It's a bad night, so the help doesn't need to be told to stay out of their way. They hear the sharp voices, the snarling replies, and they run for cover, in the kitchen, in the guest rooms, anywhere but where they are.
They knew it from the moment they saw them sitting together at the MTV Awards on TV, the way she looked, the way he sat so stiffly. They've seen her screaming over the phone, demanding to know where her husband has gone. They were there the night before he left, they had heard the cruel words slung back and forth, the tears, the swear words. And now he's come back, 30 days later, and the boiling point of the century has emerged.
"One night, Lisa, one fucking night, and you couldn't keep it together?"
"Fuck you."
"Is that all you're going to say, all night?"
"Fuck you up the ass."
Michael blinks, and Lisa turns on her heel to stalk up the stairs, throwing her black jacket on the ground behind her.
"Well, that's a start," he mumbles, jumping up after her.
She's in their bedroom, peeling off her shirt and pants in a rage he's not yet seen her in. In the month he's been away, she has seemingly…changed. Her face is longer than he remembered, more worn. Her hair is a conventionally long auburn look, falling over her face as if to hide her eyes, and maybe that's why she had her hair done that way. To hide herself from him. From everyone. Her pain, her anger, her fear that this marriage is over.
"Lisa," he tries again.
"One. Mother. Fucking. Month," she snaps, kicking off her shoes. "One month, and not a word, or a letter, or a call--"
"I know--"
"And then you have your people send me down the red carpet to watch you fucking perform. You bastard."
He has no real defense. And if he tells her where he was, it'll be even worse. So he sticks with the one thing he has against her.
"Lisa," he starts taking off his own clothes. "I have told you before and again and again, it's part of the work. I have to make appearance, so do you. I have to wear a smile, so do you! You looked dead out there!"
"Dead?? Well maybe I am dead, motherfucker! Don't you think of that?" she screams, her hair falling in front of her eyes again, and he can't stand not seeing them, it keeps him from seeing into her heart, finding the place where it hurts, healing it.
He walks up to her as she turns away, grabs her arm, and tries to brush her hair back, but she shoves him and stalks into the bathroom. "Get away from me!"
He is quick on her heels. It must be a strange sight for any help that passes by, him in nothing but his slacks and sunglasses, following her as she stomps off in her underwear. In the first few months of their marriage, this was a precursor to the kind of angry love-making that had God blushing. Now, it feels like the end.
"What are you talking about now?" He groans, coming into the bathroom with her, watching as she paces the tiles.
"Oh, now you wanna know about my feelings?" she sneers, hair in her eyes, and he could never read voices.
"Dammit, Lisa, look at me!" he could shake her. This aggressive, blunt, rebellious part of her, he's always loved it, in the beginning it was what kept him grounded, and now it's just a nuisance, a barrier, keeping him from enjoying her. He's never seen her cry, never had to comfort her, never had to hold her together; she's been the one doing that for him. But now he's fine, he doesn't need her trying to "make him see." He needs to have control over his life, he needs the prescription pills, he needs weeks alone, he needs his game face for the world, he can't change it all for her, dammit.
"Fuck you," she snorts, turning on the shower head. "I'm bout to take a shower, you can just kiss my ass."
"Dammit, no," and he's well aware he sounds like a child. "No, we're gonna sit here, and work this out!"
"Wait, you? Michael? Wanna sit here and work this out?" Lisa laughs bitterly, still not looking at him. "You've been gone for a fucking month and you wanna work this out now? Fuck. You. I'm going for a shower!"
She's trembling with rage and some unknown emotion as she comes out of her underwear and throws her bracelet into the sink. He shifts from one foot to another, still with slacks on, still with his sunglasses on, still covered, still protected. He doesn't know this is what irks her the most.
"Fine!" he shouts, "But when you get out, we are talking about this!"
"We don't have anything to talk about!" she yells back, grabbing a scrubber and opening the shower door, nearly slipping with her determination to jump in, slamming the glass door behind her. he wonders if she could break it.
But he also follows her wishes, walking out the room and slamming the door behind him. He sees a nanny scatter away downstairs, a sight too familiar to even be annoyed about anymore. Now he's in his bedroom, wishing he could just smash something, throw a glass against the wall, slam a painting to the floor, ram his fist, his foot, into something that hurts him.
Two sides of him are screaming for attention; left side says, "This is my life, and no one gets to change it," right side says, "It's not just your life anymore," left side says, "she's always pressuring me to be something different," right side says, "she's pressuring you to be yourself," left side says, "she promised me children," right side says, "how can children make this better, and do you carry them?" left side says, "I don't think we're going to make it," right side says, "turn around you fool, you know you love her more and more."
