Poor Dean happened to walk into this scene. I said, “Thanks a lot. You cheated on me. You killed me. And you’re causing these headaches. Now I have to give myself permission to be in this lifetime and forgive you for killing me in a past life.”
Dean looked from me to Scott to the phone and said, “I’m going to come back later.”
• • •
But the headaches continued. Eventually Western medicine had a theory about my headaches. The pain doctor thought that they could be due to compression in my cervical (neck) vertebrae.
So I checked into the hospital as an outpatient to have a nerve block injected into my spine. Holiday cheer, holiday cheer all around! I would be numb in that area from within. Any relief would be temporary, but if the pain subsided, it would tell us that we’d found the problem.
Waiting to be sedated, I lay on a gurney in a lovely Tiffany blue hospital cap listening to Christmas carols play on the nurse’s laptop. It was a small procedure, so Dean was with Stella at school. I was obsessing about my unfinished Christmas list when the doctor rushed past, pausing to announce, “You’re next on the runway!” Did he say runway? The airplane association made me break into a nervous sweat. I distracted myself by pretending he was alluding to a fashion runway. It was Fashion Week. Heroin chic was over. We were here to launch a new fashion trend. This was the H1N1 Anorexic B List Reality Collection debut and I was the star model! Boy, did I work that IV in my head! And then they came for me . . .
They brought me into the operating room, all the while calling me “Ms. Birkin,” the false name I used when I’m trying to avoid “Tori Spelling” attention. (It’s a little more subtle than the “Victoria Spellman” alias I was given in jury duty.) So all the hospital employees kept calling me “Ms. Birkin” with a wink-wink in their voices, since they all knew I was Tori.
I was worried about the sedation. The anesthesiologist said that most people liked being sedated during procedures. Well, not me. I’m a Taurus! I can’t delegate a single email about scheduling or edits to the show; how am I supposed to delegate my consciousness? As the nurse started my IV drip, I couldn’t help myself. In rapid-fire babble I started in: “I don’t think I need to be completely sedated perhaps just a light twilight will do because you know I am very small so maybe just a little and maybe you didn’t realize that I can hold my neck really really still so do I really need sedation at all?” The last thing I remember hearing before I went under was my own loud, panicked voice desperately proclaiming, “I just don’t like being out of control, guys!”
Next thing I knew I awoke to “Ms. Birkin?” I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the nurse’s face. She said, “The procedure went well.” Then she paused and her two blurred faces melded into one clear face with a knowing smile. She added, “You were very talkative.”
Talkative? What exactly did that mean? What had I revealed? Did I reveal that I was nervous because I was soon to go to a Christmas party at the home of my estranged mother? Did I mention that my reality show filmed a voodoo high priestess making me wipe my wootle with a rag after she bathed me in gin, dried beans, and cheap Mexican perfume because I believed my husband’s ex-wife had put a hex on me? Did the nurse mean talkative as in “You should promptly call your entertainment lawyer and request that a nondisclosure be faxed to the hospital for all witnesses to sign”?
Then bits and pieces started coming back to me. I remembered that I’d told them about my rescue dogs. That dirty secret. And there was more. I had told them I like to . . . bake! And that I was hoping to have time this crazy holiday season to make homemade marshmallows. There it was: my deepest secrets were out of the bag. Put a little truth serum in me and you’ll find out that Tori Spelling goes by Chloe Birkin, rescues dogs in her spare time, and would rather not use packaged marshmallows anymore. Somebody phone the tabloids. Put me on the line. I’ll tell them the dirtiest secret of all: my wootle was still raw (yet flowery-smelling) from Mama Lola’s bath.
• • •
I came home from the spinal block in worse shape than ever. Later that night, after the kids were in bed, I was feeling so lost that I walked into my closet. Surrounding myself in high fashion—that had to make me feel better. I sat on the floor, looking up at flowy Zandra Rhodes caftans, Missoni tunics, Marc Jacobs jewel tone shift dresses, and my prized Chanel tweed blazers sprinkled among Forever 21 and Topshop T-shirts and tanks. I was so sick of being sick. You know it’s a low moment if Christian Louboutin doesn’t cheer you up. I was at my wits’ end.
I sat down on the floor of the closet, crying a little, wondering what would give me the strength to get through this. Then I saw something behind the door. Ooh, my Lanvin bag. I haven’t seen that in a while. So chic! When I change purses, I never clean them out. Coming back to them, I’m always amazed at what I find. Once I found all of Liam’s ultrasound pictures in a quilted vintage Chanel bag. Now, still sniffling, I reached into the Lanvin bag, wondering what I might find—some symbol to give me the strength I needed? I pulled out my hand to find myself holding a baby toy. It was a clip-on stroller toy, a cluster of black and white plastic disks with faces on them. It had been Liam’s, then Stella’s, but I hadn’t seen it since she was an infant. Suddenly it was in my hand, and the word babies floated out of my mouth. My strength was my babies. I know it sounds like a revelation-in-the-closet scene from a cheesy daytime drama, but it happened and it was pretty magical.
