Detox

Chapter 13: Ex-Communication

La Princesse Stéphanie de Résidence
Monte Carlo, Monaco
Summer 2002

Little Camille Marie Kelly Gottlieb or peu grassouillet ange (little chubby angel) has taken a sudden liking to my sunglasses and is currently gnawing on its handle while I desperately try to get her engaged with her story book that makes the funny animal sounds. I could very well be talking to thin air though as the blond four-year-old doesn’t really seem to give a damn that I’m even in the same room with her.

I steal a glance at my other companion; eight-year-old Pauline Ducruet – who has been humming along to one of the latest pop hits with headphones over her ears while lounging on a fantastic Victorian sofa I’d love to have in my collection (though its hideous cerulean brocade upholstery is not exactly what I’d have chosen). I’ve already tried to talk its owner into letting me purchase it, but she would have none of it – something about it being a family heirloom and it being passed down from generation to generation and how she couldn’t bear to part with it.

In fact, eyeing the rather clustered living room, her sense of décor reminds me of myself before my wife thought me the finer points of keeping things in order and discarding what was unnecessary. None of the furniture pieces seem to have a central theme. For instance, there’s the Victorian sofa with its antique appearance planted right next to a pair of white leather settees; a throwback from the 60s complete with tawdry red and white polka-dotted pillows. On the mantelpiece and grand piano are gilded framed photographs of her family and friends (including a lovely portrait of her mother - the irreplaceable Grace Kelley). The floor is mostly polished hardwood, where she has thrown antique Persian rugs around the place; as if unsure of exactly where they ought to be. There are other odds and ends; mostly pieces with influences from the Orient and South America (Aztec or Mayan). It’s a clear sign that she’s a woman who’s well traveled, and though the media tends to consider her lifestyle as a ‘circus caravan’, there is no doubt that she’s done her best to set her own trend.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’ve always felt drawn to her.

She might be the princess of a country, but she’s an individual who refuses to be tied down to her role or birthright. She does things her own way, and though some of them have caused a few eyebrows to be raised, it was good to see that she was maturing nicely into her role as mother and humanitarian.

So just how did you end up babysitting for her, Michael Joseph Jackson? You should be back in your room speaking to your wife and children and yet here you are…

“Huun gree!” Camille announces with a wave of her hands. She is bored with the sunglasses though it’s tucked into her blond hair. “Puis-je avoir un témoin s’il vous plaît?”

My French is still a work in progress, though Stephanie has tried to teach me as best she can, but I at least know that Camille has asked for something to eat… probably…and quite politely too. It’s adorable to listen to her speak in her native tongue, and I secretly hope that David or Prince picks up the language quickly. I know David’s learning it in his school, but he doesn’t go about speaking it unless he has homework to do, and so far it’s passable. His Spanish on the other hand is pretty damn good-

“Pauline?” I call out from my position on the floor where Camille and I have been holding court for the past hour. Typical pre-teen behavior; I am ignored.

“Pauline?” I call out a little louder.

This time, the pretty brunette finally tears her eyes away from the Teen Vogue magazine she has been reading to look at me.

“Can you help me with Camille? I think she wants something to eat.”

The little princess shrugs her shoulders and points towards the area of the kitchen. “She knows where her snacks are.”

Camille definitely knows because she’s already up and running, forcing me to stagger to my feet to try to catch up.

The current residence of the Princess of Monaco is the equivalent of a penthouse suite; in other words, the ‘apartment’ takes up the entire top floor of one of many historical buildings on the outskirts of Monte Carlo. She is still reluctant to live in the palace proper with the rest of her family; claiming she feels more ‘herself’ when away from the rigors of palace life. From one of the closed rooms in the hallway, I can hear music seeping out of her oldest child’s bedroom. Louis – who is just about David’s age – is already becoming the ‘man of the house’ considering his father’s not really in the picture.

Daniel Ducruet had been a bodyguard and the relationship with the princess had caused quite a stir when it was made public. Stephanie didn’t help her cause by having two children with him out of wedlock, and when they did finally decide to tie the knot, that marriage lasted for about a year. Then in ’98, guess who was pregnant again? For a while no one was sure of whom Camille’s father was, since Stephanie hadn’t registered any name on the birth registry, but it was later revealed that it was yet another bodyguard (Jesus Christmas), and you’d think she would have learned her lesson with that fiasco with Daniel. Now, she’s seeing some circus performer (hence her new label in the press as a traveling gypsy) – Adans Lopez Peres – who she assumes/thinks she’s definitely in love with.

Doubt it.

“What do you mean I’m not in love with Adans?” she asks later in the evening when she’s returned from her business obligations, and the kids have been chartered off to their various lessons (soccer and ballet). She kicks off her heels and wiggles her toes into the plush white rug; groaning a little while shrugging out of her jacket to toss it on one of the settee’s. Having three children hasn’t made a dent on her figure. She’s still a woman who knows how to keep in shape that’s for sure. “Leave Adans and me alone, okay? Why are we even having this conversation anyway?”

“You invited me here, remember?” I drawl lazily and stretch out my legs; an attempt to work out a nagging ache/cramp thanks to sitting cross-legged for hours with Camille playing with dolls.

She rolls her eyes, walks past me with a playful tap on my forehead before throwing open the French doors that lead to the patio. “We should eat outside. It’s a pleasant evening, yes?”

The view from the living room is nice. There’s picturesque scenery of Monte Carlo’s rooftops and the endless blue of the ocean along the Riviera marred only by the sight of private yachts bobbing and ebbing with the tide. As for her invitation to eat outside, I shrug; not really caring one way or another. I don’t plan to stay for much longer anyway, but I know that calling Stephanie now would be moot. She’d either be fast asleep or working late hours at the hospital again. I really don’t have the heart to bother her if it’s the latter. My poor baby has been putting in the extra time to get her residency done, and though it’s been trying (and boy has it been trying in more ways than one), I’m just counting down the days, hours, and minutes until she graduates and can open her own practice. Maybe then things can get back to normal…whatever normal means in our world.

