Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir (20 page)

MEANWHILE, MY FRIENDSHIP
with Keri, which had started during my Kenny G tour, began to blossom. We’d often spend hours together, writing music in the studio. “That’s hot!” I’d tell Keri when he played a track for me. He was not only an amazing keyboardist—he was also a super-talented producer. In fact, in 2000, he left his band to work on my production team at LaFace. Keri’s relationship with his girlfriend eventually ended, and once it did, we both slowly realized our connection was a little more than just a friendship (we’d been what I call “flirty friends” for at least a year . . . ).

Early on, we never made anything official—we just knew there was a spark between us. But in 1999, while I was doing
Beauty and the Beast
in New York, we actually started dating. Our first real date was a movie. We went to see
The Best Man
starring Taye Diggs, Morris Chestnut, and Nia Long. I threw on my hat and scarf as a disguise—though I didn’t really need to do that in a place like New York. And by the way, have I mentioned just how much I love the movies?
All About Eve
and
The Heiress
are two of my all-time faves. And I’m always amazed by the talents of my favorite actresses—Whoopi Goldberg and Meryl Streep. A movie was a perfect choice for a first date.

Keri was exactly what I needed at that time in my life—a calm spirit. Back in those days, Keri was a vegetarian. “You’ve gotta eat better,” he would tell me. But I loved my meat. “I don’t get it,” I’d joke. “If you’re going to eat cheese, you might as well eat beef—they’re both from an animal.” “They’re different!” he’d say insistently. For years, he and most of the guys in Mint Condition had never touched meat—they used to be meat eaters, but they became vegetarians. Keri has always been so laid-back and cool. I’m exactly the opposite. “Count to eight until the rest of the world has caught up!” he’d often tease me. With all the craziness in my life—my parents’ marital problems, the bankruptcy, the lawsuit—he made me slow down and just breathe. That was really the attraction. I’d call him up on the phone and we’d talk late into the night. With so much on my mind, I often had insomnia (most entertainers are control freaks—including me—and we’re constantly trying to figure things out. A sleeping pill usually does nothing to get us to doze . . . ). Keri and I would chat about silly stuff, like the latest movies. But little by little, I began confiding in him about personal things. Over time, we became emotionally and physically intimate.

I found out in between my Saturday-night show and my Sunday matinee of
Beauty and the Beast
that I was expecting. That Sunday morning, I’d asked my assistant to pick up an e.p.t. pregnancy test for me, but I lied and told him it was to play a practical joke on one of the cast members. He got the double pack, which was a good thing—because when it came up positive I immediately thought,
That couldn’t be correct
. I shook the test stick like they used to do with the old mercury thermometers, hoping that the double line would go away. It didn’t. So I drank forty ounces of water as a way to make my urine clear and dilute any traces of HCG, the hormone that signals pregnancy. Finally, I peed on the stick—and I got exactly the same result.

I kinda laughed at first—I guess I was just shocked. I hadn’t been sexually active for at least a year and a half before Keri, but I still considered myself a “safe-sex girl.” As reality set in, I became really mad at myself. My mind went back to that one night when Keri and I had not used protection . . . but not quite the whole time. I worked up the nerve to call Keri and tell him the news—and his response immediately put me at ease. “We’ll get through this together,” he said, reassuring me. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.” He was a complete gentleman who said all the right things—just like you hear in the movies. (Secretly, the performer in me was hoping for a little drama . . . not the Maury Povich show, but maybe an argument or a few tears.) Within a couple of hours of my call, Keri got on a plane and flew from Minnesota to New York just to be with me. I knew then that I would marry him someday.

When I discovered I was pregnant, I was right in the middle of a six-month prescription for Accutane—a kind of miracle drug for acne. I had begun taking it because all of the stresses of my life were showing up on my face. Like every drug, this one had its side effects. In fact, when my dermatologist gave me the prescription, I had to sign a waiver saying that if I got pregnant while on the drug, the fetus could be severely deformed—even two years after the prescription ended. But that didn’t deter me, because I’d have done anything to get rid of my crunchy skin. So I scribbled my signature and got the prescription filled in ten minutes at a ma-and-pa pharmacist. I do remember seeing the pictures of a deformed baby on the back of the package, but I set it aside quickly. I couldn’t wait for the day when my acne would magically disappear and I could be “cute” again. Within weeks, the Accutane began to work. But on the afternoon when I discovered I was pregnant, I was suddenly faced with a choice I’d never thought I’d have to make. Amid my major misgivings about abortion (according to my strict religious upbringing, God considers abortion wrong . . . so you can imagine how much agonizing I did), I eventually made a gut-wrenching decision—I would abort.

