The Whitney I Knew (7 page)

Because she kept on like she was, I decided I'd just keep on walking and ignoring her little quips; she was just being silly Whitney. But her weird behavior continued. Throughout our little tour, her purse references continued: “Boy, my purse is so heavy today.” Again, I ignored her comments.

“And over here is the master bedroom,” I'd say, and then we'd keep moving through the house. I was becoming a professional
ignore-her
.

At the end of the walk-through, we stepped out on the back deck. She reached in her purse and handed me an envelope.

“Here. Open this.” She grinned from ear to ear as she spoke the words. “I told you my purse was heavy.”

“What's in it?”

“Just open it.”

I was stunned. Inside the envelope was a check for $50,000—the exact amount I needed to make the balance of the down payment. Now the bank had no excuse not to give me the loan.

If you've ever owned a home, you can relate to the feeling you get when things fall into place for your first place. I had started to believe that this first home was going to have to wait a bit longer.

Not so. Whitney would't allow it.

I was dumbfounded.

I just stood there, speechless. And Whitney kept grinning.

And then it all made sense. In my head I was hearing the words she'd repeated as we walked through the house: “Oh, this looks like my brother's house. . . . This looks like something in my brother's
house.” And in that moment, what was “looking like my brother's house” became
my
house! She had been talking about
me
!

The look on her face as she walked toward me with arms wide open is etched into my memory.

“I love you, brother,” she said, wrapping me in a huge hug. It was The Pact at work, but in a totally unexpected way.

I looked her in the eyes and said, “I promise you, sis, I am going to pay you back.”

“Whatever. I'm hungry. Let's go eat.”

And we did.

I grew up in a time when your word still meant something. It was, in fact, your bond. I still think your word is all you really have. You can ask any of my friends; if I give you my word, then I'm going to do whatever I need to do to keep that promise.

I kept my promise. Eventually, I was able to send Whitney an initial installment of $25,000. It was one way I could honor The Pact.

When Whitney's accountant told her about the money, she called me.

“Hello, my brother.”

“Hey, what's up?”

“Well, I had to call because I just heard that you sent me $25,000.”

“Yeah, that's the first installment on the money I owe you.”

She didn't respond. There was only silence on her end. Then, in a soft voice she said, “Wow, I wasn't looking for you to do that.”

“What do you mean? I said I was going to pay you back.”

“Yeah, I know, but so many people say that and never do it. I've gotten used to people asking for things and never giving back.”

Upon hearing her words, I realized the realities that come with being a person like Whitney—a person who isn't just well-off financially but downright rich . . . and rich for the world to see. Whitney went on to tell me about the good and the bad that came along with all her wealth—from the letters from absolute strangers asking for financial help to the friends wanting something, and even family tensions. One letter she shared with me was from a woman in Florida. “I want to show you something,” Whitney told me. “Let me read this to you, because this is how people are.”

The letter said this woman needed help. Her heat was turned off; she didn't have any money to turn it on . . . But then Whitney told me the date—it was summertime!

“BeBe, this letter is from Miami, Florida!” Whitney exclaimed. “I was writing a check to this woman, and if I hadn't read the whole letter, I would have sent it! Needs the heat turned on in summer? In Miami? C'mon!”

Opening up about the intricacies of her situation, she confessed: “No matter how much you do with your wealth, no matter how much you try to help others, no matter how many funds you set up, it's never enough. There's always someone ready to criticize what you do or don't do. It's incessant to the point it wears you down and wears you out.”

“Whitney, I understand what you're saying,” I replied, “but I'm not one of those people.”

Her response in this situation helped me understand how important it was for her to not only have people to talk to, but people who weren't out to get something from her. This was an important lesson
for both of us. For me, I began to understand my role in her life: I needed to be the type of friend she would have even if she were not Whitney Houston. And in that kind of relationship, there's a healthy amount of freedom to be yourself no matter what, and to know that you're safe in doing so.

It also meant there was no unhealthy pressure between us. Whitney was an adult; she didn't need a babysitter. Whitney went off and did her Whitney things. But what she needed from me was a person with whom she could pick up where we left off. She needed to feel like I was always there for her and would be a safe haven. And that's where The Pact came in for her: our conversations would be kept safe with each other.

That's also why, in this book, you're getting my Whitney highlights and insights, but the exclusively private and personal stuff stays where it's always been: in a safe place, honoring The Pact . . . honoring the family.

It's hard to convey how your life turns upside-down when you experience the fame that Whitney did. But that high-intensity fame made our Pact even stronger. Let me give you another example of how Whitney interpreted The Pact, and how her perspective of family shaped so much of our friendship. It's also one of those stories that allows me to trade in my grief for laughter—a story that allows me to remember the Whitney I knew “backstage.”

