Tubes. Plastic tubes everywhere you looked. In his arms. In his mouth. They resembled clear, fluid-filled snakes, and like serpents they coiled around the frail body of your little boy, squeezing the life out of him, slowly stealing him away from you.

No. You buried your face in your hands. No, you're wrong. They're helping him. They'll make him better soon.

You told yourself this all the time, but with each passing day, you believed it less and less.

Today was different, though. Today, without a doubt, something would make him feel better.

Today, Michael Jackson was visiting the hospital.

You lifted your head from your hands with a sigh and looked at your son. He was lying there, propped up, blanketed by a white hospital sheet that smelled nothing like home. Even as he slept, he clung to his red zippered jacket, an exact replica of the one Michael Jackson wore in his "Beat It" music video.

No, not "music video," you thought. What did Matthew say they were called again? Oh! Short films, that's right. Yes, Matthew's jacket was just like the one in the "Beat It" short film.

Matthew had insisted he wear it today, and despite the concerns of the nurses – "There's too much equipment to maneuver" and "he's too frail" – Matthew would not take no for answer. So, there he lay, in his red zippered jacket.

He looked stronger in the jacket. Maybe it was because it bulked up his delicate, withered frame, at least on the outside. But you knew it was more than that. You knew that, for reasons beyond your understanding, Matthew felt stronger, happier when he wore it.

You smiled at him, but you winced when you felt the ache in your legs, a pain caused by sitting too long, an ache you had grown accustomed to. You looked at Matthew again. He was still asleep, so you allowed yourself to leave his side to stretch your legs. You walked to the doorway of the room, but you did not leave. What if Matthew woke up to find you missing? You couldn't let that happen, so you resorted to doing leg stretches at the threshold of the room.

You glanced up and down the bare, white hospital hallway. The walls were a little less bare today. In fact, the hospital was filled with life like you had never seen before. Down the hall, a tiny, curly-haired girl in a wheelchair helped a nurse hang a banner in the hall that read, "Thank you, Michael." The girl tore off a piece of tape with her small, nimble fingers and handed it excitedly to the smiling nurse, who held the banner above her head.

Michael Jackson

You couldn't understand the love for him, the hype he caused. Couldn't understand why Matthew idolized him the way he did. There had been many times when Matt had played his music for you, showed you his short films, times when he would look up at you with bright expectant eyes and ask, "Isn't he great?!" You would nod half-heartedly just to make him smile, but you never understood Matt's fascination.

Someone called you, a small, hoarse voice.

"Mom?"

You turned back into the room and rushed to Matthew's side, taking your place in your chair. "Hi, honey. How did you sleep?" you said, clutching his hand.

"Is he here?" Matt asked. His hazel eyes twinkled with excitement. That surprised you; you hadn't seen him this lively in so long. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you fought them back. You must never let him see you cry.

"No," you say, tousling his bedhead. "Just wait a little longer. He'll be here before you know it."

Matt's eyes fell on the Peter Pan statue sitting on his bedside table. The flying forever-boy soared through the sky, smiling at his fairy friend Tinkerbell as London slept far below them.

Three weeks ago, Matt had gotten an idea in his head, and without explanation, he had asked you to buy something – anything – related to Peter Pan. You couldn't understand why he would ask for something like that; he had never been overly fond of the movie as a boy.

"What do you want that for?" you had asked.

Matt's pale cheeks had flushed, and he avoided your gaze. "It's a present . . . for Michael."

"You mean Michael Jackson?" you asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Why Peter Pan?"

Matt rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. "Because he likes it." He pouted and crossed his arms. "And I call him Michael."

He had always called Jackson by his first name as if the megastar was one of the neighborhood kids, and it always made you chuckle in a playfully patronizing way. "Matt, you can't call him by his first name. He's not one of your buddies, you know? Please, call him Mr. Jackson when he visits, okay? It's more respectful."

Matt looked hurt for a moment and mumbled something under his breath.

"What, sweetie?"

Matt looked up at you and sighed. "Nothing."

That was three weeks ago.