“We are extraordinary…you and I,” I sing beneath my breath while the Princess’s instructions to her maid create a muted background soundtrack to my musings.

With a light grunt, I rise to my feet and step out to the patio and into a breathtaking evening, where sepia skies signal the end of another day. Almost reminds me of the one weekend where Stephanie and I had ‘escaped’ to Nice to get away from it all. A friend had been kind enough to rent us his villa for the duration of our stay. If we had our way, we might have never left the villa as we really needed the together time (if you know what I mean). However, we did take the time to sightsee a few places incognito, and those pleasurable hours walking hand in hand down the promenade des Anglais or stealing shy kisses amongst the luscious foliage in Jardin botanique de la Ville de Nice are forever etched in my memory. No one knew we had made the trip, so we were not accosted by any snoopy media hounds or bothered by curious fans.

There isn’t a lot of space out here on the patio; just enough to have a small round wrought iron table and matching chairs along with several potted plants that look like they need to be watered. Though we are in one of the tallest buildings around, there’s still an element of vulnerability in my position; an exposure of sorts if you will. I eye my attire and smirk a little; realizing that my casual wear of a pair of black sweatpants, tee-shirt, and varsity jacket would look suspect to anyone who was paying attention. What would the world think of me looking so ‘relaxed’ in Princess Stephanie’s home? It didn’t help that after dinner last night with Albert (where Stephanie had shown up much to my surprise); I had accepted her invitation to stay the night at her place. Some eager paparazzi had taken pictures of us getting into her car, and I sincerely hoped nothing I did would give anyone the wrong impression. In my defense, I accepted her invitation for two reasons:

          1. She had brought up the conversation about working on a new album to help raise money for a charity she was starting up called Femmes face au Sida. Claiming she was inspired by Elizabeth (Taylor) and her devotion to the fight against AIDS, she was hoping to do the same thing for Monaco and felt this would be a great way to get back to a side of her past she had abandoned. Music. It could be a powerful tool for change and awareness after all. Of course it only reminded me of the reason I allowed her to be a part of ‘In the Closet’. Her singing voice wasn’t bad at all, and she had hit the charts in Europe at least…though her sales in the States were abysmal. It was one of the reasons she quit. Not enough promotion and no one really took some rich, spoiled princess seriously. Now older and wiser, she had managed to snag a few well-known producers and was hoping I’d lend a hand with a track or two on the album (or even if it meant singing backup or writing a song for her). Two hours later, I was enthralled and couldn’t resist wanting to know more about this project.

          2. I wanted to see her children in person.


While one could tell from first glance that Louis and Pauline were her children, it was a little more difficult with Camille. She seemed to take more of her father’s features; due to her very blonde hair and adorable, chubby features. Louis and Pauline, on the other hand, had the trademark Grimaldi family facial features including their mother’s brunette hair. They were incredibly polite and well-mannered despite their chaotic family background, and the rest of the ‘legitimate’ royal offspring (read as Princess Caroline’s children) didn’t seem to mind hanging out with them.

“Yes…yes, I know…” comes Stephanie’s voice as she steps outside to join me; cell phone stuck to her ear while nodding at me in acknowledgement and settling into a chair. She’s changed from the power suit to a pair of white khaki shorts that show off her great legs and a black tank top that just about announces her cleavage to anyone who cares to admire it. I have to hide a little smile as she crosses her legs slowly and throws a sly glance in my direction.

In love with Adans the circus performer? Yeah right. She’s still hung up on me and she knows it.

“Who was that?” I ask, when she’s done with her conversation, and I sit across her; smiling politely as the maid appears with a tray of appetizers (tomato and cheese skewers) and tall glasses of passion fruit mango martinis. Once she leaves, I tap the glass gently. “Trying to get me drunk?”

“A glass of martini won’t kill you, Michael,” she says with an unladylike snort before taking a generous sip. “And that was Pierre. He’s the V.P. in charge of my fashion line, remember?”

“Ah.” I have no clue who he is, and I don’t care to know. I choose a skewer and take a bite; savoring the blend of tastes that melt on my tongue. I wonder if I can get Alan – my new personal chef – to prepare something like this on the flight back home.

“Did the children give you any trouble today?”

I shake my head and stretch out my legs again; now feeling incredibly lazy and relaxed. The cramps have mercifully been reduced to a dull throb. The past two days have been spent ‘working’ with Albert and his foundation in organizing this charity event, and between meetings, dinner parties, and special appearances, it’s been an insane schedule. I had hoped to be back in the States today, but like I mentioned earlier…I was distracted; something that has Rubber (and Steve) foaming at the mouth. I did tell him that if he didn’t want to stay, he could leave, and short of kicking me in the nuts with irritation, he settled for grunting and slamming the door extra hard - as he left the hotel room - to show his frustration. For all his fussiness, I was glad to have him back as my manager. Whatever happened in the past has been wiped away to begin a whole new slate.

“They are incredibly well-mannered,” I say with a smile of approval. “They are wonderful. Louis sure loves his sports heroes. Pauline could turn out to be a mini you in the long run, and Camille is a darling.”

“Thank you,” she preens and holds up her glass as if to give a toast. “I’m glad you approve. Considering how everyone seems to want to paint them as bastard children, they are my pride and joy.”

“I can imagine.”

“And you?”

“Hmm?”

She leans back on her chair and watches me carefully. “How are your boys?”

My boys.

The sudden pang in my chest reminds me of how much I miss them. It seems like it’s been ages since I saw them in person, though I was due to return to New Haven anyway. I know I spoke to them last night, with Prince (thankfully) now sounding much better from his nasty cold. All they could talk about was spending time with their Uncle Chris and Auntie Deja, and they hardly let me get a word in with their mother…who I think is still pissed off at me for not mentioning the trip to Monaco in the first place. I guess it was my fault for forgetting to mention it to her…although I was sure I had before even sending her the reminder email.

