Every Little Step

by Bobby Brown

  “I can’t do it anymore,” he said. “It’s just not worth it. Whitney’s messed up. I can’t help her anymore. I need my daughter out of that scenario. I want to see her regularly.”

  In February my friend Djata and I went with Bobby to Boston. We were all excited because we were going to his daughter LaPrincia’s cheerleading competition. We drove to Kim’s house, and when we got there, Kim gave us the address. LaPrincia had already left, but Kim told us, “She knows you’re coming.”

  So we drove way out somewhere in Massachusetts. It was freezing, icy, and pitch-black. When we got out of the car, Bobby was elated to see LaPrincia. But as we were about to walk into the place, up rolled undercover officers and they arrested him right there on the spot for child support. Was it a Kim setup? Absolutely. It just seemed so cruel. That was so spooky for me. He was obviously upset. I was frightened, freaked out, panicked. I stayed there in Boston until he got out, maybe three or four days later. Most of that time I was on the phone with his lawyer. I didn’t understand. You owe her money, but how can they just arrest you like that? I was not used to this weird relationship Bobby and Kim have. This was jail we’re talking about, which to me was traumatizing. I was really shaken up. That was a big wake-up for me—What the hell am I in for?

  But we stayed the course. Bobby began working more. After we got home, I took over sending out the child support payments. I started to manage his life in the way that I did for all my clients. It had been a long time since he had that because in his marriage everything was focused on Whitney. Artists are very interesting people in what they decide to take care of and what they don’t. They do expect somebody to take care of a lot of the mundane details. If you’re a good manager, you build the teams around the artists that will help them manage their lives. It definitely helped with Bobby that I understood the mind-set of the artist. With a lot of this stuff, a regular wife would be like, Oh hell no. But I think this is definitely a part of why it works between us. It’s an incredible help to us that I’ve worked with artists all these years. I accept that part of him and understand who he is.

  PART V

  STAYING BOBBY BROWN

  CHAPTER 9

  MOM AND DAD GET THEIR WINGS

  One of the most enjoyable developments in my life after I moved back to Los Angeles was the opportunity to grow extremely close to my father. Over the years our relationship had changed dramatically as I got older. We began to understand each other and see how much we were actually alike.

  Admittedly things were a bit rough between us when I was younger. By the age of fourteen I had become the family’s main breadwinner, in a sense displacing my father before I was even old enough to shave. He didn’t look on this development with fondness. He was a proud man with very strong ideas about how a family is supposed to work. A teenager being the family’s main financial benefactor was not the proper order of things to my dad. I think he carried a grudge against me for quite a few years after my career took off and the big dough was rolling in.

  For my part, somewhere in the back of my mind I think I still blamed my father for allowing me to get molested by the priest back in Boston. Not to get all Freudian, but I suppose I saw it as a father’s job to prevent that sort of thing from happening to a young child; they’re supposed to protect us, aren’t they?

  I was raised in a household surrounded by a multitude of women; it always seemed like they were the ones who loomed large and in charge in my mind. When a male authority figure finally did step into my life in a meaningful way, it was my brother, Tommy, not my dad.

  Somewhere along the way, time gave my father the opportunity to understand that my career was a profound blessing for the entire family, not some sort of judgment on his masculinity. Considering the plight of so many of my male contemporaries in Orchard Park—in prison or in a grave—it was clear that I was lucky to have made it out in one piece. In fact, my success allowed all of us to make it out.

  So when I got the news that my father had been struck by the big C—lung cancer—I was devastated. He had stopped smoking more than thirty years earlier—how could this happen? Just as we were becoming best friends, I was faced with the possibility that he could now be taken away. He was a strong mule of a man, a former construction worker who wasn’t afraid of anything. But now we would have to step into that world of hospitals, doctors and debilitating health issues. In what seemed like a cruel act of fate, in the same week I found out about my father’s cancer, Alicia discovered that her father, Henry, also had cancer—his of the prostate. We were fortunate that we were there to comfort each other, but I was not looking forward to the coming months and sitting by my father’s side as he fought off this horrible disease. While Alicia’s father was lucky the prostate cancer was caught early, in stage 1, my father was already at stage 3.

