A Song for You

by Robyn Crawford

  I was in a different headspace around that time, just existing, invisible, floating through the day—hardly ever running into anyone I knew or who knew me. A few city blocks away, on September 7, 2001, Michael Jackson’s thirtieth anniversary celebration show was held at Madison Square Garden. Whitney performed “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” along with Usher and Mýa.

  I didn’t see the show but couldn’t miss the next day’s coverage. On my way to buy groceries in Chelsea, I passed more than one newsstand displaying a skeletal image of Whitney Houston plastered across the front pages. Back at Lisa’s apartment, I phoned her at home and Silvia answered, telling me Whitney had left days before the show and was still in New York but had canceled the second night’s performance. When I wondered why Silvia hadn’t gone, she told me that Donna said she had to stay home. I had never seen Nip look anything like that before. I couldn’t wrap my head around how in the world folks could dress her, do her hair and makeup, and allow her to step out on the stage in that condition. Her family was there, too.

  I tried to keep my attention and focus on myself, finding a therapist and attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings in the evenings. I hadn’t had a sniff in years but decided to go because occasionally I had what I called “cocaine urges.” Sometimes the thought of getting some would enter my mind, tempting me.

  The meetings were an eye-opener. I’d walk up the stairs, then down a narrow hallway into a room where twelve or so chairs were set up in three rows facing a small podium where people got up to speak. People would share testimonials: “My wife and children moved out,” and “I lost my job yesterday,” and “I haven’t had a drink or shot heroin in six months and five days.” I never once got up to share. Compared to what I was hearing, my experiences seemed almost trivial. I didn’t have an ongoing drug problem. That’s not why I was there. I was trying to understand why I even would think about doing something that I didn’t really even want to do.

  A few days later, on an absolutely gorgeous, sunny September morning, Lisa was in Toronto and I had a plan to Rollerblade downtown. The apartment windows were open, the radio tuned to Hot 97 as I stepped into the shower. Soon as I turned off the water, I heard an uncharacteristically serious tone from the morning DJs: “Whatever you do, stay away from downtown Manhattan.” Worried, I turned on the television for more information.

  I lotioned my body, eyes riveted on the TV. A plane had just hit the World Trade Center. The commentators were speculating on what possibly could have slammed into the building, leaving a horrific gaping hole in its side.

  It was surreal. I ran to the window, forgetting I was naked, then grabbed a T-shirt and leaned out the window. Our apartment faced downtown, and peering up to the skies, I saw thousands of pieces of paper blowing around like tossed confetti within black smoke. An unfamiliar smell filled the air. The sounds of sirens filled the city. I grabbed the phone and dialed Lisa but heard only a rapid busy signal. I tried using my cell and the same thing happened, except that after a few seconds an automated female voice came on to say, “All lines are busy now.”

  I just needed to make contact with Lisa, hear her voice, tell her I was okay, and then find the safest way for us to reach each other. Then word came: No one was getting into the city and no one was getting out. I was stranded on the island. I don’t recall when the phone lines finally opened up, but Susan reached me, asking if I was okay.

  Eventually, Lisa was able to get through from Toronto. Of course, all the airports were closed. She said it was mayhem up there and wasn’t sure how or when she was going to make it home. She was stranded, too. It took two more days before Lisa walked through the door, back into my arms.

  Keeping my end of our agreement, I’d had a few sessions with my new therapist, Karen, and it seemed to be helping. After wrapping up an hour of talking her head off, I almost always would leave her office with my face stained from crying. Remembering what Lisa said, I hoped that meant it was working! To a sensitive person like me, crying came fairly easily, especially when I felt frustrated or particularly emotional. But in this situation, I found it awkward.

  Karen told me that I was depressed and prescribed a low dose of an antidepressant. Fairly soon, I began to improve. My world looked a tiny bit brighter. I could see more clearly and a little bit of my self-confidence began to return. I spent two years with Karen, and she helped me to see that as a child I had to become an adult far too soon, protecting my mother. I had experienced a lot of loss and hadn’t allowed myself to process it. My resignation from Nippy Inc. was a loss, too, even though Whitney was still here.

  In September 2001, I wrote a letter to Whitney but never mailed it.

  Nip:

  I reached out to you 3 days ago, still no word. I wanted to write you a long time ago, but every time I took a pen to paper, no flow. Sad huh? So much to say . . . I’m in NYC, across the water where all the action is, sitting in my car waiting for a space to open up. The rain on my windows looks like tears. It’s beautiful. You know, I love life! It’s filled with many things, some joyful, some painful. For a long while, my heart was heavy. Very heavy. I missed my Mom and Marty every second of the day. My life changed. Sometimes you don’t change with it, but then you have to catch up so you can live on. I have plans and lots of ’em to enjoy my life. I’ve spent too much time taking responsibility for other people’s lives. It’s time I took responsibility for my own.

