Angelique
Chapter 3
Michael opened the door to admit his bodyguard. Wayne noticed that his boss looked a little more rested after his morning confined in his suite, but he still acted somewhat disoriented and confused. Wayne was beginning to become alarmed about Michael’s condition. He had eaten rather more than Wayne had expected and he had rested, but Wayne was taking no chances with this man’s health. He had a doctor in tow and a determined gleam in his eye that brooked no argument.
“MJ, this is Dr. Fouquart. I have asked him to see you just to make sure that everything is okay. Tell me you don’t mind,” Wayne said quickly.
Michael raised his eyebrows silently at Wayne while glancing at his diminutive little angel and shrugging. “I guess it’s okay, but he won’t find anything but tiredness and jet lag.
“Wayne, they are cold and wet and hungry out there. Can we order some food and blankets delivered?”
Wayne nodded briskly. “Sure, boss. I’ll see to it.”
As the physician entered the suite, he put his medical bag on a small table by the door and quickly removed a stethoscope. He was surprised by Michael’s request to his bodyguard, wondering if he provided for his fans at all of his tour stops. Dismissing the thought, he placed the stethoscope in his ears while Michael sat comfortably on the beige, tufted sofa.
He listened to Michael’s chest and back, examined his throat and eyes with a tiny, hand held flashlight, and placed a cuff around his arm to determine his blood pressure while Michael drank a cold, bottled water from the iced bucket that remained from his breakfast.
When the doctor completed his cursory examination, he looked at Michael and smiled. “Mr. Jackson, please tell me what seems to be the trouble. Do you have any particular complaint?” he asked with a heavy French accent.
Michael returned his smile. “Nope. I keep telling my tall, dark-haired mother hen here that I am fine, but for some strange reason he doesn’t believe me. I feel a little tired … a general lack of concentration … a bit of lethargy. I figure all the traveling has caught up with me. My throat is a little sore, but I expect that in my line of work. I take Ricola tea when it gets too uncomfortable.”
The doctor had been watching Michael’s eyes as he spoke. The famous star was nothing like what he’d expected when he’d received Mr. Nagen’s call. He’d heard and read so many stories, but this was a very normal, somewhat tired, courteous human being he’d been called to attend and his opinion of the man changed in that instant.
Mr. Jackson seemed alert, albeit tired. His blood pressure was a little elevated, but not to the point of concern. His flesh seemed a little clammy, but not to the point of fever. His throat was a little irritated, but not to the point of medicating. The man seemed to be quiet and self-contained, although very thin. As a matter of fact, he would probably describe Mr. Michael Jackson as almost fragile. He found the pallor of Mr. Jackson’s skin disturbing.
“This is not a pale man,” he thought silently. “This is a man whose flesh is nearly transparent.” Nothing on this earth, at least nothing in his wide experience, could do that to a man’s flesh except disease. “No artificial agent or procedure could possibly produce this utter and total lack of pigment,” he thought.
Slowly, the doctor rose and approached the breakfast tray which stood against the wall near the door. “Have you eaten something, today, Mr. Jackson?” he asked as he pitched an orange in his direction.
Michael caught the orange in one hand without missing a beat and replied, “Yup … some croissants and some juice … orange to be specific,” was Michael’s easy reply as he tossed the orange between his hands, watching the fruit fly between them raptly.
“Well, I can see nothing wrong, Mr. Jackson. You appear to be a very healthy specimen. However, may I make a personal recommendation?”
Michael nodded and smiled at the doctor.
“I would suggest that you spend at least the rest of today and this evening in catching up with yourself. I understand that you travel a lot. This can cause a disruption of your biological clock called ‘jet lag.’ It is not serious and you should be fine as a fiddle by tomorrow. But, if you still feel tired and/or confused tomorrow, extend your confinement for as long as it takes to feel refreshed. Do you understand? We don’t want you becoming more ill or having an accident because of this disruption in your biological rhythms … yes?”
Michael nodded his agreement and spoke quietly while shaking the doctor’s hand. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Mr. Mother Hen over here all day. Would you please explain it to him, since he obviously doesn’t believe me?”
Dr. Fouquart nodded and smiled. “Yes, I will explain it to him. And I will, personally, check on you tomorrow, just to be doubly certain that all is well. It is okay, yes?”
His estimation of fragility had changed very rapidly as he had grasped Mr. Jackson’s hand. Thin, yes … definitely … but weak, no. Not even close. He noticed, again, his paleness … pallor unnatural for flesh. One could read the man’s veins as clearly as one would read a roadmap of Paris’s streets.
He understood much more about Mr. Jackson in that moment and a sense of compassion developed with the man. He had borne their criticisms extremely well, considering the trials he lived with.
“Sure,” Michael grinned. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Mr. Jackson, may I talk to you, personally?” the doctor asked. At Michael’s nod, he continued. “I work here at the hotel during the day, but I also work at a small clinic and I understand from press releases that you enjoy visiting such places. I know I am not explaining this well. Let me start over. There is a small clinic near here. We have twelve beds and they are always filled with sick children. I was wondering if …”
Michael turned to Wayne with an eager look on his face. “We can do this, right? Do we have stuff for the kids?”
Wayne looked surprised as Michael turned toward him. Suddenly his earlier lethargy had been replaced by an enthusiastic animation. “Boss, we can get stuff before we go … but you wanted to enjoy a couple of days of R & R before the tour. Remember?”
Michael rubbed his dimpled chin with his right hand. He nodded slowly, but said quickly, “We can do this. It won’t take long … a couple of hours …”
He turned to the physician who was watching the exchange with his mouth open and his eyes wide. He hadn’t really expected that Michael Jackson would agree to visit his little clinic.
“We’ll be there. What’s today? We could go today,” Michael said eagerly.
“Okay, hold it, boss!” Wayne exclaimed in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. “You’ve just spent the day telling me that you are too tired to go to Disneyland! Disneyland! And now, you want to rush off to a clinic. No way. You are supposed to be resting. We gotta get stuff for the kids. You know what a three-ring circus that is going to be. Not today!! Perhaps, tomorrow. That we can handle. I have time to make the arrangements for everyone. We’ll spend the morning looking for stuff. Then, after lunch … tomorrow … okay?”
Michael looked at Dr. Fouquart. He was nodding at Wayne and noticed Michael turn to him. “Yes, yes! You must rest. Something could happen that you will need your strength … no? It is dangerous … no?”
Michael’s shoulders sagged and a little bit of the light seemed to leave his eyes, but he nodded in agreement. “Okay, tomorrow,” he said as he shook the physician’s hand again.
This was one of the hardest parts about being Michael Jackson. Nothing could be spontaneous, not even a short shopping trip. He could not be impulsive about outings. Layers of security arrangements and backup plans were required to avoid anyone being hurt.
He turned quickly to the doctor. “It would really be a lot better if you didn’t tell anyone, ya know? We can sneak out of here, but it doesn’t usually seem to do much good. They always find me. I don’t mind the fans so much, but the photographers and journalists can be very difficult. Ya know?” he said as he walked back towards the bedroom of the suite, still tossing the orange in the air.
As he closed the door behind him, he allowed his body to sag against it slightly. He heard a short knock.
“We’re leaving and locking the door, boss.”
