Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir (21 page)

“You have to ask my dad if you can marry me,” I told Keri.

So right away, Keri called my father. “I just proposed to your daughter and she said yes,” he told my dad. “Do I have your permission to marry her?” My father agreed. Both my parents, who’d gotten to know Keri by that time, seemed excited. Later, I called my manager, Barry Hankerson, and told him the news. “Congratulations!” he said. On Christmas night, Keri pinched a nerve in his back and could hardly move, but once he was back on his feet the next day, we drove over to his parents’ home in Saint Paul and told them the news. We all celebrated.

BY THE TIME
Kenny and I got back in the studio to start on my third album, he and L.A. had officially split, even though they did still write and produce some material together. In 2000, the two sold their share of LaFace to BMG, Arista’s parent company, which meant that I and the other LaFace artists would be transferred to BMG/Arista. Clive Davis left to start J Records, which was funded by BMG. L.A. succeeded Clive as chairman and CEO of Arista. I’d relied so heavily on L.A. and Kenny’s Batman and Robin duo, and without it, I was nervous about putting out a record. They were still friendly with one another—and even after his promotion, L.A. provided plenty of direction in my career. But it didn’t feel like the early days when I’d had the magic of the team behind me. And though the bankruptcy had been settled by the time we started the third album, some of the war wounds still felt fresh—that was the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to mention. We’d mainly agreed to collaborate on a third album because the BMG execs wanted to get their money’s worth on our contractual agreement. And with the news of the bankruptcy still hanging over my name, it’s not like others in the industry were clamoring to pull me away to work with them.

Though my lawsuit with the label was settled, relationships had shifted. Before the legal drama, I’d often been invited to BMG parties or asked to sing at charity functions. Those invitations stopped. Execs used to request favors from me, like “Toni, can you sing at the billionaires’ club reception?” Not anymore. I was no longer the flavor-of-the-month artist, and while no one actually acknowledged it verbally, I could feel the tension in the air. I also felt that there was less enthusiasm about me and my music.

L.A. sent me a track that he thought would be perfect for my album—it was called “He Wasn’t Man Enough for Me.” When he sent me the track, which was by Rodney Jerkins, I loved it, but didn’t get the chorus. “Where’s the hook?” I said after he played it. “You don’t hear it until like a minute and twenty-eight seconds into the song.”

L.A. shrugged. “I think it’s hot,” he said insistently. L.A. could talk me into anything. “Just try it.” I did—and once I rehearsed and eventually recorded the tune, it became one of my favorites. It was a switch from all those sad love songs on my first couple of albums. The fast tempo and lyrics made it so fun to sing.

Keri was in the studio with me a lot—and L.A. obviously approved. “That’s the one right there,” he’d often say when he’d see Keri around the studio. “He’s such a talented producer. You’re with the right guy.” He and I would spend hours together, just listening to tracks. There’s something so intimate about working with someone on a creative project. That’s probably why so many people who work together end up liking each other.

Barry Hankerson had become my manager during the bankruptcy and my parents’ divorce. Especially after L.A. left LaFace and moved up the ladder at Arista, Barry took on an even bigger role in my career. From the start, I thought he was brilliant—one of the smartest managers, producers, and entertainment lawyers I’d ever met. He also knew his way around the music world: He was once married to Gladys Knight, he’d worked closely with the Winans, and he managed R. Kelly and his niece, Aaliyah, through his label, Blackground. He entered my life at a time when I was feeling powerless. “You’re going to be all right,” he would often tell me. “You may not sell what you used to sell, but you’re going to make a comeback. You’ll be bigger than ever.”

My third album,
The Heat
, debuted in April 2000. Not only did “Man Enough,” the first single released, have a different sound, a lot of the record was more urban and upbeat. “Gimme Some,” one of the tracks, features a rap from TLC’s Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes. Keri and I teamed up to write and produce the song’s title track, “The Heat,” a sexy, midtempo groove that celebrates the electricity that connects two would-be lovers. And just so it could be called a Toni Braxton album, I had to include at least a couple slow songs about romance gone sour—and “Just Be a Man About It” was one such hit.