  How are you? What is important? And what is not? You know you have a friend in me—for life, always. Whenever you decide to pick up the phone or come and see me, I’ll be there. I spent a lot of my life with you and I wouldn’t change one thing. (Though if I knew then what I know now, perhaps I would have handled things differently.) It’s simple, I didn’t know. I’m not kicking myself ever again. Life’s too short. You know—I love you. You need to know that I’m concerned about you. I want to see you happy, healthy and whole again. You can and must get back up again. I know God gave you that gift too!

  Always here, there and everywhere for you,

  Robyn

  P.S. Oh yeah, can’t forget Bina is on a cruise with family. Los Angeles was good for her—her mind is a lot better. I just have to love her more.

  Finally, I was beginning to feel whole and ready to get out there again and get a job. Lisa invited me to join her for film screenings she attended to scout for coverage in Esquire, where she was working. I enjoyed sitting with her in those intimate screening rooms.

  Whenever Lisa had a work event and she and her colleagues were invited to bring their significant others, I was by her side. She would often share ideas that the magazine was considering, especially when they involved music, and over dinner, we would discuss them and brainstorm.

  One particular story was highlighting the top music executives in the industry; L.A. Reid was on the list. Each executive would be styled and photographed with the hottest artist representing the label’s success. Most of the executives and artists were going to be in Los Angeles for the Grammys. Lisa surprised me, saying she thought it was time for me to take a trip to Los Angeles. Esquire rented the penthouse suite of a hotel in Century City.

  This was my opportunity to see L.A. face-to-face and learn about the job offer he had rescinded. He didn’t see me there when he arrived. I gave him space while the fashion team styled him; his grooming was done in a separate room adjacent to the suite. But as soon as he came through the door into the hallway, I was waiting for him. “Hi, Robyn,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.

  I got straight to the point: “Are you able to tell me now? I need to know.”

  Without hesitation, he said, “Whitney wasn’t comfortable with me bringing you in.” The words left me numb.

  Shortly after, Lisa came into the hall where I was standing. “So, what did he say?” I told her. Needless to say, she was livid, and I spent the rest of the day helping out where needed but no
t saying too much. Back in our room that night, Lisa railed against Whitney, stunned that she would do that to me. “What kind of friend—what kind of person does that?” she fumed. All I could bring myself to say was that I truly believed it wasn’t her.

  “She wouldn’t do anything to stand in my way,” I explained. “She’s not in her right mind. It’s the people around her.”

  That spring, Lisa and I began looking for a weekend getaway. We were lucky to be invited to stay on occasion with friends and family in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and fell in love with the area. We shared the dream of having a historic home. We had a blast going to Bucks on weekends and looking at our options. Lisa became a Realtor.com addict, often scrolling through the site into the early-morning hours.

  While our plan was to be on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River, late one night she came upon a home on the New Jersey side, in the charming town of Stockton. We called our Realtor the next morning, and a few days later we were standing in front of a magical, two-hundred-fifty-year-old, ivy-covered, stucco-over-stone, slate-roofed farmhouse. On July 20, 2002, Lisa took the hard-earned money she’d saved for years and bought her first house.

  There was work to be done. Because I wasn’t working, I was the one going out to the house to meet with contractors and figure out what improvements around the house I was able to do myself. One day we decided to tear down the back deck, a project I handled myself. I put on my overalls, grabbed a sledgehammer, and went to work. It was a serious workout that doubled as an effective way to get out my frustrations. By day’s end, we were deck-free.

  Soon the time came to move in my dog, Knute, and retrieve my things from storage. Among my things was valuable audio and video equipment: four pairs of twelve-inch Tannoy speakers, Hafler receivers, European and US dual cassette and VHS players, DAT machines, two laser disc players, and two Technics turntables. There were also at least eight wardrobe boxes, and inside one of them was every Whitney Houston tour jacket, along with my collection of vintage leather jackets. On the day that the truck arrived, a friend helping me move told me all my audio equipment wasn’t there. And it wasn’t until at least a few months later that I discovered all my jackets were missing, too.

  For my birthday later that year, Lisa planned an overnight stay at a historic bed-and-breakfast in northern New Jersey. She reserved the Captain’s Suite on the top floor overlooking a waterfall. After taking a long hike and changing our clothes, we went to dinner at the truly white-glove Restaurant Latour at the Crystal Springs Resort. At our table for two, we pored over the dizzying six-thousand-label wine list before enjoying an unforgettable, succulent dining experience.

  Returning to our suite, we shared a candlelit Jacuzzi bath with shimmering bubbles, a starry winter sky visible through the window at the foot of the tub. These were the times we talked about what mattered to us, what we wanted out of life, and how we might attain our dreams. My mother always said that you don’t really start living until you’re in your forties. Now I was forty-two and that night I realized I’d finally found the partner I had longed for.

  I enjoyed the peace and quiet that came with living in the country, had become friendly with some wonderful neighbors, and got a job at the front desk of a nearby racquet club. Then one day, Lisa called to tell me that Stefano Tonchi, the former fashion creative director at Esquire, who had become the editor of T: The New York Times Style Magazine, had called her. He wanted to talk with me about working on a special Grammy issue.

