Nowhere but Up (21 page)

Though Justin was still in school and I didn’t plan on taking him out until the year was over, he was beside himself. Meanwhile, life continued its steady pace back in Stratford. I worked, Justin went to school, and we posted videos online. That was pretty much it.

Scooter and I worked together to build up Justin’s YouTube following. We stayed up endless nights monitoring the channel, posting videos, and watching his popularity climb. Though we piqued the interest of a few record labels, nobody bit until Scooter brought in Usher and Justin Timberlake. It was an honor just to be considered by both camps. Though we ultimately decided to work with Usher, I feel that we wouldn’t have lost either way.

I remember the trip to see Usher in February of 2008. Justin was stoked to meet one of his idols. I admit, I was pretty excited myself. I grew up listening to his music and admired him. The trip was short but eventful. Usher met us at what looked like a dance studio. A mirror lined one wall and chairs were scattered about. Justin did his thing, singing songs like “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain and even Usher’s “U Got It Bad.” In the middle of a riff in the latter song, Justin playfully asked Usher, “You gonna sing with me or what?” and kept right on crooning. He wasn’t nervous. Not one bit. A natural performer, Justin never gets nervous.

Justin and Usher hit it off. The two of them shared a competitive streak. Usher’s favorite game was Connect Four, and Justin mentioned he hadn’t played in a while. At one or two in the morning, hours before we were scheduled to fly back to Canada, Usher had a Connect Four game and a Rubik’s Cube dropped off for Justin. We were touched by the sweet gesture. And Justin was itching to practice so he could play Usher one day and beat him.

When I shared with my parents the news about moving to Atlanta after the school year, they were excited. They recognized the fact that Justin was presented with an opportunity for greatness. Like any grandparents would be, though, they were also heartbroken that their grandson would be eight hundred miles away. Bruce was crushed. He and Justin shared a special bond, one that Justin couldn’t replicate with another human being, not even his grandmother or me.

I had never seen Bruce shed a tear until Justin performed in the Stratford Star contest. Something about Justin evoked deep emotion. When we told him and my mom about our decision to move, Bruce was a blubbering mess. He was going to miss his little boy. The two of them were a team. Every Friday night, he and Justin would watch the local hockey game at the Allman Arena. Bruce also accompanied me to every one of Justin’s hockey games and even took him to most of his practices.

As apprehensive as I continued to be about the potential pitfalls and temptations that colored the entertainment world, I knew there would be more of a safety net around my son in Atlanta than there would have been in high school back home. Without being around Justin 24-7 in Stratford, known on the streets as the “meth capital” of Canada, I wouldn’t know what kind of trouble he could get into, and believe me, even though it was a small city, there was a lot of trouble around.

From the start, Scooter and I were careful to choose the right people to work with and be around Justin. Though we may not agree on everything and may hold different philosophies, Scooter and I have the same commitment to protecting Justin. We made a conscious decision not to surround him with “yes” men or women. We wanted people on his team who would challenge his character and encourage his integrity. So while the move made me anxious for various reasons, I felt confident about my son’s well-being. I knew Scooter and I would always have our fingers on the pulse of Justin’s daily comings and goings.

Reality has a way of doing a disappearing act when you’re caught up in the upheaval of a major life change. Emotions get sidelined as lengthy to-do lists take precedence. But once the cyclonic fury of tasks—like downsizing your life of thirty-three years into a few suitcases, gathering together medical records and school transcripts, and working out the logistics of moving to another country—dies down to a manageable lull, it happens. Reality pops in like a distant cousin coming for a surprise visit. I had to face the inevitable of saying goodbye to the comforts of the familiar and greeting the uncertainty of the new.

The last month before I vacated my apartment was full of tears. Lots of tears. The days merged into one another as I mourned the loss of the familiar place where I had been born and raised. I took long drives on miles of empty roads alongside picturesque farms on the outskirts of the city. I drove through the charming streets of downtown Stratford, past the library where Justin and I would pore over books like
Clifford the Big Red Dog
and the Arthur series. I drove past old neighborhoods, reminiscing to myself about my best friends on the block and throwing penny carnivals.

