Mama Dearest

by E. Lynn Harris

  CHAPTER

  9

  I got home around eight o’ clock after a very productive day of meeting with potential investors for my reality show. S. Marcus said that I should meet with them before he arrived in New York because it would speed things up. One of the men, Ron Preston, told me he liked the idea for the show but felt I needed a hook to make it successful. When I asked what he meant, he simply said, “Something exciting happening in your life in addition to your show business comeback.”

  I didn’t know what that was but figured the producers and show runners would come up with something even if we had to make it up or, as the industry calls it, pollute reality.

  I went into the living room to find Ava in burgundy silk pajamas carrying a tray with food and drink. Her hair was tied up in what looks like my Louis Vuitton silk scarf.

  “Just in time,” Ava said in a very cheerful voice. The evening before my mother had been clearly depressed about her first meeting with her parole officer. I guess the meeting had gone better than she had anticipated.

  “For what?” I ask, prepared for her to tell me anything.

  Nodding to the tray, she said, “For caviar, crackers, imported cheese, some dried fruit and Veuve Clicquot.”

  “What are we celebrating? And I thought you said you didn’t have any money. Did one of your ex-husbands have a change of heart about loaning you cash?”

  Ava set the tray on the coffee table and announced loftily, “There is always money for caviar and champagne, and fuck my exes and their new wives too.” She picked up the remote control and flashed on the television. After flipping through several channels, Ava stopped on a show that really gets on my last nerves. American Star, a reality show that has become the launching pad for non-talent teens aged fourteen to twenty. How dare they leave out talented people like me?

  “What’s this?” Ava asked as several teenage girls and boys, black and white, pranced on the television show that reminds me of a Disney stage show and America’s Junior Miss pageant rolled into one—and I don’t mean this in a good way.

  “American Star. Please change that,” I said as I plopped down on the sofa and went straight for the caviar on toast points.

  “This looks interesting. I heard about this show, but I was never able to watch in prison because all the bull dagger inmates want to watch Survivor and shit like that. Let’s watch it, Yancey. If it’s not good, I will change it,” Ava said.

  “Okay,” I said, not knowing if she really wanted to watch it or was looking for a chance to get another dig at me. “But I’m telling you, this is going to be painful.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. Can I pour you some champagne, my dear?”

  That “my dear” sounded no more real than the first one she used the night I found her in my living room. But I was in no mood for a fight, so I let it pass.

  “Just a little,” I said. “How did your meeting go with your probation officer?”

  “Oh, let’s not talk about that, love. I want to end the day on a good note. How was your meeting?”

  “It went okay.”

  “What are you meeting about? Shouldn’t you be trying to get an agent and some auditions?”

  “I’m talking with people about getting my own reality show,” I said, pleased to be able to impress her.

  “Oh, that would be great!” she exulted. “Us having our own reality show. I’m going to be even more famous.”

  “Us?” I said, shooting her an “are you crazy” look. “Ava, nothing is certain yet and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you upstage me. Are we clear on this?”

  “Yes, my dear. I can understand why you’d be afraid the television cameras would fall in love with me.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Yancey, I thought when you got older, you’d get over the jealousy you hold for me.”

  I played that off, light as air. “Ava, darling, I’m not jealous of you. Trust me on that.”

  Disappointed I hadn’t played along with her game, she changed her tune. “Whatever you say. You need to get that show so you can hire me. I have to get a job soon.”

  “Hire you for what?”

  “I can be your personal assistant or stylist. Production assistant or whatever but you need to put me on payroll, show or no show.”

  “How am I going to pay you?” I asked. The woman’s gall was unsurpassed. “If the show goes through, it will be the producers who call the shots.”

  “We will think of something, my child. We always do.”

  I let that pass. I knew what her we meant. It meant she would soon be causing me trouble.

  She turned her attention to the TV, and for the next fifteen minutes, she became totally enthralled with American Star. She sat quietly, sipping her champagne as one no-talent teen followed another no-talent teen, singing off-key and doing dance moves that showed their lack of professional training.

  American Star contestants sang all different types of music, from rap to Broadway, and did live photo shoots to test their marketability. Now, why didn’t they have something like this when I was coming up? The only way some ordinary small-town girl like me could become a celebrity overnight back then was winning a beauty title like Miss America or Miss USA, which I’d tried, becoming first runner-up for Miss Tennessee. So without the national exposure of the pageant I had to get into show business the old-fashioned way, knocking on doors, knocking people out of the way at times, and knocking boots if it would advance my career.

  When I’d finally seen enough, I announced I was going to bed. Engrossed, Ava didn’t respond. But just as I stood up the host announced a special performance by the biggest talent ever seen on the American Star stage. The blond-haired host went on to say that her debut album had been certified triple platinum and she’d just signed a multimillion-dollar deal with Disney for a television series and feature films. Call it masochism, but for some reason I had to see what this little rich bitch looked like.

