When she was sitting in a studio, notepad in her hand, ear turned toward the speakers, she was Goddess of the world. Every sense was geared for creation, every thought was of the music, of the words she would find and fit in each bar. Her voice became steelier, her eyes darker, filled with imagination and vision. Her legs only crossed when she was socializing or if she needed an elevated desk to write on; otherwise she'd lean on her knees and rest her mouth on her clasped hands, analyzing the vibrations each song sent through her, hoping that could make the words come out right.

It was in this position, she would find out years later, that he first saw her. Walking by on his way to another recording booth, he had spotted her, had ben intrigued by her, and admired her dominance of the room.

"Who is she?" he had asked his producer. 

"Oh, she's on my team, her name's Siedah."

And he had caressed her name with the silk of his thoughts, the tip of his tongue, like a lover's prayer, so that weeks later, when he did meet her, it was as if he had always known her, had always wanted her.

_________________________

When he was ready to close off submissions for the album, she had come to him, breathless with the fire that burned only in idealists, creative thinkers, writers, artists. 

"Quincy…" she gasped. "This song--"

"Siedah, no. " Quincy had said, having reached the end of his rope with the song-picking ceremony. "No, No, No."

"Quincy, come on, this is the real deal!"

"Siedah, I spent hours and days and weeks, I just can't do it anymore, we've got it!"

"NOT YET!!!"

Quincy stared at her then, realizing that she was not messing around. 

"me and glen, Quincy, this took us so long, come on, please, I promise you, this is the song Michael Jackson has been waiting for all his life!"

Quincy's eyes bugged out. Siedah backtracked, "But don't tell him that, I may be wrong…but i'm not. Oh please, Quincy please…"

Sighing, he had agreed to take it to Michael. "But if this doesn't work out…" he threatened, his small smile telling otherwise.

She just laughed, walking away. "Trust me, Q-babe, it's gonna work!"

Four hours later, she received the call.

"Siedah….." it was Quincy. He sounded dazed, as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. "Oh, Siedah….this is the most beautiful song I've heard in years."

Her heart exploded. She mouthed out to Glen, "He likes it!!!' Glen punched the air in triumph.

"Baby, the song is great. It's really good. It's just…"

"Just what?" her smile faded slightly.

"I've been playing songs for Michael for two years, and he has yet to accept an outside song."

Oh. That was all? Siedah laughed. "Q-babe, I can assure you, if you feel this way about the song, Michael will love the song."

Quincy chuckled. "You were always more confident than everybody else."

"That's right! And look where it's gotten me!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSXDGzgY2JU

Three days later, Michael was crying. 

He wasn't sobbing or shaking, like he used to as a child. He was crying in the only way he could hide it; behind his glasses. He had kept his sunglasses on by impulse. When he had the chance, he liked to hide his eyes; it kept people guessing what he was thinking, kept people from looking into his soul, kept him partially safe in some way. 

But today these glasses served as a shield for another reason.

I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror…

Whoever's voice was singing these words (and he knew it wasn't a male)  sung them with him in mind. When he closed his eyes, he could see the children in the street, the people without homes, the animals bleeding from bullets, the women crying out for help, the men struggling to support his family. The black babies, the white babies, the red, the yellow, the green…

The idea that it could start with him always fresh in his mind whenever he closed the door to his home behind him at night, whenever he laid his head down to sleep. And though he rarely looked in the mirror these days, dreading what would look back at him, he had looked inside himself asking questions that he couldn't answer.

But listening to this song, this beautiful, real, tangible, transcendent song, brings up those questions, not yet answers, but a clarity that the questions he had been asking weren't the right ones.

Thus his eyes watered and his throat clogged and his glasses were much, much appreciated.

"You like it, Smelly?" Quincy asked brightly as the song ended.

Michael cleared his throat, praying his voice wouldn't break. "Who wrote this?"

"Oh, Siedah! Remember her?"

__________________

When she finally met Michael Jackson, Siedah wasn't aware that she was going to meet Michael Jackson. 

"We want you to come in the studio tomorrow," they had said. Something about recording some vocals. 

She had assumed at once that she'd need to record overdubs for Man In The Mirror; it was one of the things Michael had asked for personally, according to Quincy. She had prepared her voice with lemon juice in hot water, honey and herbal tea, warmups from the early morning, and a period of silence only broken to let Quincy know she was only her way there.

While driving, she played a tape Quincy gave her of Michael's own composition, a beautiful love song that made her own heart flutter, try as she might surpress it. She had played it so many times that she now knew every word, every phrase, ad every progression. Just last night, she'd ad-libbed for a full on hour while cooking dinner for herself. It was safe to say she had the tune down pat and she didn't even need to.

Little did she know, when she walked into the studio, Quincy would ask her about that same tape.

"You got the tape, right, you know the song?"

Siedah nodded, confused.

"Well, we're gonna have you singing with Michael on the record."

Me? ME?

"Huh?'"

Quincy had to laugh. "Look in the studio!"

So she set down her belongings on the couch and walked to the half-open door, subconsciously smoothing her hair and adjusting her blazer, not daring to believe this was the truth. By the way, did she brush her teeth well this morning? Did her perfume smell alright? Did she get her iciest clothes out?

Oh, she was a child.

But her poker face was on from the moment she pushed the door open to the moment she locked eyes with him.

Standing against the wall in a red jacket, his hair tied at the nape of his neck, his eyes downcast until her footsteps caught his attention. 

And their eyes met, and she was swept away.

He was just beginning to wonder where she could be when she opened the door. His eyes traveled slowly upward, first taking in her black shoes, her black pants, fitting every inch of her without clinging to her, her bright yellow blouse peeking out of a black leather blazer, and that face, that beautiful chocolate face, those lips painted a mellow red, those small bright eyes shining underneath her braided bangs, and what kind of hairstyle was she wearing, something the world wasn't up on yet?

Her mouth opened slightly in obvious surprise, but she quickly closed it and smiled, and her teeth were so white and perfect.

You know you have a crush when you're hung up over her teeth.

Before he could say anything, she stuck out her hand. "Michael," she breathed, his name a melody on her lips. "So glad to finally meet you."

