A Lifetime Of Memories | Michael Jackson |

one - a glimpse into the future

1996
January

"I need it because of my scalp injury."

Bullshit.

Straight bullshit.

Another lie he had conjured up. I picked him up from what he said was a Dr. appointment—yet he was high off his mind. I was almost certain it was Demoral shots.

Every month—at least—he was in the hospital for something else. Or he was bringing the hospital to him. One of his family members had told me it was a pill problem.
I hadn't noticed he was even taking pills. He said that he didn't like taking pills. Another bullshit lie.

But then he was in the hospital again. For something foolish.

Karen—his makeup artist—had told me the truth. There was this HBO thing that I knew he didn't want to do. He was off about it. Quiet and cold. He cut it out of the conversation every time it came up.

Now, suddenly, he had fallen. Right as he was supposed to do this giant thing for HBO.

Unbelievable.

I flew to New York where he was in the hospital. I wouldn't leave him. I was worried sick—even if I had my skepticism.

His mom was there, too, along with his team, including his own anesthesiologist.

Nobody has their own anesthesiologist—every hospital has their own.

But I ignored it. Just like I had ignored every red flag when it came to him.

At first, I couldn't get a read on what the fuck was going on, but I started to cotton on to it: He needed somebody around who could legally administer the drugs.

My mind was a blur and the thought of him was throwing me for loops. I couldn't lose him. I wouldn't—
"I want to go into his bathroom," I told one of the security team. "Let me see what he's taking."
But they wouldn't. They told me to stay calm. To stay put. To stay out of it.

Michael was being really awful—he got mad at me for asking questions.
I said, "What's really happening here? If you have a problem, I'll go with you to rehab."
The doctor started coming after me, threatening me, telling me to stop asking so many questions. I said, "I'm just trying to find out what's going on with my husband."

The doctor and Michael had a meeting, and when the doctor came out of his room, he said, "He wants to talk to you."
In the room, Michael said, "You're causing too many problems here. They're going to take you to the airport, you need to go home until I'm done. I'll see you when I get back."
So I left. I wanted him to come, too, but he didn't.
That was it. That was all I needed. I filed—

"Marilyn!"

...1980
January

I looked up from my book to find the voice yelling out my name. "Yeah?!" I yelled back.

"Get your ass down here!"

I blinked. My heart dropped. Oh no.

I closed my book slowly as I swallowed the lump in my throat. My heart was beating faster than I could keep up with.

My aunt was always yelling at me—for things I couldn't control but always tried to. I always waited for the day she'd kick me out the house—a threat that she always held over my head.

I just waited... and waited.

So I took a step and another step.

I made my way through the hall and down the small set of spiral stairs. Our house echoed. My aunt could've been in a number of rooms. Yet I found her instantly.

"Yes, Aunt Berniece?" I asked as I peaked into the room. I was betting on this being another job. Some random gig that she was forcing me to do. To continue my mother's legacy.

Nobody could continue her legacy.

Aunt Berniece didn't even look at me, she just waved me over with the tick of her finger. She had her reading glasses on as she skimmed over some paper.

A gorgeous woman she was...
An evil woman she was.

I took the slow steps over to her. I kept my feet quiet and my voice quieter, "What's going on?"
"Michael. Michael Jackson—have you heard of him?" Her eyes finally met mind as she slightly took off her glasses—just enough to hold them at her chin.

His name sounded familiar. Extremely familiar. But I couldn't place it.

"I'm... I'm not sure." My voice sounded too timid. I already despised it. A cruel quality that my Aunt Berniece insisted I received from my late mother.
"You're not sure." A question and a statement all in one. A conniving tone. Killer gaze. Disgusted eyes. Her reading glasses slipped back on as she looked away from me and to the paper. "It says here—he wants you in his video."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

"Some kind of video for his song..." She went quiet for a second as she seemed to focus in on the note. "He's a musician. A new album is in the works and he wants to meet you."
My heart began to beat even faster. Another stranger that i'd have to be nice and gentle with. Express my mother's kindness and soft tone.

Marilyn Monroe... the sweetheart. The beauty. The super star.
I carried that around like a burden. The size of the shoes which I was expected to fill were too large. I couldn't do it. And I think my aunt knew that. I think that's what she despised me for.

"Marilyn."

I blinked, "yeah?"
Her hands flared slightly, "well are you going to do it??"
An option? A question? A choice? "I—" I had never received a choice before. I was told, not asked.
She sighed. "Goddamn," Her head pressed against the back of her hand—the one she was holding the paper with. "I thought when you turned 17 you'd learn a bit of maturity. You'll be 18 soon, you know." She lifted her head again to look at me. "You'll go. It should be good money."

It took me a minute but I slowly began to nod my head. Then I spoke:
"Okay. What am I doing with him?"
She placed her reading glasses onto the table as she folded the paper in half and slid open the drawer connected to the table. "Does it matter?"
I wanted to say yes. That this was a random man and... well, with my mother's name they expected things from me. Mother flaunted her sexuality. Used it as her weapon. I hadn't even begun to discover mine. Play with it. Understand it.

I hadn't wanted to.

I had seen what it did to her. I wanted no part of that.

"No... I guess not." Was my final response. A mumbled of words—underneath my breath.
She nodded once. "Sounds good, then." That was my dismissal.

I turned and walked out.

The weird thing about our relationship was... she didn't care. About me. About my name. About my image or my wellbeing. She just cared about the money.

It never made sense to me.

She loved my mother. The second they met, they tried to create a relationship in which they never believed could exist.

I'll explain it to you shortly:

my aunt Berniece and my mother had the same mother—Grandma Pearl. Aunt Berniece didn't even know of my mother until she was 19. She didn't meet my mother until she was 25. But they formed a close relationship quickly.

My mother adored Aunt Berniece and likewise. I guess not enough to treat me good.

I tried to see her side of things. A random kid dumped on you. A kid you never wanted or planned to have. A kid who shared the same face as your late sister.

Still, it never clicked how she could be so ruthless. So uncaring.

Whatever.

It was fine.

I'd be okay.