San Ysidro Ranch, Montecito, CA, 1st Sept 1997
8:45pm
"What exactly are you going to tell Kleff?" Michael sat back in his seat, and flashed a grin.
It was imperative that their smiles didn't slip tonight.
Best behaviour.
Both of them.
His voice was cool, and even, and as he narrowed his eyes at her, he watched through his angry fog, as Afia lifted her gin slide with one perfectly manicured hand.
Tapping on the glass with a fingernail, she smirked, "I'm going to tell Kleff that I drank alcohol, at a restaurant.." She grinned wide, closing her lips around the plastic straw wedged between all the ice and candy in the glass.
"You should tell him how you make me feel," Michael hissed, eyes darting between the glass and his wife's smug face, "Tell him that you enjoy making me feel nervous in public..That you enjoy drinking until you embarrass us both."
Afia frowned through a long sip, managing to let her lips curl into a smirk.
It was all way too funny to be sad.
Here she was, one of the richest women in America.
Supposedly one of the happiest too.
And yet, she and her husband were one glass of gin away from a very public split.
Michael swallowed, his Adam's apple jumping in his throat, as he sat back in his seat once more.
His skin was flushing, a cute pink.
"Now you trust Kleff? Now you believe in opening up during those sessions?" Afia swirled her huge glass in one hand, and patted away the corner of her mouth with the other.
How refreshing.
The taste of the drink, of course.
Not her husbands sudden interest in their therapy sessions.
Michael slowly shook his head, and remembered to smile.
"I don't need you, or this. If you fuck it up, we're done. There's your wake up call.." He hissed.
"Michael, just drink your water, and focus on your salad,"Afia breathed, taking another sip from her swirling rainbow glass, "I would never embarrass my baby.." She smiled sweetly at him.
For a moment at least, her smile looked genuine.
Her baby.
Michael had often blushed, or felt warm inside when she'd used those affectionate terms with him.
Though even now, as she was putting on a show, for the silent audience all around them, something about it still felt real.
Michaels heart was tightening up in his chest, frustration becoming a familiar feeling in his body.
Vacantly, he glanced around the room, to assess the crowd.
Everyone appeared to be eating, and drinking and chatting away, though as he looked harder, he caught almost everyone's eyes.
One couple, sat talking animatedly in a corner, leaning over the table, as the candles lit up their smiles at one another. The couple remained oblivious to Michael and Afia's presence.
See, that was real.
Michael found himself staring now, past his wife's shoulder at this couple.
They looked like they'd been together a long time.
Whatever they were talking about, they were both deeply interested in the conversation.
The way the girl would pause, and let the guy finish, the way they would giggle, and glance down only to pick up food on their cutlery.
"Look," Michael whispered, nodding, "Look at how she listens to him.." Michaels jaw was locking, and his huge dark eyes were fixed on the couple behind.
Afia turned slightly, and found Michaels eyes rested on the couple in the corner.
The couple in the corner.
They seemed happy, sure.
But maybe, just like her and Michael, they were secretly in a silent war.
Who could really know?
Who could really tell?
"You want me to hang off of your every word, like that?" Afia mumbled, turning back to look at her man.
How he shined opposite her.
How beautiful he was.
Michael moved a soft curl from his eye with one finger, and gave an incredulous scowl to his glass of water.
"You used to.. You used to love everything I had to say, and everything I did. You used to worship me.." He looked back up with a much darker expression.
By now, Afia had sipped and sipped until there was nothing but candy and ice left clinking in her glass as she rested it back on the table.
Michael scoffed, "But this," He waved his hand, "This whole world has turned us against each other.." he trailed off, staring hard at the empty gin glass.
He knew soon her words would begin to slur, and she would be less careful about her tone.
He knew, that unless dealt with delicately, she would give him a reason to stay up late, obsessing over her words, and her scowls.
"Michael," Afia drawled, as the first few drops of alcohol had already started to rush through her bloodstream, "We didn't change at all.. We just got to know each other.." She giggled, covering her mouth to let out a small burp.
Afia's eyes had lowered, and she could feel that spirit rising.
It was a feeling of courage, and carelessness.
Was it a double gin?
Michael scoffed, and sighed when he noticed Stephen, the waiter, barging through the kitchen doors again, with a bottle of Rosé in one hand, and two starters laid across his other.