Now, Matt reached for the Peter Pan figurine, nonverbally asking you to hand it to him. You helped him hold it – the small statue was unusually heavy and Matt was, well, unusually frail.

Matt cradled the statue in his thin fingers and turned it all around, studying it with intense focus.

You smiled. "Whatcha doing?"

"Making sure it's perfect," he said. "It has to be perfect."

You stroked his hair affectionately. "I'm sure it's fine, sweetie."

"Michael likes things to be perfect," he said matter-of-factly, still checking for the slightest inadequacy.

You sat back in your chair, sort of impressed. "How do you know all this about him?"

Matt opened his mouth to answer.

He was cut off by the sound of a nurse's heels click-clacking speedily down the hall, and a loud, shrieking cry of "He's here! HE'S HERE!"

The color drained from Matt's face, and he froze. "He's here?!" he said, trembling with excitement. You smiled from ear to ear and nodded. Frantically, Matt fixed his hair and adjusted his jacket as much as he could. "He's here . . . he's really here," he whispered to himself in shock.

You darted to the doorway and looked out. A small mob of people – several bodyguards, two men with video cameras, and the director of the hospital – turned the corner at the far end of the hallway. You searched the crowd for the hospital's long-awaited visitor, but there was no sign of him. For a second of panic, you feared Jackson may not have come. Then, something caught your attention . . .

The top of a black fedora, bobbing in the middle of the crowd.

This was not at all what you had anticipated. You had imagined that Jackson, the most famous man on earth, would strut into the hospital, leading a huge entourage, maybe even wearing sunglasses indoors, all while paparazzi cameras flashed around him, creating an artificial halo of sorts.

But no. Michael hid amongst the multitude as if he didn't want to be the center of attention, as if he might have been . . . shy.

You peeked into Matt's room and smirked. "Hold on one second. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" he called.

"To get your hero!"

You strode down the hallway. Matt yelled, "Hurry!" so you chuckled and broke into a slow jog. You reached the crowd of people and approached the first person you saw, a man in a black suit and tie.

"Excuse me, sir. I don't mean to be forward, but do you think Michael could visit my son? He's very excited

"Mr. Jackson has a lot of children to visit," the man said kindly.

"Yes, but his room is right at the end of this hallway and–"

The man smiled, causing his eyes to crinkle at their edges. "Ma'am, Mr. Jackson won't leave without seeing your son. That's a promise."

You took an apologetic step backward. "Of course, I don't doubt that. I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound self-centered. It's just that my son is a huge fan, and he hasn't been able to talk about anything else for weeks and–" Oh God, I'm rambling. You snapped your mouth shut, and your face burned.

Another member of Jackson's entourage, a blonde woman with gentle eyes, spoke up. "Why don't you bring your son to the recreation room? Mr. Jackson will be visiting most of the children there now."

You tried to grin to show your appreciation for the woman's consideration, but your heart ached too much to do so convincingly. "I would but . . . well, you see . . ." Your bottom lip trembled. "Matthew can't leave his bed." A tear escaped your eye, but you hurriedly rubbed it away. "It's alright. We'll wait."

The woman looked terribly sorry. "I apologize," she said. "I shouldn't have assumed–"

"No, I'm sorry," you interrupted, smiling. "We'll wait." You turned to walk back to Matt's room.

A voice rose above the commotion. A soft, sweet voice.

"Where is he?"

You stopped and turned around. Michael Jackson had pushed his way through the crowd and now stood only a few feet away. You looked into his eyes for the first time. The depth and earnestness of his gaze stunned you.

"Oh, no, really, you don't have to do that," you said, waving your hands meekly.

Michael smiled back, and you almost gasped. His smile was . . . bright. Not bright like the fluorescent lights above your head or bright like a camera flash, but bright like the sun – natural and pure. "We have plenty of time to visit everyone," he said. "I insist. Please, lead the way."

You couldn't believe it.

Almost dancing, you guided Michael and company into Matt's room. You hurried to your son's side and hugged his shoulders. But Matt's attention was not on you.

Michael stepped across the threshold. The world stopped, and time itself gasped in wonder.

Was that the sound of Matthew's beating heart?

