and tried again. “I couldn’t help noticing you were distracted today, Dr. Jackson, and yes, I know you did not want me to pry into your personal business, but it is part of my job to make sure that your mental status is just as strong. To be a doctor, you cannot compromise the lives of your patient if you are…distracted.”

“I am not distract…” I began to protest, but meeting those hard yet kind grey eyes shattered whatever argument I might have begun to build up. “I’m just…exhausted.”

And I really was. Whoever said being in the medical field was easy was yet to spend a day in my shoes. I guess it gave me a better appreciation of just what my mother and father had to go through.

“Then I have just the right thing to make you chipper again.”

Chipper? What is he? Ten?

I raised a brow and waited for this fantastic idea; watching as he dug through the pockets of his inner jacket before pulling out what looked like two tickets.

“There’s a great British band called Coldplay stopping by a local bar tomorrow. It would be my honor if you’d escort me to the show.”

“Dr. Maxwell,” I began wearily, though I knew who Coldplay was, as Michael actually introduced me to their music. He had said something about their sound being ‘cerebral’.

“Dr. Maxwell, I really don’t -”

“I know, Dr. Jackson,” he interrupted with a warm smile. “This is not a date of any sort. I would never insult your relationship with your husband. You can consider it a working night out if you like. You need to relax and let go for a few hours, and this is just the thing you need. You seem so tense, and tonight…forgive me for being so bold…sad.”

I had to bite my lower lip hard so I wouldn’t give in to the tears that had been threatening ever since I saw the pictures, but it’s so hard. So damn hard sometimes to always be so perfect and flawless and immune to such things, because to be honest - and I hated to admit it to even myself - there were times when I felt (deep down in my heart) that Michael simply forgot about us.

No…forgets about me. He forgets that I am still here, and he misses the days when he was unattached. That alone is enough to make me feel like I am worth nothing to him.

“Dr. Jackson? Are you sti -?”

“Yes…” I whispered to no one in particular; not wanting to hear anything or anyone talk to me. “I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

Because with the way I felt right then…I honestly just didn’t give a fuck anymore.