Lucky

On the first day I was alive, Michael Jackson held me. I remember every second of it. Santa Monica Hospital, October second, a Sunday. I was dozing in one of the bubble trays they have for newborns. Nothing since has felt as soft as that tiny mattress.
The air tasted like toothpaste, metallic and spicy. I hadn’t been there long‚ maybe half an hour. A pigtailed nurse leaned over me, her eyes smiling over the surgical mask. The smell of antiseptic washed through coin-sized holes in my glass dome, prompting my first ever sneeze. The nurse giggled. Wetness slid down my lips and chin, turning cold when she lifted off the dome.
“Here’s a special visitor for you.”
He tilted his head forward, resting his hands on my tray. Something squeaked like leather, and his finger wormed into my grasp. I clenched and pulled it to my mouth. Peppermint.
His nose grew bigger until it was all I saw. Inside, a forest of hairs stood vibrant and tall. I fit in one of his hands but he held me with both. Five minutes, maybe. Around us, the hospital kept moving, bubble trays rolling in and out, nurses whipping blankets out of their folds.
I wouldn’t believe it really happened, except for the Thriller doll he’d given me, signed: Love, Michael.
The doll came to all my swim tournaments and hid in my bag during the SAT. It came with me to college in a custom-fit bag with a lock and black velvet lined interior.
When he died, I watched for updates in the common room, listening to his music. A girl I hadn’t met before was there too, crying. “He held me as a newborn,” she sobbed. “Gave me this Thriller doll. We have such a special connection.”