Though the curtains were drawn, the room seemed to grow sunnier, and though the hospital air was chilly, a glowing feeling of warmth seeped into your bones. Maybe it was the look on Matthew's face as his hero sat beside him. Maybe it was the sincerity of Michael's smile.

"Hello," said Michael, sweetly, timidly.

Matt looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe. Michael's presence engulfed him. "Hi," he barely squeaked.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and eager to fill it, you cleared your throat, leaned close to Matt, and whispered, "Introduce yourself, honey."

Matt's shoulders shuddered beneath your hands, and you looked at him in alarm. He shied away from your glance, and he covered his face with his hands as small whimpers escaped his lips.

Michael looked around at his bodyguards and cameramen, serious and calm. "Can we be alone for a minute?" They consented and filed out of the room.

And you followed.

"You don't have to go, of course," Michael assured you, sounding a little embarrassed.

"No," you said, glancing at Matt. "I think he wants to be alone with you."

Michael looked worried like he had done something wrong, but he nodded.

You stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind you, replaying in your mind the way Matt had shied away from your gaze. He was embarrassed, you thought. Embarrassed to cry in front of me.

Because he knows I don't understand why he's crying at all.

What's wrong with you?! Stop crying!

I scream the words in my mind. But the stupid tears. Keep. Coming.

My body feels like it's on fire, I'm so mortified.

I feel a hand on my head. A hand way bigger than Mom's.

"Shh . . . don't cry. Don't cry." Michael says it over and over again, softly. I start to catch my breath, but I still can't stop those annoying hiccups that happen when you bawl. He just sits there and waits. He doesn't get impatient. He doesn't even glance at the clock. He just waits and rubs my head.

I can't believe this is real.

He's wearing that super cool jacket I like, one of his military ones, pitch black with shimmering gold embroidery and brass buttons. There is a beautiful diamond brooch on his lapel. I'm no good with flowers, but I'm sure it's a daisy. Yes, that's it, a diamond daisy.

Michael looks like a soldier – a king – and I feel like a wuss, so I try my best to get a hold of myself.

I take a deep breath, then another, then another. "Matthew," I say, but it comes out a whimpering whisper. My face gets hot then, and I clear my throat. "I'm Matthew."

Michael's face lights up. I don't think I'd ever seen a more cheerful expression. He extends his hand formally. "It's nice to meet you, Matthew."

My hand looks so small and frail in his as I shake it.

A thought pierces my heart: My hands will never grow to be as big as his. My eyes fill with fresh tears.

"I really like your jacket," Michael says. "It's crazy how much it looks like the real thing."

I forget to cry and laugh instead. "Thanks," I say, and wipe my nose. "For how much it cost, you'd think it was the real thing."

Michael doubles over, slaps his knee, and laughs. I've heard his laugh on video before, but it's even better in person, so joyful, so contagious I can't help but laugh along with him. Then he laughs at me laughing at him, and before we know it we can't stop. I wipe tears from my eyes, the first tears of joy I've cried in forever.

But sooner or later, we have to breathe.

"I wish you could visit every day, Mr. Jackson," I say a bit awkwardly. The name 'Mr. Jackson' still doesn't sound quite right.

And by the perplexed look on his face, I know it doesn't sound right to Michael either. "You don't have to call me Mr. Jackson," he says. "That's what my staff calls me. But my fans – you're like family to me, you know."

I smile victoriously, my point proven. "I know. That's what I wanted to tell my Mom . . . but she wouldn't get it." My smile droops a little.

Michael notices, frowns for a second, then smiles reassuringly. "Well, that's okay. As long as you know, that's all that matters."

I nod and smile. "I know." I do. Always have.

Michael's eyes sparkle. "And I'm always with you, even if I'm not physically here. Just listen to my music, and I'll be there."

I look at him with round eyes. "Promise?"

He beams. "I promise." That makes me feel better.

We sit in silence for a moment. Normally, I would feel awkward in silence like this with someone I just met, but Michael doesn't feel like a stranger; he feels like a friend, and I think that's the coolest thing.

I gasp. "I almost forgot!"