It had always amazed him, how waiters, much like magicians, could juggle.
Carry three plates along one arm, and five flutes of champagne in the other.
He'd often contemplate his own life, and whether he'd of had the patience to wait on anyone if he wasn't the King of Pop.
"Your Rosé Madam," Stephen was panting, as he placed the bucket of Rosé down beside Afia's hand, "Please enjoy.." He nodded docilely, as Afia noticed the sweat marks under his arms.
That poor boy was jittering with nerves.
Over serving them.
How amusing.
Afia could never understand the hysteria.
If anybody knew them, really knew them, they'd be reluctant to cheer and cry.
Afia and Michael were almost too human.
They didn't deserve to be treated like deities.
"Thank you.." Michael and Afia chimed in unison at their waiter, and watched him as he disappeared again behind the kitchens double doors.
"Doesn't this look good?" Afia enthused, sitting up to pull her bottle of Rosé out of the ice bucket it was chilling in.
Michaels head shot up from his plate, and he glared.
It was a stern glare, a hard one.
His teeth were bared, and so aware of this, he pursed his lips.
"Eat first. Pour later." He spoke through his teeth, but it was a fierce order.
Michael did not want Afia to appear too keen to indulge herself in drink, and he was disgusted even, that she'd not taken even a minute to look at the food before pulling at the bottle.
Afia narrowed her eyes, her fist enclosed around the cold neck of the bottle, which she'd only half way pulled out of the bucket.
With her other hand, she picked up her fork, not taking her eyes away from Michael's.
His heart began to race, beating against his rib cage, as he watched his wife stab at her plate, hard, making an awkward *chink* amongst the quieter chatter in the restaurant.
"Mm," Afia moaned, closing her eyes as she pushed a mouthful of her starter passed her lips, "Mm, okay.." She smiled, eyes wild, as she dropped her fork in her plate, and continued with her bottle.
Michael recoiled, visibly.
"Affie," He whispered, his own fork in his hand trembling, as he watched her helplessly, unwinding the plastic wrap around the bottle lid, "Please.." He whispered, lowering his head.
"Here's what you need to fucking understand," Affia leaned in to spit at him, the bottle still firmly held above the table in her small hand, "If you want to play this stupid part, in this stupid play, I get to drink whatever the fuck I want.." She hissed, as she realised her tongue was starting to roll faster than her head could process.
The gin was doing its job.
Michael's jaw flexed, and he violently scooped up some of his starter on to his fork, wedging it into his mouth.
He simply couldn't look at her.
It would make him cry, or shout or both.
Michael chewed, 27 times, staring into his lap.
He chewed, listening as he could hear the glug of Rosé slapping into Afia's glass.
It sounded like a never ending fountain.
Was she pouring the whole fucking thing?
Michaels food tasted like papier-mâché in his mouth.
His appetite was waining.
Even as he swallowed, the sludge slid through him slowly, nourishing nothing.
Afia had filled her glass almost to the brim with the pink liquid.
She felt nothing but rage.
Mild amusement at her darling husbands nervousness, but mostly rage.
As if having to pretend to be happy wasn't enough, she couldn't even drink whilst doing it?
Well to hell with him.
And his stupid rules.
And his rigid lifestyle.
"If you're not happy, fine," Michaels voice was a whisper, "But don't you make a fool of me on your way out of the door.." He mumbled, rejecting once again to look at her.
Afia, was smirking.
In one hand, she held her Rosé, and with the other, she swirled her starter around her plate with her fork.
"No, no, no.." Afia giggled, singing softly, "You don't love me..." She chimed, humming the tune.
Michaels skin was crawling.
"So this is how you want me to love you again?" Michael looked up, brows furrowed, nose wriggling, "You think this is gonna make me want you?"
He'd left his starter there on the plate, because another bite would make him heave.
Her smile was making him feel nuclear.
It wasn't funny.
Their reputations on the line wasn't funny.
"You used to be fun," Afia rolled her eyes making Michael wince, "You're so boring now.." She snickered, taking a huge sip of her drink.
"I'm boring because I'm stable. You're not stable. You still wanna run around like this is the eighties.."
"Michael, watch your smile.." Afia grinned, flexing her brows up at her husband who appeared to have forgotten his rule of no visible discomfort in public.