“Ooh, what’s with that expression?”

“What expression?” I ask; kicking myself inwardly for sounding a little irritated at her know-it-all attitude.

“Did something happen? You didn’t look too happy there for a minute.”

I shrug and take a generous sip of the alcoholic beverage; allowing it to wet my tongue and cascade down my parched throat. From my peripheral vision, I notice her watching me with a look in those dark eyes that literally scream ‘take me’, coupled with the way she’s absently caressing the hollow between her breasts with a finger. I’m no body language expert, but I’d be a fool not to know the warning signs, and inwardly I sigh (in frustration and honest to goodness horniness). I am human after all, and considering the last time I held my woman in my arms had been-

“I miss my children,” I finally grate out; forcing myself to stare at the blocks of ice kissing the sides of the glass. “That’s all. David’s now into soccer like your Louis. Prince…well he seems to like drawing and painting a lot.”

She makes a low sound that could be interpreted as a snort of derision, and I clench my teeth tightly. “I see.”

You see…what do you see exactly?

“And the wife? Your beautiful, blushing bride? How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Ooooh…”

This time I pin her with a definite look of annoyance. “Ooh what?”

“Nothing.” She shrugs her shoulders and tries to look innocent.

“Stephanie-”

“Yes, Michael?” she teases and chuckles when I give a sigh of exasperation. “Oh, calm down. I’m just messing with you. God, you’re so uptight. You’d think you’d be more relaxed with all the ‘fun’ times you’re having with little Miss. Sunshine.”

She illustrates ‘fun’ by quoting the air with her fingers, and I decide that she’s doing this to get me riled up. Besides, I didn’t come to talk about this.

“The album,” I state firmly; needing to direct her attention back to what is important. “I’ve written a song for you. Something quick and simple that should be catchy and relevant in today’s pop market.”

She gasps in delight and claps her hands; looking for all the world like a teenage girl just told she had been chosen as Homecoming Queen. “You would?!”

“Just a little…hey!”

She moves like a freakin’ gazelle, I’ll give her that much; because one minute she is in her chair, the next, she’s throwing herself at me with an embrace that’s enough to get all systems rearing to go. The force of her hug is just enough to nearly tip us over, but I manage (somehow) to steady my feet and catch her in time; an arm encircling her waist – more to control our momentum than encourage her advances.

Pity a woman like Stephanie (this one in particular) sometimes chooses to ignore the signals.

Looking back, I honestly try to believe (and tell myself) that she was only trying to give me a peck on the cheek or at most a light kiss of gratitude on the lips. I wouldn’t have minded that at all. We are friends (yes, ex-lovers of so many years ago), but I still like to regard her in a platonic way despite some undesirable antics she’s pulled in the past. So it is a little surprising to feel her…tongue against mine, and I curse inwardly for opening my mouth in the first place in my attempt to say something. Being as fast as she is, she takes advantage and…well…

I’ll be honest. I don’t dislike it.

However, just as quickly as it began (and as I feel the crown jewels beginning to throb with an ache only one woman has the right to satisfy), I squeeze my eyes shut; conjure up my wife’s face and, as gently as I can, push the princess away from me.

“Don’t.”

It comes out as a gruff, hoarse, and thickened warning; partly due to the definitely turned on female breathing shallowly before me.

“Michael…” Her throaty whine has me counting inwardly to ten before I lift my lashes to look at her. “I…”

“I’m a married man and father, Stephanie. How many times do I have to keep reminding you of that?”

“You responded,” she gloats; still making no attempt to get off my lap. “You still want me. I can tell it in your eyes.” I cringe inwardly as the maid seems to be approaching with our meals. If she decides to blab about this to anyone -

“Get off me, Stephanie…please,” I add politely. “I’d respond to a cow if it did the same thing, now git off me, woman.”

She pouts and hits my forearm none too gently in irritation, and being the little evil wench she is, she deliberately slides slowly off me; just enough to cause an electric friction in our nether regions thereby leaving me with glaring evidence of just how aroused I’ve become. Sinking back into her chair, she re-crosses her legs with a knowing smirk of victory while I struggle to make myself comfortable and conjure up the most grotesque images to kill my erection.

I loathe to call any woman the ‘b-word’ since it’s disrespectful (though I’m sure I must have called both Stephanies that in the past whenever I got too upset), but in this situation, saying the ‘b-word’ would have been more than appropriate.

Or just simply the ‘w-word’. God help me.

Once the maid is gone and we are left with our plates of tuna salade nicoise – not surprisingly I’ve lost my appetite – she glares at me while stabbing her lettuce as if it did her wrong.

“You are such a hypocrite, Michael Jackson,” she spits out bitterly, before chewing.

I am, aren’t I?

“I can read you like a book,” she continues. “Your marriage is not going so well, is it? I knew it was going to be trouble the moment I heard that you were living separately-”

“My marriage is going well, thank you very much, and we are not living separately,” I interrupt coldly. “She has to be in New Haven because of her education, and besides…raising the kids there turned out to be the best thing to happen to them. They are happy…normal…do not live in a fishbowl. They can walk down a street and not be stared at or have people taking pictures of them unnecessarily. They have friends and sleepovers and we can go to regular movie theaters like a real family…”

I stop because I realize my voice is rising, and I’m getting more and more upset with this line of conversation. Why do I have to explain myself to her? Who is she? My mother? Hell, even my mother doesn’t know of the strain beneath the surface; a strain that’s being drawn so taut it’s going to snap at any second, and this damn woman sitting across me is doing her best to destroy the strands of thread I’m latching onto.

I groan and bury my face within my hands; rubbing my temples to ease the headache I’m beginning to feel. God, I need…

“Michael…look at me.”

I don’t want to, but with the clatter of her fork on her plate and the sudden sensation of her warm hands cupping my cheeks; she finally forces me to meet her firm and unwavering gaze. The expression of anger and lust has dissipated, and in its place is a woman who looks determined…perhaps concerned.

