The Meaning of Mariah Carey

by Mariah Carey

  I will love you endlessly

  Take my hand

  Take me into your heart

  I’ll be there forever baby

  I won’t let go

  I’ll never let go

  Among all of my songs that one was especially significant, because I was desperately alone, removed from friends and full of fear. My belief in God kept me alive—I wrote that song thinking about what I thought God would say to us in times of fear.

  When the shadows are closing in

  And your spirit diminishing

  Just remember

  You’re not alone

  And love will be there

  To guide you home

  —“Anytime You Need a Friend”

  It was uplifting, rooted in spirituality and a message of faith, and that, too, made me feel safer and connected to Derek. It also let me know he was actually a fan—and the fans were the only people I really trusted.

  We started a clandestine communication, texting each other cute, short messages whenever we could and planning times to talk. Needless to say, I was terrified to talk to him if Tommy was anywhere near. But I would steal moments. If we were at the studio or at dinner, I would pretend to need to use the bathroom. I enrolled my assistant. We’d stage an errand and leave in her car, and I would talk to him. Sometimes we would go to her house, and I’d sit in her modest little living room and talk to him in a whisper—I was that afraid of Tommy. Every call was brief. I was riddled with fear, but it was thrilling. While the energy was definitely exciting and romantic, our actual conversations were on the light and banal side. I didn’t care; it was something. Planning and communicating with Derek felt like someone had smuggled a file into my jail cell. Each time we connected, it was as if I had worn down a bit more of the bars that held me captive.

  Every little move we made built toward a bigger idea: freedom. I had become completely accustomed to nonstop work, looking over my shoulder, and warding off despair; it was life affirming, as a young woman, to feel giddy and girlie. Through all the darkness, I discovered I still had some whimsy reserved for me and my own heart. I even began watching baseball in the studio when he was playing. To add to the perfect fantasy of it all, Derek played the same position the great Joe DiMaggio (Marilyn Monroe’s iconic second husband) played on the Yankees, connecting him to my Marilyn fascination. I literally met the person I had imagined. I was living in my own love song.

  The weeks of covert communication built up to arranging an encounter. I was still painfully aware that I was married, and I didn’t plan to break any of my vows. The plan was, I would meet him at a low-key pizza spot near his apartment, and we’d sneak out and go to his place. I was freaked out about taking the risk, but I had to see him; I had to know I was alive. I recall the care with which I chose my ensemble. I wanted something sexy of course, but certainly classy, youthful yet chic. I put together a warm chocolate moment: a soft and creamy chestnut-colored quilted Chanel leather miniskirt paired with a russet fine-knit bandeau top and layered with a matching cardigan. There were brown ribbed Wolford tights underneath, leading into a sleek round-toed mocha Prada boot. I loved those boots. I was serving textures in cocoa flavors. It was November, so I was giving an “autumn in New York” moment. To top it off, I wore a brown baseball cap over the volume of my curls, the brim pulled down low to hide my face.

  I was scared (ooh, was I scared). The stakes were incredibly high. I’d never tried anything this dangerous before, and I had seen firsthand how Tommy could destroy people. He certainly tried to destroy me. As I remember it, the procedure for the covert operation was: My assistant and I would tell my driver (aka Tommy’s spy, on my payroll) we wanted to grab dinner at the pizza parlor. We’d walk in together, and when Derek came in, we’d give my driver the slip. Derek lived nearby, somewhere we could be private and just chill. My assistant would act as a decoy, and Derek and I would duck out together.

  I was nervous on several levels. In addition to being terrified of Tommy’s wrath, I was also feeling naïve. Even though I’d been all over the world, I had nearly nonexistent experience in dating. The thought of the simple pleasure of just being close to Derek was liberating.