Michael straightened himself in his chair, and let his lips twitch.
His lips twitched into an uneasy smile, but his eyes were a flickering mess.
He was blinking hard again, like he'd just woken up.
He was too disorientated.
There was too much too focus on.
His wife and her drink.
The entire restaurant.
The press outside.
His lack of appetite, at a dinner that he'd booked.
All of it looked so ridiculous already.
Could it be that the facade had already been exposed?
"Let's just get out of here. Just eat, and go. I don't want to spend my evening like this," Michael was blinking hairs out of his eyes, and fussing with his fringe again, "This is stupid.." He huffed, his cheekbones flexing in and out of fake smiles.
"Look at you.." Afia spoke slowly, slurring even, "Look at you still trying to keep all of this up... this is going to be the death of you.." Afia grinned, after swallowing another huge gulp of alcohol.
For a moment, she watched her husband squirm in his seat.
She watched his skin become red.
She watched his eyes blinking as he fussed over his hair.
She watched his mouth wriggle unsurely.
Pursed, and then smiling.
She almost felt sorry for him.
She was driving him into an anxiety induced frenzy.
He was visibly restless.
Her baby.
Momentarily her heart softened, and underneath the table, she moved a heeled foot, to rub up and down his firm calf.
"Michael," Afia soothed, her tongue wedged in her cheek, "I just want to feel loved again.." She confessed, and admittedly now she was slurring.
Michael contemplated this for a minute, as he let her foot stroke away at his leg.
He was breathing heavy, as they held eye contact, saying nothing.
Afia's hair was falling into her yellowing eyes, and she looked divine.
Those lips, mischievous in nature, were glistening.
He let himself look at her.
Really look at her.
Could he afford to lose that kind of beauty?
Pageant beauty.
An absolute stunner.
He blew air from his nose, leaning back in his chair, when her foot started to slide further up, until she could just about prod his inner thigh with the toe of her heel.
"I'm always going to love you," She continued, as she could see him becoming less nervous, hypnotised by her words, "I just know that love isn't enough. It's not enough for us.." She finished, smirking.
Drink had always given her an edge.
She could speak unemotionally, and truthfully.
Michael opened his legs a little underneath the table, eager, to allow her to have this.
If it meant she wouldn't have to be carried out of this restaurant kicking and screaming, he didn't mind the alternative being fondling her under the table.
"You think love was enough for our parents?" Michael asked feebly, as her toe kept on prodding and stroking, "They didn't see any other option but working it out. If they hadn't, where would we be?" He sighed huskily, knowing that beneath a lot of his rage, was most definitely some sexual tension.
Maybe, the answer was sex.
Maybe the answer was therapy.
Maybe the answer was therapy and sex.
Afia and Michaels eyes had changed now, and they were looking at each other hungrily.
It was a feral want.
It was inherent to both of them.
Something was carnal about their sexual exchanges.
It always felt like a battle.
Michael had even brought his hand between his legs under the table, to hold onto his wife's ankle.
So smooth and delicate.
He used his thumb to circle her ankle slowly, guiding her little foot closer to the small bulge growing in his trousers.
"I'm not Kathy.." Afia cocked a brow, "And you're not Joseph. So stop trying to model our dysfunctional relationship on theirs.." Afia bit her lip, when she could feel, in her open toe shoes, her husbands erection.
Michael smirked, but turned away, looking up toward the ceiling with a smile.
"Our relationship is much more beautiful than my parents," He began, pausing to look back into her eyes, "I don't want you to be like my mother.."
Afia tilted her head to give him a scoff.
"Are you sure? You seem to want me to suffer, and endure just like she did. You think that's the ultimate test of my love for you.." Afia was pressing her foot sole into his groin, and had folded her arms on the table as she leaned in deeper.
Michael tightened his grip on her ankle, and frowned, "You haven't endured what my mother did... Your life with me isn't half as bad as she had it with Joe.." Michael tilted his head, skinning up his nose.
Afia was just dramatic.
Hadn't he given her a beautiful life?
Beautiful children?
Love?
Afia felt the little tingle in her lower tummy evaporate into thin air.
She yanked her foot from his hand, and pulled her seat back, making Michael sigh heavily, and pick up his water again.