“Okay, Wayne,” Michael replied tiredly. In moments, he heard the door of the suite close securely.
At the end of the hall, Dr. Fouquart told Wayne that his examination had turned up exactly the symptoms that Mr. Jackson had described so well and requested that Wayne let him rest easily.
“I am very honored that you called me, Mr. Nagen. I had never expected to meet him and that has changed my view of him. He is very pleasant and charming, isn’t he?” At Wayne’s nod, he continued, “One hears so many strange things, but when one actually meets him … well, it changes many things.” When the elevator arrived, the doctor boarded the car with a bemused expression. “Are there any special arrangements I need to make for Mr. Jackson’s visit?”
Wayne snorted. “No, I do all that. I have to keep him safe and he insists that I have to keep all of them safe as well. That’s my job. He has no concept, but there is nothing special that you have to do except keep it on the down low. Once there, he will be safe. It’s just getting him there without being recognized and mobbed or through the crowds, if he is recognized.”
~~
Michael stood inside the door to his bedroom thinking, remembering his short walk through the streets of Paris with Angelique. He was becoming very accustomed to her presence now that he knew about her, but he wasn’t certain about the physical reactions of his unruly body. After all, he was a married man whose wife was about to give birth to his son in California and he was uncomfortable about his all-too-real physical response to this tiny little wisp of an angel who carried him as easily as he carried a child. But her presence was an inestimable comfort to him in his isolation and he valued her … and could not give her up.
“I understand, my dear, and, as always, it is as you will it. We can be sparing in our contact. What we cannot do, at this point, is relegate each other to that special limbo you have seen, half in and half out of this world. You know me, now, and you know that if you speak to me, I will answer. And you know that I love you, that I am always here. You are learning to hear me and feel my presence.
“You can, however, always choose to forget that I am here. Fear and distraction, anxiety and hatred … these emotions will make you feel isolated and alone … apart from me. Those are just your perceptions, though. They do not affect the reality that I am with you. We are ONE.
“Soon you will hear much deeper than you are accustomed to hearing. You will see much deeper than what you are accustomed to seeing.”
Michael sighed contentedly, “Thank you,” he said. “Can we go for another walk? I need to feel the freedom of that again.”
Michael approached the bed, but didn’t see Angelique anywhere. As soon as he touched the sheets, he felt her arms encircle his chest with a bright band of energy. He felt it in his flesh; he felt it in his veins and pulse. It throbbed through his lungs as he breathed and sighed deeply.
“You must sleep, my dear one,” she said softly within his mind. Immediately, she began to hum. Soon, her lone voice seemed to be joined by many other voices and timbres, providing contrapuntal harmonies and syncopated beats. He heard the melody within his mind and remembered to speak his need, “tape recorder,” before he drifted off to sleep.
He found himself alone when he rose from the bed, knowing he was asleep. His body was perfectly relaxed, leaning against a down pillow on the bed, his bare feet seemed to float across the floor, gliding with the grace of a deer.
“Are you here, Angel,” he called in his mind, a slight panic audible in the quavering of his voice.
“You know that I am here, beloved … always,” she replied. “I thought you might like to try this on your own. How many times have you wished to just be able to open a door and exit a building and roam while thinking your own thoughts, hearing your own melody, seeing your own visions?”
Michael laughed. “Too many,” he replied.
“I am here … you are not alone … be free,” Angelique said with a breathlessness to her voice as he heard it in his head. “But, remember, opening a door is not necessary. Just melt through it as we did before. Do you remember?”
Michael moved towards the door and tried to remember how they’d gotten through it previously. As he recalled, he had willed the cells in the door to allow him passage and he tried the same method as he approached. He was not surprised to find that he navigated between the cellular structures of the wood with ease. He used the same method to ambulate the hallway, the doors of the elevator, and the lobby. He willed his passage without incident and it occurred as he willed it.
When he arrived in the lobby of the hotel, he automatically turned to traverse the corridor that led to the kitchen and back entrance of the hotel. He’d become so accustomed to entering and exiting in this manner that it had become second nature. But, he saw the big revolving doors of the lobby and made a beeline for the front entrance of the hotel. He couldn’t remember the last time he had entered or exited a hotel through the lobby. He heard Angelique giggle and smiled in return. He willed the glass revolving doors to allow him passage and found himself out in the shelter of the hotel overhang and facing a sea of people with banners and flags and canteens and sleeping bags and cameras.
Seeing the size of the crowd, Michael almost turned back, but, instead, he squared his shoulders and walked toward it head on. He wondered how he was going to will all of those people to allow him to pass as he had the glass doors when he noticed a small pathway opening up before him in the throng.
As he passed, he noticed that they were of many ages and races all huddled together and all gazing upwards at a balcony that hung precariously on the side of the building. He felt their thoughts. Most of them were tired, having stood vigil since his arrival. Some of them were surrounded by their friends, playing guitars (his songs, of course) or walkmans blaring his voice.
They were very quiet and he wondered what had occurred to quiet their usual boisterousness. When the question registered in his consciousness, he saw a scene playing behind his eyes. A short, bald man carrying a bag had exited only a little while before and had motioned to the crowd with his fingers, “shushing” it very effectively and dramatically, imploring its cooperation in a conspiracy to let him rest. Michael recognized Dr. Fouquart and smiled. His fans were being quiet so that he could rest. How sweet!
This was indicative of his relationship with them. There must have been thousands of people crowded around the street outside of his room, but it was almost hushed. They were talking quietly among themselves and playing boom boxes on low volume.
When he arrived at the outskirts of the throng, he looked behind him and wondered how he had arrived at this point through that sea of people. The passage he had taken had closed again as quickly as he had passed. No trace of his passage was visible, yet here he stood. “Interesting,” he thought.
Michael’s agile, imaginative mind was thoroughly engaged with the whole process of this little walk, something so many in his world took for granted. He could probably count on his two hands the occasions he had experienced when he had been able to just go for a walk outside of his own compound at Neverland … without being mobbed … without Wayne or Bill … without calling ahead to warn everyone of what he was doing … without being photographed. “What joy!” he thought with a little skip in his step.
Even when he wore a disguise, he was usually discovered. They knew his gait, his form so well. It was a little game he played with them. The game’s name was a question. “How long will it take before they notice me?” He enjoyed the game as much as they did. Rarely did he wear a disguise that actually fooled them for very long.
When he really wanted to be unnoticed, he was perfectly capable of doing so. Having absorbed many of the tricks of the artists who had done his makeup for his short films, his insatiable curiosity had insured his attention as they fussed and fumed over his cosmetic makeovers into ghouls and zombies and werewolves. He had learned from them as he had learned from all of his mentors and teachers.
However, when he was visiting a hospital, he would have only a short time to change back into Michael Jackson, so he couldn’t be too elaborate on these outings. The burqa worn by women in the Middle East served these outings very well most of the time. He knew his fans saw through it easily and this was part of the game. It was his signal to them that he had something important to do and they respected the signal. If he was lucky, he would slip by them completely. Wayne would have the car at the kitchen entrance. It wouldn’t be the van; that was too obvious.
Michael walked the streets of Paris, watching the people as they passed him unseeing. Occasionally, he would hear Angelique comment on his thoughts.
