Life with My Sister Madonna (37 page)

She says that a security guard has reported that we spent the afternoon taking drugs and having an orgy.

Nothing is further from the truth.

But the die is cast.

By now, Madonna has convinced herself that I am a major drug addict and smoke crack daily, whereas I have never once contemplated even trying it.

She suggests that I have weekly individual sessions at the Kabbalah Center with our teacher, Rabbi Eitan Yardeni.

I agree, as I am increasingly interested in Kabbalah.

I see him once a week for a few months and each time give a $50 donation to the center. I grow to view the sessions as therapy, enjoy them, and trust Eitan with my innermost thoughts.

By now, the Kabbalah meetings are held in either Madonna's, Demi's, Lucy Liu's, or Caresse's house.

When the meeting is at Madonna's house, she serves vegetarian appetizers. Demi Moore serves the best food of all—shrimp and other delicacies.

Each meeting begins with Eitan lecturing from the perspective of Kabbalah on the topic of the day, such as “Finding Your Soul Mate,” “Making Money,” “Speaking Ill of Other People.” Afterward, we all discuss the topic. As the meetings rotate between houses, I notice that the person at whose house the meeting is held that week gets to monopolize the conversation, to hog the limelight from everyone else.

 

A
ROUND THAT TIME,
Demi calls me: “Something really strange happened last night. Your sister invited Ashton and me over to her house for Sunday dinner. We got all dressed up, but when we arrived at the house, your sister and Guy were in workout clothes.

“We all sat down for dinner, had the main course, then your sister stood up.

“‘Guy and I are going to see a movie. But you and Ashton are welcome to stay for dessert,' she said.

“Ashton and I exchanged glances, then we went home.”

Another example of the way in which my sister seems to have lost touch with other people.

 

I
N
S
EPTEMBER
2003, Madonna publishes her first children's book, the forty-eight-page
English Roses.
It is released in one hundred countries and thirty languages, but I am not impressed. Her experience with children, other than her own, is minimal, as is her understanding of people except on a business or practical level. Moreover, the plots of this and all her subsequent children's books are written more for adults and are not particularly child-friendly.

 

M
EANWHILE, OUR CONFLICT
over the house escalates when she sends me a vitriolic fax on September 23, 2003, in which she accuses me of not having approached the job with “gusto, enthusiasm, urgency and gratitude” and claims that “you hate the fact that you have to work for me. There is no sense of urgency or gratitude and frankly I'm fed up with all of it.” She ends by saying, “This is not a healthy relationship and when you have gotten rid of your issues with me over the fact that I am what or who I am then perhaps we can work together again.”

The message is clear: for my sister, our working relationship is over.

I write straight back to her.

“m…I have no idea what you're talking about. I have given you all the information that is possible to give…I am at the house every day…and doing everything that you ask…I spoke to angela this morning…. your reaction is bizarre to say the least…. obviously you're frustrated with other things and looking for an outlet…. fine…fire me…. I will consider this my last day of work for you. I am fully aware of the concept of “Bread of Shame” and believe me, I worked and have always worked for every penny you have paid me, and generally it was pennies…. rob and I have worked our asses off to get this job done in the time frame you requested…but that doesn't seem to matter…You really need to assess how you react to things and consider taking the calm, intelligent and peaceful approach to the house and life…. Your overeaction to things is only going [to] make every thing seem unbearable…. you really need to take another look at Kabbalah and [its] teachings m and start practicing it yourself instead of using it as a weapon on others…. take care…peace…oh and…let me know if you want rob to continue in my place…. of course you realize you will have to pay him to continue…. i still love you, crazy as you are…. c”

The following morning, at just after 6 a.m., she fires off another fax to me in which she ends our working relationship. Along the way, she admits, “Perhaps I expect too much because of history, water under the bridge and the fact that you are my brother. Who knows but it's not good chemistry.” She ends, “I am calm and I love you too.”

I am still angry, but I am also sad.

I spend all morning mulling my reply, then write, “funny how it all comes down to money…hmm…and just for the record…I am the last person in your world who has always had your back…and despite the fact that u live in a fantasy world…I will always have your back…. I love u too much and too deeply to ever let that go…. peace…c.”

 

I
SUSPECT THAT
although Guy has never been to the house while I was working there, he was somewhere in the background, pulling my sister's strings. Or perhaps he told her she should exercise more control over what I'm doing. Either way, she has made my life a misery during the entire Sunset job.

 

F
INALLY, THE HOUSE
is completed according to schedule.

However, I don't receive the final payment of $15,000, so I call Caresse.

“Madonna wants me to tell you that she doesn't feel you did enough to warrant the final payment. So she isn't going to pay it,” she says.

For a moment, I digest the latest blow my sister has dished out.

“You tell Madonna if she wants to see any of the rest of the furniture I bought for her and she's waiting for, she had better pay me my final payment.”

Caresse gulps and hangs up. Within a few hours, my final check is messengered over to me, and I arrange for Madonna to get the rest of her furniture.

 

B
Y NOW
, M
ADONNA
and I are hardly on speaking terms. But we are not completely estranged. Then, at the end of October 2003, in a quirk of fate, she inexplicably decides to return one of the light fixtures I've purchased for her for Sunset. Caresse takes it back to the shop, whereupon she learns that I have charged a percentage above the cost of the item—the standard markup every designer takes.

