A Song for You

by Robyn Crawford

  My immediate plan was to focus on the one act our management company still represented: Sunday, the girl group made up of three sisters and two cousins that Nip and I had signed to Better Place. They ranged in age from fourteen to eighteen and made up the entire choir at their grandmother’s church.

  During his first year as president of Capitol Records, Roy Lott, Clive’s former number two, gave me a deal and Sunday had a label! I made my way to Capitol’s headquarters on Hollywood and Vine to discuss the creative approach to the girls’ record. Their sound was a funky, upbeat blend of soulful church, and I told Roy that I’d like the girls to collaborate with the producers we chose for them and to have a hand in the writing process. We already had two songs from the sessions I’d had Sunday do with The Neptunes at their Virginia Beach studio before they blew up and everybody became familiar with their sound. I paid $120,000 in order to bring the masters with us to the Capitol.

  Other producers lined up for Sunday included Keith Crouch, who was responsible for the success of Brandy’s debut album; Soulshock and Karlin, who produced “Heartbreak Hotel” for Whitney; and Warryn Campbell, who was behind the gospel group Mary Mary. Before long, I was traveling around the country with Sunday for live performances and promotional events.

  Perhaps it was unrealistic of me to expect the girls to grasp everything that came their way in a relatively short period of time, but they bucked at nearly every turn. They had limited life experience and maybe I expected too much of them. When I arrived to take them on a preplanned LA shopping trip to style them, they emerged from the hotel in rollers and do-rags. “Can you just pull yourselves together a little bit?” They did as I asked but were mad at me for the rest of the day. When they resisted my suggestions and advice, I should have been firmer than I was. We also encountered difficulties with Capitol and I sensed that Roy’s enthusiasm had waned, though he never actually told me so.

  We went to New York for a Vibe magazine shoot of artists with their protégées. As soon as I laid eyes on Whitney I saw she was thinner than usual. I don’t remember if she had another engagement that day, but she was in hurry-up mode, so there was no opportunity for the two of us to talk. When the shoot was over, we hugged and she told me to stop by the house.

  Sunday’s lead single, “I Know,” was released in 2000, peaking at number 32 on the R&B charts and at number 98 on the Billboard Hot 100. But Capitol never released the album—they shelved it. And we were so close.

  After our mother left us, it had become obvious that Bina was mentally ill. The signs already had accumulated when she started taping up my televisions by covering the screens with sheets of paper, adamant that the government was surveilling us. She was married, and her husband, Mel, phoned telling me that he’d received a call from an off-duty Port Authority police officer who had spotted Bina walking along the shoulder of the New Jersey Turnpike. We met at the hospital, where Bina was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

  I later learned that bipolar is hereditary, and then I put the pieces together and understood what my mother used to say about the family disposition. She always said that on her side of the family there was an emotional fragility, a “weakness in the neurological system.” The youngest of her three brothers, Roland, had spent several years in the army, and his military experience really did a number on him. Uncle Roland didn’t appreciate the way he was treated by the white men in charge, and he found himself constantly at odds with them, partly because of his belief in the Nation of Islam and also due to the color of his skin. In retaliation for not doing what he was told, they punished him by locking him in a small container, lowering it into the ground, and leaving him there until his spirit was broken. It made sense that he referred to those men as “Caucasian devils.”

  After being discharged, Roland was never the same. He talked to himself a lot, and once, when he was staying with us, he entered my bedroom, pinning my arms down and attempting to get on top of me before I yelled out and my mother and brother came running to my rescue. I was twelve. My mother arranged to drop him with other family in Newark’s North Ward. Roland was in the passenger seat and I was in the back. Suddenly he called out, “Look at that building falling right there!” My mother instantly replied, her eyes still on the road, “There’s no building falling, Roland.”

  A number of my mother’s other immediate and extended family members also were afflicted with the disorder.

  Bina was thirty years old when she was formally diagnosed. They said that the trauma of significant loss had triggered her condition.