He grasped her hand firmly for a brief moment. "Siedah," he said, and it was like a hymn finally uttered before a Goddess. He pulled her into a hug, startling her for a moment before she gently wrapped her arms around his waist.

He let the moment simmer between them, not saying anything, letting his embrace convert what words could not. I am embracing greatness. You are greatness. I surrender to your greatness.

When he pulled apart, he held on to her hand.

"Man In the Mirror…" he said, watching her look down with a bashful breath of laughter, "Is my favorite song on this album, of all time. Thank you so much for making such a beautiful song."

She was clearly touched by his words, and he wanted her to be, because every word was true.

"Oh, thank you Michael, I am so glad that you feel that way…"

"And I heard your voice," he continued, smiling, "and that's why I want you on this song with me."

She opened her smiling mouth and no words came out. Her eyes darted to the music stand, clearly searching for tangible proof that this is real. 

"I would be…honored….to sing with you," she said, in that soft sweet voice, and he realized that her singing voice and her speaking voice were synonymous, both calming soothing entities. For such a woman of presence like her (she commanded your attention as she walked in the room), it was unique to see how soft-spoken she was.

"That's great! I'm really glad," he replied, grinning even wider.

So they stood on either side, fingering the corners of their music sheets, smiling, smiling, smiling.

_________________

When she heard the finished project, later on, she could be taken back to that day.

She wasn't a science major but she knew chemistry when she felt it. She didn't need the sheets, and neither did he, so where else to look but each other's eyes? Every emotion that was needed for a song like this, Michael came with it, in his voice and his face. His eyes would scrunch up, not in confusion, but feeling. At some points, his eyes would lock with hers, still holding that feeling, as if he were singing it to her.She knew for certain, in those hours, that she was singing for him. Part of her knew that it was simply the groove of the moment, the rest of her knew that this was love…

Musical love. Two artists, two people, bound by a song, sharing lyrics and harmonies like couples share secrets. In that sense, it was every bit of a love affair as she had imagined. Creative lovers. Their story written out in notes and lyrics.

It had its funny moments too; she'd try to get through a lyric on her own and Michael would make faces that no one else could see. It was such a strange sight to see this untouchable  in music be so….mischevious. She had no choice but to laugh the last lines away.

"Siedah come on, you're holding up the album!" Quincy would call exasperatedly. And she would mock-glare at Michael while he stifled his laughter behind his hands.

"Tryna get me fired," she muttered, her grin breaking through every time.

They had a quick lunch break, Siedah and Quincy and Mike. Quincy ordered takeout from the nearest Chinese food store for himself and Siedah, while Michael was content with a bag of peanuts. And while Quincy talked business with Siedah--"You're sounding really good here, you should try doing this here"--a peanut would suddenly break their eye contact. Michael would be giggling like a child sitting across from them. The joyful mischief in his eyes would be a look she sought to see in years to come. 

The sweetest part of that day was when she thought it was over.

"Oh, no," said Michael, shaking his head in surprise. "We're getting ready to do 'Man In The Mirror' and I need you to stay because I want to sing it like you."

It had taken every ounce of professionalism not to melt right then and there. She just squeezed his shoulder and laughed out her gratitude. 

Lovers in voice, lovers in lyric, lovers in art.

______________

When he heard the the album in its entirety, he already knew what his favorite songs were. The ones that had her name on it.

"I swear, Mike, it's like I can't tell which one of you is singing at times!" Quincy kept saying during the mixing of their duet. "It's crazy man, she's like the female version of you."

And while he laughed with the others, he didn't really want that idea in his head, since his last dream was of her, and if she was the female version of him, then that must mean people could think they are related, and he was not dreaming this way about someone he's related to, heavens to mercy no.

"She's really good," he said, as they listened to her voice acapella style. "I'm glad I sang with her."

"Yeah, she's a real wonder," Quincy said, staring at the screen. "She's always writing a song in this little notebook she carries around with her, it's got…phrases and little lines and sayings she's heard over the years….that's how she came up with Mirror, you know?" Quincy added, as an afterthought he had forgotten to tell Michael before.

"Really?"

"Yeah, she heard it in a phone conversation years ago and wrote it down! She told me that yesterday, I was just like, 'thank GOD I hired this woman!'"

Quincy chuckled at Michael's awed smile. "I know, she's something, isn't she?"

Something. No, she was not something, thought Michael. She was someone, someone unlike any other.

________________

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PivWY9wn5ps

When she heard the song on the radio, she had to pull over.

It was a busy tuesday, her own album had just been released, and she was rushing to the obligatory album release party. In her heart, she knew it would be unneeded, because her music wasn't something many people wanted to hear. Her style, her voice--it was not the style that most people cared for. In all honesty, she couldn't' care less. She had enough skills to made her mark on the world behind the scenes. At least there was less competition to be "perfect" on that side. That's where she really belonged. That's where she wanted to be.

She turned up the volume as the radio MC announced a new single from Michael jackson. She smirked, knowing whatever song it was the ladies would be all over it.

I'm gonna make a change…for once in my life….

Her heart had stopped, the world had finished, the end was here. Her skin felt clammy and cold, the air tasted sweet and frosty, and her eyes were blurred with tears.

She had to pull over, turn the volume as high as it would go, and let this magical feeling take over. 

After all those hours in the studio, him watching her to learn her vocal style, her hitting those high harmonies with him, the two of them suffering from giggling fits from catching each other's eyes too much, Quincy tutting at the two of them like a parent…all of that had turned into this.

And she was grateful that nobody was there in the car with her, to see her so taken with something that she'd never be worshipped for publicly, that she'd never receive awards for or crying fans for….because out of all that she has done, making this song for Michael--not Jackson, just Michael--was her greatest masterpiece. The beauty of it being that no one would ever get to know, that it was just between her and Michael. They could read the credits, but still they wouldn't know. This was her breakthrough, this was her peak.

Of course, she didn't realize there would be more to come.

_____________________

When push came to shove, Michael was just as aware that Siedah was the star of this song more than himself, so he knew he could not perform it at the Grammys without her.