Whitney was in London for a series of concerts—I believe it was in 1987 or 1988—and when I spoke to her on the phone from my home in Nashville, she kept asking, “BeBe, please come hang out with us.
Come see me.” I said yes, like I usually did, because even though she traveled the world and had this incredible vocal gift, she always wanted to be surrounded by friends on stage and, most importantly, when she came off the stage. This was important, because when Whitney was entering the world of celebrity, her mother warned her that life would be lonely. Cissy was right, but Whitney fought that loneliness with everything in her power. London was a testimony to that fight.

I had a writing session scheduled in Brazil a week after Whitney's London shows, so I worked it out where I could go visit her in London first and then proceed to São Paulo to fulfill my commitment. So, it was on.

I met up with her and some of the crew at a restaurant after that evening's concert was over. When I walked in, she greeted me like she always did: “Hey, my brother! Everybody, my brother is here.” She and I embraced, and whoever was sitting next to her surrendered their seat.

For the next several hours, until the sun started to peek its head over the horizon, we laughed and talked and talked. Upon realizing the time, I looked at her and said, “Good night! Better yet, good morning! I'm going to bed.” Whitney, who was a night owl (actually, we called her a vampire because she loved the night and didn't come alive until after 11 pm) groaned and complained, but accepted my departure and let me go on to my room.

The next day she and I had brunch at the hotel right at the time they were serving high tea. As I've mentioned, church was part of Whitney's core being—and so was her faith. She just loved church. So even while enjoying a simple brunch and tea, it only took a word for her to bring God into the conversation. With laughter on her mind, she said, “You know why we're really having high tea?”

I knew where she was going with this, but played along anyway. “Why?”

“Because we are having tea with Jesus, and he is high and lifted up!”

I chuckled and said, “Amen!”

After our meal, she and her team readied to leave. They were leaving London and catching the train to Paris for some concerts there. As she prepared to leave, I knew what she was going to ask, and I had my response ready. She didn't let me down.

She looked at me and said, “I know you love me . . .”

“Yes, I do. And my answer is no!”

She begged and pleaded and proceeded to tell me the reason I couldn't say no and that I had to come. I just
had
to. She could be such a little girl when she wanted to be.

I said, “You know, you're wrong for trying to make me feel bad for coming all the way to London to visit you. And it's not going to work.”

Right.

Well, it
did
work. My bags were already packed. I tagged along to Paris.

Whitney slept the entire train ride. That's what she did to revive herself. She was a vampire, remember? She needed to sleep during the traveling hours so she'd be ready for the late-night hangs.

After arriving in Paris, Whitney and I went shopping with Whitney's longtime assistant, Robyn Crawford. Whitney loved shopping almost as much as she loved singing. It was right around the time of my birthday—I remember because that's what she and Robyn used to somehow convince me to purchase a black leather coat that was
way
out of my price range. It was the most expensive coat
I'd ever bought. To this day, it is still the most expensive coat I've ever bought.

Whitney and Robyn kept telling me, “Don't think about the price, BeBe. You work hard; you're worth it.” Well, they won. It made me sick to my stomach to spend so much money on a stupid jacket. But really, it's still in my closet, and I still wear it, and you know what? They were right. I was worth it.

Whitney had two concerts in Paris. I stayed for the first one, but on the day of the second one I left from the venue before Whitney arrived. I said my good-byes and told Robyn to give Whitney a good-bye hug from me and that I'd see her soon. But my Paris exit wasn't as smooth as I thought it would be.

When I arrived at the airport I found out that the travel requirements for Brazil had changed since my last visit. I now needed a passport
and
a visa. I didn't have a visa. I asked the check-in clerk to call the airlines for help. But that didn't work. To make matters worse, the airline agents were extremely unfriendly and acted like they had no time to help me. I began to get angry.

Understand, I come from a family where cursing was not allowed. Ever. So profanity was never part of my vocabulary, until that night.

I was so livid, I lost control for the briefest of moments, swearing like a sailor at the airline agents. As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I stood paralyzed. I so stunned myself with my angry swearing that I immediately asked the agent for forgiveness and then went straight to the phone and called my brother Ronald.

After I told him what had transpired, he laughed and said, “Did you ask God to forgive you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, then, it's okay now. You may not be able to win the agent over, but you're fine.”

I collected my things and headed back to the venue where Whitney was performing. It seemed I was staying for concert number two after all.

She was already on stage and the band had just started leading into one of my favorite Whitney songs (“How Will I Know?”). I headed down to the gated area between the stage and the audience and stood to the right of the stage. Whitney was on the opposite side, with no clue I was there.

She sang the first few phrases and then turned in my direction and saw me standing there. Without missing a beat, she sang the words, “There's a boy I know, he's the one I dream of . . . 
missed your plane, missed your plane
 . . . Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above.”

She was so smooth, the enthusiastic audience in that sold-out venue had no idea that she was having a conversation with me during that performance. If I didn't know better, I'd think she tried to rush through all her hits in the set so she could discover just exactly what caused me to “miss my plane, miss my plane.”