Detox

Chapter 15:

Pasadena, California
Fall 2002

Voices.

It’s impossible.

They tremble around him in disembodied ebbs and waves – like gossamer ghosts from beyond the grave - but he doesn’t hear a thing.

She...it isn’t...it’s not...possible!

He tries to get his frozen body to cooperate, but the voices are getting in the way; becoming louder and more incessant.

She’s supposed to be in Tokyo...

He doesn’t remember getting to his feet (his knees feel weak), but his objective is clear, and though his heart is a thunderous drum in his chest (badumbadumbadumbadum!); threatening to block out all other extraneous sounds, the lingering scent of her perfume is the only thing to permeate his dulled senses.

Black Pearls.

Not...possible...

He squeezes his eyes shut for an instant to gain control of the situation...of himself. He tries to reconcile what ought to be reality and what must seem like a fantasy. If one liked dark humor, this scenario could even be considered hilarious. And yet...the very idea of laughing was furthest from his mind.

He wanted to scream.

Michael! Hey Mike!

I should go after her...I need to go after her...explain everything. Stephanie. Baby. My dearest. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t invite her in here. She came on her own. She was being friendly, and I didn’t...I couldn’t...

“Michael!”

He is shoved a little harder and the sharp burst of annoyance he experiences as his desperate, frantic thoughts are interrupted, is somewhat controlled when he finally notices Frank’s flushed and slightly sweaty features before him.

“Where you going?” the big man hisses beneath his breath with a bemused frown. His plump fingers dig sharply into Michael’s elbow; nearly bruising in its intensity. There’s a flash of irritation within those dark eyes, as if impatient and unable to believe what was taking place as well.

“You can’t just walk out of here,” Frank continues in a feverish whisper. He glances around the congested dressing room, where there are low murmurs from the other occupants engaged in conversation. After the initial awkward silence that descended with Stephanie’s abrupt departure, they weren’t quite sure of how to act especially with the star of the moment looking...well...panicked and a little out-of-sorts.

Michael stares at him incredulously. He can’t believe that Rubber does not understand how important this is. Does he...no, do all of them not see that his marriage is falling apart right before their eyes?! Are they all so blind and stupid not to comprehend the enormity of the situation? Can they not tell he is at his wit’s end?

They don't care, Michael. They never cared. They don't see you as human. You are nothing more than...than...

“I have to see her,” he finally manages to state in a voice that sounds raw with use. Though one could blame it on all the singing he just did earlier, he knows better. He is dangerously close to having a nervous breakdown. His tongue suddenly feels heavy in his mouth, and he licks his lips as if to gather much-needed moisture.

“Oh yeah? Just run out of here and go see her?” Frank retorts with a shake of his head as if admonishing a child. “You know you can’t do that. They’ll pounce on you out there and besides, you’ve still got...”

As Frank lectures, Michael can feel his temperature rising and not in a very good way. The headache returns; almost teasing with its low hum intensity before reaching a fever pitch as Frank and now Alan and Steve join in the deafening cacophony of voices advising him on what and what not to do.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! All of you!

His ire grows tenfold when he notices Lisa still looking relaxed against the dresser as she chats with a member of Little Richard’s band. It’s one thing that’s always irritated him about her personality; her ability to act as if absolutely nothing was going on even if a disaster was occurring right before her very eyes. She just didn’t seem to give a damn.

This is all her fault, a part of him argues childishly. Who the hell invited her anyway? I didn’t even know she was going to be here until I walked into the room and she was there waiting for me! Goddamnit!

(And yet you did approve of her a little bit, didn’t you, Michael? Especially how you playfully whistled as she twirled for you in that outfit, eh? Don’t try to act all innocent now, good sir. You know what she’s been up to recently, and you did nothing to discourage it. In fact, you liked it! You enjoyed the extra attention! You got high off the notion that the daughter of ‘The King’ could have the hots for you, and you played it for all that it’s -!)

“I have to go,” he grunted beneath his breath and tried to shake off Frank’s grip. “Get the car around...get me in disguise or something. I have to get the hell out of here -”

Frank looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. He cannot understand Michael’s stubbornness. Stephanie was always going to be there. His career on the other hand-

“Now, listen to me, Mike -”

“Michael!” comes the sudden enthusiastic cry as the door swings open and the one person Michael could have done without, appears with a genuine grin of appreciation and exuberance on his features. “What a wonderful performance tonight. My goodness. It takes me back to the day when I first met you. You have not lost your touch one bit.”

“Dick...” Michael begins weakly, though he feels like bursting into tears of frustration.

Oh God. This isn't fair. You do not play fair at all.

Lights. Cameras. Flashing. Blinding. He is surrounded. There’s no way to escape now. He cannot afford to be rude to the man of the night, and as he accepts the warm hug given to him and mentally braces himself for at least half-an-hour of chit chat with Mr. Clark, his wife, and a few of his other friends who trail behind him, Michael prays hard that wherever she is, she will wait and hopefully give him a chance to explain himself. If it meant falling on his hands and knees to beg for mercy, he knew he’d have to swallow his fucking pride to give in.