"Tell Siedah I want her to sing backgrounds with me," he told Frank. And Frank had nodded, smiling inside because he would finally get to meet the woman Michael couldn't stop gushing about, the woman whose songs he couldn't stop playing and singing along to.

A few days later, she had responded, and Frank had quoted, "I would be honored to sing with you!"

Rehearsals for the Grammys revealed the depth of of their mutual respect. He attacked her with a bear hug that she responded to with joyous guffaws, after which he held her hands conveying how much he loved her album, how beautiful her voice was. Her humbled laughs seemed only to encourage him.

When they got into positions, Michael had planned out six front singers dressed in black to stand out behind him, while the rest were in choir uniform. He had immediately requested Siedah to be the front-singer. She was blushing but professional, even when she saw that the drew they had picked out for her was exactly like the one she wore for her single cover.

"You look beautiful in it," he insisted.

She, him, and Tatiana Thumbtzen, his co-star in The Way You Make Me Feel, would enjoy their lunch breaks running around the stage like children. Michael was the jokester, Tatiana was the impersonator ("Walk like Mickey Mouse! Walk like Charlie Chaplin!"), and Siedah was the student, learning moves and walks all at once. She and Tatiana had crossed paths before, in the early 80's, and had bonded instantly. To be working together like this was a true treat for them.

"What a small world!" Michael exclaimed, clapping his hands.

Siedah also noticed the flirtatious chemistry between him and his leading lady. Eye contact longer than expected, blushes, close body contact, the works. One would think she'd be jealous….if they didn't understand what her love really was. It was a fantastical affection that transcended labels and expectations and possessive qualities. She didn't daydream about his kisses or his embrace; she was experiencing with him something more precious than any romance. Together, it wasn't a battle of the names. Neither side could feel inferior. They were equals. Their love was written in the chords of the piano and the words that matched. 

What she didn't know was Michael's own feelings of inferiority whenever he was next to her. So many in this world were fighting for the spotlight in a business that meant more to them than the music did. So many men and women were resorting to the lowest of the lows to make their way through the glaring light of fame, as if that was all that mattered. And truly, the public was beginning to want more dirt than tunes anyway.

But Siedah….that woman. She didn't care about the light on the stage. All she wanted was to create and sing, and she didn't need the houses and cars to reward herself. She wasn't afraid of any star, she wasn't intimidated by any music mogul. She admired and respected everyone, but she never downplayed the shit that she could do. She was humble, and so he adorned her. She was skilled, and so he studied her. She was majestic, and so he worshipped her. 

But people would never know about the brains behind his new anthem. Unless he said so. 

And he did say so, when he received a Grammy for "best performance from a male artist." Man In The Mirror played in the background as he stepped up to shake hands with his presenter and the crowd roared behind him. He listed off the immediate names that came to mind; Quincy jones, his mother and father, Frank DiLeo, all the fans, the Grammy Awards of course…but there was still someone missing.

His eyes landed on Siedah, wearing a white shawl to cover the dress she would be showcasing later tonight, sitting next to Quincy Jones, her braids setting her apart from everyone else. She was looking intently at him, waiting for him to finish.

"Um…" he cleared his throat. "This song, Man In The Mirror, is very important to me. It speaks to the deep desire I feel to make a difference that the world can feel. It's one of my favorite songs on the album, and I'm so honored to receive an award for it…" he took a breath and looked at Siedah. "…but none of it would have been possible without the incredible person who wrote this song. Miss Siedah Garrett."

The crowd clapped loudly but with less enthusiasm than he had hoped for. He pressed.

"Siedah, thank you for writing this song, you're amazing, I love you." And he blew her a kiss. At that the crowd went wild, and Michael had to keep from rolling his eyes.

Siedah covered her mouth with embarrassment, but she blew him a kiss back and mouthed, "Bless you, Michael!"

It was the only award he would win that night, and the only one he had hoped for, the only one he needed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zALcfb4Fb1E

________________

When Tatiana called Siedah in tears, she knew what it was for.

Everyone had seen the kiss. She had been to the performance at Madison Square, courtesy of Michael's power. It was all over the papers with the sickening title "Smacko sends Jacko Wacko," filled with quotes from both Tati and Mike that she knew neither of them would ever say. The news about Tati's firing a week later, when Sheryl Crow became the TWYMMF dancer, made Siedah raise an eyebrow. She had never associated Tatiana with unprofessionalism, but could it be that the chemistry she thought she saw before was one-sided?

"Siedah, I don't know what is going on," she cried. "He told me that it was okay…the fucking night before, he told me! Now I'm getting fired and my agent just dropped me--oh Siedah, what am I gonna do?"

Siedah listened for any signs of dishonesty in her voice, and then asked, "When did your agent drop  you?"

"Tonight!" Tati cried harder. "He wasn't even speaking to me while I was on the tour and now he drops me?" She was lucky to call Siedah of all people for help, because Siedah could figure out instantly what was going on. 

The next day, Michael called Siedah to ask what she thought of the performance. She was honest; it was one of his best, and his rendition of "Man In The Mirror" was moving. After an awkward pause, Michael sighed. 

"I guess you know about Tatiana."

Siedah knew to choose her words carefully. "She called me recently…said you had agreed to the kiss…"

"I wish I hadn't," Michael snapped. "Next day, her agent's coming in trying to get more money off of me. Like it was all a ploy to get more money off of me…smart girl. She'll be well-paid if she keeps that up."

Flinching at the harsh tone in his voice, Siedah intervened. "Michael, she told me her agent just dropped her, and they hadn't talked sine the tour!"

There was a silence on the other line. She called his name.

"She said that?" Michael's voice was uncertain, like he had just turned the wrong way on the road and didn't know where he was.

"Yes!" 

"But…oh, no," Michael moaned. 

"Michael?"

"I remember….she had been trying to call him….he wasn't picking up…Oh, god, Siedah, I gotta call you back, I'm so sorry--"

"No, no, do what you gotta do honey," She insisted, wondering if she really had been successful in restoring someone's career.

"I'll call you back when I….yeah, okay, bye," he said hastily.