“Most people are sleepwalking through the lives they are living, beloved,” he sensed, rather than heard her say. It is a truly beautiful city, but it has its squalid side as do all sprawling metropolises. He was totally unaware that Wayne had peaked in on him, leaving a tray with chicken soup and fruit, some fish and bottled water next to the door as he left.
As Michael walked, the time passed too quickly. Angelique continued to reassure him of her presence, but, for the most part, left him to his thoughts and visions. Occasionally, he became aware of her voice humming and he would dance to the fully orchestrated music his inner conductor produced for his amusement, spinning, kicking, sliding in reckless abandon.
The sights and sounds of the city enthralled him. The scents fascinated his heightened senses as he passed pastry shops and chocolatiers. He was thoroughly enjoying his solitary trek when he heard her voice whisper in his ear.
“It is time to return, beloved. Wayne has tiptoed in to check on you twice. He’s left you some food.”
Michael nodded his agreement and awoke slowly, stretching luxuriously and sinuously in his bed. The bright light of a Parisian dawn bathed his room in a golden glow that perfectly matched his mood. “Angel,” he sighed. “Was this a dream?”
“Hmmm … I imagine to your senses it must feel like a dream, beloved. Perhaps, it is a bit more controlled than a dream. When you dream, you enter a state of heightened awareness similar to what you’ve been experiencing.
“However, in reality, it is what you consider your ordinary life that is the dream. What you’ve just experienced is ultimate reality. You are not your body; you are much, much more than that. This was a form of … I guess your world would call it “out of body travel.” You leave your physical manifestation behind along with all its limitations.
“In this state, you can have a thought, detect an odor or scent, hear a sound and as your attention is drawn, you create what you associate with what draws you. Each individual is unique in the interpretations he or she places upon the events or circumstances surrounding him, so each will experience what he or she creates of the state of heightened awareness. Do you see?”
Michael nodded again. “That’s why some see the same experience as frightening as others interpret as fun?”
“Yes, my dear one … exactly,” she affirmed. “Your perceptions and interpretations of the events that occur create your experience of them.”
“Am I not going to be allowed to see you, my angel?” Michael asked hesitantly. He knew her answer before the words left his mind. “I know … it is as I will it.”
“Yes, my dear … precisely. You are grappling with the question, ‘Will my decision be easier if I don’t see her?’ You have not yet arrived at the answer, therefore, you have chosen. There is a doubt. You are fighting your physical reaction to my presence. May I help you in your battle?”
Michael thought, “Oh … yes … please!” as he nodded, disturbing the soft pillow that he knew was Angelique’s shoulder.
Angelique continued, “What you fight … resist … struggle against … persists, my beloved. In the struggle, you give the very thing you would deny reality. It is much better to move past it. By doing so, you remove its hold on your attention and remember; where you focus your attention determines your experience.
The physical side of your being is in a pitched battle against what you sense in me – the kind of love and companionship you’ve longed for all your life. Yet, you see the physical attraction as a threat to that love, that togetherness as well as your loyalty to your wife. Do not deny it, beloved. Acknowledge it. Be thankful for it. Move past it. Do not let it absorb your attention, your focus.
“You and I share each other in many ways. We drink from the same crystal clear spring of dreams. We have an uncanny knowledge of each other … a sense of each other in the very air we breathe. Our love is so much deeper than the merely physical level to which you are accustomed and which is an illusion. Instead of placing your attention on just our physical relationship, which gives it reality and strength and reinforces your discomfort, see past it to the fathomless depths lying beneath. Do you understand?”
Michael breathed deeply. “Yes, my angel, I understand,” he said as he allowed himself the pleasure of her sight. She sat beside him on the edge of his bed, her beauty and ethereal pallor taking his breath away. “But you could try being a little uglier,” he mused to her joy and loud laughter.
He got up from the bed to grab a bottle of water from the tray Wayne had left beside the suite door. As he drank, he thought about Angelique’s words. He saw logic in them … felt the truth of them all the way to the soles of his feet. He felt the question forming deeply within his psyche. “But how can I change my reactions?”
Angelique’s answer was heard in his heart. “There are several ways, but the most obvious way is to change your perception. Your world interprets nearly all touch as sexual on some level. Teachers are not allowed to hug their charges for fear of being aroused in a physical sense. They are not allowed to comfort or lend strength out of fear of charges of inappropriate behavior.
“In my world, we touch to share in a deeper sense than mere physicality. This is how we share our emotions, memories, dreams. You’ve seen me touch Wayne’s companion as I touch you. Yet, your interpretation when I touch you in the same way is physical. You are not your body; you are a spark of the Eternal One in physical form.
“You can change your perception to not necessarily deny this physical side of yourself, but to see the richness that lies beyond. For your physical reaction is only the tip of the iceberg. Our meaning to each other goes so much deeper. In this way, you experience our relationship on all levels only one of which is physical while enjoying a more holistic approach toward relationship. All relationships, human and angelic, benefit from such an approach and the harvest you reap is far-reaching and long-lasting.
“For example, when you walk into a hospital you see children with terrible diseases, bald heads, and missing limbs. Your world judges this as wrong, sad, and abnormal and teaches the child to see through its eyes. As a result, the child bears the pain of seeing himself as imperfect and impure. He feels judged and found wanting.
“But not you, beloved. What do you see?”
“I see myself and all their dreams reflected in their eyes. I see courage and strength trapped inside fear and weak little bodies. I see beauty ensnared by the world’s judgment of ugliness or unfairness,” Michael responded quietly. “I see babies who’ve not learned yet to see themselves through the judgments of others and who, therefore, know themselves to be unique, special, rare instead of lumped together with thousands of others beneath the label ‘victim.’”
Angelique smiled. “Just so, beloved. It is just such a shift in perception that you require in this matter of relationship.” Angelique held out her hand with a small chuckle and he grasped it. “As I’ve told you, it will be as you will it, but it is important that you see it clearly and define yourself in relation to your perception … in the matter of the children as well as in the matter of our relationship.
“When we touch, both of us feel an exchange of energy that can be clarifying, purifying … or confusing, disturbing. It is your choice how you interpret the exchange and how you use your interpretation in defining yourself.”
Chapter 4
He stood and leisurely strode to the window to peak out. The irrepressible child within him whispered, “I wanna go again.”
Angelique giggled at his playful side. She’d seen it many times at Disneyland and parks around the world when he rode and rode and rode.
“There isn’t time, beloved. The night has gone and you have some shopping to do. Wayne is a basket case with all the preparations. They’ve barricaded a path for you. And there are some little girls who want to sing for you.”
Michael smiled. “Time to end this lovely dream, in other words,” he thought to himself.
She replied, “The dream, my dear, never ends. It just changes as you walk through the moments of your life.”
“Will you be with me?” he inquired.
Suddenly, the quiet, diminutive little angel jumped up and down in a frenzy. “Michael Joseph Jackson! How many times do I have to tell you? Of course, I am with you. You have never been alone … not for a millisecond, regardless of how alone you have felt. None of your species has ever been alone. Always, we are here. Each of you has watchers and companions and each can have the same relationship that we are beginning to enjoy with a slight shift in perception.” Finally, Angelique’s frantic movements quieted and she sank heavily to the sofa.