  I knew my family had some unpleasant months ahead of us—but I had no idea how truly horrible it would all turn out to be.

  Alicia was helping me get more gigs now, so I was pleased to be working regularly, bringing in some cash. I realized how much I’d missed the stage. I had spent my whole life training to conquer that stage, to stalk it like a beast—and then I had just walked away from it for the better part of a decade. When I was back up there performing, it was like I had flipped a switch and reignited an essential part of myself. I realized I wasn’t whole, I could never be totally happy, if music and performing weren’t in some way closely connected to my life.

  Whenever I got some cash in my pocket, the first thing I thought about was the well-being of my father. I was able to get an apartment for him and Tommy. I needed to make sure his apartment was well stocked with food, that his medicine was right, that he had everything he needed. Luckily he was a vet, so his medical needs were taken care of through the VA.

  After Alicia and I got together, I had already started hearing rumblings from my mother in Atlanta that she wanted to relocate to Los Angeles. With me, Tommy and my father in LA full-time, I think she was feeling like she was too far away from the action. But when she heard about Pop’s cancer, it was set: Ma was moving back to LA.

  “I’m coming out to be with him,” Ma told me over the phone. I wasn’t even sure I had heard her correctly. After all, it had been years since they had lived in the same house, even though they had never divorced.

  “I need to get there,” she said.

  When Carole Brown made such a declaration, the matter was done. I told Alicia the news. She had never seen my parents living under the same roof, so she was a bit confused.

  “Wait, your mom is actually moving out here?” she asked me.

  “Yeah, we have to move her out here,” I said.

  I got back a puzzled look.

  Even though the two of them had been living apart for many years, there was still a great deal of affection between them. So, we got my dad a two-bedroom house so that he would have room for his wife; Carole Brown moved across the continent, back to a place she had moved away from more than fifteen years earlier when we all went to Atlanta.

  My mother was still a strong woman, but she had also started to slow down and experience health issues at this point. Because of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), she now required an oxygen tank to help her breathe. All those years of smoking had caught up to her too. And she was moving a lot slower. But she was ready to help care for her husband, despite her own challenges.

  I was happy that my mother was in Los Angeles when my son Cassius was born. She was a strong presence for Alicia when she went to a doctor’s appointment on a Friday and was shocked to learn that she had to have an emergency C-section that day instead of waiting until the following Tuesday, when they had planned to induce labor. The doctors told Alicia they were bringing her across the street to take the baby out of her belly in forty-five minutes. It was the first doctor’s appointment during her entire pregnancy that I had missed and it turned out to be the most important. I was out with my brother when Alicia got that news and for some r
eason I didn’t have my phone with me. So she started calling everybody. My mom was there to help her, as well as Alicia’s sister, Kim. My mother finally reached Tommy and me and we hauled ass to the hospital. I was walking into the hospital just as Cassius was being born. Everybody was there with us—my mom and dad; Alicia’s mom and dad; my sister Carol and brother, Tommy; Alicia’s sister, Kim. It was a glorious day for both the Brown and Etheredge families.

  Over the next year or so, my dad was getting progressively worse. He was in and out of the hospital, slowing down, getting weaker. I was still convinced he was going to beat the disease. I mean, this was Pops, one of the strongest cats I knew. How could he not beat cancer? He was still entertaining us with his sense of humor, always quick to crack a joke to keep everybody in stitches. As long as he kept us laughing, I was convinced everything would be fine.

  But Mom was showing some signs that had me concerned. She was less interested in going out, being social. She even stopped going to church, which was not a positive sign at all. Alicia would bring her clothes and try to get her out of the house, but my mom would be content to stay inside, staring at the television. I think she was also depressed about my father’s deteriorating health. She came to Cashy’s first birthday party in May 2010 and she was in good spirits that day. She was happy, beaming, enjoying the antics of her hilarious one-year-old grandson. It’s the last visual image I have of her being out in public and enjoying herself.