  Out walks this young lady who seems to have the confidence of a seasoned Broadway star. This girl is totally at ease surrounded by crowds and bright lights but still manages an expression of wide-eyed innocence. She is a pretty, almond-colored girl with long black hair and bangs that could use some scissors quick. Her smile is inviting with teeth so white they could outshine a lighthouse. From the huge diamond studs in her ears you knew where the money was going. As much as I want to hate her and leave the room, I can’t take my eyes off her. The host says, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back a true American star and a young lady who has made us proud, former winner and American star Madison B. Lewis.”

  The crowd went wild, as my mind suddenly scrolled back to my senior year at Howard University when my boyfriend, Derrick, and I found ourselves in trouble. I’d gotten pregnant. Ava had told me to get an abortion, but Derrick talked me into having the baby and giving her up for adoption. That’s what I did or at least thought I’d done.

  About ten years ago, while performing the lead in the musical Chicago in Las Vegas, Derrick showed up in my dressing room with some disturbing news. My child hadn’t been adopted, but raised by Derrick and his sister. He said it was time to share in her life if I was interested. Derrick told me that our daughter’s name was Madison.

  As I watch this young lady with an achingly beautiful voice totally kill Stevie Wonder’s ballad “Blame It on the Sun” like a seasoned veteran, I tell myself this can’t be my daughter, but the cold chill running down my spine says something different.

  Moved by her talent, I can’t help but say out loud, “She’s fabulous.”

  “You think so?” Ava asks, never passing up a chance to contradict me. “If you ask me I’d say she is a whole lot of nothing special. How dare she sing a Stevie Wonder song?”

  There is a catch in my voice when I say slowly, “Ava, I think that’s Madison. My Madison.”

  “Who? What are you talking about, Yancey?” She noticed my awe-struck expression and didn’t pass up the opportunity to pounce on me. “I think you’v
e been drinking that champagne too fast, honey.”

  “No, I think that’s my daughter,” I said as the television camera panned her beautiful face and then pulled back, causing her to disappear like a ghost.

  THE NEXT MORNING I’M sitting at the butcher block table in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee when Ava walks in humming a tune. She is in a very good mood for someone broke. I couldn’t get my mind off the previous night when the baby I’d given up at birth had suddenly reappeared.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Good morning, Ava. You sure seem chipper this morning. What are you up to?” I asked only half jokingly.

  “I was thinking about last night. That little girl who you said was your daughter.”

  Taking a cup and pouring some coffee, she said, “I’m not sure, Ava, but I’m going to find out by calling Derrick. But I’m pretty certain it’s her. Her last name was Lewis.”

  “I think she’s too cute to be your girl, but I did some checking. I spent half the night on the internet doing a little research on Miss Madison B. It seems her daddy’s name is Derrick. She was raised in California by her daddy and aunt. She never knew her real mother. That would be you, darling. And get this … she’s going to be richer than God very soon. All our problems are solved,” Ava announced.

  I wasn’t following her train of thought. “What? If Madison is doing well, that’s her fame, and her money. Not ours. No one’s entitled to it, but her and maybe Derrick. Even though he’s not the type of person to live off his daughter.” Derrick was always so sweet, and in this case, a nice guy had finished first.

  “My sweet child,” Ava said in a condescending voice. “Has your cheese slipped off your cracker? If it wasn’t for you, that little girl wouldn’t be alive. If there is anyone she owes, it’s you and, uh, me. Because if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have given birth to her. That’s what’s right.”

  This was too much. “Ava, stop it.”

  “Yancey, we’re both broke. We have no money and not a lot of potential. Do you understand that? We can barely afford food without one of us having to pawn something. You’re about to lose your house because you can’t sell it.”

  “Well, I have you to thank for that. But it’s going to sell. Besides, I’m going to make money when my reality show takes off.”

  “What if it doesn’t come through? Do you know how much money that little girl is making or going to make? Millions,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I read up on her and they say she’s like a black Miley Cyrus. They say Miley Cyrus is almost a billionaire. I read some-where that Madison is already bigger than some teen rappers called Lil Mama and Teyana Taylor, who both are millionaires.” She opened her arms wide, as if to take in all her future money. “A couple million for her birth mother and grandmother would hardly be missed.”

  I sipped my coffee, trying not to lose it. “Ava, I will make my own money. I had a chance to become involved in Madison’s life and, following your advice, I passed. She owes me nothing.”

  “I’m going to call her and see if she wants to meet us.”

  “Ava, don’t you dare!” I yelled. “Do you hear me?” I said, raising my finger to Ava’s face. “Promise me you won’t try to contact her.”

  She looked right through my warning finger. “She’s going to be in New York today doing a signing at a record store. Don’t you want to go?”

  “No, I don’t want to go. And you better not either. Are we clear on this?”

  Ava sighed deeply, lowered her face, and said, “Yes, we’re clear.”

  But this is Ava, my mother, who I know doesn’t take orders from anyone. I’m the daughter who has suffered from her capers most of my life. Ava, the devious diva. I know I have to come up with a plan to protect Madison long before Ava implements her own scheme.