Michael couldn’t help himself. He did try, but there was no way on this earth that he could contain his gales of laughter. As he showered and shaved, he and Angelique maintained a running conversation, teasing and laughing and making the routine tasks a game. He applied his makeup in the same spirit. Soon, he was adorned in his customary black jeans, white socks, white t-shirt, black loafers, and tightly-sculpted, torso-hugging, military style jacket. His outfit was guaranteed to shade and shield every inch of his skin except his hands and his eyes from the sun.
His black fedora sat where he’d left it on the table next to the door. His shades were perched atop his hat. He was ready.
Angelique’s gay laughter was a blessing within Michael’s mind. “And you are beautiful, beloved,” she whispered, placing a kiss upon his ear. Michael’s smile was broader than his angular features could contain, lighting his eyes as it passed.
A knock and Wayne’s voice outside the door interrupted the couple’s exchange. He was beginning to become accustomed to communicating with his angel in this manner … by feel almost.
As he opened the door, Wayne nearly gasped in surprise. “You look a lot better, boss. You feel better?” the bodyguard asked.
Michael nodded. “Yeah … lots.”
Wayne, a man of few words, smiled as he said, “Food?”
Michael returned his retainer’s smile. “Food would be good.” As he strode back to sit on the couch, he left the door to the suite slightly ajar and chuckled inwardly. “Wonder what would happen if I told Wayne how I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours walking and talking with an angel?”
Angelique’s voice replied, “Simple! He’d have you back in Neverland before you even knew how it happened. He’d call Elizabeth and Debbie immediately. And they would all determine to cherish you close until you recovered in total discretion.”
“Probably,” he chuckled. “But they have companions. Could they meet their companions?” Michael inquired.
“Oh, yes, beloved, with a shift of perception. But they would need a readiness – an acceptance and embracing of the shift. The first step would be admitting that we companions and watchers exist. This is a major hurdle for your species. Most of you believe in nothing that is not scientifically measured and quantified.
“When the pupil is ready, the teacher is provided. This is one of the Immutable Laws.”
Michael’s curious mind caught the words’ emphasis. “Laws?” he asked.
“Yes, my dear one … laws. The Laws are unbreachable … inviolate. They are Laws of Consequences. If you deplete your ozone layer, cut down your forests, tamper with your soil’s fertility, there are consequences that cannot be avoided.
“Your species complains that the changes in weather patterns are “Acts of God.” Not so. These are the results of the acts of man. God is a victim of bad press. You flood your churches beseeching a vengeful and fearful God to turn his anger from you. She is not angry with you. It is you who have treated the living, breathing earth she entrusted to your care with little compassion. Even She will not suspend the Laws. She created them and they are inviolate. You must reap what you create.”
A tentative knock sounded behind him on the open door of the suite. “Mr. Jackson?” Michael turned to look over his shoulder. “Am I disturbing you?” the doctor asked hesitantly.
“No, doc, come on in,” he replied in a soft voice which was beginning to seem very loud in his own ears as he continued to grow accustomed to his telepathic communication with the pixyish presence that seemed, at the moment, to be inhabiting his left shoulder.
“How are you feeling today?” Dr. Fouquart inquired with concern.
“Great … ready to go,” Michael tossed back as the doctor circled the beige, tufted divan that held one of the most famous human beings on the planet. He still couldn’t believe he’d met him and that he had agreed to visit his babies. There was no doubt in the doctor’s mind that this man embodied a presence and charisma that was undeniable and very tangible if one had the opportunity to contact him directly.
The sharp contrast between this man and the man the world’s media had created which bore the same name made him feel as if he was in a surreal landscape where clocks melted and apples wore hats.
“Do you mind if I examine you, Mr. Jackson?”
“Nope,” Michael averred while sitting up and removing the fitted black jacket that covered his bony frame, cooperating with the physician’s examination fully.
Finally, after the customary, if brief, poking and prodding required by his profession, Dr. Fouquart spoke. “You look much more rested and relaxed, sir. Are you feeling as well?”
Michael’s nod and brightly lit eyes reassured the practitioner that his famous patient had made a full and remarkable recovery.
“Good! So … you are a good patient. You take wise advice well. I am pleased.”
Wayne’s voice accompanied the clatter of a skirted cart into the door. “Hello, Dr. Fouquart. Have you had coffee? The bodyguard tossed an apple towards Michael, while motioning towards the cart for the doctor to help himself. He knew his boss’s disinterest in food, but knew that there were a few things that tempted Michael Jackson – Disneyland, the spontaneous laughter of a child, and pizza headed the list.
“How ‘bout pizza for lunch, MJ?” Wayne asked.
“Yes! With lotsa cheese!” Michael responded with enthusiasm.
“Okay, we’ll tell them on our way out.” The phone jarred the quiet scene. Wayne picked it up and mumbled, “Okay,” a couple of times and turned to his t-shirt clad employer, who was looking for an inconspicuous way of disposing of the apple core that had definitely seen better days.
“MJ,” he said and held up his hand. “Seems they’re ready down there,” he said as he deftly caught the chewed up artifact from his boss’s breakfast. He lifted a bottle of juice, slapping it in turn into Michael’s still outstretched hand.
The doctor marveled at the easy, comfortable exchange between the two men. It was clear to him that employer and employee shared a level of trust as well as companionship.
“Goin to check things out, boss,” Wayne called over his retreating shoulder as he yanked a walkie talkie out of his pocket and left the room. Today, when they left the hotel to shop, they would use the front entrance. An area had been cleared and cordoned off for his boss’s passage and Wayne had no doubt that he would want to shake hands, accept gifts, sign autographs, and hug some of the collected onlookers. He had asked that hotel security be backed up by the city police. He didn’t take chances. He was very good at his job and proud of his track record.
In the years he had accompanied Michael, there had never been a serious injury. Oh, Michael had been knocked to his knees on occasion by overzealous fans who broke through the ranks of guards and police, but comparatively rarely. Sometimes, MJ just took too many chances. He loved to be close to them when he could. In the crushes that surrounded this man’s every movement, anything could happen. He was grateful that it hadn’t.
Wayne checked the elevator that served the rear of the luxurious hotel. Then, on the ground floor, he turned into the hallway that led to the kitchen and laundry and service areas of the building to be certain that all was as it should be. Then, he circumnavigated the lobby, stepping through the front entrance.
When the assembled fans detected his grey-suited form leaving the building, they knew they were in for a treat and their excitement mounted, escaping their throats and lips in a wild roar.
“Michael is coming out!” was the single thought that occupied thousands of minds collected at the front entrance. Wayne paid no attention to their noise, talking quietly to one of the hotel security people and turning to return to the building.
In the meantime, Michael and the French physician engaged in small talk until the doctor said, “Mr. Jackson, I must apologize to you.”
“Hmmm? Apologize? For what?” Michael inquired seriously.
“For half-believing all the nonsense I’ve read over the years. When I received Mr. Nagen’s call, I expected to be attending a monster, with sinister mien and devious motivations.”
Wayne, with his inspection completed, entered the room just as Dr. Fouquart finished. He began to laugh. “Yes, boss. You are very sinister and your motivations are very devious.”
Michael just smiled, saying that the doctor shouldn’t believe anything he reads about him. “I’ve been telling everyone for years, but no one wants to listen to sense or reason.”