What did he say this time?
"That's what you think of course. I think you treat me way worse, actually.." Afia huffed, looking down at her starter.
Where was the fucking main course?
"Then, I'm asking you, how can I treat you better?" Michael mumbled into his glass, glancing at her as she sat moodily across from him.
"You want me to tell you? Hold your hand? Haven't I shown you what I want? Haven't I made it clear what I need from you?" Afia hissed, shaking her head sadly.
She was beginning to feel like a broken record.
She'd told him over and over again what she wanted in order to feel fulfilled in their marriage.
More quality time.
More loving sexual conquests.
More reciprocation.
More communication.
Less time apart.
Michael looked away now, because he knew that she wanted him to become the men that she'd seen only in movies.
Men that become so deluded by love that they have no purpose beyond being a husband.
Men that become slaves to their wives, afraid of every divorce threat.
He would never become that.
Not even for her.
"You want me to give you my life," Afia breathed, as she could feel her throat becoming warm, "But you won't give me yours.." Afia's voice was a whisper, as her eyes glistened across the table.
She was so passionate.
So vibrant.
She felt everything.
They both did.
But only Afia could communicate her feelings effectively.
Michael was far too passive.
In every aspect.
Michael would usually let every small grievance build, until he exploded in a magnificent rage, which turned into silence, and month long trips away from her.
It just wouldn't do anymore.
"Afia," Michael swallowed, because he could see she was becoming emotional, "When we get home can we talk?" He cleared his throat, as Stephen was once again pushing through the restaurant with plates in hand.
Afia sighed and sniffed, picking up her wine glass once more.
"I'm all talked out.." She laughed, awaiting the rest of her meal.
***
Neverland Ranch, Santa Barbara, CA, 1st September 1997
10:55pm
The evening in general, had gone rather smoothly, and although Afia was drunk, she hadn't made a scene like Michael had anticipated.
In fact, after their main course, she agreed not to order anything else to drink, and had opted for an ice cream and a glass of water.
Michael of course, left a hefty tip, and they both exited the restaurant to flashes and shouting.
Once they arrived home though, Afia wasn't ready to stop the party just yet.
She didn't go out with friends, and she didn't party.
That was all apart of her old life, which she'd traded to look like the Saintly Wife.
On the rare occasions that she did let her friends convince her to go to a club, she'd return home to Michael, coldly rocking their daughter to sleep in the movie room.
He wouldn't say hello, just "How was your evening?" In a clipped tone.
Michael never directly told her that he didn't like her drinking or partying.
It was just glaringly obvious.
Afia kicked off her heels loudly at the main entrance of their home, stumbling along the decorative carpet in the hall.
The lights were on, and she could hear the cooks talking quietly amongst themselves in the kitchen.
The kitchen that she never touched.
Afia hadn't made her family a single meal in that kitchen since 1991.
Michael insisted it wasn't her job.
"Afia, do you need some water?" Michael asked softly from behind her, as he too fumbled with his own shoes.
He could tell she was inebriated, and would probably retire to the huge drinks cabinet near the arcade.
Afia turned around, barefoot, and scraped her hair behind her ears with both hands.
Michael was bent on one knee, undoing his shoes, and looking up her with one of those disdainful scowls.
Biting on that lip.
She grinned, because he looked just as beautiful as he did when he proposed to her.
On bended knee.
Michael stared on, confused at her smiles, as he tilted his head, growing impatient with with her lack of reply.
"Af-"
"You look, exactly, like you did when you proposed.." Afia bit her lip hard, walking slowly, one foot in front of the other toward him.
Michael smiled and looked down bashfully, "You need to go to bed.." He giggled, his fingers moving up to his knee pads to swiftly unhook and unlock each one.
"Why don't you take me to bed?" Afia grinned, "Why don't you show me that you still want me?" Afia sighed, but it sounded desperate.
She stopped in front of him, glaring hot holes into the top of his head.
Michael didn't dare look up.
Afia placed her hands on her hips.
"You're drunk, you know I'm not doing that.." He breathed slowly, switching onto his other knee to undo those shoes and buckles too.
Afia dawdled for awhile in front of him, as her smile faded.
Now, she was stomping.
"You don't even love me!" She shrilled drunkenly, as the chatter from the cooks stopped.