Please, Stephanie...don’t give up on me yet. I beg you. Please...forgive me.

I just can’t lose you now.

__

There's a pendulum swinging in my heart tonight
Back and forth, keeping score
Should I love him or leave him I can't decide
Tell me which is wrong and which is right

At the ‘tender’ age of 45, Cassandra Amoroso aka Cassie considers herself a realist. She knows she isn’t going to be winning any beauty pageants with her matronly figure, her auburn hair with hints of gray at the temples, which is almost always up in a bun, her penchant for flats (sneakers on a really casual day) and love affair with pantsuits (Hillary Clinton is one of her many idols).

However, what she lacks in supermodel features, she makes up with an inner beauty that is beyond compare (Stephanie and Michael’s words not hers). Her razor sharp wit and attention to detail is something many are quick to notice at first meeting, and after spending ten years teaching Advanced English Literature at Yale University, there are times when she has to pinch herself wondering how she ended up working for one of her ex-students as a ‘personal assistant’. Nothing about her screamed ‘Hollywood Insider’, but then again, she realizes she would not have traded her decision to help the young woman sitting across her for anything else in the world.

…though it was safe to say that tonight had turned into one big disaster with a capital letter 'D'.

The oppressive, pregnant silence that’s descended in the limousine, as they pull out of the parking lot, nearly unravels her composed exterior. Where does she even begin? Does she say “she’s sorry?” Does she reach out to give the younger woman a hug? Does she try to give some inane advice about being cheerful and not to look so damn depressed? No one would have guessed that things wouldn’t turn out as planned, although when Stephanie had brought up the idea on the plane, it had sounded so exciting and romantic on paper.

Hah. Romance. Such a wonderful yet bittersweet concept.

For Cassie, her idea of romance involved spending endless hours beneath an oak tree in her countryside home in Montana, exploring the words of Shakespeare, Browning, and Yeats. Toss in a little Emerson, Keats, Fitzgerald, or Hemingway, and she was on Cloud Nine. She never married or had kids; never found a reason to as all men seemed to fall into two categories – smart or dumb. There was simply no room for gray area.

Most of the smart ones were composed of her colleagues at the university; intellectuals she could spend a stimulating evening with discussing literature or politics. The dumb ones were those who only saw what was between her legs (or the mounds on her chest) and couldn’t hold onto a decent conversation if their life depended on it. So when she wasn’t busy beating away the dumb ones with her sarcasm and disdain or having a tête-à-tête with Professors Kilburn and Garcia, she could be found propped before an easel with her watercolors hoping to capture the perfect sunset off the coast. She was far from becoming the next Georgia O'Keeffe, but damn it, she was doing her best.

So how in the world did she end up becoming Stephanie’s right hand woman?

One word: retirement.

So yes, 45 was still too young to be considered being a member of the senior citizens club, and though she enjoyed her stint as professor at the prestigious university, Cassie still felt restless and unaccomplished. For over ten years she had devoted her time and energy into preparing class notes and lectures for her students; many of whom fondly called her ‘The Iron Lady’ because of her somewhat strict rules. Unless you were in a car accident and had both arms and legs chopped off, there was really no reason why your essay on ‘Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, The Medall and MacFlecknoe. Are they poetic works or pure satire?’ was not turned in by nine a.m on a Monday morning. Cassie was a believer in continuing a disciplined education even if you were in college where you were expected to ‘relax’ after the rigors of high school. Oh, you were more than welcome to miss her classes with no suitable excuse, just be prepared to stare in bewilderment at your low grades at the end of the semester.

All the same, the itch had begun about three years ago; that need to break free from the confines of the lecture hall, grading essays, mulling over staff meetings, payrolls, and fears of downsizing. She realized dully, while sipping her one-millionth cup of coffee before classes began, that she was burying herself in a never-ending cycle of monotony. Sure she enjoyed imparting her wisdom of the great writers to her sometimes captive audience, but at the end of the day....where was the joy for Cassie? What had happened to her dreams of traveling the world by the age of fifty and exploring different cuisines? Where was her ultimate dream of mastering over ten different languages (she was stuck at three for now) and communicating with indigenous tribes from the Amazon? Naturally, these were lofty goals, but how was achieving any of them possible when she was stuck within the hallowed walls of a university for hours on end?

“Why don’t you retire?”

Even ‘til today, she will never forget how loud those four quietly spoken words had been. For some inexplicable reason, they had struck so deep within her heart, she literally spit out her coffee in disbelief.

Stephanie had been smiling at the time; a small, knowing expression on her visage as she sat across Cassie’s desk that nippy, December afternoon. Legs crossed, looking prim and proper in a plain wool coat (though Cassie was sure it must have cost a fortune), with heavy textbooks balanced on her lap, the young woman had dared the professor to take the plunge; to take that final step to gain the freedom she secretly craved.