  One of Mom’s last wishes had been that we take care of each other. I decided to move Bina in with me in Los Angeles. She was my family’s California baby, born there in 1965. Perhaps being back there would help us find the key to snapping her life back together. While we were there, the two of us agreed that she would stay on her medicine and get regular checkups.

  The following April, I got a call from Arista Records about a marketing position in their New York office. I said I was interested and was told that I’d hear back from someone at the company with details on next steps. Arista flew me to New York, put me up at a hotel, and brought me in for interviews. I met with L.A. Reid. He talked about Usher and some of his other artists, played me lots of music, tracks from producers he planned to work with, The Neptunes among them. I felt good about everything L.A. played and shared with me about the roster and whose projects I’d be working on. Whitney’s name never once came up in the conversation.

  Afterward, I returned to Los Angeles, until they brought me back to New York for another series of meetings, this time with key executives on the pop side. I called Whitney and told her I was interviewing at Arista. I wanted to be certain she hadn’t pulled any strings. When I asked if she had anything to do with it, she said, “Nope, that was all you.” Everyone I met with seemed to be welcoming me aboard. They said an offer would be coming and that I’d hear from the human resources department.

  By now it was May, and I was tidying up the apartment, music playing, when the phone rang. It was Donna Houston. We hadn’t spoken since I left.

  “Listen, Whitney’s attorney wants to talk to you. He wants to ask you a couple of questions, okay?”

  Whitney’s attorney and I knew each other, so I said, “Sure.” Next thing I knew, someone whom I’d never known to work with Whit introduced himself.

  He began asking a series of questions: “How long have you known Whitney? Did you work for her?” I answered those and then he asked, “How long did you live together? Did you two ever have any sexual relations?”

  It felt as if I was being set up for something. I went on the defensive. “Look, I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t know what this is about, and I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to me. If Whitney wants to know something, tell her to call me.”

  About twenty minutes later, Whitney did phone, and she wasn’t nice. “All you had to do was say no! That’s all you had to do,” she shouted in my ear. The only thing I was able to say was, “Nip—” before she hung up on me.

  Maybe the questions did require only yes or no responses. But the lawyer’s interrogation made me uncomfortable. The whole thing bothered me, beginning with Donna’s calling me out of the blue when I didn’t have a clue what was going on and then putting me on the spot. I tried hard not to dwell on it.

  Not long after, I found out that the whole thing was related to a possible Globe magazine story. An executive at Capitol told me they had received a call from a tabloid writer who asked them to forward a fax to me, hoping I would answer his questions. They gave me the fax and not surprisingly, it dredged up the same old questions about my relationship with Nip.

  Over the years, I’d grown accustomed to reading that story rehashed over and over again. But I didn’t want some salacious story running right as I was heading to Arista, so this time, I took it to L. Londell McMillan, a young African American attorney kno
wn for his partnership with Prince and credited with successfully orchestrating his release from Warner Bros. Records. He came through, sending a letter to the author of the article.

  I had learned a lot about myself since leaving New Jersey. There was a life out there to live and new experiences to be had. I could make it on my own, but I still didn’t trust myself in a relationship. I had no idea what it took to be in a healthy one, and I wouldn’t allow anyone to get too close. Nor did I know what I wanted. I still didn’t even know if I wanted to be with a man or a woman. I had lost my identity working with Whitney, giving all of myself. I came to the alarming realization that I had reached my forties and still didn’t really know who I was.

  Continuing the conversation with Bina that day, I said, “You know, I’m ready to love, to commit myself.” I used to think it was better to be alone, but I had come to feel otherwise. I wanted someone of my own. I felt an urgent need to learn about myself from someone who would be honest with me, telling me both the good and the bad parts about Robyn Crawford.