I was reveling in the moment when Dean happened to come into our closet. I scared the shit out of him. I told him what had happened. And then I said, “I’m being sent signs! What else do you think is in here?” I dug in the purse, certain that whatever I pulled out next would be another symbol of strength, a sign to guide me onward. It was . . . a CVS receipt for Gas-X. Okay, spirits, very funny.
• • •
Have Yourself a Merry Little Reconciliation
My mother and I have our challenges, and external forces weren’t on our side. My first admission to the hospital was on the news, so my mother found out about it. It turned out that my mother was hospitalized at the same time, having surgery on her back. My mother’s assistant reached out to me, saying that my mother wanted to know if I was okay and wondering if we were in the same hospital. We weren’t, but I appreciated the gesture. I asked her assistant what kind of flowers my mother liked best these days and ordered white roses to be sent to her room with a get-well card from Liam and Stella.
Two weeks later I got an email from my mother’s assistant. It said, “I remember you asked me what flowers your mother currently likes so you could send some. I just wanted to check with you because she never received anything.” The flowers had never arrived. I called the florist to find out what had happened. They told me that they had tried to make the delivery, but my mother had already been released from the hospital. Then they tried to call me but had an out-of-date phone number. Shit. Maybe my mother and I just weren’t destined to connect, no matter how we tried. I re-sent the flowers and asked the florist to write a note so my mother knew I had made the earlier effort.
While I was in the hospital that first time, I received an invitation to my mother’s Christmas party. She had invited us for Liam’s first Christmas, but we’d been in Toronto. This year I wanted to go. The kids had such a nice visit with her in the fall. I knew Liam remembered her. I wanted to build their relationship, or at least to facilitate it.
Now, mere days after my unsuccessful spinal block, the party was upon us. I had RSVP’d yes for the whole family weeks earlier, but I hadn’t told any of my friends we planned to see my mother. This was admittedly odd behavior on my part, since I usually overshare my mom stuff with my friends. (Or maybe what’s odd is the oversharing, but either way my tight-lipped approach was out of character.) The only friend I told was Mehran. Mehran has always been a huge advocate for my mother. He has a great relationship with his own mother, and he always encourages me to reach out to mine. Deep down I think I told Mehran and Mehran alone becaus
e I knew he’d approve. My other friends might be more cautious because of the roller-coaster relationship I have with my mother.
On the morning of the party Scout emailed to ask what we were doing that night. I wrote, “Did I bury the lead and not tell you? We’re going to my mom’s Christmas party. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you guys. Clearly I still have issues.”
To my surprise, Scout wrote back, “I think it’s a good thing and the right thing.” Even Dean, who was always cautious and protective of me when it came to my mother, was completely supportive.
My mother’s knowledge of proper party etiquette would give Emily Post a run for her money. I learned everything I know about planning parties from Candy Spelling and I’m no slouch. So of course the day of the party I knew to prepare a hostess gift. I’d never show up without one. I planned to give her something safe—pictures of the kids from the Little Maven photo shoot in simple silver frames. Easy enough, but there was no way I was going to gift-wrap the photos myself. My mother’s gift-wrapping room in the Manor wasn’t just for show. She is a world-class gift wrapper.
It was pouring the day of the party, but I dragged the entire family to a nice paper store nearby called Papyrus. I went directly to the counter and asked to see their fanciest paper. There were beautiful single sheets that they kept behind the counter, but they weren’t broad enough to wrap the 8 × 10 picture without using more than one sheet. Multiple sheets meant there would be seams. Seams were unacceptable. The woman behind the counter helped me find some paper that would work. It was from a package roll (imagine!), but it was embossed with raised gold elements. Candy would like that.
Then I needed really nice ribbon to make big bows. The clerk showed me a pretty ribbon, but it didn’t have wire to give the bows shape. I said, “Don’t I need a ribbon with wire? For a big, structured bow?” I looked like a nervous freak, but a floppy bow would not do. My mother wasn’t going to go Joan Crawford over the wire ribbon, but I knew she’d appreciate a well-wrapped gift.
Getting the gifts wrapped consumed a huge part of the day. Liam, Stella, and Jack were with us, and Dean juggled the little ones in the store while I worked on the wrapping. Dean was so sweet, as patient as can be. He got that it was important.
We put the kids down for their naps on the late side because the party didn’t start until seven-thirty, which was Stella’s bedtime. With late naps we would aim to stay at the party for a good hour. Stella had never seen the hour of nine p.m. in all her short life.
While the kids napped I decided to curl my hair. The whole process took two hours as I sectioned off parts and curled them one by one. As I labored, I was checking emails and tweets. Scout texted me, “What are you wearing and how are you wearing your hair?”
I wrote back, “I’m curling it as we speak, but what about the rain?” And how would my mother react? Would she think I was too old for long, loose curls? Would wearing it up be more ladylike? But that seemed too conservative for me. Scout suggested a side bun. He said it was chic. So I pulled it over to the side and put most of it up with a thick curl hanging down.