Michael's eyes widen. "What?" he says curiously.

I reach for his present on the bedside table, but it's a little out of reach and a little too heavy. Crap. Michael sees me struggling and picks up the box, and moves to place it on my lap.

I shake my head and nudge it into his hands.

He looks confused but smiles. "What?"

I avoid his eyes and play with my medical bracelet. "It's for you." I'm not normally shy either, but this isn't a normal situation by any means.

A look of humbled surprise comes into his face. "For me? You shouldn't have, really." He unties the ribbon slowly with elegant fingers, lifts the cover and smiles from ear to ear as he admires the statue. "Peter and Tink! I love it," he says, and enthusiastically, again, "I love it. It's wonderful. Thank you so much."

I'm so glad he likes it, but I try to play it cool. "I guess, I just wanted you to have . . . something to remember me by." I shrug my shoulders. "It's nothing, really."

Michael smiles as he sees "To: Michael. From: Matt" scrawled on the bottom of the statue in my eleven-year-old handwriting. "That's definitely not nothing," he says. "I'll treasure it forever."

And I smile because I know he will.

Michael gestures toward the door. "What do you say we invite them back in?"

I roll my eyes, faking an attitude, but my idiotic smile sort of ruins it. "If we have to, I guess."

As you entered the room again, you heard the two of them before you saw them.

Boyish laughter.

"And then! You won't believe this," Michael said with bright eyes, talking with his hands. "I went up on the diving board and Mac pushed me right off and into the pool."

Matthew laughed hysterically. You stood there, floored.

Matt hadn't laughed like that in years.

You couldn't believe how natural they were, like they had always been friends.

Maybe, you thought, in a way, they have been.

Michael and Matt looked at you. Michael cleared his throat, sat a little straighter, and said, "You know, Matt, I've been thinking, and," he gave a little grunt of effort as he pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves. Michael held his coat in front of him, brushed it off a bit, and folded it neatly on his lap. His eyes fell on the diamond daisy brooch pinned to the lapel. He grinned before removing and pocketing it.

He handed the jacket to Matthew.

"I want you to have this," Michael said.

Your heart leaped into your throat, and your chin trembled. Matt just sat there, unmoving, with his mouth hanging open.

"Are you serious?" Matt said.

"Yeah!" Michael said, thrusting the jacket toward him. "You gave me something to remember you by, so I want to give you something to remember me by. Besides, you're fighting a battle, aren't you? That makes you a soldier, and every soldier needs a jacket like this."

Matt closed his thin fingers around the velvety fabric and cradled the jacket in his arms as he might have held a baby or an irreplaceable treasure. "I don't know what to say. Thank you so much. Thank you," he stammered.

With Michael's assistance, you helped Matt take off his Beat It jacket and put on his new one. When his arms were finally through the sleeves, the coat draped off his skinny form like a black curtain.

Matt chuckled bashfully. "It's a little big."

Michael smiled, but his eyes were serious. Confident. "You'll grow into it," he said.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You put your back to Matt so he wouldn't see you cry, and you worked hard to stifle your sobs. One of Michael's bodyguards placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, but what hand could comfort a suffering parent?

Michael's smile faded fast at the sight of your tears, but his confidence did not waver. He looked directly into Matt's eyes and gave his arm a squeeze. "You will grow into it, Matt. Don't you ever doubt that."

Growing was something that never seemed possible to Matt; it was just something that happened to other, more fortunate kids. Although his mother never said so, he knew his life would end in this hospital, and very soon. But when Michael said he would grow, big enough to even wear his jacket, Matt believed him. He believed Michael with every fiber of his being, and for the first time in a long time, he dared to hope.

Matthew nodded decidedly. "I know I will."

Michael nodded back, grinning. "Don't forget." He was so certain, so full of faith that for a moment, you felt as though Matt had been cured.

Michael rose from his chair. "We have to move on, I think, but I'll stop by again before I go. Is that okay?"

Matt just lit up. "That would be awesome. But before you leave . . ."

Michael eyed him expectantly. "Yes?"

"Could I get a picture with you?" Matt asked, a bit shy.