Life with My Sister Madonna Read Online Free

betray a profound truth about my sister. Like me, somewhere deep inside—because we lost our mother when we were so young—no matter how far Madonna climbs, how famous she becomes, how wealthy, and how loved, her soul will always be pervaded by a secret sadness. Just listen to some of the lyrics she has written during her twenty-five-year career, for such songs as “Oh Father” and “Live to Tell,” to name a few.
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    T HE CLOWN SCENE is over now; Madonna removes her mask with a flourish, bows low, and leaves the stage. As I wait for her in the wings, I do my utmost to blot out the deafening applause. She runs up to me, I throw a large white towel over her, put my arms around her, and hurry her out the stage door. She’s dripping with sweat and breathing heavily. I can tell by the look on her face that she knows the show has gone well. Within seconds, she’s in the limo with her assistant, Liz, her publicist, and her manager, Freddy, rehashing the show, while inside the stadium “Be a Clown” booms through the sound system, and the audience screams for more Madonna.
    Back at the hotel, Madonna’s suite is filled with yet more white flowers. She removes her makeup, takes a shower, then we go downstairs and join the cast and crew for a private champagne party in the Library Bar.
    On opening night here in London, she could easily have celebrated her success with England’s glitterati, who would all willingly have flocked to pay tribute to her. But that has rarely been her way. Apart from when we play Detroit or L.A., she always leaves the stadium straight after the second encore, then spends the rest of the evening hanging out with her team, the dancers and musicians from the show, whom she concedes are partly responsible for her success.
    While one of Madonna’s favorite phrases is “This isn’t a democracy,” and she is utterly unable to laugh at herself, I am impressed at how egalitarian she is to party with her team on opening night rather than with other celebrities. At the same time, way at the back of my mind, in a dark place I try not to probe, a voice I’ve spent a lifetime studiously ignoring tells me that part of the reason my sister doesn’t relish hanging out with celebrities is that if she did, she would no longer be the only big fish in a small pond, the queen bee, the star. Moreover, the majority of celebrities—her equals—wouldn’t laugh at her unfunny jokes, pander to her moods, or make her the center of their universe, the way her acolytes invariably do.
    She doesn’t stay long at the party. Instead, less than half an hour after we first arrive, she asks me to take her up to the suite.
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    I N THE ELEVATOR, I am suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of euphoria. My opinion of my sister as a performer is at an all-time high. On a personal level, as a brother, my love for her is unbounded, and we have never been closer.
    â€œYou were great tonight, Madonna,” I say, “really great.”
    We hug each other.
    â€œI love you, Christopher, I really do,” she says, “and I’m very proud of you.”
    â€œI’m proud of you, too. And thank you for giving me this opportunity. Love you.”
    I check that she has enough lemon tea in her room and that her humidifier works. Then I go back to my suite.
    Tonight, we are on top of the world, my sister and I. And no one and nothing can touch us, not even our own human fallibility. We live for the performance, the show. The love, the closeness, the creativity.
    Tonight, I know without a shadow of a doubt that we are in step, in sync, in unison, Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney putting on a show, you and me against the world, together, now and for always. I contemplate our glorious future, both personal and professional, and it shimmers before me, flawless and without end.
    My own words echo in my mind: Thank you for giving me this opportunity. Love you.
    Thank