Saving Michael Jackson

Hello, Mom

Cavalleria Rusticana: Intermezzo by Pietro Mascagni playing in the background.

I woke to the sound of classical music drifting upstairs from below, the melody slow and emotional, wrapping itself around the quiet morning air. Michael was probably already awake, waiting for me to come downstairs and have breakfast with him. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself for a moment and stared at the ceiling.  I couldn't even look him in the eyes after last night. I hated that he had seen me like that—so emotional, so dramatic. But the nightmare had felt too real. Seeing him lying dead in that bed, then suddenly alive again, standing beside me, holding me in his arms... it had shaken something inside me I couldn't explain.

After forcing myself out of bed, I slowly made my way downstairs. As expected, Michael was already sitting at the dining table.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said with a warm smile.

"Well, good morning to you, mister. You seem... energetic today," I replied as I sat down across from him.

"And you seem tired. Is everything fine?" he asked, his expression immediately turning serious.
No. Actually, not at all. But what was I supposed to do about it?

"Everything's fine, Mike," I lied, my eyes falling to the enormous bowl of salad in front of me.  "Woah, that's mine?" I asked.

I turned toward him and caught him giggling quietly. "What did I do this time?" I asked suspiciously.

"I like it when you call me Mike. Do it more often," he said, smiling shyly.

I smiled back at him.

Oh, Michael... if only you knew how many names I'd love to call you if I had the courage.

"So, Joseph—my father—has an appointment here today," Michael said casually. "Just so you know not to get scared if you see him around."

I definitely wasn't ready for that. Not to be mean, but Joseph Jackson looked terrifying. Like some strict bulldog carved out of stone. It was hard to believe that someone who looked as angelic as Michael was actually his son. Then again, Michael clearly resembled his mother more. And Janet.
Honestly, I had always thought they looked like twins. The smile, the way they talked, even their eyes—it was almost identical.

When we finished eating and I stood up, Michael suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me gently against his chest.

"What are you doing?" I giggled.

"Don't you enjoy this?" he asked softly. "I love dancing with you to classical music, Cindy."

His hand rested lightly against my head while I leaned against his shoulder, and together we swayed slowly from side to side as the music filled the room. Please call me Allison, Michael. I'm so tired of hearing this fake name. I just want someone to say my real name again before I completely lose my mind.

Then suddenly, another thought hit me.
"My mom," I blurted out, lifting my head from his shoulder. "Am I meeting her today?"

"My bodyguard found three addresses," Michael explained. "I'll show you pictures of the women. Maybe one of them is your mother."

We stopped dancing immediately, and I hurried into the living room while Michael followed behind me. He reached into a paper bag, pulled out three photographs, and sat beside me on the couch.