Mama Dearest Read online

  Mama Dearest

  Also by E. Lynn Harris

  Basketball Jones

  Just Too Good to Be True

  I Say a Little Prayer

  What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

  A Love of My Own

  Any Way the Wind Blows

  Not a Day Goes By

  Abide with Me

  If This World Were Mine

  And This Too Shall Pass

  Just As I Am

  Invisible Life

  Mama Dearest

  E. LYNN HARRIS

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Karen Hunter Publishing

  A Division of Suitt-Hunter Enterprises, LLC

  598 Broadway, 3rd Floor

  New York, NY 10012

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by E. Lynn Harris

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Distributed by Pocket Books. For information address Karen Hunter/ Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Karen Hunter Publishing/Pocket Books hardcover edition October 2009

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

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  Designed by Jamie Lynn Kerner

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harris, E. Lynn.

  Mama dearest : a novel / by E. Lynn Harris.—1st Karen Hunter Pub./Pocket Books hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  1. African American women singers—Fiction. 2. African American actresses—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A64438M36 2009

  813’.54—dc22

  2009022866

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5890-6

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6671-0 (ebook)

  Dedicated to Four Great Mamas

  My own lovely mother, Etta W. Harris

  My loving aunt, Jessie L. Phillips

  And two wonderful ladies who give

  me motherly love and friendship

  Laura Gilmore and Jean Nail

  and to Frank McCourt,

  a friend who will be missed

  Part

  One

  PROLOGUE

  I had that dream again last night. It’s been tormenting me for a long time. It plays in my mind as clearly as a movie on the silver screen, with me in my most glamorous role ever. I’m the star of this imaginary filmstrip, taking center stage, with all my dreams coming true for the world to see.

  But this beautiful dream always turns tragic. It turns ugly in a million different ways, as if Satan is writing the script and has so many ideas for horrible endings that he’s making me watch every one of them while I sleep.

  But oh, the beginning is so sweet.

  As always, I’m wearing a glittery silver gown that makes me look like a statue of pure diamonds. My hair is laid and I’m dripping in bling, with too many icy karats to count, sparkling in my earrings, necklace and eye-popping ring.

  I look so hot, the TV cameras can’t help but keep returning to show off my glam to the world by focusing on me in my aisle seat just a few feet from the gleaming stage. I see myself on the giant screens, framed by rows of Hollywood’s who’s who, all decked out in tuxedos and sparkling gowns. Beside me, my date’s face is a brown oval blur, but I know he’s handsome and sporting that tux like a Sean John model. His mouth and eyes come into focus; he’s smiling at me lovingly, like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. And in my dream, I am and the world knows it.

  Then Denzel Washington steps up to the microphone carrying a single white envelope. His world-famous face beams with a huge smile. He keeps looking at me like he knows a juicy secret. Sometimes he gives me a wink. Other times all I get is a mischievous grin.

  In his best movie-star voice, Denzel looks at the teleprompter and says: “The nominees for best actress in a motion picture are Meryl Streep for The Token, Angela Bassett for The Beyonce Knowles Story, Beyonce Knowles for The Sasha Fierce Story, Jennifer Lewis for Mama-dem and Yancey Harrington Braxton for Her Mother’s Daughter. And the Oscar goes to—”

  Denzel pauses as he opens the envelope. He smiles, looks at me and announces: “Yancey Harrington Braxton.”

  My head spins. I’m smiling so hard that my cheeks ache. Tears of joy sting my eyes. I feel like my body is floating up on a cloud. Until I press my lips to the warm cheek of my date, who’s smiling and joining the thunderous applause.

  I’m so floaty with happiness that I don’t feel my silver stilettos touch the plush red carpet as I walk toward the stage. The black steps are a blur through tears that stream down my face. This is the moment that I’ve been dreaming about all my life. I’ve rehearsed my acceptance speech over and over.

  But with this tingly jolt of excitement shooting through me, would I remember to thank all the people in my life who had made this magic moment happen? I grip my sparkly purse containing the note that will help me remember to thank all those who have supported me, those who have loved me. The crowd is clapping and screaming at a fever pitch and I have never felt so important and loved in my entire life.

  Finally, I make it up to the stage. Denzel kisses my cheek and hands me my gold statue. Then in a magical wave, his long arm directs me to the podium and my loyal subjects. The lights are so bright and hot. I’m nervous, but I’m ready. From my purse, I retrieve that paper that I wrote on when I won my first pageant.

  “First I would like to thank God, even though I don’t know Him.” I smile at the audience with a great deal of bravado. My voice sounds smooth and strong, despite the fact that every muscle in my body is shaking with excitement. “I would like to thank the Academy, even though I can’t understand why it has taken you so long. I would like to thank my producers and directors, even though you made it perfectly clear that I got this role because Halle Berry and Vanessa Williams turned you down.”