“Retirement? At my age?” She took a moment to wipe the spilled drops of her beverage from the pile of notepaper; though she hated to see her hand tremble a little. However, it was her heart that was doing the tango at an alarming rate. Goodness! The possibilities! But where...how...what could she do? Where could she begin? She couldn’t just walk out of the university with no other plans, could she? It went against every principle in her book of organizing things weeks...nah...months (or sometimes years) before hand! And yes, she had been saving her money all this time for her grandiose bucket list, but still –

“In this economy, I should be happy I even have a job,” she had said aloud as if to reassure herself of her decision. “Retirement is not an option, Stephanie.”

“...but you don’t really look happy, Mrs. Amoroso.”

The older woman snorted and rolled her eyes. “What do you know about happiness, young lady? Just because you’ve got Mr. Michael Jackson at your beck and call...”

Stephanie giggled and shook her head, though her blush gave away her true feelings about the tease. “It’s not a matter of what I want, but what you want. I’ve watched you recently...you don’t look so enthusiastic...at least not the same way you were about a year ago. You remind me of a withering flower desperately seeking nourishment to blossom again.”

Sharp, aren’t you? I think I taught you too well, Cassie wanted to say, but she settled for simply tightening her lips and focusing on her tepid drink. Though Stephanie was technically no longer a student of hers – she had only taken English Literature as an elective in her first year – it hadn’t stopped them from continuing their relationship. She genuinely enjoyed spending hours with the younger woman, and they had had many a lively discussion over various issues, some of which had culminated in lunches and dinners off campus. If Stephanie was a man, Cassie would have lumped her in the ‘smart’ category; not that she had those kinds of feelings for her, but then again, she had heard the rumor going around campus about her sexual orientation. ‘The Iron Lady’ was a certified lesbian in many circles. It was amusing to say the least.

It wasn’t until she was actually invited to the Jacksons' residence for dinner, did Cassie finally get the full range of just what Stephanie’s life was all about. For starters, she had reservations about visiting any student’s home unless it was school-related, but the bait of Michael being in town and his curiosity in speaking to Cassie (and there was the story of just how many books Mr. Jackson had in his personal library) had sealed the deal. Hence, Cassie found herself stepping into the Jackson household and into a world where reality and fantasy seemed to blend into one.

Perhaps she had expected the house to be as garish, lavish, and ostentatious as many celebrity homes that were usually shown on T.V. Perhaps she expected every room to be filled with the countless awards and accolades the couple had received over the years (especially the husband), and yet as she was ushered down the foyer, there was absolutely nothing to give away that celebrities even lived in the house. She could have been walking into any middle-class home...well except for the excellent taste in furnishings...and wouldn’t have known any better. Instead of accolades and awards, the walls were lined with photographs of the family (mostly the children) and exquisite works of art in different styles; modern, contemporary, or oils. If there were any awards on display, they were only those showcasing the children, be they soccer trophies or certificates of completion for one school or extra-curricular activity or another.

Cassie had dealt with Stephanie and her boys (they were little darlings!) on several occasions of course, however, coming face-to-face with the man single-handedly responsible for creating a whole new genre of his own in the music world was extraordinary yet...painfully ordinary.

What had she been expecting? That he would appear in a sequined jacket, gloves, and socks while moon-walking down the stairs? Or that he'd be singing in that manner that made his fans collapse with pagan adoration? Was it disappointment that laced through her when he showed up (almost noiselessly) dressed in a simple black sweater, jeans, and a pair of loafers while carrying his youngest son as any regular father would? There was absolutely nothing flashy about his appearance (hell even his hair – though long- was in a neat ponytail). His shy and polite greeting, coupled with a handshake that was firm yet non-threatening, his sweet boyish smile, light bow and invitation to join them in the living room had added an air of incredulity to what would turn out to be one of the most amazing evenings of her life.

Stephanie hadn’t been kidding about her husband being a ‘book nerd’, and it was safe to say that Michael made his way into her ‘smart men’ category after a leisurely dinner, several cups of coffee, and two hours into their debate of Nietzsche’s influence in modern day literature. The man could quote pages of the master’s work just like that, showcasing a man whose intelligence was betrayed by the persona he chose to present to the world (which was a damn shame in her opinion). He would lean forward with enthusiasm whenever she spoke; his large brown eyes lit like a child curious to learn everything no matter how boring the subject matter might be. And like a child revealing his secret hiding place, Michael had taken her on a tour of his library, where she had stood in the middle of the room with her jaw dropping in disbelief. It was like a mini replica of Yale's library – okay, so that was an exaggeration - but it was enough to have her heart pounding with an excitement she had felt lost forever. Fingertips had caressed books she thought rare and undiscovered, and when he shyly confessed that he had read everything in the room, she raised a skeptic brow. No way! There must be over a thousand books in the room! Many of them not even shelved. How could he have -?!