  My assistant and I sat on stools at the counter, staring at the large storefront window, adrenaline pulsing through us both. In walked Derek—in a basic sweat suit and baseball cap, of course. My heart was pounding. We were finally in the same room together, but the most treacherous move was ahead: we had to escape the pizza parlor without the spy seeing us. I believe my assistant went out to the car pretending to retrieve something. When she went up to the driver’s window, Derek and I pulled down our hat brims and ducked out the door and around the corner into a small backstreet. Tucked under his arm, I was consumed with relief and excitement. We slipped through a couple more winding backstreets to his apartment building.

  I was anxious beyond belief, and a shyness I desperately tried to hide washed over me as soon as the door to his place closed behind us. Had I ever been alone with a single man in his apartment—or anyplace—before? I wasn’t sure. This was all new. Would the spy discover me missing and foil our covert op? The butterflies in my stomach were in a complete frenzy.

  I took off my cap, shook out my curls, took a breath, and tried to calm and orient myself by focusing on my surroundings. I don’t recall many details. It wasn’t a particularly impressive place, just practical and neat. I stood in the living room a bit awkwardly, very smitten and still scared. Derek said there was a roof deck on the building and asked if I wanted to go up there. I agreed.

  He disappeared from the living room and returned with a frosty bottle of Moët. “I’ve been saving this, because I thought one day you might come over here.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, we’re gonna need that.” (And so it really was a bottle of “Moe-ay” that got me feeling liberated.) We went up to his roof, laughed, talked softly, took sips of cold champagne straight to the head, and reveled in our bodies embracing.

  The fall moon was bright, and a warm, heavy mist covered the night. For this brief moment, I was in rapture, alone on top of the city with a man who seemed to have stepped out of my dreams. We whispered a few things, giggled some more, and then drifted into the romance of the moment. We leaned in, an inch at a time, and melted into a warm, slow, intoxicating kiss. I felt an invisible veil of sadness begin to slip off of me and melt into a puddle at our feet.

  And in that instant, the sky gave way, and it began to pour. We held on to our kiss; our arms didn’t relax their embrace, and our bodies remained fixed. The rain came so suddenly, but we had already disappeared into the dreamy encounter we had anticipated, planned, and risked so much for. I was so caught up, not once did I think about my leather Chanel skirt or Prada boots in the elements. And thank goodness my hair was naturally curly, because had it been straightened, I might’ve broken and run to save the blowout!

  What broke the trance was not the rain but fear again. How long had we been gone? Did Tommy already know? I had to go! I two-wayed my assistant that we were on the way back. Derek dashed me back through the wet streets and left me right before the pizza parlor, where my assistant was waiting with wild eyes. She ran out when she saw me, and we jumped into the limo. We plopped into the backseat breathless, covering our mouths to muffle the laughter. Surely the driver noticed I was soaking wet, but I didn’t care! I didn’t care that he was without a doubt going to report my disobedience. I had stolen away to claim a moment that was all mine and that was real. I left just a little bit of sadness on that rooftop, and I was not turning back to reclaim it.

  Once the driver dropped my assistant off, I was alone in the long leather backseat of the limo for the tedious ride back up to Sing Sing. My mind was racing and my heart was pounding. Did that really happen? Did I really do that? Tommy is going to go insane! I turned on the radio to help calm me down. Out came blasting a grimy, dangerous, sexy-ass beat, then the hook:

  Scared to death, scared to look, they shook

 
’Cause ain’t no such things as halfway crooks

  I was certainly shook when we pulled up to the tall, imposing black wrought-iron gates that led to my mansion. It appeared menacing in the dark rain—and in light of what I had just done. Tommy was supposed to be out of town, but once I got on those grounds I never knew what to expect.