  I pause for dramatic effect. I’m loving the captivated expressions on all the important Hollywood people’s faces as I deliver an acceptance speech that’s way more bodacious than anything they’ve ever heard.

  “I would like to thank my agent, even though he wouldn’t return my phone calls until I withheld a commission payment.” The crowd is laughing and cheering me on at the same time.

  “You tell it, Yancey!” they shout. “Go on, girl, with your bad self!”

  But then the back door of the auditorium opens with a blaze of light. Out walk several people from my past. They’re smiling, so I assume they’re here to congratulate me. There’s my first boyfriend, my first vocal and dance teacher and Nicole Springer, an actress and former friend until I showed my ass. Here comes John Basil Henderson, the dangerously handsome man I almost married; he’s carrying a bouquet of red roses. Also coming toward me is a beautiful young girl whom I don’t recognize. She looks so excited and happy to see me as she skips past all my friends.

  “Yancey!” a familiar voice calls. I look offstage. It’s my mother. She’s wearing t
he same silver dress that I have on, the same jewels and—even though I’m certain it’s a wig—her hair is styled exactly like mine.

  The sight of her makes me feel like this fantastic bubble of excitement and accomplishment and recognition of my talent by the world is suddenly about to pop. Her sharp, disapproving glare could pierce a hole through me and the silver screen where this dream is coming true. And I literally hear a popping sound as she speaks:

  “Yancey, Yancey.” She says my name like I am in trouble; her voice shoots through the cheer and excitement in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been smacked in the face. “So you think you’re big time now, huh? You still got that birthmark?”

  She’s walking toward me as if I’m still a kid and she has a switch in her hand, ready to whup my behind for doing something bad. She is coming toward me dressed like a black June Cleaver, carrying an iron with a massively fake smile. And even though I’m standing on the stage with the adoring smiles and applause of Denzel and an auditorium full with superstars, I cower and tremble. Suddenly my voice sounds meek:

  “No, Mother, I wouldn’t be here without you.”

  “You got that right,” she snaps with a disgusted twist of her mouth. “So, when you gonna thank me?”

  I point to the bottom of my list. “I’m getting to that. See? Look here. Here’s your name.”

  My mother smirks with a crooked grin, then shouts:

  “You still ain’t shit, bitch!”

  Then, as always, the curtains fall on this dream-turned-nightmare.

  I wake up. My body trembles under a cold sweat. My eyes burn with hot tears. And I fear my real dreams will always be out of my grasp.

  CHAPTER

  1

  As I savor the first sip of my second glass of wine, my eyes move to the television and I say to myself, “Yancey, that’s the bitch who got your life.”

  Here I am in a third-rate hotel (it used to be a Days Inn) down the street from the Jackie Gleason Theater near South Beach in Miami. I’m in the second week of my role as Deena Jones in a bus-and-truck company of Dreamgirls. The producers aren’t extravagant when it comes to lodging, and I can’t wait until this tour is over and I can get my beautiful ass back to New York City where I belong.

  I’m sitting here watching the DVD of the 2007 Grammys, and there is Beyonce singing and gliding across the stage with Tina Turner. That should’ve been me singing with Tina or on the stage alone, but things haven’t turned out the way I’d planned. And I don’t have much time before it will be too late.

  My name is Yancey Harrington Braxton, and I’m a singer and actress. I’ve been close to stardom and even had a big pop hit at the beginning of the decade, but just as I got near Beyonce and Tina status, something happened that slammed the door in my face.

  I’m thirty-six in actress years, which really means I’m a sneeze away from turning forty. At times that scares me, but thank God I still have my looks, especially a body that could compete with a twenty-year-old on the beach and in the bedroom.

  I had come to Miami with a plan to make a second comeback but I’m running out of ideas. Maybe I need a stalker; then people would feel sorry for me. I could do the drug thing and go into rehab. It looks like it might work for Miss Whitney and Lord knows it ain’t hurting that crazy singer from England, Amy Winehouse. I’m much too vain to put on a few pounds and then become a spokesperson for one of the weight-loss companies like Queen Latifah. But there has to be something legal that I can do to push myself back onto the national scene one last time. This is a time when it seems everybody and their mama has a reality show. Surely there is still room for a legitimate star of my caliber. Yeah, that’s the ticket—I need my own reality show.

  I took this job even though I hate working with a bunch of no-talent people who’ve never set foot on a Broadway stage unless they were pushing a broom across it, but I’d run into some tough times with my finances. Besides, I’ve played the role of Deena Jones since I was in my twenties and could do it in my sleep. Gone are the days when I can demand first-class transportation, suites and car service. Let’s not forget my name over the title on the theater marquee. Most producers and directors aren’t savvy enough to recognize talent and class in one package.