Concluding a hurried conversation on the walkie-talkie, Wayne became very serious. “Okay, boss … we’re ready if you are.”
Michael jumped up from the couch, buttoning his snug-fitting jacket in a fluid motion. He headed towards the table resting beneath an ornately carved and gilded mirror. Before putting on his mask, he adjusted his hair in the mirror, but the wisp of curling tendril on his forehead wouldn’t stay in place. It kept blowing around as if a light breeze were playing with it. How odd! There was no …
“Angel!” his thoughts exclaimed.
He saw her face reflected beside his own, her lips puckered to blow the tendril again as she giggled mischievously.
“I love you, Michael Jackson,” she whispered, kissing his left ear. Her arms were crossed below his chin, her head resting comfortably in the crook of his neck.
Michael turned to observe Wayne in the final preparations for their outing. Then, he turned to look at the doctor, who was preparing to leave the suite with them. Each had a bright band of light crossing his chest in an identical position. He hadn’t noticed their companions before, but he saw them now and lifted his right hand to caress hers at about the level of his collarbone. He smiled as he placed his mask over his nose and mouth and settled the hat on his head.
“Okay … let’s get this show on the road!”
~~
“Not too many hugs, today … okay, boss?” Michael heard at his right shoulder as he stepped onto the carpeted concrete outside of the front entrance of the hotel. The reaction of the crowd encamped outside was a wall of sound and motion that almost drowned out the familiar, nearer voice. Michael raised his right hand, index and middle finger extended in a peace sign, and waved at the assembled throng. He walked slowly. A smile lit his deep, dark chocolate eyes.
A sea of arms waved above heads, hands clutching toys and autograph books, pictures and magazines. For a moment, he forgot where he was. In his confusion, he stood center stage, his right hand extended toward heaven, his left covering (but not touching) his crotch, his head thrown back in enormous enjoyment of that moment that belonged to no one else in the world but him.
The recollection of his next stage performance brought an instant smile to every centimeter of his being. He noticed that one hand in the crowd held the latest issue of KING! He’d left his copy of the magazine at home and he approached the woman, using his customary body language which asked the silent question, “Is that for me?” while drawing her eyes into soundless communication punctuated by eye contact that was nearly mesmerizing. She nodded enthusiastically and he motioned for Wayne to accept the gift of the magazine from her hands.
He cautiously approached the front row of the crowd to the right of his path, accepting some autograph books from outstretched hands. As he signed his fluid scrawl, he looked deeply into each pair of eyes, smiling and holding their attention for several heartbeats before moving on.
A small child held out a tiny, hand-sized teddy bear which wore a shirt that read, “I love you.” Briefly, he knelt upon his right knee and motioned for her to come forward. The beautiful little girl ducked her head under the velvet rope barricade and approached and it seemed that the crowd held its collective breath. They saw Michael speaking to the child, but heard nothing. His hands communicated the point of their conversation. Once again, he used his customary gesture to ask if the little gift was for him and the child nodded seriously, holding the toy out for him to accept. He took the tiny plaything from her. Then, glancing at her again, his eyes reflecting his joy in the child, he touched her cheek briefly. The youngster came nearer to encircle his neck within her little arms.
Michael’s right hand embraced the back of her head, holding her to his chest, kissing her blond curls lightly, and closing his eyes for this beautiful moment of communion. When he released her, the little girl turned and walked slowly back to her mother, who waited at the barricade. Michael’s eyes and smile followed her retreating form.
Something interesting caught his attention. Each one of the assembled fans had the same bright band of light crossing his or her chest and a large, vaguely elliptical shape resting on his or her shoulder. But the child was another story.
The little girl’s companion seemed to be vibrating, pulsing with colors and textures. Her companion’s head was alert and looking all around as the child approached him and when she embraced his neck, the two companions … Michael’s and the child’s … touched foreheads. Michael could have sworn he heard laughter resounding all around him.
“Children are very special, beloved, but you’ve always known that. They are more in touch or connected to their spiritual natures. As a result a child’s companion is more vibrant, more alert.”
With a lithe, graceful movement, he rose from his half-kneeling position and continued down the aisle created for his passage. A small children’s choir sang “Heal the World” in French. After applauding the performance, accepting a few more gifts, and hugging two more wildly affectionate fans, Michael boarded the black van, which carried him to one of his favorite toy stores.
He bought up about three times the toys he needed for the clinic visit and returned to the hotel suite, running the same gamut of wildly undulating humanity in reverse to enter the hotel as he had when he had left it.
His eyes were drawn to a small blond who stood surrounded by the jostling crowd, but separate somehow. He approached her slowly, holding her green eyes with his own.
“Is this safe?” he asked within the solitude of his thoughts.
“Oh, yes, dear one,” Angelique replied breathlessly. “I am completely anonymous here, just another fan. No one notices me except you because your sight is becoming more acute and you know exactly what to look for. To these others, they see but do not understand. I am just one of the crowd, nothing special. In one way, beloved, I am just like every one of them. I, too, want a hug,” she said with a broad smile.
Michael wondered what ‘completely anonymous’ would feel like. He had never known that kind of freedom except when he had left his hotel room to wander freely while his body slept.
Michael laughed and the music contained in his laughter cradled Angelique’s heart within a soft cocoon of love and joy. Michael opened his arms for her to wrap her arms around his chest and rest her head against his breastbone. As his arms closed around her, he sighed deeply. As always, even momentary contact with her caused a rush of emotion that he found profoundly satisfying, but some of the edge of frenzied desire seemed to be dissipating as he cradled her head against his chest.
Quietly, Wayne approached the pair and waited for Michael to indicate that he was ready to move on. They had an elaborate set of signals for just such occasions. He hoped the tiny blond woman wouldn’t be difficult about separating from Michael. He really didn’t like to drag them off him as he had been required to do so many times.
“Man, what a life,” he mused, standing behind Michael. Quite frankly, Wayne didn’t know how Michael maintained any semblance of sanity. Hounded, pursued, chased, screamed at, his clothing torn, his flesh scarred by fingernails. The only freedom he had ever known had been behind his sanctuary gates of his homes, if you could call that freedom.
Wayne moved towards Michael’s right shoulder, tapping it gently. Wayne was the practical type and didn’t take into his accounting the freedom Michael found within his heart and his mind … but, most of all … in his music.
The pale, masked figure raised his chin from its resting place, nestled in Angelique’s brilliantly curly locks and nodded briefly toward his bodyguard, his eyes hooded and dreamy. But, before disentangling himself from her embrace, he lifted her face to kiss her cheek very lightly.
Angelique smiled into Michael’s hooded eyes, looked at his retainer, and spoke just loudly enough to be heard in the maelstrom.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to tear me away.”
Her voice sounded in Wayne’s ears as if there were no cacophony occurring behind, no fans screaming and jostling and crying, no one calling Michael’s name. How odd! The small blond released her hold on his charge, raised Michael’s hand, palm up, and kissed it.
As the two men walked into the lobby of the hotel, Wayne mused out loud, “I wonder how she knew what I was thinking.”
Michael just laughed as they entered the elevator, the doors closing silently behind them.
