The Whitney I Knew (14 page)

Whitney may have been called “The Voice,” but she believed everyone had a voice, and that each voice could and should be heard. Sometimes the best way for our voice to be fully heard is to tap into someone who seems to beautifully and persuasively be saying the same thing we're feeling. I think that's why so many of us look to people like Whitney. We understand their language because it's ours—they're saying what we are, and they're expressing it in the way we wish we could. When we link to a voice like that—in whatever our area of passion or expression—our confidence grows and our own voice is magnified.

I can hear Whitney singing to me on the phone even now. We loved to sing. And that love united us. I wonder what would happen if those of us who are still here on Planet Earth would let our voices unite for the good of one of another. I think we'd all live in perpetual song. Whitney would've loved that.

[Kevin Costner] called one day and said, “Listen, are you going to
do this movie with me or not?” I told him about my fears.
I said, “I don't want to go out there and fall.” His response was:
“I promise you I will not let you fall. I will help you.” And he did.
Whitney, about starring in
The Bodyguard

I collect pieces of life. They're spread all over my house inside wooden and metal frames. Some are large, almost larger than life. Others are small. They are pictures held forever in the timelessness of a frame. All tell the same story, though: the story of a life.

One room of my house holds a desk and a computer and a bookshelf—nothing too out of the ordinary. But the room jumps
into the extraordinary when I look at the walls. On those four walls I keep the memory of Whitney. I used to walk into that room and feel invigorated and challenged, but now, not so much. Those walls hold the platinum single “I Will Always Love You,” which included “Jesus Loves Me”—the song I produced and arranged for Whitney.

As I survey the walls, the photos sing to me. Those particular frames hold so much more than mere photographs. They hold the voice of a friend. They hold her laughter—the laughter of her excitement as she told me “Jesus Loves Me” would be included on the single. They hold the lyrical memory of our relationship that crossed from stage to family to kitchen to closets.

“BeBe, guess what?”

“What you got?”

“ ‘Jesus Loves Me' is going on the single, and on the movie soundtrack!”

‘You're kidding! Don't go messin' with me.”

‘I'm not messing with you! This is real. It's happening!”

She was almost more excited than I was. That's one of those phone calls you receive that you never forget.

We talked and talked about the song and the album—all of it. Neither of us had any clue how successful the single, the album, and the movie would become. Our initial reaction and excitement captured the whole moment—the unknown and the possibilities of what
could
happen, the joy of being able to work together.

Those are the moments that you live for and cherish. That was a good phone call.

But I also remember the phone call we had before
The Bodyguard
even became a reality. At this point in Whitney's career, she was really
soaring, all over the charts. And she was getting offers from all kinds of movie people. There were a slew of leading men who wanted to do a film with her. I think Robert De Niro was one of them, well before
The Bodyguard
project was on the map. He wanted to do a film with her for her beauty alone. And who would blame him?

Yet even though Whitney was sought after by movie greats, she turned down those opportunities, willing to wait for the right timing. She wanted the project to make sense for her, and she wanted to feel comfortable with whomever she was going to be acting.

Kevin Costner was the right choice. He asked Whitney to do
The Bodyguard
, and after much hesitation, she agreed.

At the funeral, Kevin told the story of how it all materialized.

Some people thought he should go for a more seasoned actress. Others thought perhaps they should try and find a white actress instead. Kevin, however,
knew
that Whitney was perfect for the role. Even when he discovered Whitney's tour schedule would keep her from doing the film, he remained true to his instincts and postponed the filming for a year, until her tour was done.

The kind of solidarity he showed in that decision speaks volumes to me. The kind of belief he had in Whitney's ability to pull off the role is exactly what Whitney needed.

But what resonated with me even more than that story were his insights into Whitney as someone who still needed to hear from her mother that she was good enough. When I heard Kevin talk about the questions that Whitney would ask privately of herself her whole life—those
Am I good enough? Will they like me?
questions—I nodded in agreement.

In our early conversations about doing the movie, Whitney sounded just like the teenage girl Kevin described in his eulogy—an
excited little girl who still needed to have a friend tell her that she could do it.