Once the album was released, Barry sent me out on a radio tour. “You’ve got to pay homage to radio so that they’ll continue to want to play your music,” he told me. At the time, that made sense to me: It’s important for an artist to stop in and say hello to DJs so that she stays on the radar. But L.A. thought this was the wrong strategy for an established artist—and he told me that. “Why is Toni Braxton doing radio tours?” he asked me. “Barry is just using you to sell records and keep relationships for his other artists.” The record business is a business of payoffs and favors—so a manager will often say to a radio station, “If your station sponsors Toni Braxton’s tour, I will give you another artist’s album early.” So L.A. believed that Barry was sending me out to radio stations in exchange for more airtime for his niece and his other artists. This is just one example of how L.A. and Barry disagreed—and I usually felt caught in the middle of their power struggles.

I had no idea whether
The Heat
would be well received—as an artist, you’re always hoping that people will embrace your music. But with a lawsuit, a bankruptcy, and a corporate restructuring in the news in the previous few years, it was hard for me to tell whether the record would do well. That’s why I’ll always be so thankful that my fans really got behind me:
The Heat
eventually sold well and even brought me my sixth Grammy. No, it didn’t catch on the way my first two albums did (each sold more than ten million copies around the world), but it still sold six million copies worldwide. Sweet redemption—that’s the best way to describe how it felt. The album’s success was proof that the world could look beyond the headlines—and that I could finally turn the page on one of my most agonizing chapters.

AFTER KERI AND
I got engaged, I had a house built in Atlanta using the money I received from the bankruptcy settlement. Soon after, we hired Diann Valentine as our wedding planner and chose a date—April 21, 2001. That gave us enough time to pull together all the details: the venue, the ceremony, the flowers, the guest list, the music, and, of course, the dress. I chose Davett Singletary (my longtime colleague at LaFace who’d become a beloved friend) as my maid of honor. And of course, all my sisters were in the wedding—each was a bridesmaid. By then, a couple of my sisters had made their own trips to the altar: Traci and Trina had both exchanged vows. When I told my sisters that Keri and I were finally ready to tie the knot, each seemed genuinely happy for me. We Braxton sisters have always shown up to support one another. That’s just how we roll in our family.

I told Diann the color I’d already chosen for the wedding—Tiffany blue. Who knew that Tiffany owns the patent to Tiffany blue? Thankfully, Diann negotiated a deal for us to be able to use the color. As for my dress, I fell in love with an ivory, strapless Vera Wang gown. On the most special day of my life, I wanted to feel like a princess—and that’s exactly how I felt the first time I put on that gown.

My road to the altar was littered with family drama—it wouldn’t be a Braxton family event if there wasn’t at least one crazy incident. In October 2000, my parents’ divorce became final—which meant Mommy and Daddy wanted nothing to do with each other. They wouldn’t even agree to share a table at the wedding. Mommy wanted to bring the gentleman friend she’d been dating. Absolutely not. Then Dad asked me if he could bring his new wife. Hell no. My father even threatened not to come to my wedding if his new bride couldn’t accompany him, but I stood my ground. He finally decided to come on his own, which is a good thing—because if my father had shown up at my wedding with that woman, the two of them would’ve been promptly escorted out.

Several weeks before the wedding, I visited the dermatologist. “You’re breaking out a little,” he said, examining my face. “Looks hormonal.” Then a week before the wedding, I went to my primary care physician for a general checkup. “So you’re getting married,” he said. “Are you planning to have kids right away?” I nodded and smiled. “Well, you’re getting an early start—you’re pregnant now.” I just stared at him. As it turns out, I wasn’t very far along—in fact, I hadn’t even missed a period. I’d had a few headaches and some nausea, which I attributed to the stress of planning the wedding. But when the doctor checked my cervix, he noticed that it was purple—which is a sign of pregnancy. That’s when he gave me a pregnancy test that confirmed that I was expecting.

My big day finally arrived. I think my mother forgot that it was my wedding—she was still so angry with my father that her energy was negative. “Life is not a fairy tale,” she told me as I put on my gown. “All men cheat.” She did give me a gift—she’d turned her own wedding ring into a gorgeous bracelet. “I hope this brings you more luck than it brought me,” she said as she fastened it onto my wrist. Even though I knew she said these words because she cared for me, her words still hurt me.