“When we were dating…seeing each other, there was something you said to me that I will never forget, and it was also one of the reasons we broke up. Do you remember what it was?”

“That you were a nosey, little-”

“Watch your mouth, boy.”

I smile to match the amusement that fills her eyes. “Sorry,” I apologize softly. “But yes…I think I remember…”

“You said we would never work because we were much too different. You thought I was too controlling-”

“You still are -”

“…and we’d clash too much, and yet I look at the woman you ended up marrying and wonder if…”

At her pause, I raise a brow as it slowly begins to click into place. “Wait…wait a minute here, honey.” I chuckle and pull back a little; allowing her hands to drop from my face. “Are you trying to suggest that I married Stephanie to replace…you?”

She says nothing, and I can’t help the bubble of laughter that seems to erupt from deep within my gut. Wow. Are women really this delusional? Well considering some of the lawsuits and fan mail from female fans over the years about me fathering their many children among other oddities…

“No…sorry,” I shake my head and push around some olives on my plate. “You and my woman are nothing alike.”

Like comparing apples to oranges, my dear. You’ve lived a relatively charmed life, Princess. What do you really know about pain and suffering?

I reach for my glass and down what’s left of my martini. There’s no buzz yet, but I’m guessing if I asked for another glass I’d be all over her without regrets. “Stephanie…my Stephanie that is…she’s…she’s…”

Changing.

“…different.”

Becoming distant.

“She’s her own woman and does not want to remain hidden in my shadows as ‘the wife’. That’s why being a doctor means so much to her.”

Her career…it’s slowly replacing me…

Playing with Camille today only did more to fuel my inherent desire for a little girl of my own. Of course there would be no guarantee that it might end up being a girl (depends on my chromosomes and all that conception process)...still...would she take her mother’s gorgeous features and end up with hair as curly as Stephanie’s had been when she was little? Would she look more like me pre-vitiligo stage? Would she be vivacious or a demure little angel? Would she be a tomboy having to grow up with older brothers or would she become a little lady and steal hearts before she even became a teenager? Would she want to follow in my footsteps in the entertainment industry or would she want to become a career woman like her mother? Would I ever get the opportunity to dress her up in a bib or adorable pink onesie with the words ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ or maybe ‘Daddy’s Princess’ etched on it?

I swallow the sudden lump that’s risen to my throat as the memory of that conversation comes back to mind with a vengeance. The funny thing is that it’s been a while since we had ‘the talk’, but every now and then…

__


I recall Teddy Pendergrass serenading us with his hit ‘Turn off the Lights’ in the background.

Just turn off the lights, come to me
Girl, I want to give you a special treat, you’re so sweet

There are memories of how she tasted that night; the tangy sweat off the arch of her neck as she came, the succulence of her tender, swollen lips and warm mouth as our tongues collided in mutual hunger. I remember the way her body quivered and trembled; the sensual thrust of her hips with each breathless gasp of her orgasm until she cried out my name in that way only she can.

Turn off the lights and let’s get cozy
See, you’re the only one in the world I need

Her fingernails had dug deep groves into my back, but I didn’t mind. Her teeth had left bite marks on my neck and shoulders, now more visible thanks to how paler my skin has become over the years, but I’d still lovingly caress each scar with some cream in the morning and gloat at the reasons for them. In turn, her hips – those curvaceous mounds I could mould all day – would be imprinted with barely visible bruises from my impassioned grip as I drove myself to the hilt over and over again until I simply wanted to melt and become one with her; to be more than just bodies in heat, but a fusion of heart and soul.

I want to love you, love you all over, yeah
Over and over and over and over and over
And over and over and over once again
Whispers sweet words of love in your ear
Show you how much I missed you, missed you, my dear

And though we now lay satiated, sore, and exhausted, we were still able to giggle like teenagers caught doing something naughty as we cuddled beneath the blanket and looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. I traced the faint, dark lines of fatigue beneath her eyes; evidence of the late hours she kept trying to study for upcoming exams. She gave a sexy sigh as my other hand traced the outline of her swollen breasts; teasing the already highly sensitive taut left nipple before moving down to her hips…her fine ass (which I spanked and kneaded lightly much to her amusement)...and then to her stomach…which had been flat for about five years and counting…

“Babe…” I breathed into her mouth; her lashes hooded as she struggled to stay awake.

“Hmm?”

I circled her belly button with a finger and suddenly felt an incredible wave of shyness wash over me. I felt as if I was about to ask something enormous of her and felt my insides shrivel with the fear of being rejected. We both agreed I wouldn’t use any more condoms as it made our lovemaking ‘weird’ and ‘awkward’, which was fine with me because I didn’t really like using it that much anyway. However, and to be brutally honest, deep down I had hoped that by now a little ‘mistake’ would have taken place whereby…

“Baby, what is it?” she asked in that husky, sultry voice that’s not really done on purpose, but it always manages to get me excited anyway.

“It’s been five years,” I murmured shyly.

“Five years of what?”

“Since…Prince…” I could barely hear myself speak now, but I forced myself to continue, especially since I could feel the immediate tensing of her body. “Baby, I know you are tied up with school and…your work and…”

I stopped admiring the outline of her jaw to finally look her in the eye. I expected anger or irritation, but instead, there was an expression of weary sadness that made me want to crawl into a hole and die. It was an adult look; the one that parents usually gave to children who wanted too much and they just couldn’t get a hint that they weren’t going to be receiving anything anytime soon.

“I just thought…” I stopped and decided it wasn’t going to be worth it. I already knew what her answer was going to be, and though it hurt for the most part…a part of me felt…well…angry. Jealous even (although that seemed unfounded in the grand scheme of things). This jealous/angry side wanted to berate her for being selfish and not wanting to give me what I wanted, and yet the rational side realized that I was perhaps the selfish one.

