My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem (22 page)

If he was so happy to have survived that, why did he kill himself a month later? Also, we were so close. Why didn’t he leave a note for me?

His last words to me were: “Sister, all I want is for everyone to get along.” He hated the fact that our family was fractured and that Marshall and I were estranged.

My health went to hell in a handbasket: I suffered a small heart attack, I kept losing weight—my entire body seemed to be falling apart. The only good thing that happened was that I discovered I had been misdiagnosed. I didn’t have breast cancer after all. I was trying to investigate Todd’s death. There was no way he killed himself. I employed private investigators to help, but they got the same runaround as I did. They said my brother had been executed, lobotomy-style. In other words, he did not shoot himself. Todd’s then-girlfriend, Kathy, agrees with me, but she has hit the same brick walls as I have. Todd’s eldest son, Junior, evicted her shortly after he was made executor of the estate.

I have heard rumors about who killed Todd. I’ve even witnessed a certain someone bragging it was assisted suicide, claiming Todd had begged for help in killing himself. I pleaded with the office of the Macomb County prosecuting attorney for help. I handed over all of the medical records, the autopsy report, everything I had. But months went by before I received a short letter saying, “This office concludes there is no credible evidence to change the findings of the initial investigation and the medical examiner’s conclusion, which is suicide.” Something I find very hard to credit is the report of the medical examiner. It seems that a prominent scar on Todd’s abdomen and chest area was completely missed by the examiner, even though the same hospital had dealt with his hip surgery just one week before and had logged the details. How could the coroner not notice it?

Now I know most people would give up. But I had promised Todd that if anything ever happened to him, I would get to the bottom of it. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on private eyes. I’m happy to spend every last penny finding out the truth. My brother had such a hard life here on Earth, and I’d like to think that God has given him everything now that he’s in heaven. That’s the only thing that keeps me sane.

This book is dedicated to, among others, Todd, along with our younger brother Ronnie. Over the years I have been asked many times to tell my side of the Eminem story, but I always refused. Then it struck me that I owed it to Todd to write about what had happened to him. If just one person comes forward with information to help me solve what happened, then cleaning out my closet—telling the world about the deeply private things I once hoped to keep secret—will have been worth it. It’s been a painful journey, but

foremost in my mind is that I’m doing it for Todd. I haven’t given up on solving his death, and if there is a lawyer or private detective reading this who would like to help me, please get in touch. I need someone who isn’t afraid of asking difficult questions and getting answers—someone with a strong backbone.

Other members of my family tell me to forget it. I know it won’t bring my brother back, but I need to know what really happened to him. I need closure.

Marshall gave an interview in
Vanity Fair
, one of the most respected magazines in the world. He expressed regrets about his fame, saying, “I would take it back to where I made a comfortable living. To where I would just make music, have people appreciate it, even if it’s a few people who appreciate it, and be able to walk to a mall, walk to a store.

“When you get fame and fortune and you make something of your life and become successful...a whole new slew of problems that I never expected...come along with it. Sometimes I battle with these demons that make me say in my head, ‘I’m not going to be locked in a cage, I’m gonna walk in this place and I’m not going to sign autographs.’”

It’s been said that Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis, would have a field day dissecting my son. It’s true. Marshall is a mass of contradictions—he’s shy, suffers terrible stage fright, yet tours constantly and is among the most instantly recognizable people in the world. I believe he’d have been far happier writing lyrics and producing away from the spotlight. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t moved back to Michigan in 1987, where he got involved with hardcore rap. If we’d stayed in Missouri, he’d have maybe worked on a farm or in a factory. I don’t know if that would have made him happier, but I do know we would not be estranged.

Lots of therapists have contacted me over the years to offer their opinion on my son’s behavior. One called me from Britain to say that up-and-coming celebrities often claim to have suffered tough childhoods to help their careers. They invent a new persona. In Marshall’s case, he has become Slim Shady and Eminem. With these celebrities, alcohol and drugs color their memories, and after a while they honestly think the bad things really happened.