  I slowly entered my gorgeous penitentiary; all was quiet, and not quite as scary. A mercy. He wasn’t there, so at least I didn’t have to concoct a story about why I was dripping wet. Exhausted, I sat on the grand staircase, removed my boots, and tiptoed up to my bathroom. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights. I wanted to stay in the quiet of the expanse of the cool, soft-pink marble that surrounded me. I wanted to luxuriate in the poetry of the dull reflections of the opulent crystal chandelier bouncing against the dark. I pulled off my drenched knit top, which had become like liquid skin, and stepped out of my damp leather skirt. I sat on the edge of the massive tub to peel off my resistant, thin wool tights. I took a quick warm shower, letting the water wash off some of my anxiety. Wrapped up in a plush white terry robe, I walked up to the mirror and looked at myself. I stared into my own eyes. They were a little brighter. I caught a glimpse of the Mariah I remembered from before all the terror peeking through. I saw a bit of exuberance, a bit of hope, a bit of courage. I saw the glow of the promise of freedom.

  After such a dangerous, sexy, and grimy night the big all-white bedroom with the big all-white bed was more foreign than ever. I pulled the fluffy white goose-down comforter up to my neck and closed my eyes. Immediately I wanted to go back to the roof and relive the splendor I had just escaped. Involuntarily, my head started a gentle bob on the pillow and a beat began to faintly roll in. The song I had heard in the car, “Shook Ones, Part II,” by Mobb Deep, started to play loudly in my head, and I began to whisper:

  Every time I feel the need

  I envision you caressing me

  And go back in time

  To relive the splendor of you and I

  On the rooftop that rainy night

  I drifted off to sleep.

  The next day I called Poke and Tone from Trackmasters. We got the sample and got busy. “The Roof (Back in Time)” was my first complete docu-song.

  It wasn’t raining yet

  But it was definitely a little misty

  On that warm November night

  And my heart was pounding

  My inner voice resounding

  Begging me to turn away

  But I just had to see your face to feel alive

  And then you casually walked in the room

  And I was twisted in the web of my desire for you

  My apprehension blew away

  I only wanted you to taste my sadness

  As you kissed me in the dark. Every time …

  And so we finished the Moët and

  I started feeling liberated

  And I surrendered as you took me in your arms

  I was so caught up in the moment

  I couldn’t bear to let you go yet

  So I threw caution to the wind

  And started listening to my longing heart

  And then you softly pressed your lips to mine

  And feelings surfaced I’d suppressed

  For such a long long time

  And for a while I forgot the sorrow and the pain

  And melted with you as we stood there in the rain

  —“The Roof”

  It’s exactly what happened.

  THE LAST SHOW AT SING SING

  With the downpour on the roof, a dormant seed of self had been watered, and a bit of the humidity of Tommy lifted. I gained just enough confidence to appear defiant. Look, I—both of us—knew we were at the end of the road long before I left. I began leaving in increments, and in response, Tommy started making desperate last-minute attempts to get me to stay. He bought me a gorgeous but pointless Carnival red convertible Jaguar with a crème leather interior and matching drop top. It sat in the driveway of our thirty-million-dollar mansion—one more expensive thing to add to the lavish scrap heap that was our marriage.

  One evening I was working with two men I had a significant creative and professional relationship with, whose duty it was to have moblike loyalty to Tommy. These three men, to whose wealth and prominence I had contributed considerably, and I were sitting in the kitchen, about to have a meal break. Even though we were all “friends” sitting around the table, facing a large, rustic fireplace with the now sadly ironic phrase “Storybook Manor” etched in the limestone mantel (I named it that, desperately believing I could wish and will my nightmare into a fairy tale), the atmosphere was anything but warm. It was cold, quiet, and pungent with pain and conflict, evidence to all that a dynamic in me had shifted. I think it embarrassed Tommy that he had lost control and lost his “woman” in front of his “boys.” Embarrassment enraged him.

  He began an awkward and creepy little rant about the beautiful car he had just given me, and our fabulous estate (which I designed and half financed), and how in spite of all of it, I wanted to leave him. I was sitting still, looking down at the table, when Tommy walked over and picked up the butter knife from the place setting in front of me. He pressed the flat side of it against my right cheek.

  Every muscle in my face clenched. My entire body locked in place; my lungs stiffened. Tommy held the knife there. His boys watched and didn’t say a word. After what seemed like forever, he slowly dragged the thin, cool strip of metal down my burning face. I was searing with rage from the excruciating humiliation of his terrifying, cowardly performance in my kitchen, in front of my “colleagues.”