The battle doesn't stop, the pain doesn't ease, and every part of his body aches with the simple truth: this woman, who splits him into two rivals, is the only thing that matters as much as the stage.
So there's no way he can leave.
She has since scrubbed and rinsed, but needs a minute longer, so she closes her eyes and takes the water head-on. It's been the one source of comfort in the past few months. She needs the time to recuperate, and under the water she feels like she's being healed, temporarily, before the next battle. But even under the shower's soothing touch, she's haunted by him. As warm as the droplets are, her skin imagines the wide hands that envelop her from the behind, much warmer. Her back recalls the chest pressed against him, softer. Her mouth remembers his gentle lips, prying firmly, matching her every move, sweeter. And the saddest part is that he would never, ever join her in the shower, because he's never, ever shown her himself for that long without makeup. She pushes and pokes and yells and still never gets through.
But should she keep pushing? Is she looking at it the wrong way? Is never letting him off pushing him away? Is what he first said he liked now what he hates? Is she taking out her own anger on him? Is all this talk of saving him killing them both? Is her desire to wait for children the problem? Is she just not meant for him?
We're not gonna make it, she mouths out under the shower head, tears mingling with the water. I'm not gonna make it, we're not gonna make it…
And her heart, her bruised, withering heart, cries out to her, Yes you are.
The help has finished their jobs, and they know it's not the end, so they've scurried into the second wing,meant solely for the help's residence. They no longer want to know whether or not to pack whose bags for the next trip abroad, they don't want to know if they have to send for papers, they just want it all to be over. The chef threatens to quit, among laughter, because they all know they could never, ever leave their beloved Michael behind.
Meanwhile, at the main residence, their beloved Michael has been shut in the second bathroom for three hours. Lisa, having gotten out of the shower ages ago and seen their bedroom was empty, is in bed, unable to sleep, but trying valiantly. The house is silent, save for the muffled sounds of owls hooting outside. Moonlight illuminates the bedroom through the half-closed curtain. Everything is beautiful when it's not.
Her ears suddenly perk; a door has been opened, footsteps are getting closer, breathing is closer, shallow, unsure. She sits up delicately, her hair falling across her cheeks, her bangs mussed up, and looks at the door to their room, the one she's left open.
Michael is standing there, consumed by darkness, but she can tell his silhouette anywhere. He steps forward, his head down, she sees he's wearing his favorite raggedy plaid pajamas bottoms, but no shirt. He steps further into the room, closes the door behind him, stand exactly in the moonlight, and she clearly sees what she thought he'd never let her see.
Brown spots. Smudged like an accidental finger paint on a canvas, trailing off into tiny veins of chocolate along his body. the space between his nose and lips, the outline of his arms, constellations on his chest. His eyes lock with hers, bloodshot, teary, without eyeliner, without anything. He is himself.
She waits, not saying a word for fear that it is a dream, a dream that she never thought would come true.
He says nothing, letting it sink in that he's serious, that it's killing him to do this, but it would kill him more to see her go.
"…I spent the month abroad." His voice is shaky, low. "I was…" a breath. "I was in this, this tiny little island…nobody speaks English, nobody knows me…I couldn't tell anyone where I was or I'd be followed."
She blinks, once, twice. "What were you doing?" Her voice softened by exhaustion, chafed by weariness.
His head down, he sits on the end of the bed, his back to her, baring more spots, more brown veins.
"I don't…I was….just by myself. I didn't talk to anyone, I didn't want to see anyone…I just--I couldn't…" his voice wobbles dangerously.
What does a woman say to a man she's loved but never really known? That's what it feels like…this man. Leaving behind the charisma, the intoxication, the iciness, the heat, he is just a man. With spots and constellations all over, places he had hidden from his wife, tales he had not yet told, he lets the naked skin tell.
She sits in silence, holding her breath, frightened to jinx it.
"You know when I first met you, I was watching a lot of old magician shows," he says, swallowing hard. "I was….just taken with how…how well they could just create illusions…dazzle the crowd for a while…take 'em away from everything else…"
His head bows, and hand comes up, rubs the back, like it aches to hold himself up.
"All my life….I've had to be like that….an illusion, for people…taking them away somewhere…it's the only way they can love me."
The pain in her chest must be her heart breaking. She doesn't make a sound.
"I didn't know I was doing that with you," he continued, rocking back and forth. "I…every time I open up I just…you scare me, Lisa."