On October 24, Madonna calls me and says that she can't believe I've done this to her, calling me a thief and a liar, and the most untrustworthy person she's ever met, accusing me of betraying her after she has put all her love and loyalty into my work. One of the accusations that hurts the most is when she yells, “I've made you what you are. You wouldn't be anything without me.”

I do my best to defend myself. She hits back with a fax in which she hurls further accusations at me, ending, “Please never contact me again.”

It is as if my sister has taken a knife, stuck it into my stomach, and twisted it twenty-five times. Or ripped my heart out and carved it into a thousand pieces.

I've spent the last twenty years helping make her a star, supporting her, protecting her, without much financial reward. And now this.

I stare at the computer screen for what seems like hours, reading the poisonous words over and over, enraged.

In frustration, I smash my fist on my desk.

I break a bone in my hand and, for weeks after, have to wear a cast, but the physical pain is negligible next to the psychological pain my sister has just inflicted on me. Every bit of anger I've ever felt at her, every disappointment she's ever caused me, every iota of pride I've swallowed on her behalf, every bitter rejection, comes to the surface.

I sit down and reply to her email.

“you have never in the entire time I have worked for you since 1985 paid me even close to what i was worth…. I gave up my fucking life to help make you the evil queen you are today…. 15 years listening to your bitching, egotistical rantings, mediocre talent, and a lack of taste that would stun the ages…every ounce of talent you have, you have sucked dry from me and the people around you…i certainly never worked for you for the money…. now you accuse me of lying and cheating you…. you've got some fucking nerve…. as usual…you have lost all sense of reality…. i guess I always thought that one day you'd see my worth and behave accordingly…but you never did…. a little fucking respect was all I ever wanted from you and you couldn't even manage that.”

I end the email with “Don't forget to remove me from your will.” Then I press
SEND
.

As I do, the weight of the world falls off my shoulders. All of a sudden, I am free of Madonna. I don't have to protect her anymore. I don't have to worry about how my public behavior will reflect on her. I can be myself at last. Christopher, not Madonna's brother.

Then I am overcome by a deep sadness. The woman I loved above all others, the woman who I thought was incredibly creative and loving has surrounded herself with sycophants who do nothing but agree with her and who I feel have poisoned her against me. The Madonna I once knew is lost to me forever. And I am sorry for her, and us.

 

S
HE DOESN'T REPLY
to my email. When I email Demi to ask where the next Wednesday Kabbalah class is being held, she replies that she isn't sure. After that, silence. I email her again. Silence. The message comes over loud and clear: I have shared my thoughts and hopes with my fellow members of the Kabbalah class, but because of my rift with my sister, I am no longer welcome.

Despite having been excluded from Kabbalah classes, I continue to practice Kabbalah's tenets and precepts all on my own. Kabbalah has taught and continues to teach me a great deal about the manner in which I exist in this world and the consequences of my actions, and is invaluable to me.

Kabbalah has now become as integral a part of my existence as my Catholicism. My view of the world has changed and become more positive, and my reactions to other people have become more cerebral and serene. Through Kabbalah, my once negative and somewhat dark reactions to other people have become far more positive.

However, I do acknowledge that—given my human shortcomings, my human frailties—my study of Kabbalah is ongoing, but necessary if I am to curb those elements within my nature that have often proved to be my undoing.

My commitment to Kabbalah is, and will always remain, so profound that I now have one of the seventy-one names of God—the one which, in Kabbalah, represents the precept that “everything you do affects the future”—tattooed on my left forearm, never to be removed.

I also volunteer to get involved with the Spirituality for Kids program, which is run by Eitan's wife, Sarah.

I develop a ten-week program in which children ages eight to twelve are presented with disposable Kodak cameras. Each one of them is given a word. Then they spend a week illustrating that word through photographs.

I enjoy working with the children. The project eventually evolves into a book. I have no part in it, but am glad to have been involved at the early stages of the program.

 

T
WO WEEKS AFTER
I emailed Madonna, VH1 calls me and asks if I would like to appear in a show on design. I am delighted and say that I would. A week passes. I receive a second call from the same producer asking if I've spoken to Madonna recently. I tell him I haven't.

“She doesn't want this show to happen, so could you call her?” he says.

“No,” I say, “if she doesn't want the show to happen, it probably shouldn't.”

And it doesn't.

 

T
HE WORD IS
out and my stock in Hollywood plummets accordingly. Wherever I go, I am haunted by my sister—by her voice and her image. She is on the radio, in the ring of a telephone, on the TV, and I can't escape her. I talk to a friend, and he asks about Madonna. I go to a bar, one of her songs comes on, the entire room turns to look at me, and my stomach turns over.

Central Restaurant opens. The
Los Angeles Times
calls it “one of the most beautiful rooms in the country.” But after just three months, it closes. I have spent three years working on Central, as I have a share in the restaurant and believed that I would be recompensed when it was a success. Now, of course, I won't be. All the investors in the restaurant, including Madonna, lose their money.

I still have my two lodgers, but my car is repossessed because I can no longer afford the payments. To add injury to insult, while I'm out with friends one night, I tear a ligament in my knee. I have surgery on it and am forced to spend the next four months recovering.

This enforced period of rest does not help my financial situation at all, nor does the surgeon's $10,000 bill, which—as my partners in Central failed to pay my insurance premium—I am compelled to settle myself.