  Dressed in jeans, a white shirt, a cardigan, and loafers, I made my way to Manhattan, where I met with Kathy Ryan, director of photography, and Kira Pollack, who worked closely with Kathy and Stefano. They wanted to do a story featuring the top producers from the Virginia Beach area. It was my job to contact each artist’s representative, make the offer, and hopefully schedule them to be interviewed and photographed.

  Shortly after the story came out, I was fired from the tennis club for talking too much to clients and watching basketball games. They were right—manning the desk didn’t suit me. It wasn’t long before I got another job, this one on a farm ten minutes from the house. The owner grew peaches, apples, and plums, but his primary crop was asparagus, and he had rows and rows and rows amounting to several acres of the vegetable. Noting that I was in good shape, the farmer chose me to be one of his pickers and made it clear that I’d better be fast!

  It was hot as hell out there, but I learned how to snap those babies with precision and speed. When the farmer asked who knew how to operate a standing lawn mower, I raised my hand, and next thing I knew I was going to town on the peach orchard. Out in the asparagus field, I wore a canvas jacket covered with pockets that enabled me to pick swiftly with both hands and drop them inside. I would snap a few and eat them as I went row to row. The man in charge didn’t seem to mind, asking, “How do they taste?”

  “Delicious,” I’d say after each bite. He taught me to be discerning, that the thin ones with purple tips were best. After we brought all the baskets to the barn, he would examine a few from each batch to ensure that the look and taste were up to his standards. I stayed there until the end of the season.

  Stockton became my hideaway, the place where I could disappear from everything that once was. Our home was situated on a narrow country road. If two cars were trying to cross the small bridge that our yard bordered, one car had to yield to the other. But still, the tabloids, entertainment shows, and news shows found me. Every time something dramatic happened in the Houston family circus, someone wanted my take on it. Reporters would camp outside the house, even pulling into our parking area across the road. Photographers stationed themselves slightly up the hill, focusing their long lenses on the front door. Some writers called repeatedly, others sent FedEx packages, and more than a few offered money for my cooperation. They tried to interview our neighbors, and some even knocked on our door. Lisa advised that whatever I did, I should not take out the trash in my pajamas.

  I was bothered by all the bad news I was hearing. I knew Nip didn’t deserve it, and I wanted to do something to help her but wasn’t sure what more I could do. I’d already told her that my door would always be open to her. She did call a few times, leaving messages on the landline, which we didn’t often check.

  On my birthday, I picked up a message: “Hi, Robyn. I bet you don’t know who this is.” Nip laughed. “It’s your birthday, right? How old are you, sixty? Give me a call. If you don’t know the number, neither do I.” Then a giggle and a click. I didn’t know her number, and the display said the number was restricted. To be honest, I truly don’t think she knew her own telephone number. I don’t think she ever knew.

  Another time, she called and we talked. It was right on the heels of a 911 call she made to the police in Atlanta after a fight with Bobby. Reportedly, when the police arrived, she was bleeding from the mouth. She asked how I was doing and I stopped her, saying, “I’m fine. I want to hear how you’re doing.”

  She told me that she was okay. I didn’t try to push her to share anything, instead allowing her to lead the conversation. I still wanted very much to help Whitney, but my life was different now. I understood that I could help her only when she decided she needed it, not do it all for her. She asked who I was living with. I asked, “You remember Lisa?”

  She stopped me and said, “I remember Lisa.”

  I felt the need to say, “It was all business while we worked together with you.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Nip.

  I don’t remember much else about the conversation. But my door remained open for Whitney and her daughter. And Lisa understood this had to be. I gave her my word that I would focus on the life that we were building and the family that we wanted to have. But we also had an understanding that when Whitney called or if she showed up at the door, we would welcome her.

  In addition to my sporadic contact with Whitney in these years, I’d stayed in touch wi
th her musical director Rickey Minor as well. He lived on the West Coast, but when he came east, we would usually get together. I asked him if he could use me on his team and he said yes. My first gig with Rickey was in a rehearsal space in Manhattan, and it took all day and into the night. My role was to assist Rickey with production schedules and sheet music, ensuring the band had all the details of where and when, whatever he or the band needed—basically, taking care of Rickey and his band.

  I was up into the wee hours doing charts for each section: percussion, keyboards, guitar, bass—and if the sheet music was altered during rehearsal, it had to be handwritten in pencil, which also fell to me. Like anything else, it was hard at first, but we had fun, too. I worked closely with Rickey on several shows on both coasts: CBS’s A Home for the Holidays, the Essence Awards, the BET Awards, the NAACP Image Awards, Live at the Apollo, VH1 tributes, and Divas Las Vegas, where I ran into my former boss.

  We were staying at the MGM Grand, where the show was taking place, and I’d heard over the walkie-talkie that Whitney Houston was on the premises. I made my way to her dressing room to say hello.

  The energy inside Whitney’s dressing room was chaotic and unsettling. There were too many people congregating, and when my eyes finally focused in on Whitney, she looked just like everyone else—average. I don’t recall what we said to each other, but we hugged and said we’d talk later.