Three days later, a red-eyed Tatiana was sitting outside his trailer. She looked like she hadn't eaten or slept, and her skin was taking on a green tinge. Guilt tugged at his heart; he should have gone with his instincts, had gone to her first and asked her if it was true, even though he had people do his work for him so much that he wouldn't remember what he had ordered to happen after the fact.

It was the night before they would fly overseas. He had sent Frank to retrieve her from her hotel, with a tut from Frank as if he dissented. He had watched her enter the area with her head down, all the bubble and sugar she once exuded distinguished. Frank apparently didn't let her know she was re-hired, because the look on her face suggested she was expecting further humiliation. 

He had considered NOT approaching her personally out of embarrassment, had thought of maybe telling Siedah to do it for him…for a split second. But Siedah was NOT his employee. if anything he was hers. At her creative mercy, anticipating the next time he could work with her again.

And Tatiana deserved to hear it all from him.

So when he kindly greeted her and ushered her into his trailer, he pushed all thoughts of fear to the back of his mind.

Siedah received a call that evening from a much more cheerful Michael.

"I take it it all worked out?" she said knowingly.

"Ah, yes, it's all better now!" he gushed. Then he paused. "You know, you're the best, Siedah. You know that?"

Warmth spread from the fingers that held the phone to the top of her head, and she smiled wider. "Oh, no, Michael, you're the best."

He giggled, she giggled, they giggled. Michael's giggles were the only thing more beautiful than his singing voice. If ever she got the chance, she would keep the giggles coming. 

Tatiana called her that night as well.

"Siedah…oh, thank you."

"Hey, it's no problem, I know what's in your heart, you deserve this gig!"

"You know, you should be on this tour, too," Tati suddenly says seriously. "You could kick ass on tour."

Siedah shakes her head, and the feeling of agreement. "Oh, honey, you know I couldn't keep up with all them tour dates!"

______________________

They would write one more song together. "Keep the faith." It wasn't a hit on the charts, nor was it a single. But it was a collaborative effort that lasted a week. The week was adorned with late night discussions, mischievous pranks, constant revisions, and loud laughter. At the end of their getaway there were peanuts on the floor, empty take out boxes on the coffee table, balls of paper strewn across the room, and two tired but happy people, proud of what they'd done.

"Siedah," he said to her, as they cleaned up. "What is it about the music business that's changing?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, dropping a handful of trash into the can. 

"Well…this doesn't happen a lot anymore…" he gestured to their surroundings. "You and me…staying up all night to make it work…listening over and over again…I tried to work with so many people, but hardly anyone wants to do it like THIS anymore…"

She sighed. "Well, you better get prepared, Mike, cause it's bound it get a lot worse the way things are going."

He looked at her, an almost hurt expression on his face. "You think so?"

"Soon enough, all that's gonna matter is how easy it is to imitate. There's a difference between the artists and…everyone else." She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat like bile.

"Do you think…." Michael was looking at his hands, suddenly nervous. "Do you think I'm….an artist? Or everyone else?"

Her eyes widened and she walked over to him with her hands on her hips. "Are you kidding me? Michael! Look at me! Hey--I'm up here," she moved her head so she could look in his eyes. "You don't think your'e an artist?"

He blushed. 'Well I…I only got to take control of my music and everything was I was 20! 20 years I spent being what everyone wanted me to be…."

"Well, you became an artist the moment you took control!" Siedah insisted, wondering how long Michael had doubted what he really was to music. "You entertain, you perform, but you do more! If people knew what kind of things you've done in the studio, 'King Of Pop' would be inadequate to them!"

Michael giggled at that, covering his mouth. "Oh, Siedah…"

"I mean it! My goodness, Mike, how do you not know this?!"

He grinned at her. "Well, good to have you hear to tell me, huh?"

Now she was the one laughing and blushing. "Damn right!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGXmLwoTcfk

______________________

When he was certain he was, in fact, going to have the Dangerous Tour, he knew who to call.

"Mikey…." Frank said, when he heard the suggestion, fingering his cigar, "Um…I don't wanna be nosey, but um…"

"Frank!" Michael said, turning red in spite of himself. "No! That's not why I'm…"

But his face was a scarlet phenomenon, and Frank was shaking with mirth. "I-I mean, it's no problem..heehee!…I was just saying, you know…"

Michael took a carrot and threw it at him half-heatedley. "Oh, shut up."

Frank caught the carrot with ease, taking a bite himself. "Hey, it's no problem…I always liked her…more than Tatiana anyway."

"Hey!" Michael glared at him. "Tati's a sweetheart."

"She's a romantic who thinks kissing you every night onstage means something offstage."

Michael threw his hands up. "It was professional! Jesus Christmas! Frank, I told you--"

"I know, I know, " Frank waved him off. " I'll drop it, she's gone anyway."

Michael rolled his eyes. "ANYWAY! Siedah Garrett. I want her on the tour."

"Background singer?"

"Yes, and co-singer for Can't Stop Loving You."

"Why that?"

"Didn't you know?" a dreamy smile spread across Michael's face. "She sung on the original, and It wouldn't be right unless she sang it again. Please, Frank, come on!"

Frank sighed. "OF course, Mike…"

"You're wonderful!" Michael laughed, hugging his friend.

It was surprising to everyone but the two of them how natural their chemistry onstage was.

She learned the harmonies so quickly people wondered if she had always known what to sing. Truth was, in the time she and Michael spent together, he had showed her all the music he was working on, all the progressions and beats and harmonies, and had asked her what she thought. The King Of Artistry, she said to herself, wanting her feedback!

And he was well aware that they two of them had similar voices, ever since they recorded their duet, whenever she went real soft, to a near whisper, and that's when his stomach would twitch, so affected was he and yet he never could tear his eyes away.

So it just made sense that they would do this together. After the first rehearsal, even Frank could see it no other way.

 Siedah had made it clear that she was down with whatever routines or costumes he wanted her to wear. Bush, the designer, came up with a multi-colored jacket over back spandex shorts and high boots. At first sight, Siedah keeled over laughing.

"….Can I even fit into that?!" she choked out.