I was leaving behind places and things that provided comfort, that gave me joy, that made me laugh, that offered safety. Everything I had ever known and grown to love about Stratford—from the beautiful river where my son and I admired graceful swans and fed quacking ducks to the theater stage I had performed on and called my second home to homey diners and cafés where my best friends and I would spend hours talking—would be mere memories, eight hundred miles away from my new hometown of Atlanta, Georgia. (Not to mention, there was no Tim Hortons in Atlanta! I had drunk Tim Hortons coffee every day of my adult life! What was I going to do?)

As soon as I gave my landlord notice, my mom swept in like an army general. She got the ball rolling and began the task of getting rid of my stuff. We couldn’t take much to Atlanta—only whatever could fit in a suitcase or two. Room by room, corner by corner, piece by piece, most of my belongings and furniture started disappearing. My mom made quick decisions. This was sold. That was donated. This was thrown out. That was given to a friend. I was grateful for her support, but sometimes she moved at such a rapid pace I couldn’t keep up.

There were moments I needed time. I needed space. I needed to process the fact that bits and pieces of my life, all that I had accumulated over the years, were making their way out of the apartment. In the time it takes to blink—at least that’s how it felt—I found myself a week or two before the move, living in an apartment furnished only with a mattress in the middle of the living room. A handful of Justin’s clothes were strewn in one corner, and a few outfits of mine hung in the closet. The apartment wasn’t the only thing that was bare. I too felt empty. I cried. I didn’t even know where I could find an extra blanket.

Before my apartment was stripped bare, I had a lot of cleaning to do. I’ll never forget one time when I walked around holding an overstuffed trash bag in one hand. I filled it with old, broken toys that Justin had stopped playing with years ago. Tears fell. Again. He wasn’t a baby anymore. He wasn’t even a little kid. Justin was growing up and literally going places, trekking into unknown territory, a strange landscape I didn’t have a manual or GPS system to help navigate his way through. It seemed not but a day ago when Justin was banging on his high chair, playing the drums for the first time. Was it really over a decade later?

I would stand alone in the empty apartment on moving day, surrounded by the awful off-white walls that looked permanently dirty. As I gazed around the rooms—past the kitchen counter I could never get clean enough, the old appliances that had seen more than enough years, the nicks and scratches on the walls—my eyes landed on the floor of the hallway. I stared at it for a few minutes for no particular reason. The vinyl tiles always looked cracked. It was hard to tell simply by looking at it if the floor was dirty or purposely patterned that way. Though my heart ached from the roller coaster of memories that sped through my mind, I felt sure about one thing: I was definitely not going to miss this dingy apartment.

As my friend Scott, a lifesaver in those last few weeks, helped move some of the heavier things out to the garbage dump one day, I crumpled into his arms like a rag doll. I sobbed on his shoulder, feeling the unbearable weight of this new transition. Though a new chapter was about to be written, I felt my very life, the one I had built, slipping away from my fingers. When we walked out toward the end of the street, from the corner of my eye, I could see the local convenience store where Justin got slushies almost every day after school. Another round of tears fell, turning Scott’s white T-shirt into a saline-soaked mess.

Scott took me, Justin, and one of Justin’s best friends, Chaz, camping at Pinery Provincial Park a week before we left for Atlanta. It helped to take some of the edge off our anxiety. For a few days, we hiked while we swatted away annoying mosquitoes in the afternoon humidity. We cooled off in the calm, clear waters of the lake and played on the wide sand dunes. Justin and Chaz spent hours building tiny teepee fires. At night, we huddled in our sleeping bags in a cozy tent, falling asleep under the moonlight to the sound of chirping crickets.

Every time I hear the songs “Better Together” by Jack Johnson and “1234” by Fiest, I think back on that trip. We listened to those two songs over and over on repeat. They remind me of how free we felt, enjoying the beauty of nature, singing silly campfire songs, and seemingly not having a care in the world. That was the point—fun. I wanted to give Justin one last impromptu trip. I wanted him to spend time with his best friend and not have to deal, at least for a little while, with the conflicting emotions I was sure he was wrestling.