  Thank God I still own a really nice town house on the Upper East Side. I’d always planned to use it as my nest egg but now when I need to sell it, the real estate market has gone to hell in a handbasket. A lot of people were interested in purchasing it, but with the banks tight with money, even so-called rich white folks are having a hard time getting a loan. My real estate agent told me that my best hope for getting my asking price is if some rich Russian falls in love with it and pays cash. I told her that she needs to get her ass on a plane to Russia quick, fast and in a hurry.

  If I sell the house, I’ll get myself a smaller place and there will still be enough money left over to get new headshots and some new outfits and go sit my ass in some spa where rich men hang out. I just can’t take another night in a seedy hotel when somebody with as little talent as Beyonce has all the things I’m supposed to have, including a rich, powerful husband. It should be me who’s the toast of the red carpet, with my own clothing line and preparing for yet another world tour.

  As I watched Tina and Beyonce complete their performances and take their bows I thought, “I can sing better than both of them.” I’d give them a run for their money on the dancing as well. When did it all go wrong for me and why? I was born to be a star.

  I’m a statuesque five feet eight inches, 125 pounds with a twenty-two-inch waist. A beige princess with a diamond-shaped face, golden brown eyes and auburn-tinted hair that falls just below my shoulders. My arms are long and slender, almost perfect … almost. I am still as beautiful as any actress, black or white, working today. I just need to remind Hollywood of that so I can move from the D-list back to the A-list.

  As I tried to figure out what I could do to get some positive press, I thought back to almost ten years before when I was on Broadway starring in yet another Dreamgirls revival. I guess I should be thankful that Jennifer Hudson and Beyonce made the movie musical. Still, I’m pissed that I couldn’t even get a role as an extra in the glitzy film. Maybe the first step for me should be to get another agent and by this I mean a good one. And I don’t mean somebody calling himself an agent/producer like the current fool who represents me, Zeus Miller. First of all what kind of name is that? But for now he’s the best that I can do.

  I finished my glass of wine and looked around the tacky room for the rest of the bottle. Another glass would ensure me of at least a sound sleep and I wouldn’t spend the night worrying about how I was going to keep the bank from foreclosing on my home before I could sell it and hopefully make a nice profit or at least break even.

  Just as I got up, there was a knock at my door. I figured it was housekeeping finally bringing the extra towels I’d asked for three hours ago. If I was staying in a Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton South Beach, I would have had those towels before I hung up the phone. I miss those days more than I can say. You get what you pay for.

  I pulled together my robe and opened the door.

  “You got a corkscrew I can borrow for a few?” It was Violet Smith, one of the understudies for the musical and my next-door neighbor. Violet is an okay-looking young girl when she has makeup on. She’d made it to the top ten on American Star a couple seasons back and landed a small part in the Dreamgirls movie, something she never fails to tell people when she meets them. Now with shows like American Idol and So-You-Think-You-Can-Do-This-or-Do-That, any clown can have a little time in the sun. Gets on my damn nerves. When I first entered the business you had to have talent before you appeared on stage or television, let alone being cast in a movie. I have sold millions of CDs, had a number-one hit and appeared on Broadway countless times. Damn, I was even nominated for a Tony Award. I should have won and would have if Patti Lupone had taken her old ass somewhere and sat down.

  Violet stood there impati
ently. “Yeah, but I’m not lending it out,” I said. “Bring your bottle of wine to my room and I’ll open it for you.” Maybe Violet will have the decency to offer me a glass and I can save my corner for later on tonight in case I wake up.

  Violet gave me an are-you-serious look. “Girl, quit playing,” she said, “I promise to bring it right back. I got a real nice man I met at the after-hour’s club off Lincoln in my room waiting on me. I know we normally hang out and talk but I can’t tonight, hon. I got some catching up to do. Some of the cast is watching the semifinals of American Star in Dalton’s room. Why don’t you go down there? I think they got some drinks.”

  I ignored her suggestion that I join a bunch of sexually confused chorus boys watching a bunch of no-talent teenagers and walked over to the desk and picked up the corkscrew I’d stolen from the hotel we’d stayed at in Tampa. It was one of the few times we’d stayed in a hotel that had a wine list and twenty-four-hour room service. Still, it wasn’t a five-star hotel, but more like a two and a half.

  When I turned around, Violet had let herself into my room and was sitting in the chair making herself at home. I made a mental note to make sure to let Violet know I didn’t like people invading my space without my permission. I don’t have roommates on the road, no matter how much money it saves.

  “Did you hear who was in the audience tonight?”

  “Who, Michelle Obama?” I asked, being cute.

  “No, honey, but I hope that she and the president will come to this show. That would really put us on the map. It was Nicole Springer. She was one of the Deena Jones that played in the show when it was on Broadway back in the day. Do you know her?”