But alas, she most certainly could, and during dress rehearsal, when she walked out on stage, singing to him like he was her Romeo, he stared at her like she was his Juliet. His eyes trailing over the skin of her thighs, the cute of her waist. She could have felt naked, the way Tatiana once described it ("He looks you up and down like he's undressing you with his eyes!"), but instead she felt somehow empowered. It wasn't common for her to wear her skin so proudly, but when she did, it was reactions like his, the subtle kind, that made it extra enjoyable. Instead of feeling small under such tension, she felt taller, a little more sultry then usual, and the set noticed. 

Particularly when, during the first show, he suddenly placed his hand on her thigh, still swaying to the beat.

At first she was startled, but her face showed otherwise; professionalism had immunized her against constant surprises. With a look of affection, she ran her hand up and down his arm, clasping it over the hand that touched her thigh. His smile widened, though his eyes stayed on her thigh.

"You know how I feel, I won't stop until, I hear your voice saying I do."

And she responded, "I do," adding more words to the phrase, putting more meaning behind her voice, meanings she'd never verbalize in any other setting. And his eyes flickered to her, and he winked, smiled, bit his lip. 

The hand left the thigh, the music went on, and the moment was gone.

But not forgotten.

The crowd reaction dictates what pieces remain in the puzzle, and so began a new dynamic on the Dangerous Tour stage. His hand became a welcome neighbor to her thigh, her hand a dear companion to his arm, they hips swaying side-to-side with the synchrony of twins. After the spotlight would sit off of her, and he would sing the next song, he could still feel the electricity of their movement, their contact. He would actually feel a

 loss as he feigned confusion, looking at the dark part of the stage where she had been, hearing the chords of "she's Out Of My Life" and feeling that loss in a more profound way. 

The moments otherwise when he could see her again, during "Workin' Day and Night," when all the singers and back up dancers were frozen in place, and he was running through them like mannequins in a fashion store, he would circle her, tease her, touch her, until he saw her lips tighten to hide her smile. 

And at the end, when it was their song playing, the last song to be played, and everyone who could bow together was bowing together, he took her hand and pulled her forward. "Siedah!" he yelled joyfully, relishing in the glow his fans would adorn her in with their screams of approval. Her bowing, blowing a kiss, touched. Him throwing caution to the winds, pulling her for a kiss on the cheek, his own skin burning with the soft imprint of her puckered lips. That moment, also theirs. Also a piece to the puzzle.

_______________

There was one time, one show, in Buenos Aires, when life was taking its toll on him, when his headaches increased, and his relief had to increase with it, and rehearsals were a blur, and even Siedah couldn't make him smile, and he was hurting, and everyone knew it. And his reflection was particularly irksome, and he'd cried in his trailer five minutes before showtime, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and fall away.

There was one time, in that show, when the pieces were changed.

He had wanted to speed up his verse, he wanted to see her come out, see her sing to him like she loved him; that would hold him over until he got back home. He was tapping his foot impatiently, singing, closing his eyes, anticipating.

"This time is forever, love is the answer…" and he pointed to his right, and he heard her answer.

"I hear your voice now, you are my choice now…"

Oh Siedah, his heart whispered, like a prayer, a plea, and a smile cracked his stoic face apart. He raised his eyes, preparing for relish her glory--and then quickly looked back down, holding his lips together for dear life.

What the fuck….

She knew too, the moment she turned to look at him, that her plan had worked, that he was long gone.

"I can't live my life without you…." she said, just as sweetly, her wide smile the only acknowledgement of anything out of place.

He tried to sing his part the laughed on the last line, and she internally punched the air in triumph. There was his smile, his laugh, there was what she had been waiting for. He rubbed his own leg, trying to compose himself, and she loved it, loved him.

"I just can't stop loving you," they sang to the crowd, cheeks hurting with their grins, their only outlet. The crowd itself didn't notice or care, they sang along just a loudly as every other country, every other stop they had made. 

"I just can't stop loving you…" Michael sang, pointing at her (the piece in the puzzle), pausing, and then tracing the outline of her blond wig (this unknown addition that she had dreamed up half an hour before the show). The one that had the other backup singers cracking up for the first five minutes before they could immunize themselves against it. So everyone was ready for it….but Michael.

He couldn't do this, he had to step forward, gather himself, sing to the crowd, but oh lord, his head was filled with that wig, how on Earth did she find that wig? Was it in dress rehearsal? How was everyone NOT falling over in mirth? Did they set this up on him?

It was working, whatever it was, because he couldn't even feel his pain, just the strain it took to keep from giggling.

He felt her coming up behind it, readied himself for the best part, stretched out his hand, pressed into her sweet thigh, swayed and swayed, kept his eyes down but damn it i can still see that wig from peripheral dammit. And she was running her hand down his arm, and the sensuality of their actions and the comedy of that fucking wig was too much for him, so he grabbed the hem of her shorts, taking out his humor on the sparkly fabric, trying to say without words; you, you, you, Siedah, Siedah, Siedah….

The moment she felt his hand grab her shorts, she quickly grasped his forearm and looked away, praying her voice wouldn't crack on "I DO," because finally, her composure had slipped. She felt the message in his trembling fist on her thigh, the way he gritted his teeth while his lips curved upward, the way his eyes burned into his feet. She just knew that he was himself again, the self she had grown to crave on this tour, like an addiction, but for her soul.

"This thing can't go wrong…" and the beginnings of mirth crept into her voice, so thank heavens he had to sing now, so she could laugh openly, give in to what was dying to come out since she first saw his face. Oh this was so heavenly, watching him sing and trying to repress his laughter, those eyes bright and shined over like an innocent child, the innocent child within him. His voice glazed with giggles, as he sang the chorus with her, pointing at her face--her wig.

He was trying to tell her he loved her exactly for this reason, this prank that she had played on him, this joyous moment that he so desperately needed. On this stage where nothing had happened that was so new to take him out of his reverie, on this tour where all plans left him to wallow in his misery, on this night that meant fuckall to him. And who better to have noticed but her, his unknown lover, to notice something was wrong and go to unconventional measures to try to fix it, to heal him. Giving him a road in the dark forest, a warm light in the cold fog, a moment of clarity under all this pressure and painful confusion.