As the countdown to moving got closer to the actual day, I threw Justin a huge going-away party on our friend Chad’s farm. My son was surprised at how many people came to support him. From what I saw, it looked like every student from his junior high was there. Some played volleyball or rode quads, and others hung out by the long buffet table of chips and other unhealthy and greasy snacks that kids love. When the sun set, the teenagers gathered around a huge crackling bonfire and sang songs, led by Justin on his guitar. He even busted out solo performances, singing songs like “Cry Me a River” by Justin Timberlake. Toward the end of the night, fireworks lit up the sky in a colorful celebration.

My own going-away party was nowhere near as big or elaborate. I invited about fifty people I knew. Only nine showed up, including John’s wife, Sue, and their daughter, Tasha. Though I was disappointed that so many people couldn’t make it, we had a blast. It was my first time at a country-western bar. We tore up the dance floor, stomping our way through unfamiliar dance steps as Charlie Daniels and a fiddle blared through the speakers.

I even mustered up the courage, thanks to unrelenting peer pressure from my friends, to hop on the mechanical bull later that night. I gripped the fake cowhide with my thighs with all my might as the bull violently bucked with so much force I could barely hold on. As the crowd hooted and hollered like only country-western fans could, I was finally thrown off and landed like a splash of splattered paint on the cushioned floor (I give myself props for not getting bucked off in the first fifteen seconds!).

The night before we left, Justin and I spent a few hours driving around town. It was our turn to reminiscence and say goodbye together. We didn’t talk much but blasted the stereo as we always did. As the schools Justin attended, the skate park he frequented, and the parks we had explored faded from our view, we said goodbye.

Many people dream of starting over, though it’s wishful thinking for most. Who wouldn’t want a clean slate, an opportunity to meet new people who don’t know who you are, the mistakes you’ve made, or your bad habits?

Moving to Atlanta marked my new beginning, and though I was grateful for the fresh start, I was in an emotional labyrinth—feeling homesick, eager for the new adventure, and apprehensive about what lay ahead.

I believed in Justin with all my heart and was excited for his new future. I knew without a doubt how talented he was and how badly he wanted this. I just didn’t know what to expect, especially coming from a small town in Canada. The demographic differences alone were overwhelming. Stratford has a population of thirty thousand people and one of the lowest crime rates in all of Canada. Atlanta is one of the most dangerous cities in the United States, with a crime rate five times the national average. Over five million people call the Atlanta metropolitan area home. That’s a big difference.

Scooter warned us he would be gone the first week after our move. He didn’t mean for it to happen; it was just bad timing. The day we arrived in Atlanta was like a fog. Scooter dropped us off at a hotel in Buckhead, gave us three hundred bucks for the week, and took off on a business trip. I won’t sugarcoat it. It was a rough week.

The area where we stayed was breathtaking. The hotel was nestled in one of the most expensive communities in Atlanta. We were surrounded by luscious landscaping and surprisingly clean streets flanked by architecturally stunning buildings, some of them housing high fashion boutiques that were too pricey to even window-shop. It was glitzy, but hard to enjoy. Though I appreciated Scooter’s generosity, everything was so expensive that we couldn’t do much venturing out. I certainly wasn’t going to pay twenty bucks for a hamburger or seventy-five dollars a ticket to see a show. Besides, Justin and I were in an unfamiliar area. I didn’t feel safe exploring on our own.

The stress of moving, being alone, and not knowing a soul took a toll on me not long after we arrived. Though I was incredibly anxious about the traumatic move, I was thankful that my anxiety and depression weren’t as bad as they had once been. In fact, a few months before the move, with the help of my doctors, I completely weaned myself off the daily medication.

Still, that first week I was overwhelmed. My head exploded in a migraine. Looking back, I feel terrible for Justin. The pain was so debilitating, I couldn’t do much aside from lay in bed all day. My poor son went stir crazy in our small hotel room. We fought a lot. It was almost impossible not to.

Kenny Hamilton, Scooter’s good friend who would end up being one of Justin’s bodyguards, showed up at our hotel room one day. He was a godsend and rescued my son. He took Justin out a few times that week while I nursed my migraine, huddled under hotel sheets trying not to move. I’ll never forget Kenny’s kindness that week—and to this day.

