As more and more people came, we held hands, we cried, we prayed. People brought food, but I wasn’t about to eat. People shared memories of Nippy, but I couldn’t stand to listen. I just hung on to Aunt Bae like she could keep me from falling deeper into a bottomless well of sorrow. But she couldn’t—nobody could. I had lost my daughter, my baby girl. After everything we had been through, she had suddenly slipped away, forever. I was sad, but I was also so angry, so hurt. The wave of emotions just engulfed me, to the point where I could hardly breathe.
I didn’t know how I would make it through the next five minutes, let alone the rest of the night, or the long days and nights ahead. I didn’t understand how anyone could bear up under such a burden of sadness and pain. And then, someone put on music. And I could hear the voice of Marvin Winans singing the great Andraé Crouch song “Let the Church Say Amen”:
God has spoken, so let the church say—Amen!
I’m not going to say that hearing this song made everything all right, because nothing could make things all right on this night. But the message of that beautiful song—that we must give it over to God, and trust in Him to know what He’s doing—was a balm to my wounded soul. Yes, God had spoken. And even though I didn’t like what He had decreed, the message was clear and unequivocal: “If you believe the Word, let the whole church say—Amen!” And so I said, Amen. It wasn’t going to do me any good to try to fight God. I had no choice but to accept and believe that He had a plan.
With everybody milling about, and people crying and carrying on, a part of me just wanted to be left alone to grieve for my baby girl. But I know that without the love of my friends and family, I wouldn’t have made it through that night, or the long, terrible nights to come. Because things didn’t get any easier. No, not yet.
Those first few days blurred together in a terrible haze. At night, I would fall into fitful sleep, and then I’d wake up an hour or two later to realize my greatest nightmare was real. Sometimes I’d awaken having forgotten that Nippy was gone, and the memory would suddenly rush over me like a wave.
People were so wonderful, sending cards and messages and flowers. Many sent food—Diane Sawyer sent enough to feed a small army. I so appreciated everybody’s care, because I certainly couldn’t care for myself in those first days. I couldn’t stop crying, let alone carry on with the business of living. I was just existing, just going through the motions.
But then something happened that, very unexpectedly, made me feel better. When my daughter’s body came home to New Jersey, that was the first time I felt any real comfort since I’d learned of her death.
Nippy’s body had been sent to the Los Angeles County medical examiner, so it took a couple of days before we could arrange to bring her home. Tyler Perry, who was a good friend of Nippy, graciously offered to send his private plane to do it, and a group of friends and family, including Gary and Pat, Dionne Warwick, and the funeral director, Carolyn Whigham, accompanied her body home.
I still couldn’t believe this was all happening, but I went to the funeral parlor to meet my daughter’s body as it arrived from the airport. Aunt Bae was with me, and thank heavens for that, because I was in as bad a shape as I’d been since Gary’s phone call. I was just falling to pieces at that point, still unable to cope with the reality of what happened. And I was dreading seeing Nippy’s body. I didn’t know if I could handle it.
Yet strangely, the moment I saw my sweet daughter lying there in that casket, I felt at peace for the first time. She had been brought straight from the medical examiner’s office, so she was wearing a nightgown, with a little cap on her head. She had such a serene look on her face, as if she were just sleeping. I reached out and touched her face, her arm, her hand. Bae reached out to her, too, but Michael just stood there sobbing and sobbing.
When he looked at his beautiful sister, lying there so peacefully, he was so overcome with grief that he could no longer accept she was gone. “Nip, stop playing!” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Get up. Get up!” He held her face in his hands and pressed his cheek against her forehead, moaning and weeping. Michael was just shattered by Nippy’s death, and eventually someone had to pull him away from the casket, because it didn’t seem like he would leave her side unless she woke up.
Yet as upsetting as it was for Michael to see Nippy’s body, I felt the opposite. Seeing her face so peaceful, so at rest, I finally was able to accept what had happened. Seeing my daughter, even in death, gave me strength.
That evening, we all sat around the table at my apartment and talked about what kind of funeral to have.
People had started talking about having a big service in a public place, like the Prudential Center arena in Newark, so that thousands of people could come. They felt like Nippy was a national treasure—that in a way, she belonged to the people. And the people wanted a chance to say goodbye, so maybe the best way to do that was with a big public event.
But I shot that down quick. “No,” I said. “We’re going to do the funeral at New Hope. I shared my daughter with the public long enough. Nippy is coming home!” I didn’t want to hold a funeral for the singing star Whitney Houston. I wanted to have one for my baby girl, the daughter that I loved so much. I wanted to bring her home, where she belonged.
Over the next few days, the Irving Street agency’s Curtis Farrow and Ron Lucas devoted many hours to helping me plan out all the details of the service. Curtis and Ron understood how I wanted to honor and say goodbye to Nippy. They helped me when I grew weary and carried me through the worst thing any mother ever has to do—planning how to bury her child. I don’t know what I would have done without them, because they were the ones who somehow managed to pull together everything and everyone we needed for the funeral service.
