The Greatest Love Of All

By now we’ve all heard about the tragic death of Whitney Houston. Dead at 48. She was 5 years older than me; the first celebrity death in a long time that I really am sad about. Not that I didn’t feel for the other families, but Whitney was the cool of the cool in the 80’s. Her explosive voice and beauty was captivating, yet I can’t recall her flaunting or using her sex appeal in a demeaning or obnoxious way like some celebrities do.

There are younger generations that have no idea who Whitney Houston is, and probably can’t understand what the fuss is all about. Well the fuss is that she was a pop icon. A model with far more beauty than the waifs out there now with their skeleton faces…and a singing voice that drew you in, lightly squeezed your heart and left you releasing the breath you had been holding in.

I remember wanting hair like Whitney; big, thick, curly hair that just exploded on top of my head. And when it came to her singing, it stopped me in my tracks. Many singers tend to scream the high, loud notes, but not Whitney. She had full control of her vocals, and what came out of her mouth, seemed effortless. Of course, I’m speaking about her in the days before her destructive behavior damaged her voice.

It was the summer after high school (1986) that I lived in Virginia for the summer to work at Busch Gardens. Halfway through the summer, I started working at a place in the theme park called “Sing-a-Song”. People would come in, pick a song they wanted to sing, and we recorded them singing their favorite tune(s). Those of us working there wished we had earplugs for many of the so-called “people who thought they could sing”. Do you know what the number one song most people picked to sing? You guessed it! “The Greatest Love of All”. How many people do you know can belt out that song?

It’s the last four lines of the lyrics that I find sad.

“And if by chance, that special place
That you've been dreaming of
Leads you to a lonely place
Find your strength in love”

I believe Whitney’s decline all stems from her marriage to Bobby Brown. It’s a perfect example that even though you love someone, if they don’t bring out the positive in you or lift you up, let them go and run like hell. Whitney was too good for him, and as I can recall, many people were surprised she picked him as a partner. But she did, and that decision lead her down a dark road. She didn’t find strength in love—only destruction.

Whitney might not have found the strength in love in her marriage, but I hope she found it now. Rest In Peace, Whitney. You will remain a pop icon for those of us who danced to your songs and cried from the beauty of your voice.

Legends and casualties,

Bea

Junkie's Child

I still remember the deserted hallways of childhood, gutted rooms—emotional outbursts from a mother who had more of a relationship with a heroin needle than me. During her succumbed moments, I roamed the building peeling off chipped paint and wallpaper. Sometimes venturing outside to find the drunks huddled next to the fire, rubbing their hands while their deformed red-veined noses dripped. A junkie’s child—guilt slowly packing in arteries from the anger I felt toward my mother. For all I know, my father could have left because of her destructive behavior. But I didn’t want to think that way, since it would mean he deserted me too.

Adolescence blended into adulthood. I still search for parts of me I left in abandoned buildings—parts that built the armor coat I wear now. My relationship with my mother ceased when the drugs destroyed her body—chewing her from the inside out. Her body spread across the bed, eyes rolled back into her head, the color of dirty snow and marked by the incessant addiction that gnawed at her day and night. Sometimes I lay awake thinking about her troubled soul, wondering what pushed her toward drugs. Then anger sets in.

Who cares?

She was a mother—supposed to take care of me. My memories of her are like lemon drops—first sweet then they gradually sour. I wished her compulsions involved me.

Betty Baker’s mom did everything for her. Betty lived in a part of the neighborhood where the influential manicured their lawns and maids assisted with the household agendas. In the halls at school or outside, clean and sparkly Betty passed me with disgust on her face, appalled by my appearance and speech. If I ever overstepped the boundaries between us, she’d gather as many people as she could with her blazing words until an adult put out the fire. Betty did her damage—I became the dust mite of the school—an irritation to the rest.

Until freshman year when I watched Betty get into a Cadillac and disappear forever. Rumor had it that she knew the person driving the Cadillac. Those who knew her swore she'd never be associated with someone like that. Betty’s body was deposited in a corner of one of the many buildings I lived in—like a dust mite. I never shed a tear for her.

“Rocks don’t crack as easily as eggs.” This is what my first therapist told me the last time I slept with him. I think my distance finally got to him. He wanted the neediness of an orphan, not the coldness of ice. I went through the motions without offering up any part of me. I smiled when he indirectly insulted me and then went through the Yellow Pages for the next available therapist. Shrinks coexist with me, if only for when I need a little distraction from work.

 

Every inch of my home remains spotless while everything has its place and purpose. I fired several maids for dirty floorboards, dull brass faucets and uneven towels. Every dust particle, every uneven item makes my heart palpitate—my soul screams at the past. I don’t want my mother living with me—her filthy spirit contaminating things. My sanitized life is atonement for her sins.

But it’s the blackest of nights, when I sit in my car controlling the rush of excitement, when I feel the most pleasure. I stare into the endless blackness and methodically remove my rubber gloves, tossing them into a box. I step outside, place the box on the ground and set it on fire. The flames lick at the air as the box disintegrates. It’s the first part of cleanup. I can’t leave any evidence behind.

The kill is something that needs a before, during and after—a story told in my head. Afterwards, any connection to me is erased.

Short Stories and mysteries,

Bea