~~
“I smell pizza,” Michael cried upon entering his suite. As he entered the room, he stripped off his hat and mask and shades and jacket and each, in turn, fell in a heap on the floor. Michael Jackson didn’t even notice. He moved toward the food with single-minded purpose, leaving no one in any doubt of his intentions.
This was the worst part of Wayne’s job; he really hated being this guy’s maid!
“Boss!” The note of reproach in the bodyguard’s tone was unmistakable while he picked up Michael’s discarded clothing and placed them where they were not going to trip him when he got up.
“Huh?” Michael replied while stuffing pizza into his already chewing mouth. Normally, he didn’t feel all that hungry, but he liked pizza. When he was involved in working on a project … whether touring or recording … even pizza couldn’t tempt him. However, he was on vacation for a couple of days and, so far, these had been the most relaxing days he’d spent in a while. He needed to fuel his curiosity. He had about half a million questions he wanted to ask that cute little thing when he was alone with her. It looked like his questions were just going to have to wait.
He continued to wolf down pizza as Dr. Fouquart entered the room, talking quietly with Wayne.
“Am I really cute, my dear,” Michael heard in his head. He reacted by laughing … and choking … and sputtering pizza in every direction. Wiping his mouth with the napkin in his left hand, he continued laughing while surreptitiously glancing towards Wayne and the physician. They were watching him.
Wayne said, “Okay?”
Michael nodded. “Gotta stop inhaling my food.”
Frantically, he thought, “Angel, be good!” She responded with a giggle and a kiss firmly planted on his left ear.
“When do we have to leave for the clinic?” Michael asked. “Do I have an hour?”
Wayne glanced at his watch. “Just, boss.”
“Mr. Jackson,” the doctor interrupted. “Do you think I should examine you again? Tell me how you feel.”
“Feel good,” he reassured the anxious man. “You been spending too much time with my friend, here,” Michael said with a wink and a nod in his bodyguard’s direction. “His mother-henning is rubbing off. You can examine me if you like … and if you hurry … your decision.”
“May I recommend a bit of rest?” Dr. Fouquart asked.
Michael laughed out loud. “My thoughts exactly!” He walked rapidly toward the master bedroom of the suite. Someone had been through here to straighten out the bathroom and the bed was made. Michael liked a nice neat room as well as anyone; he just didn’t want to be involved in keeping it that way. He removed his shoes and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. Then, he loosened the t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans and thought, “Angel, I have lotsa questions. Why was that little girl’s … uh … companion … different from the rest?”
“I told you, beloved … children are much more connected to their companions and watchers. Some of them, actually most of them talk to them all the time. Your world calls them ‘imaginary playmates,’ but there is nothing imaginary about them; they are very real to a child. A child is surprised that his parents and older siblings and teachers can’t see his friend. He considers it odd. Very young children don’t understand the conditioning your society imposes upon its innocents.
“Your little boys are taught that to be a man, you must be ‘macho.’ ‘Real men don’t cry,’ they are told. They are taught by example, the most powerful of tutors, that men don’t show their softer, more sensitive feelings; only their aggression is permitted. This begins when daddy tells them they are too old to hug. For heaven’s sake … no one is EVER too old to hug … the cruelty of it appalls me. The only emotion it is ‘cool’ for them to display is anger. It’s okay to fight as long as you’re the winner. Their artistic, intuitive side is very assuredly buried under mountains of brainwashing.
“Your little girls are taught from the cradle that they will only be a person of worth if they have a husband and 2.7 children. Their role models sleep for hundreds of years until Prince Charming rescues them from their coma, bestowing upon them personhood.
“Many of these babies grow up believing that it is wrong for them to have needs or interests of their own … or time committed to other pursuits than watching over their husbands and families, such as personal growth and development. This is why your families are failing. Your women have not been allowed to plumb their own depths, find their own identities, talents, and interests and fulfill their own potential. If they do pursue such goals, your society judges them as ‘selfish,’ ‘unfit, neglectful mothers,’ or ‘homosexuals.’
“Women don’t know that they are people in their own right. They define themselves by their roles and responsibilities, accepting their society’s judgment, and never realizing the beauty that waits to be expressed and to which only they have been given the key.
“This conditioning is only half intentional today, but in past centuries it was used to control free thought, which was considered dangerous to the general well-being. It is damaging when a woman discovers that she does have thoughts that cry out for expression and looks frantically for a means to express them. She is judged harshly for attempting to define herself by standards other than those it approves by a society which does not tolerate the unusual or talented … and seldom has.”
“Yes, that’s what Debbie says,” Michael averred nodding. “She says she won’t give up what she has gained herself. She’s tired of fulfilling everyone else’s expectations for feminine behavior. She likes riding her Harley. She sees no reason to deny this in herself. She feels free on her Harley and her home is an extension of herself.”
“Yes, beloved … and for her, she is right. Each … man or woman … has his or her own destiny to fulfill. Each has a task to perform; each has a gift given to assist in performing that task; and each has an intuitive voice that will assist in that performance, if he or she would only listen to it. Your wife knows that the traditional view of marriage and family would not work for her … or for you … not because she doesn’t love you … she does, deeply. And she appreciates your willingness to allow her to continue her journey of self-discovery in her own way.
“She courageously insists on her own needs for solitude, freedom, and independence. This she requires for herself. She adamantly opposes giving them up.
“The point is: she shouldn’t have to. Such a sacrifice should never be required by a husband, friend, or society. It is asking its women to give up the search for their souls. Few in your world understand her view and she doesn’t care.
“Conversely, beloved, you must admit in your heart that a woman clinging to you would be limiting. Your life experience has been one of isolation and solitude. This has created within you a feeling of aloneness and the pain it entails. But it has also become one of the major ingredients you have poured into your music and films and performances. You require your independence, freedom and solitude to explore the richness within.
“Both of you are served in this marriage, which, untraditional though it may be judged by outsiders, will benefit both and diminish none.”
“Fifteen minutes, MJ,” Wayne called with a loud rap on the door. “MJ?”
“Yup,” Michael called back loudly. Angelique walked over to collect Michael’s shoes and socks. She handed them to him with a brief embrace and a bright smile. As he bent to place them on his feet, Michael continued speaking with her soundlessly.
“Why do children have to be sick, Angel? Does God make them sick?”
“No!” Angelique exclaimed ferociously. “What kind of God would make a child sick? She allows the child to seek his or her own destiny by following the course each has plotted before entering this physical realm. As I said before, each has a unique thing to create during this life … him or herself. An entering soul creates its own circumstances to most quickly attain that creation.
“Each has made a choice and that choice requires certain circumstances or events. Just as He allows your species to make its choices regarding its use of this beautiful planet’s natural resources, She will not influence your choice one way or the other. She allows you to choose. The natural consequences of the choice you are making is making your planet sick and will, eventually, destroy it. Nonetheless, She will not take that choice out of your hands by violating her own Laws, which govern the seasons and winds and stellar rotations.
“Let me give you an illustration, beloved. One of the children you may see this afternoon may have chosen his or her illness specifically in order to bring you inspiration, to spark your imagination. In this way, the child lives on within your creation, your heart, your music regardless of his physical infirmity. And, in this way, you carry the spirit of this child into forever with you.”