At Dean Gardens in Atlanta, the guests gathered—among them were Tyler Perry, Usher, TLC, Kenny, and dozens of my extended family members. Some of my father’s sisters didn’t show up—I invited them, of course, but that word somehow hadn’t gotten to my father. My parents’ divorce was so recent that the entire family was still reeling from it—so I’m sure that had something to do with the miscommunication.

Andrew Young, the former mayor of Atlanta, officiated the ceremony. I had a few jitters, but I was more excited than nervous as my father took my hand and walked me down the aisle. Saying my vows—“I, Toni Braxton, take you, Keri Lewis, to be my lawfully wedded husband”—felt like an out-of-body experience.
Me? Married?
I’d always imagined I’d stand at the altar and profess my love for the man I’d chosen, but I just couldn’t believe the moment had actually come. The ceremony itself was perfect—as magical as I’d dreamed it would be. There’s just one thing I wished I would’ve added—the traditional broom-jumping ceremony. It would’ve been nice to pass the broom on to my children.

Keri and I stole a private moment for ourselves right after the ceremony. I handed him something I’d brought with me—a rattle.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking the rattle.

I smiled. “Well,” I said, “you’re going to be a daddy.”

“Really?!” he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Wow,” he finally said, “this is the happiest day of my life.” We embraced. The news of my pregnancy was the greatest gift I could’ve given either one of us—both on that day and for many, many years to come.

I
was terrified the first time I held my son. He’d just been delivered by C-section, and I was so drugged that I could hardly sit up straight. I also still had the shakes from the epidural. But my mother made me hold him right away. “You have to bond with your baby,” she said. Most of my family was there with me at the hospital—only my brother, Mikey, hadn’t been able to make it, because of work responsibilities. “I don’t think he looks like me,” I said, glancing over at Keri as I struggled to embrace our beloved bundle. My lower eyelids filled with water. “What’s wrong?” asked Keri, noticing my tears. I didn’t really give him an answer. But looking back on it, I think I was overwhelmed by the thought that I was suddenly responsible for the life of this little child. On December 2, 2001, just eight months after I’d married, I became a mother—to the healthy and handsome Denim Cole Braxton-Lewis.

There have been moments when I felt more like my son’s big sister than his mom. That’s probably because I spent all those years coparenting my younger siblings, and being in the role of caretaker brings back all those memories. And yet right from the start, my connection with Denim was so much deeper than the bond often shared between siblings—I would do absolutely anything for my child. I definitely felt that protective mother instinct when I held him. On the day Keri and I brought Denim home from the hospital, our hearts were wide open. Having a child gave me the capacity to love more unconditionally than I ever had.

Becoming a new parent was much harder than I thought it would be. I mean, I read every book you could think of to prepare for it—but I still didn’t get it, even though I would call my own Mommy every day. Nobody tells you that no matter how much planning you do, it really comes down to on-the-job training. I remember not knowing what to do when Denim would spit up—and I certainly didn’t know how to care for his umbilical cord stump before it fell off and became a navel. I also couldn’t differentiate his cries: Was he colicky or hungry? And I don’t even want to think back on the day he received his first set of shots—I cried just about as much as he did.

I hardly even had a chance to settle into my new role as mother before I began work on my fourth studio album—my contract stipulated that I needed to begin work on my next project within a certain amount of time from my previous one. I could see that my sister Tamar really wanted to have a recording career—and I respected her drive—so I found a way to include her as a songwriter and background vocalist on several of the album’s songs. Aside from that move, little else about the album reflected my choices—I was simply following the directions of the people around me. Everyone seemed to want to give me a younger, more hip-hop sound.

My manager, Barry, hired the hip-hop and R&B producer Irv Gotti to work with me—at the time, Irv was very hot and had some hits. Irv was very expensive—about $250,000 a song—and the record’s whole budget was $2 million. When L.A. heard Barry was using him, he had a fit. “Why are we paying Irv top-shelf?” he asked. He still believed that Barry was trying to use me for the benefit of his own label. “A Toni Braxton record is already going to sell at least five hundred thousand units.” But Barry insisted it was the right decision. “You need to switch things up and appeal to a younger audience,” he told me. “Working with Gotti will be a good thing. You should do a little hip-hop here and there. It’s going to be hot.” Once again, I was caught between two bickering men—and suppressing my opinion in order to keep the peace.