  CHAPTER

  10

  It was a beautiful day outside of Virgin Records, located in the heart of Times Square. The sky was painted a pastel blue, and not a single cloud dotted the luminous canvas. Ava wore a flowing red and yellow sundress, an off-the-shoulder design she’d found in Yancey’s guest room closet. It didn’t look like anything Yancey would have worn, and Ava figured it most likely belonged to a friend or former roommate. As she stood outside the record store, the dress fit more snugly than Ava thought appropriate, and the first thing she planned to do when she lost some weight and got some money was to go shopping. Still, Ava knew she looked cute with the matching red pumps and her huge, dark Donna Karan sunglasses covering her eyes.

  Ava caught her reflection in one of the store’s windows, and thought, I’m as broke as a joke, but I could still pass for a movie star. She knew she was about to do exactly what she had been instructed not to do. But Yancey didn’t understand nobody told Ava what to do and what not to do. Those days for her were over.

  Turning the corner, Ava was rudely halted by a long line of teenage girls and their mothers. The line stretched completely around the block.

  “What is this line for?” Ava asked the blond-haired teen girl at the very back of the line. The girl turned to Ava, wearing a Madison B. T-shirt. She looked at Ava as though she didn’t have the sense of a first grader, pointed to her shirt and said, “Duh, hello, lady.”

  “Are all these people here to see Madison B.?”

  The blond girl’s mother looks at Ava and nods her head. Eyeing the line of girls giggling, laughing, listening to iPods and practicing dance moves, Ava thinks about possibly waiting her turn in line. But then tells herself no way. If she believed in waiting her turn, Ava would never have reached her social standing.

  She moves past the line and takes purposeful steps to the front door of the record store. She reaches out to grab the handle when a well-built man in a white shirt and black tie says, “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’ll have to wait in line for your turn like everybody else to see Madison B.”

  The man looks like he is in his thirties, which makes him young enough to be her son, but Ava doesn’t care. She enjoys the company of younger men.

  Ava eyes him up and down while licking her lips lightly. “Young man, does it look like I’m here to see, who did you say, Madison B.?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It doesn’t matter, you’ll have to wait. We don’t want the fire chief to close us down.”

  “It’s that many people in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We haven’t had this many people since Hannah Montana. Madison B. is huge.”

  Stronger measures were clearly called for. “Oh shit!” Ava faked, grabbing her stomach with both hands. “You have to let me in.” She balled her face into a grimace.

  “What? Is there something wrong?” the man asked.

  “I’m in pain,” Ava said, not knowing exactly where she is going with this, but hoping it will work. “I’m having female problems and I need to get to the ladies’ room so I can take my … my injection. Please be a doll, young man.”

  The man looks over his shoulder, then into the store, as if he is uncertain of what he should do.

  “I’m on your property, young man,” Ava said with attitude. “If I collapse, I’ll sue, and you’ll be the first one they fire. Believe that.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, concern now on his face. “Go and come right back out. Besides, you’re too old to be a Madison B. fan.”

  “You don’t know how old I am,” Ava muttered, still holding her stomach as the door is opened for her.

  The store has the atmosphere of a high school pep rally. Girls, a few boys, and mothers and daddies packed in, all holding copies of Madison B.’s new CD.

  Ava sidesteps gleeful, excited fans, heading toward the rest rooms. She looks over her shoulder at the man at the door until he is out of sight. When she is sure it’s safe, Ava turns left and heads straight for the customer service counter, where she sees a graying, smart-looking woman wearing a dark blue blazer and an earpiece.

  As she pushes her way through a throng of bubble gum–popping teens, Ava is able to spot a l
ong table with a huge banner over it reading Welcome to New York, Madison B.! Ava guesses that’s where her alleged granddaughter will be greeting her fans and signing CDs.

  Madison B. hasn’t arrived. Ava assumes she is in some back room, surrounded by flunkies of every sort, plotting the grand entrance the teen star will make when the time comes.

  Ava approaches the smart-looking woman. “Excuse me, are you the manager of this store?”

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Sutton. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Sutton,” Ava said, extending her hand, a bright, confident smile on her face. “My name is Ava Middlebrooks. Maybe you remember me from some years back when I signed my CD here.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t. I’ve only been manager a year or so,” Mrs. Sutton said sharply. “But Ms. Middlebrooks, as you can see, we’re very busy. So how can I help you?”

  “I need to speak with little Miss Madison B. I’m her grand … I mean, we’re related. I haven’t seen her since she was this big,” Ava said, holding out her hands like she was holding a loaf of bread.

  “Do you have a card? I can give it to her people. I don’t think she can be bothered right now. She’s getting ready to meet her fans.”

  “Surely you’re kidding me. Are you saying relatives have to take a back seat to these people?” Ava said as she looked at the anxious mob with disdain.

  “Let me see if I can get someone to help you,” Mrs. Sutton said, and then hurried away, zigzagging through the maze of adoring Madison B. fans.

  A few minutes later, a nattily dressed young man approached Ava. She took one look at him and said to herself, this poor child is gay as a goose.

  “Hello, Mrs. Middlebrooks. I’m Thurston Rogers, Madison B.’s publicist. May I help you with something?” His voice is lilting, and rises up a note at the end of each word, as if everything is about the dramatics.