She had given me David barely out of high school, and two years into medical school, there was Prince. Prince was more difficult to raise, just because of the situation we found ourselves in, and I knew first hand how stressed out she had become eventually. So why would I want to burden her now with another child when she was in the crux of her program? I might as well just tell her to take a vacation from being a doctor just to cater to my needs.

“Michael…” she began, but I didn’t want to hear anymore.

“Don’t worry, babe,” I insisted with a smile before leaning closer to give her a hard kiss on the lips. “Forget I brought it up.”

“But-”

“It’s fine…really.”

I rolled away from her and without bothering to reach for my pajamas bottoms or a house robe, strode into the bathroom to ease myself and think. As predicted, it didn’t take long for her to tiptoe up behind me while I was washing my hands at the sink. She wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her face against my back, but not before placing tender kisses that made me shiver with desire and want to engulf her in an embrace and never let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against my skin as if hoping the words would seep into the very pores and strike a chord within my heart (which it did anyway).

“But I can’t…not right now…not until I’m done, baby.”

At the low sniffle, I groaned inwardly and spun around to do just as I had wanted to do in the first place. Though she was tall, she still felt so small and fragile in my arms. I rocked us gently while planting hard and earnest kisses in the thick mass of tousled hair beneath me.

“Don’t cry,” I choked out; forcing myself to blink away my tears of disappointment. “Please don’t cry, babe. I won’t bring it up again. I promise. You know I love you anyway, right? Right?”

I pulled back a little to peer at her reddened features, before wiping away her tears with my fingers. The look in her eyes broke my heart, and I believe I made a vow there and then to be as patient as I possibly could. I had two beautiful sons who needed my attention. One more son…or daughter…could wait…

__

Or so I had hoped.

There are times I tend to have short term memory loss, and I think I brought up the conversation a year or two later, and we went through the same feelings of guilt and frustration (more from her end as she couldn’t seem to understand my impatience).

How could I explain to her that I wasn’t getting any younger? That my inherent/insecure fear was that I would become too old to produce any children. I was almost at the fifty-year mark…fifty for God’s sakes! Would my boys (sperm) still function at that age? Would I start needing to take that damn Viagra just to prove myself as a man to her? What if I become too old to run around with my children? Or get stricken with arthritis or something worse? Time was running out for me at least. She was just getting to be in her thirties. She still had so much life and energy and though she had said she would be with me until we were both gray and wrinkled in every place possible, a small part of me was still unsatisfied and afraid; afraid that in old age, I’d become so disgusting and...

Goddamn it, Michael! I thought you were over this damn insecurity about your physical appearance! Everyone has already told you how good you look, and you’ve not had to go under the knife in years! What more do you want? What is it going to take to prove to you that you are just FINE the way you are?!

(Amazing how that inner voice sounds like Stephanie now)

“Sometimes I can be a pain in the ass,” I mutter out loud.

“You’re telling me,” comes the dry remark that has me glancing at my companion with an inward sigh. For a while there, I almost forgot she existed.

“And yet we all still love you despite your faults,” she finishes with a snort.

“Thank you.” I try not to sound too sarcastic.

“You’re welcome.”

We give each other weary but knowing smiles, and I force myself to eat at least half of the food. Thankfully, the rest of the conversation centers around her music, and after dinner, we go over the lyrics I had written up quickly in the afternoon, as well as play around with some tunes to see how well it fits. We are not done until around two a.m, and by this time, I’m so tired, my decision to call Stephanie has to be put on hold until tomorrow.

Little would I know how things would be topsy turvey in less than 24 hours.

__

En Route to the States
Summer 2002

/These images of Stephanie Jackson have been buzzing all over the web in the past few hours. Seen in the lone company of a handsome new beau at a local Coldplay concert – and we do not have his name yet – many are beginning to wonder if this is in retaliation to those damning images of Michael and Princess Stephanie of Monaco released a few days ago? What do you think, John?/
/I think there’s definitely trouble in paradise, Mary. Many are now saying that it’s most likely that they are actually in the midst of a divorce, which would be a shame as just earlier this year, they had a huge private bash to commemorate their ten years together as a couple.../

I don’t know what hurts most. The fact that she’s not picking up her phone, the finality in her words, or the burning image of she and that man looking cozy as they left some date…oh wait, she had said a concert, hadn’t she?

Jesus…!

I nearly stumble to the floor of the cabin in my desperate attempt to get to the bathroom, and barely make it in time to regurgitate my meager dinner into the toilet while on my knees. It takes me nearly a minute later to realize I’m crying as well; a painful gut reaction to what has just taken place.

How pathetic am I? Me – the aging ‘King of Pop’; nothing more than a slobbering, tearful mess in a tiny bathroom 30,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean.

/”Good bye and I mean it.”/

Oh God.

/“I just can’t do it anymore, Michael.”/

No. Nonononononononono! She wouldn’t leave me even when…even if…

“Mike? You okay?”

Frank. He must have heard our argument though I had tried my best to keep my voice down. However, it’s a small plane and even though my entourage is about ten strong, I still don’t need them all knowing I’m going through a domestic crisis of epic proportions. I stifle my sobs by biting hard on my hand and closing my eyes.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Mike? Everything okay?”

“Fi…fine,” I croak and reach up – with a hand that’s trembling badly – to flush the toilet. I can’t even get myself to stand up. My knees still feel weak, and I’m feverish all over. Shit. I feel like throwing up again.

“I told the pilot what you said about changing routes,” Frank continues. “He said we should be in New Haven in about three hours.”

I want to say ‘thank you’, but the words are lodged in my throat. All I can hear is that strained voice that had trembled with passion, sadness, and hurt. Would she be packing up her things now? Would she be on the next flight to Kentucky to be with her parents?

I bury my face against my raised knees and try to think of what I must have said, or of how I could have handled the situation better. But no…no matter what, I do feel justified in getting upset. She lied to me for goodness sakes! Why the hell couldn’t she just tell me she was going to be with some doctor for a date night? She’s probably seeing him behind my back and that’s why she lied!