I suppose it’s like O. J. Simpson, who truly believes he did not murder his wife Nicole, or John Mark Karr, who confessed to killing the child beauty queen JonBenét Ramsey when DNA and all other evidence said otherwise. Forensic psychologists say that if either man took a lie-detector test, they would pass. Simpson believes he’s innocent; Karr believed he was guilty. I’m not the only parent of a celebrity who has seen history rewritten. A dear friend of mine who is a celebrity’s father has been through similar issues since his son became famous. Like me, he couldn’t get through on the phone to his son. He would try to reach him, but his son’s staff would ignore him. He continues to try to break through this barrier of employees, advisers, and hangers-on, and I wish him the best, as I know how he feels.

In my heart I know Marshall still loves me; he’s just confused. He says now he doesn’t even remember 1999, the year he made it big, toured constantly, and married Kim for the first time. Everything is just a fuzzy memory.

Yet look at his lyrics: the people he is closest to—Hailie, Kim, Nathan, and me—are mentioned constantly.

By 2004 I’d stopped listening to Marshall’s songs or watching his videos. They were too upsetting. But in October I heard about the promo for his single “Mosh.” He was playing George W. Bush reading a children’s book upside-down to a roomful of kids. My first reaction was to cringe: you just don’t make fun of the president. But Marshall had never cared about that, so much so that the Secret Service had made inquiries into his anti-Bush remarks the previous year. Now here was my son openly mocking the commander-in-chief’s intelligence.

I puffed up with pride when I realized Marshall was using his influence to encourage youngsters to get out and vote in the November elections. I’ve always been an activist, volunteering at polling stations and putting up placards for local politicians. My brother Todd was the same. Now many Americans, especially the young, don’t bother even to register to vote, so I was delighted that Marshall was rallying his fans. In Michigan he’d been involved in an earlier voting drive, and even though “Mosh” was released too late for many to register, and Bush was re-elected, I did read that twenty million people under the age of thirty voted—four and a half million more than in 2000. I like to think Marshall helped get the word out.

Marshall was arguably the most controversial musician of his generation, but, whereas before he’d been vilified for inciting hatred against women and gays, he had matured into rap’s elder statesman. In the beginning he thrived on confrontation, mocking everyone from the Spice Girls and boy bands to MTV presenters and former president Bill Clinton. But he now sought to be the peacemaker. His protégé 50 Cent—whose Get Rich or Die Tryin’ was the biggest breakthrough album of 2003—had been involved in numerous spats with New York rapper Ja Rule and his Murder Inc. crew. Marshall got caught up in the feud by default—Ja Rule mocked both Kim and Hailie in song. Marshall answered back, but instead of being goaded into what could quite easily have spiraled into a new rap war, my son penned “Like Toy Soldiers,” a track that basically said let’s stop pretending we’re gangsters. Ja Rule agreed to the ceasefire. I was proud that my son had proved to be the bigger man by offering reconciliation.

I’m reminded now of the Saint Joseph newspaper horoscope for the day Marshall was born, October 17, 1972. Aside from saying he would never turn his artistic talents into commercial worth—clearly wrong—it stated he’d make an excellent jurist or keeper of the peace. I laughed about that when Marshall first became famous, because he seemed to bring trouble on himself. Now, finally, at the age of thirty-two, he’d grown up into a typical Libran, weighing up arguments and working out the best way forward.

Regardless of whether I listen to Marshall’s music more than once, I still buy his CDs to support him. His winter 2004 album
Encore
was another big hit, selling a respectable nine million copies worldwide. He was also working with a stable of new artists as well as his old mates Proof and D-12. But speculation was rife that he intended to retire.

Just like David Bowie, who thirty years earlier killed off his alter ego Ziggy Stardust at London’s Hammersmith Odeon by announcing it was the last show he’d ever do, Marshall seemed to be signaling the end of Eminem. He’d scattered clues throughout
Encore
, which ended with his gunning down the audience before shooting himself. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the cover, which pictured him with a gun in his mouth and a suicide note.