"We can sing songs of yest….." ah, he couldn't, he just couldn't; what was she wearing?!

Oh that smile, she would cherish forever, watching him point to her hair again and again, knowing the audience would think he was just pointing at her face, herself and him knowing differently, him dropping the microphone to laugh breathlessly, spinning around on that stage tot he music, so lost in his glee. And it was her, all her. 

And at the end, he pulled to out of the line, "Siedah!" to the crowd, with that wig still in place, kissed her cheek, and she heard him guffawing in her ear over the music.

Backstage, everyone was chattering excitedly, hi-fiving her, joking with her, Frank was hunched over in laughter, cigar in his mouth, but it was Michael who had come backstage, seen her, and pulled her into the warmest embrace, shaking with silent giggles, the two of them nearly falling over with the force of it. 

"I love you," he said into her hair, and she responded with the same vigor, "I love you more."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAkV-bJdqYg

From the beginning to the end, he never made a mention of it, their pieces in the puzzle, and she had no objections, so her lips were sealed too. It was the kind of unspoken agreement only secret lovers could have…and they were lovers in a way that transcended the need for kisses in the trailer, and nights under the sheets, and "what is our relationship?" conversations.

For all of their chemistry, their synchrony, their love, they were above every action that would indicate it.

__________________________

When Siedah heard the news, she wanted to cry. 

"Don't treat me like a criminal, for I am innocent," was Michael's plea to the camera, as CNNhad shown it. "He's a sick pedophile!" was Ethan Chandler's snarl, as Entertainment Tonight had reported. 

She hadn't had a chance to speak to him since his tour was cancelled, since she had read about his intervention, and all she had been able to do was pray for him. But now to hear this, this was too much.

So she called.

"Hold, please."

As she waited, the sound of rain hitting her window irritated her, made her want to cry more. What was the sky crying for, it had nothing to go through the way Michael did. 

"Hello?"

He sounded so tired, so worn out, that it broke her heart.

"Michael, honey? It's Siedah." she tried to put as much gentleness and care in her tone as possible.

"Siedah? Oh, Siedah…" he sighed into the phone, relief crackling over the line. "I'm so happy to hear from you. How are you? Are you alright?"

Am I alright?

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm--i'm great, nothings wrong with me, I just wanted to talk to you!"

"You still wanna do that now, with me?" his voice was lower than usual, slower than before.

"Honey, I will never stop wanting that," she stressed. "Never."

Silence, then a sniffle. 

"Why is this happening to me?" he begged of her, his voice cracking.

For the first time in years, she had no answer for him. All she could do was plenty weep with him.

Maybe it was because he had lived so long in the bubble he had created for himself, but Michael didn't want to hear it.

"Mike, you literally have no choice!"

"I'm not letting them take a fucking cent!"

"Michael, we can't see a future  where this is going to go in our favor!"

"BUt you know I didn't do it!" Michael slammed his fist on the desk. "You know I didn't do anything wrong!"

He looked to one of his advisors, Gayle, for help, but she had kept her head low the entire conversation.

"Gayle, you know me," he pleaded, "you know I didn't do this!"

She swallowed hard, running a hand over her dark cocoa face. "I know you didn't do it, Michael."

Where was the blunt ass-kicker he had been told he would receive when he had hired her? "Dammit, Gayle, why can't we do this?"

"We?" she raised her head, her eyebrows meeting in the middle. 

"No, YOU!" he yelled, pointing at her. "I hired you to get me out of this mess."

She remained calm. "You hired me to try and fix it, Michael."

"Then why aren't you fucking fixing it! That's why you're here!"

"Michael," his lawyer John interjected, "We can't fix everything--"

"YOU PEOPLE ARE SUPPOSED TO FIX THINGS!" Michael screamed. "YOU DO IT OR I'LL FIRE YOU!"

The next hand to slam the desk was Gayle's. She stood up, rage etched in every line of her face.

"And then you'll have no one in you're corner, JACKSON," she snarled. Michael stared at her, taken aback.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter? Now, here's the deal, you want the deal? You want the TRUTH?" Gayle snapped, walking slowly toward him. "The truth is that no matter what didn't happen between you and that boy, the world will never believe it! It is ENOUGH that you slept in the same fucking bed, Michael!"

"I NEVER D--"

"We KNOW!!" Gayle cut him off. "But fuck, Michael, if you had a child and he slept in a bed with another man, what the fuck would you think?"

"Gayle," he breathed through clenched teeth. "If I knew the man, I would trust him, you know that--"

"And you thought these parents trusted you! And you were wrong!" Gayle put extra stress on the last word. "That's what you don't get, you trusted the wrong people!! And it doesn't matter that they're lying! You did the one thing that the world doesn't understand with a kid whose parents are using it against you!"

Michael was shaking his head, his heart breaking yet again.

"Take the fucking settlement plan, Michael, just take it!" Gayle pressed, forcing him to look at her.

"Gayle, I do that and everyone's gonna think I did it!"

"And if the jury or judge believes even for a second that you did it…" Gayle let the sentence finish itself. Tears threatened to escape his eyes. She softened and put a hand on his shoulder.

"They don't have to prove shit," she whispered. "Burden of proof is on you."

"And I can prove it, because i didn't do it!" Michael spat bitterly, sitting down. Gayle sat down with him. Everyone held their breath, watching.

"You don't know what it's like…" she said. "Testimony isn't enough. Paperwork, money, witnesses…there are no witnesses except you and Jordie."

"Fucking Jordie," he suddenly sneered. "How could he do this to me?"

"You think it's him?" Gayle replied in surprise.

A moment. Michael sighed.

"No….I'm sorry…."

"Jordie doesn't even want to testify. It's Evan, Michael. Evan Chandler. The second he takes that money from you he'll prove to the world what he really is.No real parent profits from the abuse of their child."

Micael frowned for a second; he hadn't even thought about that angle.

Gayle pushed. "Michael…you can do this."

And so, when Siedah read the paper, she read about his settlement, and the guy next to her snickered.

"That's how you know he was guilty."