She can't make him out as clearly as she did before, and she's lost her ability to blink. Moving at all could ruin this moment.
"You…see so much of me…I…" he cracks, she hears the tears, she can't move yet. "I keep thinking of what'l happen if you…see too much. Girl, you can really hurt me…y-you just don't k-know…"
It's no longer shaking, or wobbling, its sobbing, and he's hunched over, desperately sobbing his heart out, the way he did over the phone in 1993, the time where he did bare all to her, albeit over the phone…
She finds control of her movement, jumps out from under the covers, sways where she stands, a rush of dizziness, fights through it, kneels in front of him, of this broken person hunched over in tears, with his arms up, as if to shield himself. She can't let him shield himself when there is no one here out to attack.
"Shh…" she gently and firmly grasps his hands, and he doesn't fight her, thank GOD he doesn't fight her as she pulls them away from his face, his pink, wet face, the face he's so afraid of, the most beautiful eyes that can't meet hers.
Before she can say anything, he says, "And I love that….you don't let me g-get away with anyth-thing…it just….it feels like…sometime…I don't know if you're ever h-happy with me….it just….it's so much pressure, I can't…"
Without the anger, and the yelling, and the cursing, she sees him more clearly than before.
"Michael…" she says, and lets it linger, there's so much she wants to explain, so much she has to make him see, the way he's made her see. "Why do I feel the same things about you?"
He sharply looks up at her, his lips trembling open, he was not expecting to hear that, to here that she could be afraid of him too, that she worries about his happiness with her…what has the world come to?
"What do you want from me?" he doesn't know anything but this question in this moment, the weight of their fate heavy on his heart.
She looks down at their hands, gripping on to each other like lifelines, feel her throat clog.
"I want us." he closes his eyes at her words, more tears falling. "I just want us. Because I love you….and I miss you, and I want to be with you so badly, it's just….stop breaking my heart. I can't keep doing this alone, I need you to tell me, tell me what I'm doing wrong or what I can do better, tell me what you're feeling, tell me what's going on, all I want is us."
Us. He always said "you and I," "me and you," he never spoke of "us." It sounds so beautiful rolling of her tongue, as beautiful as she is, and he reaches up, pushes her hair back from her face, he wants to see that face, and it's streaked with tears, but it filled with hope, above the anguish and fear, it's filled with hope.
She can split him in two, he can cast his disappearing acts, she can drive him crazy, he can ice her and burn her, they can go on forever in this push and pull until they break, or they could talk it out. Marriage is new to him, marriage is not about him or her, it's about them. They can talk it out, until they reach a middle ground, and they will reach a middle ground, because whatever he cannot promise is this world, he can and does promise to her, in his heart, that he will never stop trying.
"Me, too."
When their lips meet, it feels like a rebirth.
It's a morning that they didn't expect, the help, when they come in to start their morning activities, expecting to clean up shattered glass, instead finding the couple sitting at the kitchen counter drinking coffee together, talking in low voices, circles under their eyes, neither caked with makeup, neither properly dressed. The maids glance at each other with raised eyebrows.
Michael is listening intently to something Lisa is telling him, his eyes sharper than they've ever seen them, and he leans forward to reply, and she bites her lip, not in anger or excitement, but in concentration.
They've been this way all night and well into the morning. Pacing their bedroom, sitting down, standing up, catching themselves when their voices raise, asking probing questions, getting tough answers, and finally trying. It's not an easy feat, as there are some raw patches of pain that will take much more than one day to heal, dead ends where no one can find an out, but giving up is not an option. They need each other. That much is clear.
There are moments, throughout the night and day, when it's too much sometimes, when he has to take a deep, shuddering breath, and she rubs his arms comfortingly, but the person with more emotional bursts is actually Lisa. He's never had a chance to show her that he can take care of her, that he can hold her tight to him and let her soak his shirt with tears, massage her scalp, relieve her pain as best he can. And he's hurt by her pain, but he loves this feeling, that she needs him to hold her together at times, that he is to her what she is to him--a rock.
They end up outside, on the rocking bench, late afternoon, side by side, taking a breath. He doesn't want to jinx it, but he feels that this could be the change they needed.
"We'll be alright," he tells her softly, kissing their interlocked fingers.
"We'll be better than alright," she replies with a lazy smile, her head on his shoulder.