On the Monday following my test, I called my ob-gyn and told him my news. “I’m excited for you!” he said. I then told him I was planning to terminate the pregnancy—and he went dead silent. I could tell he was judging me. So before he could speak, I quickly added, “I’m on Accutane—and that’s why I’m making this decision.” The doctor seemed relieved once he heard my rationale, and his tone completely changed. But I knew that even if I weren’t on the medication, I would’ve made the same decision. I felt selfish. I certainly wasn’t wealthy, but I was rich enough to take care of a child—I’d just received that settlement check. My reasons had more to do with convenience than they did the fear that my baby would be abnormal. Yet I had them anyway.

The morning I showed up for my appointment, Keri came with me and stood by in the waiting room. He was the only person who knew what I was facing—I was too guilt-ridden to tell my family. I had the procedure done at Cedars-Sinai Hospital rather than in a clinic—because I’d been taking Accutane, my procedure had been deemed a “medical abortion” and therefore could take place in a hospital. When a nurse came in and looked over my chart, she said in a not-so-nice tone, “Oh—so you’re having a D&E,” which is a dilation and extraction—another term for an abortion. I sat there wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. When it came to my abortion being medically necessary, the nurse didn’t mention that part—either to me or to the Mexican doctor who later came in to perform the procedure. I felt exposed—like everyone there knew my real reasons for having the abortion. It was as if I could hear the doctor thinking, You are a grown woman—and you can afford to have this baby. I sat there in total silence.

The anesthesiologist broke the tension with his lighthearted manner. “Do you like to cook?” he asked, prepping me to go under. I nodded and smiled. “Well, I’ve got a recipe for you,” he said. “Here’s how you can make a great sautéed shrimp.” He then walked me through every step, laughing all the way through it—“You take a skillet, put a little olive oil in it, put in the shrimp, throw in some spices, add a little butter, some orange juice, and Grand Marnier, stir it, thicken it up a bit, and voilà!” Meanwhile, I was so pleasantly distracted from what I was there to do that I barely even remember the moment I was out.

When I awakened less than an hour later, I was throbbing . . . down there. Very sore, very crampy. I even bled a little. After spending another hour in a recovery room, I finally met Keri in the waiting lounge. We embraced without a word (Keri’s calming presence was enough), and he helped me out to the car. Once we were back at the condo, I climbed into bed to rest. The following day, I woke up feeling so angry.
What did I do?
There was no easy answer to that question. The truth is that I’d made a choice that violated every religious principle I was raised to believe—and that reality suddenly overwhelmed me. I also felt that with everything I’d been given—a great relationship with Keri and an amazing career—I had little to show God for it. I felt like I’d taken advantage of the gifts He had given me—and that made me furious with myself. I felt like I deserved whatever I got.

For weeks after the abortion, I was in denial of how ashamed I felt. Though Keri continued to show me his support through his daily presence, he and I never really talked much about all the deep emotions I was experiencing. I just tried to move on as if nothing had happened and do what I’ve always done during difficult times—busy myself with work.

As I wrapped up my Broadway run, Disney offered me a role in
Beauty and the Beast
in London. I thought about it but decided it was time to go back to recording—and besides that, my record contract stated that I needed to begin recording immediately. So since I’d sorted out the mess with Arista, I signed another deal with LaFace and began on a third album. Yet whenever I would think about the decision I’d made, I would tell myself, “I had to do it. I had no choice.” It’s amazing how you can brainwash yourself into really believing something you know isn’t true. Over the following months as my romance with Keri deepened, I would have that conversation with myself many, many times. In my heart, I believed I had taken a life—an action that I thought God might one day punish me for.