On Saturday, February 18, 2012, exactly a week after Nippy died, we gathered together at New Hope Baptist Church for her funeral. That beautiful sanctuary was filled with our friends and family, people who had cared so much about Nippy beyond who she was or how she sang. These were the people who knew her and loved her, and that gave me strength. I was going to need it that day.
I went in just before the service started, so I missed whatever mess happened with Bobby Brown and his family. To this day I don’t know, and I don’t really want to know. The last thing on my mind that day was any kind of conflict, with him or anybody else. He is the father of my granddaughter, and I have always treated him with respect. And I certainly would have done the same that day, but he came, and then for whatever reason he left, and it all happened before I even got into the church. So I really can’t say anything else about it.
When I did come into the church, I was helped to the front pew and took my seat next to Michael and Gary. And all I remember is that parts of the next four hours were moving, and sad, and a beautiful tribute to my daughter. But I was so deep in grief and mourning that a lot of it just passed me by. I was so grateful to everyone who spoke and sang and prayed, and I forced myself to get up and embrace each one and thank them for taking part. But I couldn’t take everything in, and after a while it all seemed to blur together.
Until the final moment.
I had somehow managed to hold myself together through my daughter’s funeral. But after all the singers and speakers were through, and after all the prayers had been offered, there was a moment of silence in the church. And then, the sound of my baby’s crystal-clear, perfect voice cut through the air:
If I should stay . . .
I would only be in your way
So I’ll go, but I know
I’ll think of you every step of the way. . . .
The pallbearers lined up at her casket, and as Nippy’s voice soared out over that whole church, they lifted her casket to chest level. People were standing up, crying, waving their hands, and then the pallbearers hoisted the casket to their shoulders. Everybody in the church just gasped, like they’d been hit in the stomach.
And that was the moment my legs gave out from under me.
I don’t know what it was about seeing that coffin raised up, and the pallbearers all facing forward to carry it out of the church, but suddenly, everything was real. Nippy was truly gone. Thank God I had two women from the funeral home beside me, to catch me, because I could not hold myself up. Each one took an arm, and I walked out of the church behind Nippy’s casket, pierced through with a grief that knew no bounds.
We had a repast after the funeral, at the Newark Club downtown. I really didn’t want to go—I just wanted to go home and be by myself for a while. Everybody wanted to talk to me and hug me, and I just felt very aggravated by all of it. But I knew I had to get through it, so I just took my chair at the repast, and greeted everybody who wanted to come by and say something. I’m told the meal was good and that people seemed grateful for it, but I was about a million miles away.
And as hard as all this had been, everything wasn’t finished yet. We still had to bury my daughter.
On Sunday morning, a gold-colored hearse pulled away from the Whigham Funeral Home to start Nippy’s final journey. I was riding in a car behind, and as we wended our way to Fairview Cemetery in Westfield, New Jersey, people were lined up along the streets, waving and crying and holding up signs for Nippy. A few of them even tried to run alongside the hearse. My darling daughter, who ever since she was little had just wanted to be liked, was in the end adored by people all over the world.
The burial was private, with only our family there, and no one else allowed into the cemetery grounds. We drove slowly up the hill to Nippy’s final resting place, a grave site next to her father. The ceremony was quick, which was fortunate because I didn’t know how much more I could take. When they put that coffin down into the ground, there was a finality to it that was just too much for me. It was like her funeral all over again, and I just about collapsed. Then they shoveled the dirt on top of the coffin, and just like that, my baby girl, my only daughter, was gone forever.
Epilogue
The day Nippy was born, as I was holding her in my arms in my hospital bed, something told me she wouldn’t be with me long. It was like a voice in my head, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. I figured I must just be overtired, or maybe my pain medication was playing tricks on me. I never said anything to Nippy, of course. In fact, I never even thought about it again—until that terrible February day when it turned out to be true.
I had waited so long for a daughter, and then she had to leave me so early. Nippy and I had just forty-eight years together here on this earth. A lot of people think she died before her time, but you know, I’m not sure anymore. I think God had enough of seeing her go through everything she went through while she was here, and so He decided to bring her home.
I wonder sometimes whether the Lord lets you know when He’s about to come for you, because I have a strange feeling that Nippy knew. Michael told me the same thing after she died, because in their last few conversations she was saying things like, “I’ve got you, Michael. Always. You know that, right?” And “Michael, you’ll have to take care of yourself, and take care of Mommy.” And of course, the last time Nippy ever performed in public, at a club in Los Angeles the night before she died, she raised her hands in the air and sang, “Jesus Loves Me.”
Even with everything Nippy went through, I had never feared for her life. It never once occurred to me that she might die before I did. I just thought that whatever she was going through, she would always come out the other side. But God had His own plan, and I believe it was my daughter’s destiny to go when she did. And even though His plan hurt me so bad, He’s the boss. My pain is deep, but my faith is strong, and I believe the Master of it all simply said, “Come home, my child.” That’s the only thing that keeps me going—knowing He is in charge.
Let the church say—Amen.