“He reads fast,” Stephanie had explained with amusement. “On nights he cannot sleep, he'll be up 'til two, three in the morning just reading away.”

Michael had scratched his nose in embarrassment, his feet shuffling back and forth as if caught doing something bad. “I keep her company sometime when she has to study for her exams, so...”

“You mean when you're not busy poking your nose into my business and distracting me, hmm?” she had teased; her features 'softening' as she nudged him playfully, and in that brief banter between them, Cassie felt she could be in another planet for all the attention they were paying to her. It was fascinating to watch the dynamics between them and perhaps a little part of her felt envious at never finding a man she could really connect to on such an intimate and personal level.

The 'soft' Stephanie. It was also the first time Cassie had witnessed the change in the woman who almost always seemed to have an air of detachment about her most of the time. No...not detachment per se, but rather an air of quiet dignity; as if she was a queen surveying those lowly without really meaning to. Though polite and friendly, she did not really give out ‘warm’ vibes at first glance and most tended to get the wrong impression about her personality.

But in front of him, she's different, Cassie thought with a small (and unbeknownst to her – motherly) smile. She became more...alive in his presence, and the same could be said for him. Though Michael had been genuinely sweet, welcoming, and polite with Cassie, there was still an untouchable aura around him; like an invisible glass wall in which you were only allowed to look at the man but not get any closer. Those walls, however, came tumbling down whenever he was with his wife and children – and that, to Cassie – was what had made her decision so much easier than she would have thought.

She wanted to be a part of that aura.

“You want me to work for you?”

“Yes,” Stephanie chewed at the end of her straw; her glass of mimosa almost drained. It was another beautiful spring afternoon in New Haven, nearly two months after her dinner date with the family, and they were outside a local bistro enjoying a Sunday brunch.

“Uh huh.” Cassie wrapped several strings of well-seasoned spaghetti around her fork. “And what makes you think I'm going to say yes to this? I should put you over my knee and spank you for being so daring.”

Her ‘stern’ words did not make a dent on the younger woman. Stephanie only chuckled and shrugged lightly. “I can't guarantee it's going to be as exciting as your teaching job -”

“Hardy har har-”

“But you get the opportunity to do a lot of fascinating things. Travel for instance-”

“Mm...” Her ears had perked up at the word, but she pretended as if she was not interested, still focusing on her pasta salad and how soggy the sliced tomatoes looked today. She knew she shouldn’t have divulged her dreams of globe trekking. Now it was going to be used against her!

“...I'm not really into the Hollywood shenanigans,” Stephanie continued. “We hardly go to all those parties and things, unless Michael's invited to award shows and then I have to get all spruced up for them. And though Grace moonlights as my assistant and sees to some of my daily schedule especially when I'm back in L.A., she's got her hands full with the boys most of the time.” She stirred her drink absently. “I basically need someone to keep me on my toes, Mrs. Amoroso, and I think you'll be good for the job. Michael has recommended a few of his employees, but I’d rather go with someone who isn’t so caught up in the idea of celebrity. I know I can trust you.”

There was something about the way she had said those six words that sent a pang in Cassie’s heart. It was almost sad, and she could imagine how many disappointments the couple must have had over the years; wondering who they could entrust their private moments and secrets to without the fear of having it published in a tell-all book the very next day. Or being sued and taken to court for some frivolous situation or another.

“I don't know anything about...all that,” Cassie had insisted with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn't know how to speak to any big celebrity wanting to have meetings with you or organizing events or-”

“They are human beings just like you and me,” Stephanie replied quietly. “The only thing they've got going for them is that they make more money than you do.”

“Touché.”

“It's the truth. Strip away their famous names and beneath you'll see that they have just as many insecurities and fears as the next person. They are only able to hide with the expensive masks they choose to wear.”

“Such cynicism from thy lips,” Cassie muttered, but she was intrigued all the same. “Can I at least be allowed to sleep on it before giving my yay or nay?”

Stephanie nodded. “Sure you can. I’d really like to know your answer by the end of the week though. The holidays are fast approaching, and I’ll be leaving for L.A. with the boys next weekend.”

One week. One week to consider giving up years of dedication to her craft and scholastic endeavors in the literary world and to dive into a superficial world of fame and fortune. One week to pace around her office, spend long hours walking around the beautiful parks beside her home, make notes of potential plans for what her future held. One week to change her way of life as she knew it. Did she dare step out of her comfort zone?

Ah well…you only live once, Cassandra Amoroso. So you might as well live it up now. Opportunity comes a-knocking; you take it and run like the wind.

Hence, on Saturday night – the day before Stephanie was to leave for L.A. – she picked up the phone to give her new employer the news.