(and this coming from a man who almost made out with Princess Stephanie? You told your wife nothing happened when something clearly did, mister. If we’re all coming clean with our transgressions, then maybe you should just ‘fess up everything, hmm?)

That’s the truth, isn’t it?

What gave me the right to be upset when I wasn’t as forthcoming with her either, but then again…what would I have said? That Princess Stephanie threw herself at me? If I had told Stephanie that, she’d have definitely flipped her lid. There are just some things a man has to keep to himself to protect the ones he loves and that little moment of weakness is another incident that I would consider a candidate for Michael’s Inner Secret Vault. It’s something I actually learned while hanging out with the guys (the other fathers in our New Haven neighborhood) where they all confessed to hiding one or two things from their wives.

“It don’t hurt if they ne’er find out,” Roth (my immediate next door neighbor) had said with a wink. “I tell you, even them women have plenty a secrets they keep from us guys too, ain’t that right, fellas?”

And to my surprise all the men there had nodded solemnly in agreement.

I know she hangs out with colleagues and her fellow classmates, and she has no obligation to call me each and every single time she goes out on the town with them, but it’s just that…that I had actually asked her about her plans that night and she point blank told me that she had nothing planned.

So what happened? Did she really have no plans and then that guy showed up to take her out? If so, she could have at least called back to let me know, right? And if the paparazzi hadn’t shown up to catch them in the act…would she have told me about it…ever? Or perhaps she too has her Secret Vault that I am not privy to.

(and don’t forget that she had not said ‘I love you’ in return. Guilt perhaps?)

Whatever the case, I have to see her before she pulls a disappearing act…

(the children)

…and perhaps does the unthinkable.

She…she wouldn’t…she…can’t…she…

My stomach churns with such a painful twist, I literally groan out loud and curl up on the floor in agony. I know it’s psychosomatic and no one has physically done me harm, but the emotional damage this possibility is already causing me makes me want to literally die. If she took the children from me, I would kill myself. The images of both of us going through the court system to fight over something like this…

Oh God…is this what my marriage has come to? This hurts more than anything else in the world.

It takes me nearly an hour to finally get myself together, and only after I’ve managed to take a couple of pain killers to assist with my aches. Trying not to stagger to the bedroom (which is just big enough to house a bed and not much else), I slump onto the maroon duvet and struggle to control my breathing. My hands are still shaking, and I curse inwardly at my inability to even pick up my damn Blackberry. After five extra minutes of self-aberration, I manage to dial the numbers to the Latrell residence.

Please pick up. Someone pick up…please…please…

“Helloooo? The Latrell Residence.”

A choked, uncontrollable sob escapes my lips at the familiar sound of my oldest son’s voice. He sounds relaxed and cheerful, and the overwhelming urge to have him close to me brings the tears to my eyes again.

“Hellooooo?” he asks again with a slight impatience that reminds me of his mother; something that brings a small reluctant smile to my visage.

I sniffle and try to control myself. “Da-”

“Who is it?” I hear someone’s voice in the background – Chris I’m guessing.

“Dunno,” David replies. “I just hear breathing.”

I open my mouth again to tell him it’s his father, but there’s the sound of the phone changing hands and Chris’s deep, but firm voice now on the line. “Who is this?”

“Hey…Chris…it’s me,” I reply quickly, but in a voice that’s barely louder than a whisper. “Mike.”

“Mike? Mike who?”

I’d laugh at the irony of the question now, but I’m too emotionally drained to react much. “David and Prince’s daddy. That Mike.”

“Ooh…” His tone changes drastically, and I can literally hear him giving a sigh of relief. “Geez, man. I thought you were one of those creeps, you know? How’s it going, man? You back in the States?”

“In about an hour or so…uum…” I rub my forehead and wonder how I can put this without sounding too paranoid or freaked out.

“You okay, brother? You sound tired.”

“I’m cool. How are the kids?”

“You heard him,” Chris says with a laugh. “They’re eating everything in sight, man. They can’t wait to see you. When you coming down to New Haven?”

“…my flight…I’ll be there in the next hour…”

“Oh yeah? You’re not going to L.A. first?”

“No…” I swallow tightly and manage to squeak out “change of plans.”

“Aaah, I get it! You want to surprise the kids and their momma, eh?” He clicks his tongue in a playful/suggestive gesture. “Well your woman’s all alone at home and needs you, so I’ll keep your return a secret while you deal with her…if you know what I mean.”

He guffaws jovially, unaware of how sad his words make me. On any other day, the idea of walking into our home with a large bouquet of flowers and sweeping an unsuspecting Stephanie off her feet (literally), and since we’d have the house all to ourselves (sending the maids home of course) and we’d wine and dine on cheap food from the fridge (or just order pizza) as we sit on the bedroom floor and make a mess of things and then make sweet love until the break of dawn and then…

Goddamn it!

“Mike? You okay?”

No. No, I’m not.

“Did Stephanie call you guys?” I ask quickly before I can break down again.

“Stephanie? Not to me. Maybe she called earlier and Deja spoke to her, I dunno. She’s out with Christina, Prince, and Bailey by the way.”

“I see…”

“Want me to leave a message for Deja when she gets back?”

“No...I…” I lick my lips and clear my throat. “Just…in case Stephanie calls, could you just call or text me?”

“…why don’t you just call her?”

I can’t! She’s leaving me! She’s probably left the goddamn city right now! I don’t know where the fuck she is! No one is picking up the phone at the house and I’m losing my damn mind!

“She must be at the hospital,” I reply thickly.

“Ah, figures.” He seems to finally realize that something is not right with me, and his awkward cough lets me know he wants to end this conversation just as quickly as I do. But first…

“Can I speak to David?”

“Sure thing, buddy. Hold on a sec. I’ll get him.”

His voice fades a little as he bellows ‘David! Your dad wants you on the phone!’ and in about a minute, I hear the sound of running footsteps and my son’s breathless voice of excitement on the phone.

“Dad! Where are you?!”

