Once the driver dropped my assistant off, I was alone in the long leather backseat of the limo for the tedious ride back up to Sing Sing. My mind was racing and my heart was pounding. Did that really happen? Did I really do that? Tommy is going to go insane! I turned on the radio to help calm me down. Out came blasting a grimy, dangerous, sexy-ass beat, then the hook:
Scared to death, scared to look, they shook
’Cause ain’t no such things as halfway crooks
I was certainly shook when we pulled up to the tall, imposing black wrought-iron gates that led to my mansion. It appeared menacing in the dark rain—and in light of what I had just done. Tommy was supposed to be out of town, but once I got on those grounds I never knew what to expect.
I slowly entered my gorgeous penitentiary; all was quiet, and not quite as scary. A mercy. He wasn’t there, so at least I didn’t have to concoct a story about why I was dripping wet. Exhausted, I sat on the grand staircase, removed my boots, and tiptoed up to my bathroom. I didn’t bother to turn on the lights. I wanted to stay in the quiet of the expanse of the cool, soft-pink marble that surrounded me. I wanted to luxuriate in the poetry of the dull reflections of the opulent crystal chandelier bouncing against the dark. I pulled off my drenched knit top, which had become like liquid skin, and stepped out of my damp leather skirt. I sat on the edge of the massive tub to peel off my resistant, thin wool tights. I took a quick warm shower, letting the water wash off some of my anxiety. Wrapped up in a plush white terry robe, I walked up to the mirror and looked at myself. I stared into my own eyes. They were a little brighter. I caught a glimpse of the Mariah I remembered from before all the terror peeking through. I saw a bit of exuberance, a bit of hope, a bit of courage. I saw the glow of the promise of freedom.
After such a dangerous, sexy, and grimy night the big all-white bedroom with the big all-white bed was more foreign than ever. I pulled the fluffy white goose-down comforter up to my neck and closed my eyes. Immediately I wanted to go back to the roof and relive the splendor I had just escaped. Involuntarily, my head started a gentle bob on the pillow and a beat began to faintly roll in. The song I had heard in the car, “Shook Ones, Part II,” by Mobb Deep, started to play loudly in my head, and I began to whisper:
Every time I feel the need
I envision you caressing me
And go back in time
To relive the splendor of you and I
On the rooftop that rainy night
I drifted off to sleep.
The next day I called Poke and Tone from Trackmasters. We got the sample and got busy. “The Roof (Back in Time)” was my first complete docu-song.
It wasn’t raining yet
But it was definitely a little misty
On that warm November night
And my heart was pounding
My inner voice resounding
Begging me to turn away
But I just had to see your face to feel alive
And then you casually walked in the room
And I was twisted in the web of my desire for you
My apprehension blew away
I only wanted you to taste my sadness
As you kissed me in the dark. Every time …
And so we finished the Moët and
I started feeling liberated
And I surrendered as you took me in your arms
I was so caught up in the moment
I couldn’t bear to let you go yet
So I threw caution to the wind
And started listening to my longing heart
And then you softly pressed your lips to mine
And feelings surfaced I’d suppressed
For such a long long time
And for a while I forgot the sorrow and the pain
And melted with you as we stood there in the rain
—“The Roof”
It’s exactly what happened.
THE LAST SHOW AT SING SING
With the downpour on the roof, a dormant seed of self had been watered, and a bit of the humidity of Tommy lifted. I gained just enough confidence to appear defiant. Look, I—both of us—knew we were at the end of the road long before I left. I began leaving in increments, and in response, Tommy started making desperate last-minute attempts to get me to stay. He bought me a gorgeous but pointless Carnival red convertible Jaguar with a crème leather interior and matching drop top. It sat in the driveway of our thirty-million-dollar mansion—one more expensive thing to add to the lavish scrap heap that was our marriage.
One evening I was working with two men I had a significant creative and professional relationship with, whose duty it was to have moblike loyalty to Tommy. These three men, to whose wealth and prominence I had contributed considerably, and I were sitting in the kitchen, about to have a meal break. Even though we were all “friends” sitting around the table, facing a large, rustic fireplace with the now sadly ironic phrase “Storybook Manor” etched in the limestone mantel (I named it that, desperately believing I could wish and will my nightmare into a fairy tale), the atmosphere was anything but warm. It was cold, quiet, and pungent with pain and conflict, evidence to all that a dynamic in me had shifted. I think it embarrassed Tommy that he had lost control and lost his “woman” in