The days take longer to get through, the conversations get strained before it relaxes again, the more she finds out, the more he discovers. She begs him to let go of the pills. He tells her he needs them, but she reminds him he only needs some of them, the rest are killing him from the inside out, and she can't see someone else she loves die from that. He pleads with her to let go of the secret vacations with Danny. She tells him she has never and will never cheat on him, and he knows, it's not about that for him, it's about not telling him. They find a middle ground; he will check into rehab, she will make clear to Danny the boundaries of their relationship.
They talk about the tour, the upcoming tour he's been thinking about doing, and she doesn't want him not to do it, she just doesn't want him doing it if it could kill him. He will wait until he's better, until they're better.
They talk about children, and he decides he doesn't want a child until they are secure. He will love her two children like nothing else, he will love all children like nothing else, and learn the art as best he can until it's okay. She shows him a birthing video for shits and giggles, and he says, "You know, there are a lot of children without families in the world…."
They talk about counseling, they go into counseling, talk about her father, his father, their mothers. Their past relationships, their religions, their views on everything. They find a middle ground.
She tells him he's beautiful, he tells her she's wonderful,they make love as slow as whispery as wind, strong and uncontrolled as a storm. When'd they do it now, he sheds the makeup, sheds the shield, bares all to her, tells her he belongs to her. She can barely breathe but she tells him she's all his too.
Afterwards, they lie tangled in sheets, not knowing where heends and she begins, gradually calming.
"You're fucking great at this," she growls sometimes, making him laugh so hard he tears up.
"No, YOU'RE fucking great at this!" he says finally, tickling her, the sound of swear words out of his mouth warming her up again.
"Nu-uh!" she replies, lying between his legs. " see you do that thing where…." she whispers in his ear, he blushes, bites his lip.
"But, but you do that thing where…" his lips brushing against her ear as she bashful hangs her head low. "So you're the great one!"
They can go on for hours like this, proving that the other one is better, when they know they're just better together.
A follow-up interview is done five years later with Oprah, Michael can stand her the most, and she asks them all the questions they knew she'd ask, both good and bad, and they clasp hands and assert themselves. Lisa's hair is no longer falling in front of her face. Michael sunglasses are rarely worn anymore. She doesn't have a problem with PDA as she used too, he doesn't look at PDA as his only way to prove themselves anymore. Oprah smiles, frowns, listens, they answer, joke, laugh, playfully banter.
They look like the perfect couple, to the world. They're certainly much better off than they once were. But they do not stop talking. The moment they block the lines of communication, the moment they will fall. And the two most stubborn people in the world refuse to fall.
She thinks her voice will soon be lost with all the talking they still do, past their first daughter, adopted from Africa, past their first son, from her womb. Past Riley's high school years and Ben's graduation, past his 50th and her 40th, past his final tour, past her three albums, past nearly 20 years of what everyone said wouldn't last.
A night in 1995 that wasn't supposed to be okay ends up making them okay for the rest of their lives.
She kisses his cheek as she adjusts his suit; they are heading out for their anniversary. The kids are alright with babysitters. The help is alright wit their day off. it's just the two of them.
"Did I ever tell you how sexy you look when you're focused on something?" he says slyly, watching her fix his tie just right.
Her lips turn upwards while her eyes stay on the task at hand. "Don't distract me with your bedroom voice, Michael, I really wanna do this."
He chuckles deep and low, watches her fidget unwillingly. "I have a bedroom voice?"
He knows damn well he has a bedroom voice, but he uses it more to see her reaction. She determinedly keeps her eyes on his tie. He waits. When he eyes finally flicker up to his face for a second, he bites his lip.
"God dammit!" she hisses, looking back down and scrunching his tie in her hands.
"Ha! 56 years old, and I still got it," he brags, standing up straighter when lisa lets go, finally finished.
"Uh-huh," she growls, grabbing her purse from the entrance table, throwing her black coat over her shoulders. He thinks he's won. He turns to open the door for her, she makes to walk out, then stops. Turns around, comes back, kisses him square on the mouth.
It's too fast for him to react, but he feels his bottom lip, the same lip he had used to tantalize her, being gently scraped in between her teeth, her fingers trailing down his neck, all in slow motion, but it's too fast, and too soon when she parts from him.
She observes his dreamy look of shock, his eyes that have darkened with desire, and she doesn't even need to look down to know how she's affected him.
"46 years old, and I still got it," she quips, smirking and walking out the door. He blinks rapidly and holds his breath trying to slow his heart rate. A goofy smile graces his face as he quickly looks back at the house, at the picture of them hanging on the wall next to him, before he closes the door and runs after her.
It is a good night.
(the picture on the wall)