  That was his last show with me as the captive audience at Sing Sing.

  So many I considered closest to me

  Turned on a dime and sold me out dutifully

  Although that knife was chipping away at me

  They turned their eyes away and went home to sleep

  —“Petals”

  I was locked way in the bathroom, which now felt like a mausoleum, sitting on the edge of the cold tub trying to muster up the courage to leave, completely. Then the words softly came fluttering into my head: “Don’t be afraid to fly. Spread your wings. Open up the door.” I hummed the melody, which would become “Fly Away (Butterfly Reprise).” And I descended the grand stairway for the last time. I truly believed I was going to die in that house I built in Bedford and haunt it forever. I could just see what they’d make of it: a morbid yet festive tourist attraction, “The Famous Ghost of Mariah Mansion,” like a tasteful Graceland, where you could hear me hitting high notes in the halls at night.

  When I finally walked away from Sing Sing, with little more than my wardrobe and personal photos, the only thing I really wanted from the house was the beautiful hand-carved mantelpiece. A masterful Eastern European craftsman had carved it exquisitely to my very specific design directions. As I was leaving the house, I ran my fingers along its smooth and intricate curves for a final farewell. Only then did I notice there was a butterfly in the center of the heart that was in the center of the structure. I did not request it but its open wings were the sign I so desperately needed when I let that door close behind me.

  Natural disasters eventually tore down all the walls that held so much of my misery. A few years after I left Sing Sing, it burned down to the ground. And Hillsjail was completely destroyed by a tornado. I was in my Manhattan penthouse when I received a call from a woman who was the former owner of my former house. She had removed the mantel but put it into storage, because she found it so personal and thought I might want it. I retrieved it and had it painted a fresh white lacquer, just as Marilyn did with her mother’s piano. That mantel is now in my most personal room in my house, along with my family photographs and other precious things of mine. And I didn’t let my spirit die.

  JUST LIKE HONEY

  The rendezvous with Derek was just the push I needed to cross over into the Promised Land. I had proof that I could have something beautiful on the o
ther side of the hell that was my marriage. Tommy’s dark reign over me was now crumbling. Derek was outside of Tommy’s world; Tommy couldn’t destroy him, and I felt the possibility of my own destruction coming to an end.

  “The Roof,” as a song and a video, painted a deeply passionate and very accurate picture of my experiences. It was major for me, not for any salacious reason but because any intimacy with another human being was not something I had experienced before, ever. It was an amazing feeling, and I was obsessed with replaying the encounter and fantasizing what it could lead to.

  I romanticized so much about that night that I believed it was part of my destiny. I thought I had met my soul mate. I was driven. My whole being ached to see Derek—or, more accurately, to experience how I felt when I was near him.

  In creating the video concept for “The Roof (Back in Time),” I wanted to capture the feeling of the night—the crazy anticipation and the strong sensual undertones. I wanted it to be a little raw and sexy. We played on the “back in time” theme with a stylish old-school eighties hip-hop vibe, which was not a common era to reprise in 1998. The wardrobe stylist had to scour thrift stores and costume shops to get Adidas tracksuits, Kangol hats, and Sergio Valente jeans; and Serge Normant the hairstylist worked overtime to achieve my Farrah Fawcett layered, feathered moment. We featured Mobb Deep, members of the rap group the Negro League, and legit break-dancers. I knew it was a very cool video, good for both the “urban” and “mainstream” markets.

  But anytime I made a move forward for myself, there would always be backlash. The “show” that was my marriage might have been over, but the aftershow—the “meet and greet,” the dismantling of the stage—took a lot of delicate planning. There was quite a bit of upheaval. My life was thoroughly intertwined with Tommy’s; I needed time, and counsel on a clean (as possible) exit strategy. I moved into a hotel on the Upper East Side and continued therapy.