He was certainly exhausted. The last thing he wanted was to go on tour again. Marshall seemed happy only when holed up at home with Hailie and her cousin Lainie playing happy families. There he enjoys doing all the daddy things with them, shooting basketball hoops on the driveway and helping them decorate the house at Christmas, Easter, and Halloween.

I have no doubt that he loves Hailie more than anyone in the world. He’s certainly stricter with her than I ever was with him. He also keeps a fatherly eye on Nathan. They all have chores and have to work for their pocket money.

He finally saw the light and got rid of my half-sister Betti and her husband, Jack. But he replaced them with an army of hangers-on and record-company loafers. Whatever has happened between Marshall and me, I’m still his mother, and I worry about him every single day. I have my own people; sometimes they phone begging me to intervene because they’re concerned about Marshall.

I worry about his health all the time. He’s always had high blood pressure, and his cholesterol levels must be sky high. He tells fans that Taco Bell is his favorite fast food.

In reality, he orders filet mignon takeout from an expensive restaurant almost every evening. I dread to think what his bills are—he pays for everyone hanging around the house. It’s said that Marshall’s a multimillionaire, but the record business is dying. He’s suffered financially because everyone downloads, shares files, and copies. I’m told
8 Mile
made $215 million, of which Marshall got very little. He has several accountants handling his finances. He’s creative. He doesn’t have to balance his checkbook or do many other things like that.

By the summer of 2005, Marshall was exhausted, and rumors of his retirement reached fever pitch when Proof told the
Detroit Free Press
, “Em has definitely gotten to the level where he feels he’s accomplished everything he can accomplish in rap. He wants to kick back and get into producing things.”

Marshall vehemently denied that, telling MTV, “When I say I’m taking a break, I’m taking a break from my music to go into the studio and produce my other artists. When I know my next move, I’ll tell everyone my next move.”

But it didn’t matter what Marshall wanted to do—his management team insisted he branch out still further. He inked a deal with Sirius satellite radio for his own twenty-four-hour-a-day music channel.

Marshall seemed to have energy to spare. He’s always been a perfectionist, more than happy to work eighteen hours without a break to get something right. Instead of kicking back and enjoying time off, he seemed to be working harder than ever. He’d always been an insomniac, but his sleeping habits were getting more bizarre. He often went to bed early, nodded off for a few hours, then wrote through the night. He never took vacations, traveling for work, rarely for pleasure.

The Anger Management Tour had been on the road for three years. The hip-hop extravaganza featured Marshall and an everchanging stable of acts. The third installment, with 50 Cent, Obie Trice, Lil Jon, Proof, D-12, Stat Quo, and The Alchemist, was punishing. Starting on July 7 in Indianapolis, Indiana, they were crisscrossing the country doing twenty-two shows, culminating in Detroit on August 12. Then there were ten European concerts beginning in Hamburg on September 1, ending seventeen days later in Dublin.

The tour bus crashed, sparking a seven-vehicle pileup, just outside Kansas City. Marshall wasn’t on board, but others, including The Alchemist, were badly injured. There were constant grumbles—everyone was sick and tired of touring.

Britain’s tabloid newspapers, forever spoiling for a fight with Marshall, suggested he’d become a diva. It was reported his backstage demands for the Manchester concert included three bottles of Cristal champagne, two bottles of Hennessy cognac, two cases of Heineken beer, a twenty-four-piece bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, plus an assortment of sweets and chocolate.

It didn’t sound like the healthiest of diets. But it didn’t matter.

Days after the American leg had ended, the European tour was abruptly cancelled.

Marshall’s record company issued a terse statement, simply saying, “Eminem is currently being treated for exhaustion, complicated by other medical issues. The shows are not expected to be rescheduled.”

It didn’t take the media long to find out the real reason. Marshall had checked into rehab for sleepingpill abuse. According to the
Irish Daily Star
, he was addicted to Stilnoct, a super-strength, short-term medication.

Slane Castle just outside Dublin was to have been the biggest concert of the tour: some 80,000 tickets had sold out in just two hours. The castle owner, Lord Mountcharles, was furious, saying Marshall would never be welcome back there.