ONE NIGHT IN
1999, my father went out of the house to run an errand—and he left behind a green bag that he usually carried with him. Mommy was trying to find something, so she went searching in his bag. She ran across Daddy’s phone bill, which listed one certain phone number several times. My mother somehow connected that phone number to an address—and a couple days later, she and my cousin Gilda drove to that home. The woman who answered the front door was the secretary of my father’s boss at Baltimore Gas and Electric—that same woman my former assistant had seen him with at that concert. When Mommy asked the woman whether she was having an affair with Dad, the woman said, “Well, I’m glad you finally know.”

That same day, my mother confronted my father—and Towanda, who was staying at the house then, called me as it happened. “Mommy and Daddy are arguing like crazy!” she said. Since I wasn’t actually there, I don’t know what kind of angry words were exchanged or whether my parents ever resolved anything. Within days, my parents separated.

My siblings and I were livid. We all tried to get the woman on a conference call, but she hung up when she heard Towanda’s question: “Are you messing around with my father?” Of course, Dad was angry with us for calling the woman—but he couldn’t have been as furious as I was with him. Eventually, the whole story came out. My father—the reverend who promised to be faithful to my mother and to honor his vow before God—had been carrying on an affair with his coworker for nine years.

There was brief talk of a reconciliation between my parents—but the wound was too deep. Once their lawyers reached an agreement, Mommy and Daddy divorced—and thirty days later, my father married his mistress. The whole ordeal sent me into an emotional tailspin. It made me question every single thing I’d ever been taught—about God, about religion, about ethics. It was the most confusing and painful time I’ve ever experienced. And through it all, one person stood by me—Keri.

I
spent Christmas with Keri. It was snowing the day I flew into Minneapolis in December 1999—but that didn’t matter to me because I was with the man I’d grown to love. On Christmas Eve, we went out shopping and then to dinner. “You should get your nails done,” Keri said, prodding me. The following day, his nudging would make perfect sense.

Late on Christmas morning, the two of us dragged ourselves out of bed and into the living room to open our gifts. Still wearing my pajamas (a pair with little teacups all over them), I sat right in front of the lighted tree. I reached for a present Keri had gotten me and unwrapped it. Inside, I found a skirt, one that I could immediately see was too long for me. “Thanks!” I said, forcing a smile—but I’m sure Keri could tell I wasn’t very impressed. His other two gifts were better—more sets of PJs (I can never have too many!) and a pair of cozy slippers. Once my gifts were all open, I went to the restroom for a couple minutes. When I returned, Keri was down on one knee—and holding a Tiffany box. “Will you marry me?” he said. I froze. I hadn’t seen this coming at all.

My thoughts raced.
Do I even want to get married? Am I really over Curtis? And is this the right choice?
Realizing that my hesitation had made the moment awkward, I kinda hugged Keri—yet I didn’t really give an answer. “So is that a yes?” he finally said, chuckling. “Yes,” I said—but to be honest, I still wasn’t 100 percent sure.

My uncertainty had little to do with Keri. When I had met him, I was still getting over that heartbreak with Curtis—and I was torn about whether he and I should get back together. I’d eventually moved on and started a relationship with Keri, of course, but I did so with a question mark: Could Curtis and I work things out? I thought I’d settled that—but the day Keri asked me to marry him, the question resurfaced.

It surprised even me that I didn’t give an immediate yes to Keri. We’d been together for just a bit, and for the previous few months, I’d been telling myself, “I’m going to break up with him if he doesn’t propose by Valentine’s Day.” We’d talked a little about marriage, and we’d once even gone to Tiffany to look at rings. And we’d already survived a major experience together—a pregnancy. Plus, I also think it’s nonsense to date someone for a long time—I’m sure that has a lot to do with my traditional upbringing. So I knew I loved Keri and that I wanted to marry him. Yet when I saw him down on one knee in front of the Christmas tree, I suddenly wasn’t sure.

Keri and I never talked about my hesitation—and that day, I tucked it away in some secret chamber of my heart. Keri took the ring out of the box and slid it onto my ring finger. It was a diamond solitaire with clusters of smaller diamonds around it in a raised setting. “It’s nice,” I said. As I looked down at the ring on my hand, I suddenly wished that I’d responded to Keri’s suggestion and gotten that manicure—my polish was chipped.