Michael had finished putting on his shoes and socks and tucked his shirt back into the waistband of his jeans. He rose and turned the door knob of a large walk-in closet. Quickly, he grabbed a voluminous black robe and left the room.
Once in the sitting room, he threw his arms through the sleeves of the fitted jacket Wayne held in readiness and buttoned it.
“We sneaking out the back?” he asked Wayne and the bodyguard nodded. “Okay … twenty bucks if they don’t even know I’ve left the hotel … right?” Wayne grinned and nodded.
Wayne chuckled, “I got ya this time, MJ. I got this place wired.”
“We’ll see, Wayne … we’ll see,” Michael laughed.
Wayne turned to peak out the doorway into the hall. He stepped out with a cloak and dagger swagger to make sure that the hall was completely empty … looking right and left. Then, he returned and closed the door. Lifting the walkie-talkie, he spoke softly into it, opened the door again, checked the hall again, and motioned for Michael to follow him.
Dr. Fouquart had a hard time keeping up with the black-cloaked figure that was covered from head to foot in flimsy black fabric that billowed and ballooned as they seemingly flew toward the service elevator at the end of the hall.
Wayne spoke again into the hand-held communication device, “Okay, clear the kitchen and laundry area.”
In a few minutes, the doors of the service elevator opened onto a long corridor with several doors opening off of it. The party flew past in a flurry of billowing black. They moved so fast that anyone who did witness the escape wouldn’t have registered what had happened before they ended up in the back alley and were whisked away in the waiting black car. The car sped off with its blackened windows shielding Michael from being recognized by anyone.
“Well, who gets the twenty bucks, Wayne?” Michael asked with a little leer as he uncovered his face and neck. Wayne shrugged and spoke briefly into the still-active walkie-talkie.
“Looks like I got ya, boss. Nobody seems to be surging in any direction. Watchers tell me that the crowd hasn’t moved.”
Michael tossed the question to the angel he knew was perched beside his left ear.
“Wayne’s right, beloved. You have made a very nifty getaway.”
“Good job, Wayne …” Michael bellowed. “Can ya lend me twenty bucks?”
Wayne just smirked. “Betting with you is no fun, boss. Listen, MJ … the car is going to drop us off in front of the little clinic. It’s not very big and it should be a short sprint to the door. There shouldn’t be a whole lot of people out front or anything, so there shouldn’t be any problem here … unless word got leaked that you would be here. I don’t think anyone followed me when I checked it out yesterday.”
Employer and employee looked at each other and then at Dr. Fouquart who had been sitting quietly and observing the exchange.
“Not from me,” the doctor vowed strongly.
Michael nodded. “Stuff?” he asked simply. Wayne pointed to the trunk of the car.
“We’re almost there, boss … you ready?”
“Yup … let’s do it,” Michael replied gaily.
“Okay … remember MJ … don’t look back … I got ya covered. Just get inside the doors. The photographer is waiting inside,” the strong man spoke nervously as the car pulled up in front of a tall, white washed building.
~~
The man inside the front door stopped adjusting his camera equipment and watched the approaching cavalcade with dark eyes. He was short and stocky and olive-complected. He’d been in this situation many times before and considered himself “on call” anytime this man now approaching the glass doors in a billowing black cloud needed him.
He didn’t know what the man had and he didn’t care. He did know that Michael Jackson was special, somehow. Perhaps, it was just that he had a magnetism that few could deny. Perhaps, it was the way he had of looking through a person when he turned those eyes in his direction. It was a sign of his attention, curiosity, and focus that had carried him through his childhood and had never left him.
“When Michael Jackson places his attention on you, you know you and your response are the only thoughts in his head, regardless of his schedule and pressures,” the photographer mused while holding the door open for the black-enveloped apparition approaching it with two suited figures following closely in his wake.
“Mr. Jackson,” the photographer said.
Michael swept off the cloying fabric of his disguise as he smiled. “Thanks. I’ve told you before, Isaac. My name is Michael or MJ. Mr. Jackson is my father. Now, you know the drill, right? The kids might want photographs. We will give them to them.”
“Yes, sir,” the photographer replied.
Now that Michael was inside, everyone breathed a little sigh of relief. Wayne had just chuckled breathlessly, “I think we did it boss,” when his eyes, busy on a survey of his surroundings, registered a momentary hesitation. “Those two women over there look familiar. They are fans. How in the world did they get here?” he thought.
Slowly, he walked over to talk to them. “Are you supposed to be here?”
The taller of the two, with dark chestnut curls, looked into Wayne’s concerned face openly and honestly.
“You know we won’t bother him, Wayne. At least, you should know that by now. That night in Cleveland we added to his amusement, didn’t we?”
As she’d spoken, a quick movement caught the corner of her eye and she reacted with the precise, economical movement characteristic of one accustomed to working with small children to aid the over-burdened man carrying a ton of toys. It was instinctual. She hadn’t intended what occurred next.
She grabbed for one of the same boxes as one of the other onlookers who had rushed to rescue the falling toys. They caught the box at the same time and as they straightened, their eyes touched and held briefly.
The woman could only think, “Thank you,” repeatedly, her mind aflutter. It was Michael, the man she loved and devoted her life to. Instead of screaming, she smiled broadly.
He returned her smile shyly. He had seen this woman before. He recalled her being pummeled by the crowd in back of her as she had handed him something. Their eyes had met. He couldn’t remember where. He did remember seeing her again. It was at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction … the room down the hall from his suite. She and her friends had sat just inside the open door of their room as he had passed repeatedly to get to the elevator at the opposite end of the hall.
“Hi,” he said.
The woman responded, “Hi, Michael.”
Michael looked at Wayne with a grin and said, “Uh … about that twenty bucks?”
Angelique whispered into his awareness and being alert to any communication from her, regardless of its subtlety, he listened to her soft voice attentively.
“She is one who loves you very much, my dear. Relax and feel with your more highly attuned senses. She wants you to know that you are not alone, an earthly angel, if you like. She wants her presence to comfort you. With her eyes, she tells you all you need to know.”
Michael smiled again at the woman. “I’ve seen you before.”
She nodded. “Many times, Michael. I just want you to know that we are your ‘angels on duty.’”
Michael laughed in response. “Seems to me I’ve heard almost the exact words from another source.”
“Can we help?” the woman asked hesitantly, almost daring to hope that her offer would be accepted.
Dr. Fouquart entered the lobby, catching Wayne’s eye and the bodyguard nodded. He looked in Michael’s direction as Michael’s tentative grip loosened on the toy box they still held opposite sides of.
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”
The taller woman motioned to the shorter, still standing against the wall and turned to unload the toy box into the other woman’s hands. “We get to help,” she said quietly, but in the kind of sing-song, high-pitched voice usually reserved for very young children and a broad smile. As she grabbed more toys and followed the man she had followed to the ends of the earth and back. The woman’s heart kept repeating, “Thank you.”
Michael had entered a room to the right. As she approached the door, she watched Michael talking to the child. Then, he drew nearer the bed, holding the youngster’s hand as he spoke. Finally, his hand caressed the child’s bandaged head and walked to the door. He just smiled as he took the top box off the pile that the other woman carried as the tall one with dark chestnut curls looked on. He returned to the room, handing the child the toy. With a final shake of hands, Michael left the room, turning into the hall and into the next room.