  Later that year we bought her a set of fancy cooking pots because she said she wanted Tommy to cook some fancy dishes for her and my dad in the house where the three of them were living together. She was even teaching Alicia how to make her famous mac and cheese—one of the delicious dishes that used to bring a steady stream of neighbors to our door back in Orchard Park. I was feeling that vague sense of dread that you constantly carry around with you deep down in the pit of your stomach when your parents are starting to get sickly. It means that your world is never perfect; there’s always something amiss in your spirit. But I was trying to stay hopeful. While my mother’s decline was a bit unsettling, it was my father who drew nearly all of our concern. He was not getting better; he was not beating it. He had too many stays in the hospital. A part of me knew it was just a matter of time, but I didn’t want to face that reality. So I kept telling myself and everybody else that he was going to be fine.

  Then one night at about ten, I got a call from Tommy. He told me I needed to come to the hospital, quickly. He wouldn’t give me any more news, but he sounded upset.

  “We have to go to the hospital,” I told Alicia when I hung up the phone.

  I saw the stricken look on her face. “Oh my God, Pops?” she asked.

  I shrugged, trying to fight off the dread that was threatening to wash over me.

  We got in the car and rushed to a hospital in the Valley that was nearby. There wasn’t much traffic so luckily it didn’t take long. I was desperately trying to hold it together, but as we got closer I was getting increasingly more frantic. Alicia was driving, since I didn’t have a license. Because I had struggled with DUIs, I was no longer allowed to drive.

  “My brother didn’t sound good,” I said to her. “I can’t believe this is happening to my dad. It’s so fuckin’ crazy.”

  When we arrived, we saw Tommy waiting for us in the parking lot. My sister Carol was with him, as well as Tommy’s son, Tommy Jr. We got out of the car and rushed over to them. Tommy motioned for me to follow him as he walked away from the hospital, which I thought was odd.

  “Bobby, she’s gone,” he said. “She’s gone.”

  I thought I had misheard him. Did he say “She’s gone”?

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?” I said. “Who the hell is she? Where’s Pops?”

  Tommy turned to me with an incredibly sad look on his face, like he was fighting back tears.

  “Ma’s gone,” he said.

  It hit me like a fuckin’ horse kicking me in the head. I felt myself drowning, grasping. I think I fell into Tommy’s arms, sobbing. It was a total shock to my system. I had just assumed I was rushing to the hospital to see my dad. Now he was telling me that my mother was dead. Gone.

  Tommy and I stood there in the parking lot holding on to each other tightly, crying, unable to come to terms with the unbelievable, unexpected loss. His son Tommy Jr. started explaining to Alicia what had happened. Through my grief, I was able to follow along: Tommy had made dinner for her earlier that night, something fancy that he had gotten her excited about trying. He brought it to her in the bedroom, setting her up in front of the television. She took her medicine and started eating as she stared at the television, watching one of her favorite shows. Tommy went back into the living room, where he was watching television with Pops. A few minutes later he heard Ma start coughing, almost like she was choking on something. When Tommy ran back into the bedroom, she was keeled over, facedown in her food. She had had a massive heart attack. She died on January 20, 2011, at age sixty-nine.

  Anyone who has lost a mother knows how massive the pain is, the hole that is torn in your heart. My mother was my rock, the dominant presence I knew was always out there somewhere thinking about me, caring for me, watching over me no matter what craziness was going on in my life. No one’s love is as perfect, as unconditional, as all-consuming, as a mother’s. Carole Brown made it her job in life to do all she could to make sure everything was all right in Bobby Brown’s world. She was a strong presence there at the start of my career, and she was an important adviser to me even after I had grown so big that I needed a whole team to watch over my interests. I had no idea how I would be able to even function without knowing she was within reach.

  After I got Tommy’s news, I had to see my mom myself, to touch her, to say good-bye. We walked into the hospital and they led us to her room. She had a peaceful look on her face, like she was sleeping. Her lovely hair was down, her graying waves spread out around her head. I went up and took hold of her hand. I bent over and kissed her face, her cheeks, her forehead. I reached down and rubbed her head, stroking her hair, trying to store as many memories as I could of these last moments, wanting to remember everything. I was crying the whole time, but I don’t even remember that. I felt like I was floating in some horrible dream, aware of being in the room and having people around me, but not totally conscious either.