They were listening.
"Afia, stop.." Michael soothed calmly.
Why did he always end up sounding like the reasonable one?
The unemotional one?
He still didn't look up from his feet.
"Oh stop, Afia!" She mocked loudly, flapping her arms up and slapping them back down against her body, "Stop asking your husband to love you, Afia!" She laughed, but it was a pained laugh.
"You need to take a hard look at yourself if you think anything you've done tonight would turn me on.." Michael scoffed.
But it was too quiet for the cooks to hear.
Afia flew into a textbook drunken rage.
"Of course!" She hissed, kicking away one of the knee pads Michael had undone across the hallway, "You wanna get upstairs, and run away from me!"
Michael ignored this, finally standing, and charging past her upstairs.
But she chased him.
She chased up him up those huge oak stairs, and into their master bedroom.
Michael tried his best to close the door, but she pushed it open, sending it flying into the wall.
"You need a fucking psyche evaluation! How can you act like this! It's late! The babies are asleep! I'm tired!" Michael was yelling now, but he only ever sounded like a child when angry.
He sounded like a wounded animal.
He could never make Afia tremble when he shouted.
It just twisted up her heart instead.
"My own husband," Afia breathed, snarling, "Won't even fuck me when we get home. I've got girlfriends who get more love and attention from niggas they don't even date!" Afia was crying again.
Michael shook his head frantically, darting into their en suit to get his makeup off.
It was making his skin feel tight and uncomfortable.
Michael pulled at the buttons of his fancy blazer, as he could hear Afia banging loudly around in their bedroom.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the wall length mirror, he huffed, opening Afia's cupboard to find her makeup wipes.
How many more years of this would it take?
When did a marriage come out of this weird phase?
Wasn't this just the norm?
Didn't everyone hit a rough patch?
Michael ripped at the wipes packaging, and used both hands to slide the wipe around his face.
The wipe stained orange, as he scrubbed nervously at his skin, listening to the frantic banging and mumbled curses of his wife.
What was she doing in there?
He daren't look.
Anyway, this was great ammo for Kleffs office.
She thought she was scoring points in these sessions, but this?
Surely Kleff would see this entire marriage was balanced on both of their heads.
"Daddy?" A small voice cooed softly from the door of the en suite, as Michael jumped, dropping the wipe in the sink.
When he turned, he could see his little blessing.
His first child.
His other world.
His baby girl stood sheepishly peeking from behind the door, her little hand clasped around the frame.
Those little brown eyes.
Her beautiful brown skin was glistening in the light, and she'd obviously been messing around in Afia's moisturisers before they'd come home.
Michael inhaled, and immediately sank to his knees, smiling big for his first daughter.
Her name was Chantelle.
Chi-chi for short.
Her little feet slapped across the tiled floor, as she nervously slid into her fathers arms.
Michael kissed her soft silk bonnet on the top of her head, as she buried her face in his chest.
"Why are you up?" Michael cooed softly to his child, as she wriggled in his arms when she heard her mother bang something else loudly.
Chi stood, pressing her hands onto Michaels chest, and staring into his face.
She frowned.
She was so intuitive.
She was the worst combination of both of their personalities.
Chi-chi was too emotional.
She cried for days over the smallest things.
She mourned the deaths of the smallest creatures.
She was a natural born nurturer.
She would always hold her parents faces in her little hands, somehow knowing that they were both feeling low.
She was perfect.
Michaels heart seized as he noticed that concerned look on her face now.
Chi was the carbon copy of Afia.
The only thing she'd managed to keep of Michaels were his cheekbones.
She was obviously a Jackson.
"Mommy is upset.." She paused, twisting nervously, and looking down as she balled her hands up to together.
Michael breathed hard through his nose and drew his child into his chest once more.
Holding her head, he pondered what to say, staring at the ceiling as she nestled his chest.
"Sometimes we get upset," Michael began, careful not to paint a bad picture to his daughter about the truth of the situation, "Sometimes we all get a little upset, Chi.." He sighed hard.
This wasn't enough for his clever child.
She was only seven.
"She's crying," Chi noted, pulling away from her father to hold his big pale hands in her small brown ones, "She's really sad.." She mumbled, as her face melted into a wince, and she began to cry softly.
Michael groaned as if in pain.