A week later, Scooter was back and we spent a few nights at his girlfriend’s parents’ house. Finally it was time to go home—our new home tucked away in a quiet community in the middle of the city. The three-story townhouse was beautiful. Just walking through the front doors helped to settle my nerves. The place was empty. Everything was brand-new and clean, nothing at all like my old apartment.
Hello, new home.

The three of us drove to a furniture store where Scooter footed the bill for an array of “previously enjoyed” couches, tables, and bedroom sets. We also took a trip to Target and loaded up two carts with every household item imaginable—toilet paper, dishes, towels, pots, pans, sheets, clocks, and toiletries. Our final stop was a grocery store. I’ve never bought so much food in my life (thanks, Scooter!). We stocked our fridge and pantry with condiments, cereal, pasta, fruits, vegetables, snacks, soda, and juices. As a single mother who had spent the last thirteen years either on government assistance or counting pennies, I felt like we had hit the lottery. Setting up house was really fun. Starting over and having all new things was exciting and freeing.

Still, leaving everything and everyone we knew was really hard on me because we didn’t know anyone outside of Scooter and Kenny. We didn’t have a church. We didn’t have a network of support. Even the friends I had back home seemed to be too busy to connect. I missed home so much it physically hurt. I cried for six months.

My plan was to find a church right away. I was sure I’d find one in no time—with Atlanta being located in the Bible Belt, there was one on practically every corner. I’d get plugged in, join a small group, get to know some people, go out for coffee or dinner with my new friends, and resume a supportive social network. No such luck. I struggled to find a church I could call home.

I tried. I church-hopped multiple services on Sundays. I went to megachurches, small churches, churches with dynamic worship, churches involved in social outreach. They all had positive features, but I didn’t connect with any one in particular for at least six months in Atlanta. I’d sit in a pew Sunday after Sunday, enjoying good music and a good sermon. As I stared at the people around me, hugging each other hello, asking about so-and-so’s kids and what they’re doing for lunch and could they make something for the potluck next week, I wanted to disappear into the cushioned seats.

The failure to get plugged in somewhere had an effect on my faith. In some ways I felt like God abandoned me. I couldn’t feel His presence. It was one of my darkest spiritual hours. I developed phobias and fears I’d never had before. I was afraid of flying, for one. For about eight months after the move, anytime I boarded a plane, I’d plant myself in the seat and dig my nails into the armrests. I’d close my eyes so tight they would hurt. Mere seconds away from hyperventilating, I’d repeatedly whisper, “Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let me die.” If Justin wanted to go to the amusement park, I refused to ride the roller coasters or any tall waterslides because I was convinced I would die, which was so out of character for me. Almost every night for weeks I was plagued with dreams about falling off a bridge and crashing to my death on rocks in shallow water.

I tried to encourage myself, determined not to let these feelings of being abandoned by God destroy my beliefs. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. I read my Bible more than usual, poring over its words as well as listening to an audio version. But I still couldn’t escape the gnawing feelings of fear and anxiety that were eating through my peace like termites.

I wrestled with God in the middle of the night, when Justin was sound asleep in his bed. I wrestled with God when the sun was slowly creeping up over the horizon, shedding its hazy orange glow over early morning joggers. I wrestled with God while I was stuck in traffic on Atlanta’s congested highways. “Where are You, God?” I would cry out. “Are You mad at me? Did I hear You wrong about moving here? Why do I feel like You are rejecting me?”

My heart broke as the tears fell. But however slighted or left behind I felt, I was determined not to let go of Him, even if I was only barely holding on to a thread of faith. I clung to God with all my might, against all odds. I was familiar with these dark nights of the soul and knew that despite my feelings, I had to hold on . . . a little longer . . . and maybe even a little longer yet.

I had moments of relief when I was encouraged by a message, an old friend’s heartfelt prayer, or feeling the familiar presence of God I hadn’t experienced in a while. Over time, inch by inch, the darkness began to lift. The unmanageable weight of panic started to slip off my shoulders. My heart eased its way into more of a settling calm. And all of the fears and phobias that I had suddenly developed vanished.

I think my spiritual and emotional unrest was the result of the extreme change. I had to dig deep with God during this time. It challenged me to cope with my faith on my own, outside of depending on someone else. Extreme change would become my new normal as we entered the fast-paced life of nonstop travel and spending time in a different hotel room every night.