‘BeBe, I'm a bit nervous about this. What will they think of me? What if I'm awful? What if the project doesn't do well?”

She really asked me these questions! Hard to believe, knowing now how that movie and soundtrack not only succeeded with the masses but broke major industry records. And yet the critics weighed in on Whitney's performance, many of them tinged with negativity if not outright unkind. The very thing she feared, happened, shadowing this great success. Which may explain why, around this time, she admitted to
Entertainment Weekly
: “I almost wish I could be more exciting, that I could match what is happening out there to me.”

Can you imagine? And yet, at the heart of every person is the need, even the drive, to be liked and accepted by others. You and I want to perform well in our jobs. We want to be noticed by the boss. We want to receive an accolade or two, and a bump in pay sure would be nice. In this sense, Whitney was no different from the rest of us. She was once a child who needed to hear that she was special and had something to offer.

That's a hard thing to imagine. Whitney Houston could do anything, it seemed. Whitney Houston feared nothing. She had the world. All she had to do was ask.

Not quite. At the end of the day, Whitney had to go home to a spouse and a child and do the everyday things that make a family work. She had to deal with life at home and life on the road and life in the limelight. And in all of these, she wanted to find success and significance. She thought about it and worried about it, just like you or I would.

This special room of mine holds deep memories. The kind you
can get lost in if you sit long enough. When I look at the commemorative frame that holds the platinum record for
The Bodyguard
soundtrack, my eyes move right to the picture of Whitney at the center—her back facing the lens. In the photo she's wearing a long form-fitting dress with a train on it, much like the one at the end of the photo section in this book. Her head tilts down and to the side, like she's walking off the stage and reveling in the moment.

When I see this tribute piece on my wall, I can't help thinking that this particular picture and the award itself were the world's way of saying to her, “You did good, girl.” But where is the award for being a real person? What about the recognition for being a true human being? What about the need Whitney had to not only be respected professionally but personally? I wish we did a better job of letting people know we appreciate them in spite of their success and fame.

Every person lives a double life to some degree. We're actually, though perhaps unintentionally, taught that lesson as kids when our parents tell us to “be on our best behavior.” Once we get home, whether it's from church or school or the neighbors' house, the makeup comes off. The harsh words fly. The attitudes flare up. We're able to remove our public veneers and show our true selves. But for an international celebrity like Whitney, she almost never got to be herself until she was alone or with her inner circle, because when you're in front of the cameras and the crowds, you have to be a certain way.

When the media finally goes away, what was a person like Whitney left with? Well, the media never went away. So right or wrong, we
see Whitney pulling off “The Star-Spangled Banner” to the raves of a nation, and then we're reading about drugs and her home life later.

I still get questions about Whitney's substance abuse problems. It's like people want more information than they already have from the vast archives of Google. What else do people really want to know? Isn't it enough to know that she struggled?

Kevin Costner's response to Anderson Cooper was right. “Was she doing drugs during
The Bodyguard
?” His answer: “Not that I know of.”

I would answer that question the same way. You ask, “BeBe, did Whitney do drugs around you?

“No, she didn't.”

Did we have an open relationship where we talked about her problems? Yes. But I didn't hound her about things. She knew I loved her and wanted the best for her, as any brother would. In this regard, our relationship was just like any relationship you have with your friends. You talk about everything—behind closed doors. But you don't sift through the deeply personal stuff when you're sitting at dinner with other friends and extended family. You wait till the time is right: when there's breathing room for your trust to work itself out and for the really personal stuff—the things you hold close to your heart—to be brought out into the open.

So, Whitney was just like you—she waited for those times to divulge the personal stuff. And, just like you when you're at church or at work, she put on her “makeup,” so to speak. She became “Whitney Houston”—the Whitney that everyone loved, but not the whole Whitney.

Maybe Whitney shared with her close friends about the addiction, and some of them, like Kevin Costner—who wrote a letter to
her in an attempt to reach out—tried to help. Members of her family did as well. But at some point, you have to face the truth that Whitney is a big girl, and if she doesn't want the help, she's not going to take it. Still, her addiction didn't cause any of us who were close to her to love her any less.

I gave her the space she needed. She knew that at any time she could call or drop in and talk.