The same scene was repeated with all the rooms on one side of the short hallway and two rooms on the other. Michael seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the children, laughing and talking with them very naturally and openly.
Finally, he entered a room in about the middle of the hall. The bed contained a very young child … no more than a year or a year and a half old. Her flesh was discolored from the chemotherapy she’d endured … as was his by disease … and Michael’s heart melted within him. The women watching from the door felt Michael’s affinity for the little girl. She was bald, with big blue eyes and she was kneeling on the bed, playing with the intravenous bag which had a long, snaking tube whose other end was taped to her forearm. The child was watching this pathologically pale man intently, smiling in response to the brightness of his smile.
She was too young to have any idea of the identity of her visitor. The two women heard him ask the nurse, bustling around the room, “What’s her name?”
The nurse quietly answered, “Caitlyn.”
Michael sat in the chair beside Caitlyn. “Hello, Caitlyn,” he said as she watched his face, while still playing with the tubing.
Suddenly, Michael felt Angelique’s thought, “You have a special toy in your pocket, beloved.”
He reached into his right hand pocket and withdrew a tiny, hand-sized teddy bear, dressed in a pink shirt that said, “I love you.”
He smiled and spoke again to Caitlyn, holding out the tiny toy, seeming to speak through the teddy bear, using it as a puppet for his words. The tone of his voice was calming, soothing, playful. The child smiled again.
Michael laughed, continuing his one-sided conversation. “Oh, you are so beautiful when you smile, little one. Do you know how beautiful you are?” his quiet voice asked. He held up his left hand, hiding the toy behind his pale, long, artistically graceful digits. As the teddy bear peaked between his index and middle finger, Michael Jackson, world-renowned recording artist, said, “Peek a boo,” in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. The child laughed out loud.
The two women watched the exchange from the doorway, tears filling their eyes while smiles beamed across their faces. When they returned to their homes, they knew that no one would believe them when they told about this close encounter of the Michael kind, but they felt their lives changing … being uplifted … as a result of what they’d just witnessed within this small French clinic.
Soon, Michael touched Caitlyn’s small, perfect head and she reached out to the pale man for a hug. He ducked his head, allowing her thin arms to close around his neck and holding her gently against his black-clad chest. He knew that Angelique had shared herself with Caitlyn’s companion and grinned with that knowledge.
“Is her companion well, Angel?”
“Oh, yes, Michael. She sings for her to calm her fears and guides her … accompanies her … in fantastic dreams and flights of fantasy. There is always laughter surrounding little Caitlyn,” Angelique stated unequivocally. “She has a very free spirit and great courage.”
On the second floor of the small clinic, they approached a room with its door tightly shut. Michael hesitated and looked at Dr. Fouquart to see if was okay for him to enter. At the physician’s nod, he turned the handle, pushing the door open to peek inside.
Intravenous equipment made small beeping sounds in the room and respirators hummed mechanically. A small head rested against the pillows. Mylar tubes ran from the child’s mouth and nose, connected to the breathing apparatus beside the bed and mingling with smaller tubes connected to the child’s pallid hand, resting comfortably on top of the blanket.
The child’s eyes were closed and her body was still. She appeared to be about 7-years-old and very small for her age.
Michael looked at Dr. Fouquart with his eyebrows raised in a silent question. The physician said, “She fell while playing at the playground and hit her head. She’s been like this for two weeks, not stirring, being fed intravenously.”
Nodding, Michael raised his finger to his lips, motioning the doctor to silence. Slowly, he approached the comatose girl and looked down at her in silence. He turned back to Dr. Fouquart and asked, “What’s her name?”
“Katherine,” he responded.
He turned back to the child, picking up her tiny, fragile-looking hand with his, placing it gently in his other hand and covering it with his left.
“Katherine, this is Michael Jackson. I know you can hear me where you are. Listen to me. Hear the sound of my voice, Kat, and turn back. You’re headed in the wrong direction. Follow the sound of my voice.”
Michael stopped speaking briefly as the door to the room had opened very silently and two people entered, a man and a woman. Michael released Katherine’s hand and placed it very gently back on the blanket. He approached the pair and spoke to them very softly. “The doctor told me about your
daughter. I hope you don’t mind me coming in to visit her.”
They were stunned to be face-to-face with Michael and very tongue-tied. “No, we don’t mind. She’s a big fan of yours,” Katherine’s father replied extending his hand to offer it to Michael.
“Thanks,” he replied, briefly shaking the man’s hand.
Michael returned to the child’s side and placed her tiny hand in his again, stroking her limp fingers with his. “Kat, keep following my voice. Your mom and dad are here with me and they’ve been very concerned. It seems you’ve kind of lost your way. I think, maybe, if you follow my voice, it will help you get back. Mom, come here and grab hold of my hand. As a matter of fact, I could use all of your hands linked together.
“Kat, I’m going to ask the nurse to open the curtains so that you can see the light. Maybe it will guide you back.”
The nurse followed his instructions, her eyes blinded briefly as the curtains were raised and sunlight flooded the room. returning to grab his outstretched hand. Soon, she felt the child’s mother’s fingers holding her left hand firmly. Michael’s voice was so soft that the whirring and beeping of the medical equipment almost drowned it out as he continued talking to the child in a soft, calm voice.
“Kat, I don’t want you to be afraid. You’re fine, just a little lost. I want you to return the way you came when you wandered away. If you listen very hard, I know you can hear me and see the sunlight pouring into the room. Follow the light and my voice, little one. We’re all waiting for you.”
Everyone within the room was holding his breath except Michael. He turned to Katherine’s father and said, “My mother’s name is Katherine. What’s her favorite song?”
Katherine’s father shrugged, but her mother quietly responded, “She loves ‘Heal the World,’ Michael.”
He smiled easily at the child’s mother, “Thank you. Kat, did you hear your mom’s voice. She’s here with me and she really wants you to come back to her. Don’t be afraid, little one,” he said as he gently kissed the child’s forehead.
Then, Michael began to sing to her so softly that everyone in the room had to strain to hear his voice. When he had finished the song, he released the child’s hand and kissed her again.
Michael turned to the child’s parents and said, “Talk to her and sing to her. She needs a focal point, a loved one’s voice, something to help her to find her way back. Please call me at my hotel when she comes around. I’ll come back.” He placed a giant teddy bear on the bed next to Katherine before leaving the room.
~~
The two women followed Michael to the remaining rooms on the second floor. As he approached the door, while hurriedly donning the voluminous black robe that cloaked him from prying eyes, he turned to them.”Thank you for your help with all that stuff.”
“No,” they each responded in unison. Then the taller of the two said, “We were proud to help. We want to help you in your work, Michael. We are your ‘angels on duty.’” He hugged them both. “You will see us again, Michael,” the taller of the two whispered as she embraced him.
“I know,” he laughed, before beginning the short sprint required to achieve his waiting vehicle. As the car pulled away from the curb, the two fans waved. Michael lowered the back window, waving to them with his familiar peace sign gesture. Suddenly, Michael felt a light bite on his left ear.
“My job has been usurped,” Angelique whispered. “I think I am insulted.”
Michael just laughed, feeling charged with the strength and energy of ten men.
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