Nippy belonged to the public from the minute those nurses in the maternity ward took her around for everyone to get a look. She was more than just an entertainer or singer. She was a person whose life and voice touched millions of people. And while I’m as proud as any mother could be about her daughter, and I’m grateful that she was able to leave her mark on the world, I would trade every last bit of it to have my baby back.
For all the things that happened to Nippy over the years, and all the rumors and stories that got told about her, I just want people to know what kind of person she really was. She was a giving, loving person, a human being like anyone else. She was a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend to so many. She was quick to smile, but if you cut her, she would bleed. She could be nasty if she wanted to, but almost always, she was the sweetest, most loving person in the room.
A lot of wonderful people end up falling prey to the lure of drugs, and Nippy did, too. I never thought she would, and I never understood it. But who really knows why people do anything? They have their own insides, and their own reasons. And I think where drugs are involved, people get overtaken in ways they never expected. They may set out to do drugs, but nobody ever sets out to become a drug addict.
In the year since my daughter died, I’ve struggled with so many things. I’m still so angry—at Nippy, at the world, at myself. There are days when the questions just consume me. Should I have done things differently? Was I a good mother? Was I too hard on her? And the worst one of all—Could I have saved her somehow?
In my darkest moments, I wonder whether Nippy loved me. She always told me she did. But you know, she didn’t call me much. She didn’t come see me as much as I hoped she would. Sometimes it felt like other people told me she loved me more often than she told me herself. Those other people seem sure that she did. And I guess I believe it. But there are days and nights when those dark feelings just come, and I find myself wondering.
And then, there are other times when I almost feel she’s with me. That damn doorbell, the one that rang a couple of times on the day that Nippy died, still keeps on ringing when there’s no one at the door—or no one I can see, anyway. I keep asking God to let me dream about her, but I never do. But then the doorbell rings again, or a vase somehow gets moved across the room while I’m out, and I wonder if that’s my baby.
I miss her so very much. I still struggle, every day, with the truth that I’ll never see her again in this life. But I do believe I’ll see her again one day, and that is what keeps me going. Believing that God has a plan and that we will be together is the only thing that keeps me from falling apart.
Sometimes, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night crying, just sobbing for my daughter. It takes me a minute to realize where I am, and what has happened. But then I just get up out of the bed, wipe my eyes, wash my face, and lie back down to go to sleep. Because that is all I can do. I am so grateful to God for giving me the gift of forty-eight years with my daughter. And I accept that He knew when it was time to take her.
Let the church say—Amen.
Epigraph
“I marvel at the strength that Cissy has shown in light of some of the darkest times in her life. Cissy’s ability to stand against the weight of immeasurable heartache is the emblem of the Christian faith and serves as a paradigm for all of us to exemplify.”
—Pastor Joe A. Carter
The New Hope Baptist Church
Acknowledgments
Over the years, my family and I have been blessed with love and support from many people. But I would like to thank a few in particular:
Bae—there’s no way for me to say how much you meant to Nippy and how much you mean to Krissi and me. Thank you for trying so hard to take care of us all three of us.
Laurie, Shelley—I know you loved Nippy from the time she was a little girl, and that love showed in everything you did for her during her life. Thank you.
The Sweet Inspirations—without you three incredible women, my life would have been so different, and so much the poorer. Sylvia, Myrna, rest in peace. Estelle,
take care of yourself, and know that the memories of us help to keep me going. We made some amazing music and had some wonderful times together; I won’t ever forget that. I love you and miss you.
Toni Chambers—you have always believed Nippy and I had a story worth telling. You encouraged me to tell it for both of us. With your help, Lisa’s wonderful talents, and God’s Grace, we did it. You have been with us through thick and thin, always ready with a helping hand and a kind word. I don’t know how I could possibly thank you for everything you’ve done over so many years. You are like family to me and always will be.
Monique Arceneaux—my sweet friend, you look out for me, check in on me, and do for me no matter what. Thank you for your compassionate giving, your loving spirit, and your willingness to do whatever we needed as we wrote this book. I don’t know what I would do without you.
A. Curtis Farrow and Ron Lucas—my dear friends. You’ve been with me in the good times and in my darkest hours. If not for you, I don’t know what I would have done trying to plan my daughter’s funeral. Although you didn’t know Nippy, you know me and how much I love her. Thank you.
CeCe Winans—Nippy’s maid of honor, Krissi’s godmother, and, most of all, Nippy’s friend. She loved singing with you. BeBe Winans—you and CeCe meant so much to Nippy. Pastor Marvin Winans—thank you for officiating at Nippy’s wedding and her funeral. She believed in what you do. The entire Winans Family—Nippy loved all of you dearly.
Thanks also to:
Nippy’s early managers, Gene Harvey, Seymour Flics, Danny Gittelman—thanks to all of you, especially Gene, who tried to feed her mind as well as grow her career. Joe Roth—you gave her a chance to establish a production company at 20th Century Fox and then again at Disney. Thank you. Debra Martin Chase, who took Brownhouse Productions and ran with it—thank you. And Cinderella was wonderful. I loved it.
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