  I knew Lisa cared about me and we’d enjoyed the time we spent together. Although I felt comfortable with her, I hadn’t always been totally present. We hadn’t spoken in years. I always had my guard up, protecting myself from too much intimacy and vulnerability. I explained all this to my sister and said, “I’m going to call Lisa, and hopefully she’ll be willing to talk to me. If she’s in a relationship, I’ll have to wait, because I know how loyal she is. If she’s not, then she’s mine. I’m ready to learn how to love.”

  Bina screeched with laughter. “Robyn, are you kidding? You’re so fickle—I wouldn’t give you the time of day!” I was surprised to hear her laugh at me, but she did. I went ahead and left a message on Lisa’s home phone anyway, and later that night, she returned my call. I told her where I was in my life, that I had changed. I shared where I had been over the years and what I was learning about myself since leaving Nippy Inc. and moving to California. I told her about the possible position at Arista, that I’d be coming to New York soon for another interview and hoped that I could take her to dinner. I was relieved that she agreed to see me. Once we were face-to-face, Lisa listened to me, not like she was looking to rekindle anything, but like someone who understood and cared about me. She could tell I needed help. After that we talked frequently on the phone and I told her that I was ready to flee LA and come back east.

  Bina and I were lying on my bed talking about the job and the prospect of moving back when I got the call from Arista telling me the VP of marketing job was mine. They offered a two-year contract and a significant salary. They also offered me another plane ticket back and asked me to come on board and meet the entire team in July. I felt proud and excited about my new career and planned to take this blessing and do the best I could with it.

  At the end of June, Lisa flew out to Sherman Oaks to help me pack. There were boxes everywhere! A friend agreed to drive my things back to the East Coast in a U-Haul. Arista had offered to ship my Range Rover back, but since Bina was with me, I figured we’d make the road trip together. I thought it might be a fun adventure. But soon it was apparent that her mental health medicine made Bina sleep—a lot. There were sixteen- to eighteen-hour stretches when I only stopped for bathroom breaks and to pick up food, and my sister remained asleep in the passenger seat the entire time. The medicine knocked her out and still does today, but she needed to be on it.

  We made it to Jersey over Fourth of July weekend, giving me enough time to unwind and prepare myself for the new position and career back in the industry. My friend Susan kindly offered to let Bina and me stay with her while I hunted for an apartment.

  I thought it was odd that I hadn’t heard from anyone at Arista about when to expect my contract, but I kept waiting, assuming that as long as it arrived before July 16, all was fine. I had never been through a job interview process before and didn’t know how it typically went. But July 16 arrived and still I hadn’t heard a word from the label, so I called my contact there. As soon as he heard my voice, he said, “Robyn, L.A. hasn’t called you?”

  I said, “No. I haven’t heard from anyone.”

  “L.A. was supposed to call you. Let me call him, sit tight.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

  It wasn’t long before the phone rang with L.A. on the other end. “Robyn, I’m really sorry. I can’t bring you in,” he said.

  After a long pause, I managed to find the words to ask, “What happened?” He told me that he wasn’t able to go into any details just then, but he was really sorry.

  Then he said, “If there’s anything that you need and I can help you, call me. I will do it.”

  My head spun and before I knew it, only these words came out of my mouth: “Thank you.”

  Twenty-Four

  Life

  After I got the news from Arista, I felt lost. We were still at Susan’s place—Bina and I were staying on the top floor of her home. I can still see myself lying in bed, looking at my sister asleep next to me, and wondering, What’s the next step for her, and how am I going to pull myself up out of this? How did I get here? I was off on planet Pathetic.

  Both Mom and Marty had left us life insurance. Jean Riggins, a former record company executive and friend, had generously loaned me $6,000, and those funds had helped hold me together in California. But now, in our second week at Susan’s, I had less than $5,000 to my name.

  I called my cousin Dollie, who lived outside Atlanta, and updated her on what Bina and I were going through. She said, “Send her to me! I love Bina. And she can help me out with a lot of the things I’m doing—I’ll put her tail to work!” I filled Dollie in on her bipolar condition and recent diagnosis of type 2 diabetes. Dollie was well connected, mentioning a doctor friend who she said would refer her to an endocrinologist, and she also said she would contact the mental health department at the local hospital for treatment options.

