𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍, 𝐈𝐈

13. | BREAKEVEN, II

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LATE AUGUST-EARLY OCTOBER 1987.

Diana could barely see her feet. She took on a raddled waddle, grunting and groaning with every step, crouch, or rise. Her entire body was one cumbersome stone, a hindrance to everything from putting on socks to squeezing into tight spaces.

Her doctor pitied her. She had given her swollen feet and ankles one sympathetic glance and told her it was probably time to start kicking back her feet a bit more. Elevating and soaking her legs in Epsom salts should help with the discomfort. Stick with the morning walks and, oh, make sure to wear comfortable shoes and socks, and stay as hydrated as possible. If the swelling increased, she would have to go on bed rest until the baby arrived.

She hated being idle, but for the next four to six weeks, Diana played the waiting game. Georgetta's to-do list became longer, and Delia, her assistant, did a bit more running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Her duties typically involved trips to the supermarket and department store, but during one errand, Diana sent her on a more interesting expedition. When she returned, brown paper bag in hand, she puffed through accounts of her journey.

The line snaked around the building, but the clerks moved quickly. People had come dressed in red jackets, penny loafers, black highwaters, and white ankle socks. Some wore glitter gloves and curly, shiny coifs in their hair. A man in full costume was standing in the parking lot, blasting his copy of Thriller at max volume.

"It was one hell of an event," Delia said as she unloaded the bag. "You should have seen it!"

Diana smiled, unbidden. No matter where they stood, she would always be proud of him.

"He looks different," Delia remarked, not unkindly, as she placed the record into her hand.

The public was still adjusting to his appearance, but Diana only saw the same man. The large brown eyes, the distinctive jawline. Even in still life, Michael had the same aura. He could shed his skin and step into a different body, and she would still be able to distinguish him from anyone else.

He was going for a different look this time around. Tight black leather, belts, a sleek, wavy Jheri curl, and an unwavering stare into the camera. The visual framework of his newest album, Bad, a project at least four or five years in the making.

After Delia took her leave, Diana placed all the records but Bad on the shelf. She took it to her study, where she did something peculiar.

With his previous albums, she would tear the wrappers immediately, eager to listen to the songs as polished, finished products. Michael would never outright give her the details, but from time to time, she would overhear him humming or listening to a track. She wouldn't know she was privy to each album's inner workings until she had the record in her hands and heard those same melodies fully fledged and tweaked to perfection.

Bad was different. She knew some of the songs had been in the making since 1984 or 1985, but that period hadn't left her with much room for music sleuthing. And if it had, would she have actually remembered? Sometimes she could barely grasp the full nature of her memories from then. The pads of her thumbs tugged the thin sheet of plastic wrap. Her curiosity had been replaced with something she couldn't understand.

She flipped the record. In the top left, next to his name, was a picture. His arms were folded, his eyes were slightly hooded, and part of his body was framed in dramatic shadow. Just below the photo was the tracklist. One song stuck out. Another feeling washed over her, but she quickly pushed it away. This wasn't the first time someone had used the name "Diana" in a song title.