“I accept your offer, Stephanie...on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You are welcome to call me Cassie. We might as well get rid of the formalities, eh?”

Stephanie’s low chuckle was the beginning of two years of a working friendship that experienced a gamut of lows and highs. And though the president of the university and her colleagues had been stunned at her decision to quit, they were nice enough to organize a lovely retirement/farewell party in addition to one of her more heftier pay checks for all her services. She was always welcome back to the college if her new gig didn’t turn out so well, but after three months of getting her affairs in order, Cassie doubted she would ever want to teach in such a setting again.

Her new line of work was a vast contrast to sitting behind a desk or pacing around a lecture room. It was more exciting and exhilarating. Now she had to be more conscious of how she dressed and carried herself in public. She was representing a high-powered client after all. With her mini makeover complete, her job now mostly involved reminding Stephanie of important award events, fundraisers, charities, or meetings she had outside of her medical school obligations. When it came to traveling (especially overseas), there were pre-meetings with suitable hotels, working with security to be reassured of her boss’s safety and privacy, maneuvering through language barriers and wading off over-enthusiastic stalkers. You’d be surprised at how many young men (and some old geezers) went overboard with their affections for Stephanie. Hell, about three of them had to be given restraining orders, including one who had dared to disguise himself as a bellhop at a hotel in London, only to be discovered hiding beneath Stephanie’s bed in her hotel room. The gall!

Another stressful part of her job was keeping up with the tabloids and entertainment news programs, and having to weed out what was false (which was most of the time) from reality. She had come to learn that the media did not really seem to care much about the substantial side of her boss, but rather tended to focus on such flimsy story lines as Stephanie’s fashion choices (where she was either praised for donning a haute couture gown for an award show or shredded apart for daring to wear sweatpants and no makeup to grab a cup of coffee from across the street). Her job also involved booking or dealing with pesky news media organizations who wanted exclusive interviews with Stephanie. If Stephanie was out and about to promote the Heal the World Foundation, or a charity event for St. Jude’s Hospital or Tender Life, she was willing to have a quick five or ten-minute interview about the event. She rarely allowed them to pry into her personal life, and her decision to keep ‘mum’ about it usually got them [media] irate enough to pounce on any juicy, salacious scandal involving her. The ‘Ice Queen’ had to be brought down by any means necessary.

Case in point the most recent debacle with that Doctor Maxwell fellow. Talk about experiencing heart burn and indigestion when she had woken up the next morning to see the pictures pasted all over the newspapers and on T.V. Though Stephanie had reassured her that nothing was happening between them, Cassie was no fool. She realized this particular incident had caused a severe strain to the couple, and though part of her job was to do damage control (when necessary_ what could she do as a mere personal assistant? She was no love guru. She did not have the soothing speaking skills of Oprah to fix up their marriage, and she realized that this trip to Tokyo and her sudden decision to return back to the States was simply Stephanie trying her best to make things right in her own way.

It was just a damn pity everything had to blow up in her face tonight.

She hadn’t seen what happened in the room since the bodyguard had taken Stephanie away, and she was left to swelter amongst the many other personal assistants to the stars near the exit. She had assumed she’d at least get a moment to take a breather...walk outside for a few minutes...and perhaps get a call from Stephanie saying she could go back to the hotel as she’d be returning with Michael in the other limo.

She was most definitely not expecting to see Stephanie nearly running past her with an expression that was a mixture of shock, disappointment, and anger all rolled into one.

“Stephan…” she had began, already scurrying after the other woman.

“Let’s go.”

No arguments. No questions. Just get the damn car around and hit it.

Now used to such curt lingo (and even Michael was guilty of this sometimes), Cassie simply did as she was told and in less than five minutes they were on the road again. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that things hadn’t worked out.

Doubt she wants to hear me say “I’m sorry” right about now. I might get my head bitten off.

And yet, Stephanie’s body language is now far from that of a woman who is angry enough to hit something. She is pressed against the door on the far left as if hoping to melt into it or disappear altogether. The dark shadows in the car make it impossible to see her facial features, but her hands clutch the mink coat tightly as if not wanting anyone to see the sexy little number she has beneath or to control her trembling.

Just what the hell happened in there? Was Michael upset? How could he be? He should be over the moon that she had showed up to surprise him, right? So why...?

“Maybe...” comes the quiet word that has Cassie perking up from her somber reverie. She feels her Blackberry buzzing in the pocket of her Kenneth Cole jacket, but she resists the urge to answer. “Maybe I should have stayed.”

“Stayed...?” she prods gently.

“The old me...” Stephanie seems to shake her head a little. Her voice seems distant. “The old me would have probably made a scene. She would have run into that room and clawed her eyes out.”

Dear me. There was another woman in there?! Michael was with another woman?! That...!

“...but I’ve become such a...such a cow...coward...too...too fucking tired.” There’s a sharp intake of breath, and it’s clear that Stephanie’s trying to stop herself from bursting into tears.