"Chi.." Michael cooed affectionately at his baby.
She was still so tiny, even for a seven year old.
In his eyes, she'd never really gotten any older than five.
Even though her words were bigger, and her vocabulary had expanded, she would always be his baby.
"She's mad at me, she didn't hug me.." Chantelle began to rub her eyes with both fists, her cries jerking her little body, "She's mad at me.." Chi sobbed.
Michael took both of his child's hands in his, as Afia made another thud that shook the walls.
This made his child wail, "She doesn't love me!" She screeched.
"Listen," He hissed through gritted teeth, "Your mother loves you. You know that. She's just tired and upset. When she calms down, she'll be okay.." Michael stared into the face of a child that resembled the love of his life.
The only thing stopping him from crying was the presence of his daughter.
She couldn't see him cry, too.
"Chi!" Afia called drunkenly, her voice thick with tears.
Afia didn't mean to ignore her daughter.
She was just too busy hurling things across the room and into huge suitcases.
When Chi slipped into the bedroom, and tried to approach her frantic mother, Afia simply was too enraged and emotional to face her.
So she let her slip away into the bathroom to see her father.
Mother of the year.
Chi turned, lifting her head and sniffling.
Afia had hurt her by not greeting her with a hug and a kiss, and so she was going to let her know this.
Michael sighed hard, "Chi, your mom just called you.." He started, tilting his head to peer at her, and wiping away one of her tears with his thumb.
Chantelle pursed her lips angrily.
"I don't wanna talk to her.." She mumbled, her voice shaking.
"Chi! I'm sorry, baby!" Afia's voice was raspy and winded.
If her child didn't walk into the bedroom and hug her, there wasn't much point in staying.
She couldn't stay if her children hated her too.
Not in this house.
Or on this planet.
That was all she had.
Afia placed a trembling hand on her forehead, and the other on her hip.
She breathed deeply.
She'd made a mess.
The bed was covered in her clothes, and open duffel bags, and suitcases.
She'd flung everything in them.
Her goal was to leave.
Before the kids had woken up.
Where she was going?
She didn't even know.
Michael tapped his daughters cheek, and she sniffled again.
Chi turned on her feet, and meekly poked her head around the door.
"You're still mad!" She groaned, her face becoming hot with tears again.
Afia glanced up and looked into the face of her daughter.
Michaels face.
His cheekbones and his eyes, stamped on her seven year old.
"I'm not!" Afia reassured, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, "I'm never mad at my baby.." Afia breathed tearfully, as her daughters eyes became clouded.
"Why are you packing your stuff?" Chi mumbled softly, stepping back into the bedroom.
Michael followed her out, his chest heaving, as he watched the scene closely.
There were two very emotional girls in his life.
He never knew it would be this hard.
Afia opened her arms, as Chantelle ran into them, crying into her mother's stomach.
"Chi, you should be asleep. My gorgeous baby, you should be sleeping..." Afia moaned, feeling nothing but guttural pain as her child swang with her in a warm embrace.
Afia rubbed Chi's back slowly, both of them sniffling.
"Mom is right," Michael cleared his throat sternly, "Didn't Mindy put you to bed an hour ago?" Michael chuckled softly.
Chi didn't reply.
She was just relieved that her mother was holding her.
You see, just like Afia, Chi was rejection sensitive.
Not being hugged, or adored by her parents would break her heart.
Even just one time.
Afia looked up, eyes puffy and wet at Michael, as she held her daughter close.
He felt nothing but disgust.
To expose their child to this?
So late at night?
If only she'd had packed her things sooner.
"Bed," Afia breathed, as Chi pulled away to stare up into Afia's face, "You have a piano lesson tomorrow, and I don't want you tired and grouchy.." Afia giggled with a straight smile.
Michael stepped forward, taking Chantelle's hand, and leading her out of the room.
Surely now, it was done.
Surely now, there was no going back.
Michael had always said, no matter what, the kids couldn't see them fall apart.
Now Chi had been fully exposed to the rage, and the sadness.
Her mother flinging clothes into cases.
Her mother's drunken shrieks.
This was too far.
Afia turned to look at the bed, as the bedroom door clicked behind her.
Michael stood, in his v neck and trousers, with a look of resignation.
This is it, Afia thought, the end.