The tears threaten to come again, but I hold them in as best I can. “I’m on my way home. I’m coming to see you in a couple of hours probably.”

“Really?! Oh man! I can’t wait to play that new video game with you, Dad. You remember, right? You promised we’d play it together on the PlayStation 2! Oh man, Dad, the game is awesome! I went up to level-”

I listen to him discuss the game, and for the next half hour, I am content to just lie back and I indulge his love for video games, which I guess could be my fault since I’m sort of addicted to the damn things and introduced him to them. Naturally, his mother hadn’t liked the idea of father and son locking themselves in the den for an entire day just playing Final Fantasy and gouging on junk food (mostly Cheetos and soda). I’m all for healthy eating, but it didn’t hurt to indulge in the snacks every now and then, did it?

And if I don’t get home soon, I might never get the opportunity to play with you as often as I’d like.

“Do me a favor, Speedy.”

“What’s that, Dad?”

“Kick Uncle Chris’s butt for me, okay?”

He laughs, and I hear myself in that happy sound that has my heart filling with even more love for him. “Sure thing, Dad. He’s already begging me for mercy. I’ll show him.”

There’s a sudden knock on my cabin door, and Frank’s voice seeps through it. “We’re almost there, Mike. Just wanted to let you know.”

Thanking him quickly, I focus my attention back to David. “I’ve gotta get off the phone now, honey. You be good now, okay? Take care of Prince for me and Mommy, okay?”

“No problem, Dad.”

“Kiss kiss for Daddy?”

“Eew. I’m too old for that stuff, Dad.”

I chuckle at the ‘sound’ of his embarrassment. “All right. I’ll let it go for now, but you know this means you owe me one when I see you again, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he mock groans. “Love you, Daddy.”

“This much?”

“This much!”

He would have spread out his arms (as I would have) if we weren’t on the phone, but it’s a ritual I’ve always done with my boys before hugging them, and goodness knows I could use their warmth and support right about now.

Turning off the device, I remain prone on the bed, not moving as I throw an arm over my eyes and try to think up a game plan. There’s a high possibility that Stephanie’s left the house by now, and if that’s the case, it will mean that she must be on her way to the airport or is already on a damn plane. Sitting up quickly, I access the nearest airports on my Blackberry and try to see which flights are leaving for New York. To my dismay, there are quite a few taking off within the hour – and since it’s been about three hours since our ‘fight’, she might be there already. However, Chris said he had received no phone calls from Stephanie, which would mean having to call Deja to verify if had heard anything from my wife.

To my chagrin (and I guess I should have expected this), Deja’s not picking up her phone either, thereby elevating my anxiety level to fever pitch.

I do not speak much to anyone even as we finally come to a stop and we begin the tedious protocol of getting into the rented black SUV that’s waiting at the tarmac to take me directly to our home. I only give noncommittal grunts here and there to whatever Frank or Steve or Linda (Deja replacement) tell me, and I guess when they realize I’m not in the mood, they finally shut the hell up and allow me to think.

At the sight of our boulevard alone, I can feel my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. I am sweating bullets, and my intense fear of being greeted with an empty home and perhaps a long letter of farewell from the most infuriating woman in the world, has me now biting my nails nervously. It didn’t help that I kept jerking my knee in agitation throughout the trip, and as we finally approach the gates and pass through our light security, I am just about leaping out of the car with impatience.

Ba-dump.Ba-dump.Ba-dump.Ba-dump.Ba-dump.

Jesus fucking Christ. My heartbeat is so goddamn loud, and the heart itself is beating so damn hard, I can literally feel it about to drop right out of my chest…

“Fuck…” I curse beneath my breath.

“Mike? You okay?” Steve’s lisped words sound like they’re coming from a mile away as he tries to steady me.

I place a hand against one of the colonial-inspired columns leading into the house, in an attempt to steady myself and shrug his hand away with a weak smile. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, I guess.”

“Maybe you should...”

Suddenly, the front door opens and Mrs. Brahms (as well as two other maids and a butler) appears like something out of the pages of a gothic horror story. Not that she’s ugly or scary, but we really must do something about that outfit she insists on wearing. Does she really think she’s still living in the 19th century?

“Welcome home, Mr. Jackson,” she greets with a curtsey. “May I…?”

But I’m no longer listening, I give a quick nod of acknowledgement to the staff and stride quickly into the house; the flaps of my black Armani trench coat nearly getting caught in one of the decorative statues that line the foyer in my haste.

“Stephanie?” I bellow; wincing as my voice seems to bounce off the walls and echo hauntingly.

Nothing.

“Stephanie?!”

Of course the logical thing would be to ask Mrs. Brahms if my wife is even at home in the first place, but I am too determined to find her myself and to be honest, I am not really thinking straight anyway.

I jog up the stairs – two at a time – nearly run across the landing before pushing open the large oak doors that led into our private sanctuary. My mind is mentally prepared for the worst; to perhaps see things smashed to pieces, or her walk-in-closet cleaned out, or worse seeing her in the act of packing her things. It is most definitely not prepared for the…well…silence.

The bed hasn’t been made yet, so the imprint of her body and the tousled sheets tell the story of a woman who at least slept in this bed all night. I stride to her walk-in closet and try to see if there’s anything out of place, but besides some clothes she plans to wash sitting on a pile beside her chest of drawers, and several couture gowns still in their protective garment bags and wraps – yet to be hung - there are no suitcases out…not even a traveling bag.

To double check, I peek into her luggage section to see if there’s anything missing, and I curse inwardly at the sight of all the luxury boxes and carry alls. I have never kept tab or count of them before, so how the fuck am I going to know if any was missing? In near desperation, I pull open her underwear drawers. Surely if she’s leaving, she’ll pack those, right?

Jesus…nothing looks out of place either. The ‘granny’ section looks as neat as ever (and this is the section where she keeps the cotton panties for work mostly). The ‘naughty’ section (which takes up about four drawers)...