She turned to him, smiled, stood up, and accidentally on purpose knock his cup of coffee off the table with her bag as she left the cafe.

"You understand, Siedah, don't you?" he asked her later that week.

"Of course, I do, Michael," she said.

She was remembering when her father had owned a store back home, the only black guy in a sea of white faces, and he had been propositioned by a pretty redhead who was married to his rival, Gary Broker. And how he had turned her down, and she was angry, and so she had spread the lie around that he had raped her. And how their family was plagued by stones to windows and bumps in school halls, and how their lawyers said, "Just pay her off, man, it's not worth it, you're never going to win."

"I will always believe in you," she added. 

"…"

"Michael?"

"…I love you, girl."

"…I love you too."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kL7nZHxaqIk

_____________

When Michael took her on his next tour, a barrier fell down.

She had watched him closely, on and off stage, with fear. His face was thinner, more jagged in features, less happy, less beautiful…less him. When he moved, it was less, when he sung, it was less, when he smiled and shouted out to the audience, it was less, less, less, all of it was less than what he deserved. Off the stage, he seemed a shell of who he used to be. But who was she to judge when she knew no more of him than the man behind the microphone, asking for direction hours before the spotlight would illuminate him in front of millions of screaming fans? Who was she to voice her fears when their love was one for the music sheets, not for the real world?

It killed her not to say anything, but for the longest time, she kept her mouth shut, serenaded him when she needed to, let him touch her when he needed to, gave him all she had when she had to, on that scalding stage he called home.

The longest time doesn't mean forever, as he learned when the two of them were alone, walking around the audience area, watching the staff set up the lights for the show. At this point, Germany, rehearsal was unnecessary, everyone knew everything, and he could have a normal conversation about any and everything with his favorite friend. It was about the only thing he could hold on to anymore. After the debacle with Lisa, the children with his former friend Debbie, the case and the settlement, and every pill he could hold on to, every termination of those who tried to tell him no….it just….it was killing him. Thinking the yes-men circle would make things better was a mistake; he was being a child, he still had a problem, and he knew it,and he wasn't a young man anymore, the time for playing victim was coming to an end.

So this moment with Siedah, one of the last authentic people he had left, was precious to him. And she made it even more precious when she turned to him suddenly, in a moment of silence, and said:

"Are you alright?"

For two slow moments, he wanted to back away, saying he was fine, why would she ask, it wasn't her business. But he made the error of looking into her eyes. No underlying motive but fear and love lay in those chocolate orbs of hers, and it unraveled him.

"No, I'm not alright," he shook his head, the tears springing to his eyes as if on cue, like they were waiting in the wings for his signal. "I'm losing it, Sid, I can't…I can't even…everything's just going so wrong…." he was trembling and he couldn't help it, he needed to get away before she could see him like this, before the whole world saw him like this, but she wrapped an arm over his shoulder and took him discreetly backstage, and he thanked the Gods that no one was there because he was still crying, talking, word-vomiting.

She strained to hear him through his hands that covered his face, while looking out for his trailer, where he could be hidden from prying eyes, and she'd get bits and pieces and put the rest together in her heart.

"…they were nice to me and then they just FUCKED me….Jordie….everyone wants something from me…..Lisa…can't even make my marriage work….she just wanted to help….too much pain….Debbie…..two children….now she's gone too….go back to rehab….it's happening again…"

Jumbled words and broken speeches, all mushed together warbling in and out of coherence, but it basically translated to one thing: Pain.

When she finally pushed open the door to his trailer and huddled them inside, he collapsed onto the small couch on the left, crying in earnest. She sank on the cushion next to him, her hand on the top of his back, moving in slow circles as if she could rub the pain away.

"I'm so….ugly….I'm nothing….nothing came come of me….nobody loves me…."

She almost thought to say "You're fans love you," but she already knew it was a lie; the fans loved the man they thought they knew, not the man that knew himself. She was about to say, "You're family loves you," but how could he feel it when all that linked them in communication was concert ideas and money now? She could have said, "You're friends love you," but who was his friend, really? What did he define as such, and if he did, who they were to him wasn't much if he couldn't even feel their love. 

So she did the only thing that felt right to her, at this moment; she saw his tear, his hidden mouth behind his hands, his trembling, frail frame, and said, "I love you."

In his real melodrama, he had said something about nobody loving him, and his heart felt it while his mind knew it wasn't true, but who was he to tell the difference? And how could he have known she would respond like that?

"I love you."

Now what was he to do? He knew, in the bottom of his heart, that he would hear it from her someday, one of these days. That's why he kept asking her back, to give her more chances to say what he was afraid to say first, lest rejected again. And now, hearing it, in a moment where he was so vulnerable, hadn't planned anything to say or do in response, was totally and unequivocally him…he broke down further.Sobbing like he used to as a child, unable to control his body movement, afraid to stop crying, to look up and see her reaction to his breakdown.

He felt two strong arms around him, hold him tight, as if in place, to say, let go. i'm carrying you. He released all control of his muscles, let her cradle him in her arms, his head under her chin, against her warm chest, and she smelled like rain, because it rained today…when was she outside? Are they both wet with rain now, or his tears?

He couldn't' wait to stop crying. He wanted, he needed desperately, to tell her he loved her too, and that everybody knew it, that he couldn't' go a day without thinking about her, and he had written so many songs about the things they did that hadn't even happened yet, from their birth to their death, to remember the time, to beautiful girl, to the song he hadn't even written, but felt her spirit in, you are not alone…oh how he had wished, for all these years, that she would be the one to say, "I love you."

She loved him. And with all that was irreparably astonishingly wrong in his life, he had a thought that everything was alright now.

Her heartbeat quickened when his breathing slowed, when he wiped his eyes, when he could speak again. She had done it. Said the words that undid him. Did he not believe her? Did she go too far? Did she not go far enough?

After what felt like a frozen moment in time, slowly, he raised his eyes to her. Face red, eyes bloodshot, he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Ich liebe dich mehr."

German. For, "I love you more."

And the world exploded.