Things were happening so big and so fast for Justin. Between watching him record and traveling with him doing radio promos all over the country, I was responsible for signing contracts that could affect a large portion of Justin’s life. Pages and pages of legal jargon were being presented to me each day, and even though I had an attorney who helped walk me through each paragraph, it was still a daunting task. At the end of the day, I was Justin’s mother. I was accountable for the repercussions that could come from any document I signed or deal I authorized.

There were times fear inched its way into my heart. I was afraid of making a mistake. I felt so much pressure. What if I signed something that could steer Justin in the wrong direction? Or chained him to an obligation that would only hurt him in the long run? Or put him in the path of unhealthy, long-term relationships?

But I couldn’t allow those questions and fears to cripple my confidence. I remembered who brought us to this place, who aligned every detail so I would know our move was God-ordained. God wouldn’t have put me in this situation to make me fail or fall. I began to listen to my instincts and follow the peace in my heart. I’m sure I made mistakes along the way, but what parent doesn’t?

Eventually I did find a church I could call home. I also met a man there on my first visit whom I half-jokingly refer to as my angel. Brandon was visiting from Maryland when I met him. After we connected at the persuasion of the pastor, we instantly bonded. Brandon became our travel pastor, hitting the road with Justin and his team for a few years. Justin needed a mentor, and while Scooter was definitely a great influence, he could only do so much. Scooter always ran at full steam doing the million things that were required to manage Justin’s exploding career, so my son needed someone who could be fully devoted to his character, someone who could pray with and help lead him. Brandon was the guy. Only in his early twenties, he meshed well with Justin. They loved to rap and would spend hours writing songs together. Brandon recently got married and started a new life, leaving behind his role as Justin’s pastor and being on the road with him. But I’ll always be grateful for the way he invested in my son during that time period.

The rest of the story is history. Most of you know it well: The platinum-selling albums. The multiple Billboard hits. The worldwide number-one singles. The Grammy Awards. The American Music Awards. The world tours. The fans. The absolutely amazing fans.

I’m so proud of Justin. I’m in awe of how far he has come and how tirelessly he works to entertain his fans. One thing I’ve always admired about my son is his ability to switch from Justin Bieber the performer to Justin Bieber the normal teenager. From the start he didn’t allow the cameras, the hype, the screaming fans, the glitz, or the glamour to strip him of his roots.

It reminds me of the time he sang a special number during a concert early in his career. I was fascinated by how calm, cool, and collected Justin was. It was probably the first moment I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was made for this. That he was born to perform.

This was Justin’s first big performance. By this time he had done small shows and appearances during his radio promo tour all over the country, but nothing at all like this. This was the big leagues. This was his breakout moment. Justin had a giant online following at this point—nothing close to what he has now, of course—and the publicity for the major event was off the hook. Thousands of concertgoers filled the massive stadium. Pops of lights flashed. The thunderous roar of screaming girls made it impossible to even think.

I was nervous for my son, pacing anxiously around backstage in the company of Scooter and Ryan (Justin’s road manager/stylist who traveled with us everywhere). I had a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was sure Justin would spend the last moments before he was due to perform having some quiet time alone, needing to rehearse and focus. I wanted to give Justin a pep talk, to remind him to relax and that he’d do great. Because that was what he needed, right? Encouragement from his mama to ease his nerves?

Ready to wrap my arms around him in a warm hug just moments before his performance, I couldn’t believe what I saw when I found him backstage. He was huddled over a laptop furiously playing a typing game he was obsessed with at the time. Didn’t he know he had three minutes before he had to take the stage? Didn’t he know he was about to sing in front of thousands of screaming fans?

“Justin,” I said sharply. “You have three minutes. Get off that stupid game!”

Not even bothering to look up, he remained engrossed in his computer, brushing me off as if I had just asked him to clean his room. “Wait. Just wait, Mom, I’m almost done. I’m about to beat my high score!”

What did he just say? Are you kidding me?
I was dumbfounded. He wasn’t the least bit concerned that time was ticking, that the pressure was on. This was a big deal.

“Justin,” I snapped. “Get off the computer!”

“Hang on, Mom, just hang on. Let me finish this.”