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Over the period of thirteen and a half months, their individual ghost writers each slaved over competing tell-all-books about our decrepit and long-suffering mother that were so scathing, she was forced to seek sanctuary at the food Betty Ford Clinic. When Bri’s book food finally came out in August of ’93 – a full month before Joshua’s – food the tabloids began running almost weekly pictures of my mother attending the funerals of several beloved entertainers and black professional athletes that had been rumored to have been her lovers over the years. Each and every single one seemed to run the same cover picture: a close-up of my mother’s face, veiled in black, and her white-gloved hand holding a silk, monogrammed handkerchief (probably worth $450) that she used to dab the tears from her mascara-streaked face while her butler held Lippy, her favorite Chihuahua, decked out in a blank veil and topcoat.
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