It was either him that kissed her first or her that kissed him first, she didn't know, she didn't know much of anything anymore, but it was warm and soft and pink like his lips, and her fingers were brushing his curls back, and his hands were snaked around her torso in a death grip, and something had broken. A barrier between them fell.

And later that night, when he knew how he felt and wouldn't stop until he hear her voice saying "I do," the hand on her thigh, under that spotlight, was warmer than ever before. The twinkle in her eyes outshone the stars when she looked at him. the gold in his voice when he sang to her, all became enhanced with the knowledge that it was truth they shared now. The puzzle was now complete.

________

And they would go on.

Would go on to write songs together, sing together, guest star on each other's albums, and perform together. 

Would go on to laugh, fight, debate, discuss, and repeat in the dim light of the studio, or the bedroom of his house, or the small flat she owned herself.

Would go on to be without being legally, not taking a oath or signing a page or wearing a ring, because those meant nothing in the eye of transcendent love.

Would go on to meet when they could, talk over the phone when they weren't supposed to, and write when the mouth could't form the right words.

Would go on to watch his children grow up inch by inch and loveit (though she never had kids of her own, it was alright, his kids sometimes called her mommy.)

Would go on to exist in a distance that was beautiful for them, disturbing for the few people who knew anything was happening, because they didn't understand that this pair was what it was only with room to breathe.

Would go on to turn 48, 49, 50.

Would go on, go on, go on, with no interruption. In their own way of loving, that one would confuse with "friends with benefits" if one did not know their story.

These lovers in lyrics, music, art, and life.

__________

But things would eventually go slow, when he emerged declaring "THIS IS IT!" to screaming londoners, when she visited him during rehearsals, saw his fragility, worried over him, in silence. When he came to her some days with a slurred speech that frightened her, when he said he didn't have a problem.

And she knew, really in the back of her mind that this would happen. That the demons would finally catch up to him. She couldn't hold them forever away. She was only a woman that he loved, not an angel, not God. Still, she had fervently tried, all these years, as best she could, from where she was, from where he had placed her. And she couldn't bring her heart to regret it. Any of it.

In his defense, he had never stopped. And he had told her so. He had just controlled himself more. Her love had been the healing that he needed from a while, all this time. But this was 50 shows, and he needed the money and he needed to impress his fans and he couldn't carry it on his own this time. So he upped the dosage. But she was there, to love him, every step of the way. 

Another woman was taking her place on the stage, but never in his life. He proved it when he asked Siedah, the last day she visited rehearsal, to sing their song instead. 

The pieces of the puzzle were still very much intact, as his faithful pianist of decades played the way he used to play, for the way they used to perform, back in a time where everything was different, and she would wear a blonde wig to make him happy, and he would try to tell her without words what he tells her now as often as he could. 

His hand on her thigh was still natural, with the mischievous undertone of what more transpired between them when no one was watching, and her grip on his arm, the little squeeze she gave him, indicated that she knew what he was thinking, that naughty naughty boy.

And when it stopped, when they were at opposite sides of the stage, and the crowd of cast and crew were yelling for an encore, and his smile gave her flash of the smile he wore when they first met, she believed truly, against everything that her dread warned, that things were going to be alright.

_____________

But it wasn't alright. Not even close. As June 25th proved soon after.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0LlYK6_e_w

____________

When his 55th birthday came without him, another birthday without him, Siedah visited the old studio area.

The morning painful, the noon dull, the early evening the birthplace of such an idea…the kids at home, watched over by their mother, which Siedah understood and would not fault him for, because he never did go back and change the will, and she could still be in their lives.

She visits their studio.

It was nowhere near as lively and artsy as it once had been; the boards of controls were reduced to one computer and one keyboard. The music coming out of each booth was the kind that had made her want to rip out her locks with one hand. Nothing felt authentic anymore. One would have had half a mind to leave.

But she walked determinedly to the back of the building, where her studio, and his studio, was. The studio where he said he first saw her, listening intently to the music, waiting for a rhyme to come for me. It was empty, but messy with open takeout boxes and strewn with sweaters and jackets. A memory of writing with Glen Ballard in this room made her chuckle to herself. She pulled tighter around her the red jacket he had given her to keep years before, the one that still smelled like him, felt like him, if she closed her eyes.

And then…there was his room. Their room. The exact place where Michael and Quincy and Bruce and all the old gang had created sounds of hope and harmony and funk and soul and all else that made her world go 'round. She walked in slowly, taking in the boards of controls that still lay waiting in place, at the small vocal booth at the far end, the leather couch, the dim light. It was empty and clean. Perfect, the same, yet no sign of Michael having ever been there. Which was rude, to her; this was his place first and foremost, more than anyone else's, he made this place what it was, how dare he not be appreciated...

Her feet took her into the vocal booth,first to the spot where she once stood, remembering vividly the lyrics she sang there, and then to the spot where he stood, looking at her, that day when they made her history, and Siedah stood there now because she wanted to imagine what he felt when he saw her, what life was like through his eyes, what she was like through his eyes.

She turned around and saw something on the wall. She stared at it for long moments before her tears threatened to spill over, before she took a quick picture with her phone, just to keep it alive in her memory, backing away slowly, tearing her eyes away and walking back out the door. 

She had gotten what she'd been searching for. There was something left of Michael in there.

A framed picture of him and her staring at each other, him biting his lip, her smirking back at him, the day they made her history, with a golden plaque underneath that stated:

In 1987, Michael Jackson recorded vocals for the Bad album in this very room. 

He had handpicked a song called "Man In The Mirror" by Siedah Garret, to record,

as well as inviting Ms. Garrett to sing with him on the classic  ballad, "I Just Can't Stop Loving You."

Pictured here are the two posing for shots before recording the song together.

R.I.P. 1958-2009

______________________________

"As you can imagine, over the past couple days I've gotten hundreds of emails and phone messages and text messages of condolences...wishing me well, hoping I'm okay. 

I was asked by CNN, Entertainment tonight, MSNBC, Hollywood Tonight, all these Extra, all these news media, they want me to talk about Michael.

And I'm thinking…nobody was asking me to talk about Michael on Tuesday. 

Nobody was asking me to talk about Michael on Wednesday.