Cry if you must, my dear. It cannot be easy to witness such a scene if it’s as ugly as it’s pictured in my head.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she croaks in a hoarse whisper. “It’s like...I’m in a da...damn com...competition with other women all the time. I don’t...I don’t know what to do anymore...what am I going to do?”

At the first choked sob, Cassie can’t stand it anymore. She shifts positions to sit beside the younger woman, her arms wrapping themselves around the trembling body to hold her close.

“There, there now...let it all out. Just...let it out.” She knows her words sound so cliché and terribly inappropriate, but no one had taught her a crash course on Caring for Sad Wives 101. The most comforting she has done is to deal with distraught students that desperately needed at least a ‘C’ to pass the class and rescue their pitiful GPAs.

Suddenly, Stephanie seems to get a hold of herself - though she’s still crying - and to Cassie’s bemusement begins to tug at the dress as if hoping to rip it right off her body. “I hate this…this…thing!” comes the unexpected venom-filled outburst.

“Hate it? I thought you love-”

The cold look thrown her way is enough to have Cassie zipping her mouth shut. Stephanie sniffles and scrubs at her face like a child would when forced to stop crying.

“I hate this dress,” she repeats with distaste. No, not the dress per se, but what it now represents; lies, infidelity (possibly), and deep-seeded humiliation. In her mind, the image of that ‘other woman’ wearing it...leaning close to her husband...whispering in his ear...touching him…flirting…invading her personal property for God’s sake! Who the hell does she think she is?

The old hag of a bitch.

“What on earth are you doing?” Cassie gasps as Stephanie begins to shrug out of the mink coat. She can hear her Blackberry buzzing incessantly, and she has a feeling it’s Michael calling, since Stephanie had turned off her phone the moment she sat in the car. She’s torn between answering it and trying to control the situation at hand and her jaw nearly drops to the floor as Stephanie kicks off her stilettos and actually begins to unzip the dress.

“Goodness, young woman! You cannot take off your clothes here! We can do that at the hotel...!”

Thanking goodness that the partition is up and the windows tinted to prevent any unwanted views (imagine the scandal!), she can only watch in astonishment (and reluctant admiration at Stephanie’s daring) as she strips down to her panties. It does take some maneuvering of that slender body, but in a couple of minutes, Stephanie’s tossed the outfit into Cassie’s outstretched arms and has wrapped the mink coat around her again before settling back into position as if nothing had transpired.

Well I never...why do I get the feeling she’s taken off clothes at the back of a car before?

Cassie clears her throat as she straightens out the lace and silk number. “What should I do…?”

“Send it back to Janet,” Stephanie states quietly. Her gaze is now trained out the window. “I’ll call her later to give her my thanks.”

“Ah…” Now to conjure up some quick letter, to Miss. Jackson, to explain just what the hell happened tonight. “So we are going back to the hotel?”

Stephanie wants to say “yes”; that she would rather run back to the hotel room, bury herself beneath her pillows and cry until she can cry no more. If all had gone as planned, she would have followed Michael back to his hotel where they could see the boys, have fun with them, and then…well…spend the rest of the weekend alone – making up - while the children were taken back to Neverland.

So much for that now.

To her chagrin, the tears came again – even harder than before. She slapped her hands over her face and tried to compose herself, but no matter how much she felt she could get the situation back under the control, her failures seemed to hover over her head like a storm cloud. She had been such a fool. Such a goddamn fool. Had she thought for a moment that Michael would even be expecting her? Had she forgotten how famous he was? It had been a while since he performed on stage, so what gave her the idea that his dressing room would have been empty in the first place? She should be aware that her role as his wife was to share him with others when the time came; that when they weren’t in the safe cocoon of their home, the rest of the world would always want a piece of him. How naïve had she been to assume that things would fall into place just because she willed it to be? When you were in Michael’s world, you had to adjust to the situation and try to fit in as best you could, and in those brief moments where her world had been shattered, Stephanie had never felt more like a square peg in a round hole. Where did she fit in now? What role did she really play at this point in his life?

“…don’t know…”

She sniffles and wipes her eyes with the sleeves of the mink coat; vaguely listening to Cassie converse with someone on her phone. She hates the knowledge that her heart is beating a little faster at the notion that it could be Michael calling her, but goodness knows she doesn’t dare speak to him now. She has a feeling whatever conversation they will have is not going to go very well.

I just might kill him…with my bare hands. If that will make him stop hurting me so much…

“Stephanie?” comes the low whisper that causes her to lift her gaze in bemusement.

“It’s Janet,” Cassie explains with an apologetic smile. “She says she has to speak to you even though I tried to tell her…”

Stephanie sighs and motions for the device. Might as well deal with the family now.

The phone still feels warm from Cassie’s touch as she holds it to her ear and braces herself for Janet’s interrogation. Michael’s baby sister could be worse than Regina on a good day.