(oh Jesus...this is NOT the time to get turned on, Michael)

...is still filled with enough frills, silk, and lace to make any grown man weep with joy. It takes monumental effort to slam those drawers shut and focus on my task at hand.

Shoes! She’d definitely take some of them with her, and yet a quick look into that section of the closet (Jesus Christmas! I never knew she had so damn many and some still in their boxes!) reveals nothing out of place. From sexy stilettos to a pair of old sneakers she still wears to jog around the neighborhood...nothing missing it seems.

Her toothbrush! If she’s left, she’d have taken that, right?

I dash into the bathroom, and like her closet, there are piles of used towels on the floor; ready for the laundry, but her section of the room looks…the same. Her perfumes, make up and knick knacks including some hand-made birthday cards from the boys are still in place. It doesn’t look as if she’s even bothered packing any of those things either.

I don’t understand it. Did she just walk out of the house with nothing at all? It wouldn’t surprise me if that was what happened. She could just leave with her wallet, and she’d be perfectly able to take care of herself.

Oh God...please...please...don’t let that be the case.

My head is beginning to ache like crazy, and it finally takes me another long minute to realize that there’s something a bit odd with the atmosphere.

(duh! You idiot! Steam! Someone just finished taking a shower…or bath…or something. Which means…)

“Welcome home.”

I spin around so fast, I nearly trip over my feet and would have fallen flat on my face if it wasn’t for quick reflexes causing me to latch onto the counter to steady myself.

Stephanie…

Talk about the wind getting knocked out of your sails.

Yes. Stephanie Jackson still here…in the flesh…dressed in a pair of sweatpants and tee shirt, barefoot, hair tousled, and looking so very much like she must have spent the last few hours crying. I stifle a low groan of misery and resist the temptation of reaching out to pull her to me. Her body language screams for me to stay away, and I grit my teeth at the memory of her betrayal; knowing I have to recall how she made me…no us…look like fools to the rest of the world.

(you too. You didn’t help matters either and you said some pretty harsh words to her considering she said it was just an innocent outing…)

Or was it? How can I prove that he didn’t try anything on her? And how can I believe whatever she tells me now?

“Where...” I clear my throat as my voice had sounded hoarse and gruff. “Where were you?”

“In the guest bedroom.”

“I…I thought you would have left by now. You…you made it sound like you were leaving me.”

She shrugs; her features remaining painfully devoid of any emotion. It’s an emptiness that I dislike, and a realization that she’s retreating into that world where she feels being distant from others would be a protective mechanism.

She’s trying to shut me out again.

“I was going to,” she finally spoke quietly. “But I stood there in the closet – for almost two hours - and thought about it a little harder. I don’t…I don’t want the boys to be affected by this, and they’re not stupid, eventually they’ll realize what’s going on, but instead of just running away…I have to stay here for them to finish this damn thing and then-”

“You’ll walk out of my life,” I finish tightly; though my heart feels like its being ripped out as I speak.

She gives a barely visible flinch but shrugs again. “Whatever. If that’s what it comes down to.”

“So you don’t think you owe me an apology for lying?”

She had turned to leave the room, but stopped as if struck. She seems to struggle with something for a second, and finally she turns back with her shoulders squared and her gaze firmly fixed on mine.

“I’m sorry, Michael. Sorry that I wasn’t brave enough to come clean with you, but I will stand by my account that nothing happened between Steven and I.” She shrugs lightly. “The question is…can you say the same?”

I open my mouth to immediately protest, but she’s spun away from me again to head toward the bedroom. Cursing beneath my breath, I walk after her; my intent to get her to talk and to make her understand just how bad she hurt me (and perhaps justify what transpired between the Princess and I), but the sudden ring of her ‘emergency phone’ – the one she uses to receive calls from the hospital – has me stiffening as she picks it up to reply.

I can usually tell from her expression when something has gone wrong, and she has gotten a few ‘bad’ cases with some patients in the past. I have a gut feeling that this is going to be another one. She’s already nodding and giving orders briskly to whoever is on the other end, and despite my anger and frustration; seeing this side of Stephanie does make me feel so proud of her. It’s a reminder that she is really no longer that teenage girl I met all those years ago, but now a successful adult woman soon to become a doctor – a medical doctor for God sakes – with the lives of others in her hands. The responsibility on her shoulders has become tenfold, and a part of me longs to reach out to massage and ease away the tension and–

“I have to go to the hospital,” she announces unnecessarily when the conversation is over. She’s hardly looking at me as she says this. “A code blue has been called on one of my patients...cardiac arrest.”

“Ah-”

“Or do you want to verify it’s actually the hospital...in case I’m lying?”

I suck in a harsh breath at the deliberate jab; our gazes meeting as she holds out the phone to me. The irritation I had managed to squash down rises back to the surface at the expression on her face – a mixture of quiet derision and wariness.

“Don’t you play that game with me now, girl,” I grate out.

“Game? I don’t think so, Michael. Are you sure you don’t want to check?” She shakes the device a little and holds it a little higher. I’m sure if she really had her way, that phone would be making direct contact with my forehead pretty soon.

“Go to your damn hospital, Stephanie.”

She gives me a cold smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Saccharine poison; those icy words from her lips, and they have me gritting my teeth even as I shrug out of my coat and fling it into my closet in a gesture that lets her know that I do not appreciate her patronizing tone.

We say nothing else as we go about our business, and even when she appears about ten minutes later, looking poised and composed in her power suit and heels, we hardly look at each other when we say our curt goodbyes.

The ‘d’ word.

That damn ‘d’ word looms and seems to hover over me like a storm cloud.

Yet, as I sit here and muse on what kind of future we might have together if this keeps up...it hurts me to the core that the ‘d’ word is most likely bound to come into play.

(and you know it will come to fruition some day and when that happens...what then, Michael Joseph Jackson? What will you do without her? How will you deal with the severe withdrawals? For once your daily dose of morphine is taken away from you instantly...the end result is almost always...)

a fate worse than death