  We stayed in that room with her for at least forty-five minutes, not wanting to let go. Her body was still warm to the touch, tricking us into entertaining the thought that maybe she wasn’t gone. Carole’s children sobbed for her—me, Tommy and Carol—refusing to accept the monumental loss. Pops had stayed home when the ambulance came to get her. He didn’t want to be there to participate in the mourning. He stayed home and mourned on his own.

  The next few weeks were a dizzying procession of painful decisions and heart-wrenching memorials. We planned a viewing for her in Los Angeles, then wanted to have her funeral and burial in Boston. We had to pick a casket, arrange travel for the body, choose the clothes she would wear, put together a program, write an obituary, plus handle a million other tiny details. If you’ve planned a funeral, you know what I’m talking about. I was so fortunate to have Alicia by my side, taking care of everything I couldn’t. She and my sister Carol actually consulted with a stylist to choose Ma’s outfit and they collaborated on creating the program. In addition, we had relatives calling from all over, looking for me to help them travel to Boston and put them up in a hotel. My sister Carol was in communication with Whitney, who said she wanted to attend the funeral. At first she said she would like to sing, then she told Carol she’d changed her mind. We weren’t sure whether we should include her on the program. It went back and forth several times and I grew frustrated. “Listen, none of this is necessary,” I told Carol. “Just her being there is fine. It’s enough.”

  I was still outraged by some of the things Whitney had said to Oprah on national television a year or so earlier. She had painted a picture of me as this mea
n, nasty, spiteful guy who abused and terrorized her, while she was a fragile, innocent victim. I was amazed at how I became the aggressive wild-eyed drug abuser in every one of her stories, spending her money on other women, cheating and spitting on her in front of my daughter. I had stopped using drugs years before we split up while she was still heavy into the drug use. As for the cheating, as I’ve noted, she was just as guilty as I was. And though she portrayed me as neglecting our daughter by continually failing to visit her, the reality was that she constantly acted to keep Krissi away from me. She kept telling Oprah that some of the things she was saying were going to make me mad—well, hell yeah, because she wasn’t telling the truth.

  So with all of that still bouncing around in my head, I wasn’t that concerned about whether my ex was going to sing at my mom’s funeral. I just hoped she was going to bring my daughter with her. It all was a lot to deal with in the middle of my grieving.

  After the viewing in Los Angeles, which was rough for me, we left our son with Alicia’s sister, Kim, and traveled back to Boston. The funeral took place at Twelfth Baptist Church, the Roxbury church that had been our home for years when we were growing up. My family and I were honored and humbled by how many of our friends from home and from the entertainment world came to my mother’s funeral. The church was overflowing, teeming with people, probably way more than any fire department would have authorized.

  I entered the church along with Alicia, LaPrincia, Bobby Jr. and Landon. We went to the second row on the right side of the church. The first row, right in front of the open casket, would have been too much for me. I felt more comfortable in the second row. A steady stream of friends and acquaintances came over to pay their respects as music filled the church. I could feel the eyes of the church fixed on me. Of course I’m used to being watched by the public everywhere I go, but this was different. I was trying hard to keep it together, and I felt that at any moment my emotions might start spilling out in front of the world, captured by camera phones and shared over the Internet. I felt like I was on display. I just wanted the ceremony to end as quickly as possible so I could get out of that church, almost like I was holding my breath the whole time. I would have preferred to be back home with my dad, who had decided he wasn’t making the trip back east for the funeral. But I knew I was expected to be present and be strong, so that’s what I promised myself I would do—even though I felt so sick to my stomach that I was afraid I might vomit or worse. I remember rocking back and forth, slowly, while standing in the pew and clutching Alicia’s left hand with my right. I’m sure she probably felt like I was going to squeeze the blood out of her fingers.