“Hey, Booboo,” she greets with as much enthusiasm as she can muster; though it sounds like she has a bad cold and is in the depths of a well. ‘Booboo’ is the term of endearment they had begun calling a few years ago during one particularly exuberant Jackson family reunion. Stephanie was sure alcohol had been involved at the time, but anyway, the term had stuck since then. Michael teased them mercilessly about it though.

/Is she your husband too?/ he would ask with a laugh. /You married to two Jacksons at the same time, eh, babe?/

“Hey yourself, Boo,” Janet replies to break through her solemn thoughts. She sounds exasperated (and in a very loud place with all the noise in the background). “Where are you? Goodness, girl! I thought you’d be with us here at the after party with Michael.”

Stephanie bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood and has to take a deep breath and squeeze her eyes shut to stop herself from breaking down again. She is just so fucking tired of being such an emotional wreck.

“…there…there was a change in plans,” she finally manages to whisper. “I…I couldn’t go through with it.” The lie feels heavy on her tongue and she wants to scream the truth, but she can’t. She can’t get Janet involved with her problems.

“Oh, honey,” her sister-in-law moans. “This was just such a wonderful opportunity. Michael would have loved to see you. You know that.”

Really? Not with the way he seemed so enamored with…with…

“I’m sorry,” she can only croak hoarsely. “I’m such a chicken I guess.”

Janet laughs. “Stephanie Jackson? A chicken? Never heard that one before. So what are your plans now? Going back to your hotel? Or meeting up with Michael someplace else? Have you spoken to him at all? Hold on…” Her voice fades a little and is coupled with loud laughter and air kisses. Stephanie rubs her forehead and wishes the conversation would end already. Janet’s happy atmosphere is like a grating rock against her brick wall of misery.

Eventually she returns with a chirpy, “Booboo? You still there?”

“Yes…” Stephanie replies weakly. She stares out the window and notices the limo is pulling into the underground parking lot of the hotel she’s staying at for the interim.

“What are your plans?” Janet pesters, but then quickly adds “Oh damn it. I see Dick coming, and he’s going to want to take pictures. Booboo, keep me posted, all right? I want to know all the details. Love you!”

She’s hardly given the chance to reply before Janet hangs up on her.

Typical. The fun life of being a superstar.

She’s just about to give the phone back to Cassie, when her curiosity takes precedence. Before she can control herself, she presses the button to show all missed calls, and her heart leaps (whether with joy or irritation or both – she can’t tell) at how many times Michael’s number shows up. In the nearly half-hour since ‘the incident’, he has called almost ten times.

Guilt. What else was there to say? The man was brimming with it, and he feels calling will make a difference. The bastard.

With an inner sigh, she hands the device to her companion and shares a weak smile before bracing herself for the departure. She’s going to have to hold onto the mink coat a little more tighter than usual lest it open to give the staff a good view of what was beneath. On any other day, or to be more exact, with Michael in the vicinity, there was nothing sexier than a fur coat draped around your naked flesh. She knows Michael would appreciate this particular outfit at least, although with the way she had assumed he’d like the lace number…unfortunately some other woman (slut) had beaten her to the punch.

He should consider himself lucky if he ever sees me naked again, she thinks bitterly as the door opens and Kevin – their security detail/bodyguard – helps her out with a smile and bow. If he notices that his boss’s wife seems to be clutching the coat a little tighter than normal, he keeps his observations to himself. It’s hard enough having to control his natural reaction to those legs that just wouldn’t quit.

Once in the hotel room, and with only Cassie for company, she shrugs out of the coat and tosses it onto a couch in the living room. Hardly caring that anyone could walk in to see her in a state of undress.

“Do you want dinner? I can get them to whip you up a quick salad or…?” Cassie asks.

“No. I’m okay, thank you,” comes the faint reply from the bedroom area. Trotting after Stephanie, who is now sitting on the bed to kick off her shoes, the Venetian-themed room is still in its state of organized chaos. They had literally arrived early in the day from the airport and there was no time to unpack anything.

With a loud groan, Stephanie flops back to the bed and stretches her body as a feline would. Another material that felt good against naked flesh? Silk sheets (or was this the finest of Egyptian Cotton?) either way, she can feel her lashes growing heavier with weariness. It has been a very long day after all.

“What do you plan to do now?” Cassie asks as she puts away the shoes and tries to move some of the hand luggage to the side of the room. “Will you go back to New Haven tomorrow? I can ask Pete to get the private plane ready-”

“I want to see my children,” Stephanie mumbles wearily. She curls into a fetal position; her hooded gaze trained blindly on the fading lights of Pasadena’s skyline at night. She forgot to draw the curtains closed earlier, so any curious bastard would have seen her in the nude.

Whatever. I don’t give a shit anymore anyway.

“So…to Neverland tomorrow?” Cassie queries. “Steve said Michael and the kids were planning to head there immediately.”