  Dollie and her husband, Larry, kindly welcomed Bina into their home, not as a favor to me, but because Bina was always a pleasure and we were family. My mind lightened now that I had a solid plan. I would send Bina to Dollie’s, and then I could turn to helping myself.

  I’d spoken to Lisa a few times since the move back east but still hadn’t seen her. She’d call to ask how I was doing and I’d say I was fine, which I wanted to believe was true. But I wasn’t fine enough to let her see my face just yet. I’d be upstairs at Susan’s house, reading, writing, or watching something on television, and the minute Lisa called, I just wanted to cry. I felt weak and pathetic and wanted to be held.

  Sometimes I drove by my old house to see the trees I had planted: a white pine for my mother and a Colorado blue spruce for Marty, both healthy and growing strong. This became a routine for me, and after a few months, I could feel myself coming around a bit. The next time Lisa invited me over for dinner, I accepted. I loved her cooking, and the company and the conversation. I picked up a bottle of wine and made my way back to her place, and things went on from there.

  Lisa inherited a passion for exploration from her mother, who was a travel agent. She loved researching trips big and small, so when we felt an urge to leave the city—which was often—she’d put her research skills to use, finding us interesting and romantic out-of-the-way inns and bed-and-breakfasts in upstate New York. In those pre-GPS days, we’d take off on Fridays, me behind the wheel of the Rover, Lisa next to me with an oversize atlas spread across her lap. We had a rule: If we hit a traffic jam, off-highway we went. Lisa located alternate routes and back roads where we’d often come upon country towns with sweet little places to eat. Eventually, as we pulled up to whatever lodging Lisa had reserved, we’d experience the exciting moment of discovery as we stepped into our latest weekend accommodation. These excursions provided the escape we both craved, and through them, our friendship flourished and we grew closer.

  Though I still had some of my things at Susan�
��s, I was now spending most of my time at Lisa’s. She made me feel welcome but then gave me an ultimatum: She would consider being in a serious partnership with me only if I agreed to go into therapy.

  I wasn’t sure what to think at first. As I’d told Whitney all those years ago, my mom had brought me to therapy when I was young. She was very concerned about the effect my parents’ many arguments had had on me. So, every Saturday morning, we’d visit a Caucasian male therapist who would sit down on the floor with me and let me build with blocks and draw while we talked. Eventually, when I told my mother I didn’t want to go anymore, she allowed me to stop.

  Having been in therapy herself as an adult, Lisa told me that I would really have to work at it to get the benefits, explaining that it’s not simply about talking. In order for it to work, the therapist has to be someone to whom you’re able to talk freely and honestly and with whom you can be vulnerable about everything. “How do you know if it’s working?” I asked.

  “If you haven’t cried, it’s not working.” I agreed to go.

  For so many years, I had been conditioned to feel that everything I did or said was a reflection on Whitney. But I had a whole bunch of issues I needed to address, and although the thought of going through the process intimidated me, I knew I needed to do it. I had to face my past to grasp the present and have a future with Lisa.

  The thing was, I didn’t have insurance or a job that would allow me to pay out of pocket. Lisa stepped back, allowing me all the room I needed to get moving. I wasn’t confident enough to even try to land a job. I had to take care of my health, and to do that, I had to go to Bellevue Hospital for insurance.

  If you’ve never been inside this hospital, you should take a tour. My mother was afraid of New York City hospitals, saying they were old, cold, and overcrowded. Bellevue checked all three boxes. The morning I went to sign up, the main floor was filled to capacity. The lines were long, and when I say long, I mean like Black Friday quadrupled. I stood in at least three different lines that day: one to register, another to apply for some kind of number, and a third to finally talk to someone. It was an exhausting process, but at least by the end of it I had an insurance card and was able to go to St. Vincent’s Hospital for annual checkups and discounted therapy.