Mama Dearest (11 page)

“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’ve 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.

T
HE 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.

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 long 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.”