“I guess,” comes the low mumble. She’s already half-asleep, but she thinks being in the same house with him will be awkward…uncomfortable…but she tells herself that she’s not going to be there for him. Not anymore. She’s only there for her children. They are the only things that mean anything to her anymore. He can go hang out with Ms. Presley for all she cared – at least her children still loved her…and that was all that mattered.

Cassie, knowing anything else she would have said would not be understood, nods and reaches out to pull the covers over the now sleeping woman. She knows she’s allowing her motherly instincts to kick in, but she cannot help but feel her heart break for how young and vulnerable Stephanie looked in this state. Gone is the powerhouse female who can go toe-to-toe with anyone in an argument given the right incentive. Now, she simply looks like a woman who needs someone to protect her and that someone has been driven out of his mind with worry in the past hour. The buzz of her Blackberry signifies that yet another frantic text message has been sent.

I’m sorry, Stephanie, Cassie thinks with a small smile as she reaches out to brush away the tear that slides down Stephanie’s cheek before tiptoeing out of the room, but I think what I’m about to do is the best thing for you both. You can fire me in the morning if you want, but at least…give him a chance to explain himself if nothing else.

And as she closes the door to the bedroom gently, she finally picks up her phone and gives him the reply he so desperately needs to hear.

__

I know you’re somewhere out there
Somewhere far away
I want you back
My neighbors think I’m crazy
But they don’t understand
You’re all I have
You’re all I have

Navi was a godsend.

The kid had a good heart and great instincts, and with just one phone call (thank goodness he was in the States), and with no questions asked – he was at the auditorium and ready to fool the masses into believing he was the real thing…again. The decoy plan went smoothly, and Michael was in and out of the arena shortly after his conversation and obligatory photo-ops with Dick and his family.

Now alone with his thoughts in the confines of the sleek black BMW 330si (he has no idea whose car they borrowed anyway) and with Javier at the wheel, he clutches his Blackberry tightly in his fist; heart pounding at the most recent text from Cassie about his wife’s whereabouts. It was natural to expect that Stephanie’s phone would be off and she wouldn’t want to speak to him, hence bugging the hell out of Cassie had been his next plan of action.

/Penthouse suite/ The text said. /I’ve let Kevin know you’ll be arriving, so there should be no problems with staff or security./

And the last three words she texted as an aftermath of sorts…?

/Make things right./

I will try, he prays with a feverish intensity that almost makes him weak-kneed. He knows he has to make her listen; that they’d have to let go of all the anger, frustration, and misunderstandings if they had a shot at making this marriage last. Recalling David’s words of Stephanie still loving him gives him some hope…

(if you haven’t shot that to hell with what transpired tonight that is)

He groans and rubs a trembling hand across his forehead; not too surprised to find a light sheen of sweat has broken out on his skin. He’s afraid; deathly afraid of knowing she could possibly reject him. She could very well want him to sign the ‘d-word’ papers tonight and never want to see him again. She could hit him (that he could withstand), insult him (he could bear with that too), and accuse him of all sorts of wrong doings…

(and you know you’ll have to come clean…bare your motherfucking soul to her, Michael…fall on your hands and knees and beg like you’ve never begged before…)

So where can he begin? What can he say? It is easy to pen them in lyrics and sing them, but in reality, saying the words can be so much more difficult especially when standing face-to-face with a woman you’ve wronged. Songs…singing…were his only way of communicating his thoughts effectively, and he knew that she understood that about him. Isn’t it why she always insists he sing to her over the countless miles between them whenever they talked on the phone? Music has always been a bridge of healing and strength between them, and even if it was simply listening to her sing hymns during Sunday Mass or trying to get the boys to sleep; there was always singing in their household to keep them together in mind and spirit. So will singing make much of a difference now? Does he dare hope that opening his mouth to pelt out his heartfelt feelings and emotions would change or sway her mind?

He doubts it. He doubts it very much.

I dare not sugarcoat it, he realizes with a heavy thud of his heartbeat as the car slowly makes its way into the underground parking lot of the hotel. He can already see Kevin and Joe waiting for him and his palms get sweaty with nerves. His head is beginning to pound, his hands now trembling slightly as he covers his nose and mouth with the black surgical mask. He reaches into the pocket of his coat for his sunglasses and nearly drops them to the floor in his agitation. However, (and with an inner curse) he finally manages to fix it onto his face. He slams the fedora on his head and gives himself a serious pep talk (goddamn stomach won’t stop fluttering!), and as he steps out of the car and gives polite nods to the greetings he receives, all he can think about are the words he hopes to say…her expression…and the sinking realization that tonight was going to be the make or break of their relationship.

Dear God…Jehovah…Father in heaven…please give me the courage to go through with this.

Goodness knows he had to make it right, and if he failed…no…if they both failed to really communicate and get their feelings out in the open…they would really have no other party to blame but themselves.