My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem: Setting the Record Straight on My Life as Eminem's Mother

by Nelson, Debbie

  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.

  “I don’t think the Rolling Stones or U2 would cancel a section owing to nervous exhaustion. I don’t deem that I’ve had a proper explanation,” he said.

  I couldn’t believe it. My son was in the hospital, and some aristocrat was moaning he’d have to give refunds. As always when it comes to my son, the concert promoters threatened legal action. As Marshall recovered in the hospital, two new lawsuits emerged. A truck driver and his wife, who claimed they’d been injured in the tour bus pile-up, announced they were seeking unspecified damages. Then my half-sister Betti and her husband, Jack, jumped into the fray. They wanted $350,000 in cash and ownership of a house that Marshall had built for them when they worked for him. They claimed he was trying to evict them from the property and had reneged on a promise to pay them $100,000 a year.

  I tried desperately to reach out to Marshall, through his bodyguards and his Shady Records staff. But no one would tell me where he was. I was pretty sure he’d checked into the Brighton Hospital, Michigan’s largest chemical-dependency treatment center. But no one there could give me any answers, citing patient confidentiality. As I understand it, he’d checked in there briefly a year or so earlier. One woman I spoke to was really sweet, saying that, if he was there, I could go to family therapy sessions and that it would help him. Unfortunately, her hands were tied because he—technically—he wasn’t there.

  I did discover, though, that Kim was back on the scene. I worried that she’d lead him astray again.

  The music critics, along with the BBC, CNN, and other respected international news agencies such as Reuters and the Associated Press, leaped on Marshall’s problems. While noting he was a nine-time Grammy winner, a one-man industry who had generated record sales of a billion dollars and made rap mainstream, they seemed to think his career was over.

  He confounded them by releasing a greatest-hits album, Curtain Call, which was Marshall’s fourth straight number one album. After just two days on sale, it entered the British charts at number one and

  remained there for five weeks throughout the allimportant Christmas period. The single “When I’m Gone,” one of three new tracks, seemed to indicate he was retiring. In reality it was another love song to Hailie. Just as he had in “’97 Bonnie and Clyde” and “Mockingbird,” he makes clear that Hailie is the center of his universe. It begins with Hailie accusing him of loving his fame and fortune more than his family. As she leaves he takes a gun, shouts, “Die, Shady!” and then kills his alter ego before waking up to realize he’s just had a bad dream.

  The album sold six million copies worldwide. Not bad for a greatest-hits album by someone trying desperately to take a break.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Marshall’s remarriage to Kim was the worst-kept secret in the world. The fact that they’d managed to keep the first under wraps, seven years earlier at the start of his meteoric career, always amazed me. We were naïve in those days, yet not a word leaked out from his family, the church, or the staff at Saint Joseph City Hall who’d stayed open late especially to issue the marriage license to their hometown superstar. Yet, the second time around, when he had an army of people to protect him, the details flooded out.

  A member of Kim’s family sold a wedding invitation to Star magazine. They splashed it across a page, giving the date and Marshall’s words on the invitation:

  “This day I will marry my best friend, the one I laugh with, live for, love.”

  Once again a stream of reporters phoned me. They wanted to know why I wasn’t attending.

  Kim had obviously fallen out with her twin sister, Dawn, since she wasn’t on the guest list, either. But Kim’s mother and stepfather, who hadn’t been invited the first time around
, were. Marshall was now rap royalty, and the VIP guests included 50 Cent, Obie Trice, G-unit, and D-12.

  Proof was best man, albeit a reluctant one. Like me, he’d seen the havoc Kim created and tried to persuade Marshall against tying the knot again. Proof was one of the few people Marshall listened to. They’d known each other since they were teenagers, struggling to get noticed on the Detroit hip-hop scene.

  But Marshall insisted he knew what he was doing. Among other things, ten-year-old Hailie wanted her parents to be together. She was finally going to be a flower girl, and Marshall refused to disappoint her.

  Kim wanted a big white wedding to impress her family and friends. Even when they were poor, Marshall had promised she’d get one eventually. Now he was in a position to give her that dream. It’s weird, but even after all his incredible achievements, he was still trying to please Kim and prove himself worthy of her. He truly loved her, and I think he always hoped she felt the same.

  I learned of the wedding through friends and smiled when I read that Kim—who I’m told hadn’t bothered with underwear at her first wedding—had indeed worn a traditional white gown. Marshall arrived at the ceremony in a crisp black suit to the sound of his own music. Luis Resto, one of his songwriting team, played “Mockingbird” on the piano as Marshall walked into Meadow Brook Hall in Rochester Hills.

  The 1,200-acre estate was once the home of Matilda Dodge Wilson, widow of the motor pioneer John Dodge. Designed to look like an English Tudor manor, it has 110 rooms and is one of the most popular wedding venues for Michigan’s affluent elite. Marshall’s first wedding was a hastily scrambled affair at Saint Joseph’s South Park Church, followed by a few drinks at a local bar. This time, the eighty-five guests dined on steak and lobster washed down with fine champagne.

  I tried not to read the newspaper stories, but I gave in eventually, letting a friend read the Detroit Free Press’s account of the celebrations to me. Reporter Brian McCollum described it as a “quietly dignified occasion,” quoting an anonymous guest as saying it was “a real classy, intimate affair.” Another added, “It was one of the most peaceful weddings I’ve ever been to. This is exactly what Marshall has been looking for.”

  As always with Kim, the peace didn’t last long. In April 2006—eighty-two days after the wedding—Marshall filed for divorce. My heart went out to him.

  So what went wrong? The things that always went wrong with Marshall and Kim: they can’t live with each other, they can’t live without each other; she thrives on drama, he likes peace and quiet; she claimed he was still taking drugs, he denied it.

  From what I can gather, Kim took off at the beginning of March. She always disappeared when she didn’t get her own way. Marshall couldn’t find her anywhere, and he conceded that the reunion had been a humiliating—and costly—mistake.

  “There has been a breakdown in the marriage relationship to the extent that the objects of matrimony have been destroyed, and there remains no reasonable likelihood that the marriage can be preserved,” his divorce papers read.

  Kim’s lawyer, Michael J. Smith, who had been a guest at the wedding and instrumental in sorting out the prenup, responded, “It comes to us as somewhat of a surprise. But we have to deal with it.”

  Naturally, Kim announced she was seeking a financial settlement. I had to wonder just how much money she could possibly need.

  Interviewed on Detroit’s Mojo Radio, she claimed Marshall was “not himself,” refused to go to counseling, and was still taking drugs.

  Marshall, listening at home, e-mailed the radio station to say, “Her allegations regarding my status post-rehab are both untrue and unfortunate.”

  I tried to reach out to Marshall, leaving messages for him because I wanted him to know I was there. Whatever my feelings for Kim, it breaks my heart when my son is upset.

  A few days later, on April 11, my phone started ringing off the hook again. Reporters from all over the world left messages. I ignored the calls, letting my voicemail pick up. Then Nathan called me, crying hysterically. He was screaming that Proof had been shot. Proof was dead.

  I’d known Proof since he was just DeShaun Holton, another teenager rapping alongside Marshall in the basement. He’d always been such a lovely young man. He and Marshall were always together. It was Proof who encouraged my son to get on stage and trade insults at the Hip-Hop Shop. He calmed his stage fright and—like me—told Marshall that he could achieve anything he wanted.

  With other pals, they called themselves the Dirty Dozen. That group became D-12—and they’d made a pact that whoever became famous first would take the others along for the ride. Marshall had kept that promise, producing a string of hits for D-12 and encouraging Proof to release his own solo album, Searching for Jerry Garcia.

  Like Marshall, Proof had, in 1999, been featured in Source magazine’s “Unsigned Hype” column. When Marshall’s career took off, Proof toured with him and provided a shoulder for him to lean on. He was one of the few people my son trusted, because they’d been together for so long.

  Marshall was spotted leaving his mansion in tears. He’d lost his oldest friend and the one person he listened to, who always told him the truth. Proof called him out on his suspected drug-taking, his drinking, and his fights with Kim. I simply did not want to believe he was dead. I did go and pay my respects to my little friend. I still had a hard time believing it. I could only pray to God to give my sons strength, as my heart broke for his family.

  It emerged that Proof, who at thirty-two was almost exactly a year younger than Marshall, had gotten into some sort of altercation over a game of pool at the C. C. C. club, an after-hours bar on the seedy side of 8 Mile. Proof and an Iraq War veteran, Keith Bender, started fighting. Proof apparently hit Bender with his gun, then shot him in the face. Well, that’s what the reports say, but I’m not sure anyone knows what really happened. Bender’s cousin Mario Etheridge, a bouncer at the club, allegedly fired several warning shots in the air before blasting Proof three times in the head and chest. Proof was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Bender, who was thirty-eight, died of his injuries eight days later. Etheridge, who was twenty-eight, was charged with carrying a concealed weapon and discharging a firearm. His legal team successfully argued that he had shot Proof to stop him from killing his cousin. I still don’t believe it happened this way. Proof was such a kind soul, he would never harm anyone.

  Marshall was a pallbearer at Proof’s funeral and made one of the most moving tributes I have ever heard. It came straight from the heart.

  “You don’t know where to begin when you lose somebody who’s been such a big part of your life for so long,” he said. “Proof and I were brothers. He pushed me to become who I am. Without Proof’s guidance and encouragement, there would have been a Marshall Mathers, but probably not an Eminem, and certainly never a Slim Shady. Not a day will go by without his spirit and influence around us all. He will be missed as a friend, a father, and both the heart and ambassador of Detroit hip-hop.

  “Right now, there’s a lot of people focusing on the way he died. I want to remember the way he lived. Proof was funny, he was smart, he was charming. He inspired everyone around him. He can never, ever be replaced. He was, and always will be, my best friend.”

  Fans created a shrine to Proof outside the club. Alongside the balloons, flowers, and cuddly toys, someone left a packet of Proof’s favorite cigarettes, Newport Lights, and a bottle of Olde English malt liquor.

  I worried constantly about gang reprisals. The East Coast-West Coast rap wars killed TuPac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G. in the late 1990s. Who was to say the feuding would not start again? Marshall was forever linked with Dr Dre, who’d cofounded Death Row Records in Los Angeles with Marion “Suge” Knight. Eminem also dissed his New York rivals in song and in print.

  And the Detroit hip-hop scene was a hotbed of factions. Proof was always cautious. He had a full-time bodyguard, but that night he was alone in a rough club at 4:30 a.m.

  My nerves were
hardly calmed when I learned that Marshall was getting into road-rage spats with complete strangers. He took his anger over Proof’s death out on other drivers at traffic lights or by cutting them off on the freeways. He got into screaming matches for no reason. Aside from the obvious—that he’d be recognized and inevitably sued—I was terrified someone would pull a gun on him.

  A mother knows when her son is in trouble. One night in August my maternal instincts got the better of me. I drove to Marshall’s mansion in the hope of seeing him. As I got out of the car I was shaking but I knew that if we could sit down, just the two of us, for a proper chat, we could resolve our issues.

  I was stopped by guards before I even reached the front door. They had instructions to let no one in. I broke down in tears as I tried to explain I was his mother.

  “He’s not here,” one said. “He’s at a dance recital.”

  I said I’d wait, but a security guard I’d known for some years caught my eye. He knew my brother Todd. He motioned to me as I walked back to my car.

  Between sobs, I asked him if he knew what had really happened to Todd. He said he knew he hadn’t committed suicide.

  “Your brother’s death was swept under the carpet,” he said. “Now if you quote me I’ll deny saying this. But one day the truth will come out.”

  Throughout the last half of 2006, I received several calls from people who care about my son. They all said Marshall was extremely depressed, and they were concerned that he could be drinking too much again. As a mother, I cannot imagine burying my own child. I can only think of Marshall as the boy he once was—a loving, kind son who grew up to be a massively talented writer and musician.

  I fear for him every waking moment. He’s become just like Elvis Presley, the star to which he is constantly compared.

  Elvis retreated behind the gates of his Graceland mansion, surrounded by a Memphis mafia of gun-toting hangers-on, and became a bloated, drugged-up caricature of himself.