Then I had to decide what dress to wear. I wanted Stella to look perfect for the party. I had ordered her dress from the Nordstrom website a month before the party—the top was black velvet and the bottom was tartan taffeta—but I hadn’t given any thought to what I myself would wear. I couldn’t bring myself to shop for the night. If I did, it would feel like I was trying too hard, building my own expectations, getting my hopes up.
Instead, now that the night was upon me, I started trying on dresses that I already owned. I started with red—it was Christmas, after all—but then I got nervous about wearing red because I didn’t want my mother or anyone else to think I was trying to steal the show. I decided to play it safe and wear a black dress with subdued red lipstick. I must have tried on a total of eight dresses. At least. All of a sudden I felt like I was sixteen again, getting ready to go out with the family, wanting to please my mother.
When Liam woke up I dressed him in a tartan shirt, a vest, and a blazer. Jack wore a tie and blazer. Stella is obsessed with purses, thanks to Uncle Danny, who sent her her first purse, so in my closet I found a small Chanel satin purse—a mini bag with a handle—that my mother had given me years before. It had the little Chanel camellia and black rhinestones. For Stella it was a full-sized over-the-shoulder purse. She took it and put it over her shoulder, where she would keep it in perfect position the entire evening. Dean was wearing a black Jil Sander suit and a festive Dolce & Gabbana striped shirt. With everyone in their Christmas best, we all gathered at the front door to go. It had to be the best we’ve ever collectively looked.
On the way to the party it was still pouring, Los Angeles’s biggest rain of the year, a year that was coming to a close. As Dean drove us to Holmby Hills, I started thinking about the last time I’d been at my parents’ house, “the Manor.” It was three and a half years earlier, for my father’s funeral. When I had wanted to leave, my friends and I had made our exit by climbing over the backyard hedges just in order to avoid going back through the house and saying good-bye to my mother. When I left the Manor that time, I thought I would never return.
All the power was out in Holmby Hills because of the rain. Even the streetlights were out. The streets were slick with rain, shiny and deserted. Dean said, “The lights are out. Do you think she has a generator?”
I didn’t pause to consider. I said, “Of course she has a generator.”
We drove through the darkness. Then, as we neared the house, we saw it through the pouring rain. There it was, the Manor, lit by a city’s worth of Christmas lights. Had my mother planned the whole power outage to highlight the Manor in all its Christmas glory? We drove up the circular driveway. It was illuminated by projections of snowflakes that moved across the pavement—huge snowflakes of light that must have been shining down from spotlights hidden somewhere on the roof of the house. It was magical.
Lined up on my mother’s wide front steps were fifty or more oversized nutcrackers of varying heights, like a chorus of children. We walked through an aisle between the rows of nutcrackers and into the front hall. There we were met by the sound of Christmas carolers. Not only that, but people dressed as toy soldiers marching in formation up, down, and around the sweeping double staircase that framed the foyer. It was brilliant, a stunning welcome that was Christmassy and original, but repetitive enough that people wouldn’t linger to watch it for so long that they caused a traffic jam. The kids loved it. From a party planning perspective I was in awe.
I turned to Dean and whispered, “This isn’t like the Christmas parties we had growing up.” Holiday parties were always a tradition in our house. We had one every year until my dad got sick, but Dean had never been to one. My friends still talk about the legend of the Spelling Christmas Eve party, but the truth is that they weren’t huge parties—maybe thirty or forty close friends and business executives. In later years, when Randy was still at home and I had already moved out, Nanny, who was by then in her seventies, would show up wearing a festive Christmas sweater and ornament earrings and carrying her own Bloody Mary mix. She’d hand the bottle to the bartender and proceed to get wasted. One year Randy and I made Nanny smoke pot. For the most part those parties were fun and extravagant, but not produced.
This year Randy had written to prepare me that the party would be different, implying that it wasn’t just a small family party, and as I peered in I saw that he wasn’t kidding. The place was already crowded. There must have been two hundred people there. My friends and I always wondered why my parents never threw huge parties with a house like that. It must have been because my dad never wanted parties. This was my mother’s forte. I looked at my children gazing in wonder at the live toy soldiers. Wouldn’t it have been cool to grow up with parties like this? Then again, when I was growing up I always yearned for small and homegrown. It probably would have been too much for me.
In the foyer I was greeted by a familiar
face. It was Mindy, the party planner who had worked on my wedding to Charlie. She gave me a hug and asked, “Are you okay?”
I said, “Yeah, I am. I’m glad you’re here.” She knew better than anyone here what the dynamic had been between me and my mother. She’d seen firsthand the fights we had while we planned my wedding. She had some idea of what this night was about.
Mindy took our coats and Stella’s diaper bag. I could do without it: we wouldn’t be here long enough to need a change. I carried Stella; Dean was with Liam and Jack. The hallway was packed. Then my mother appeared out of nowhere. As she walked over to us, the first thing I noticed—the first thing any of us noticed—was that she and Stella were in matching dresses. My mother’s had white on top and Stella’s had black. But their skirts were identical tartan taffeta.
I had been nervous for weeks about this moment. I hadn’t seen my mother in two years. In that time we had done nothing to fix our relationship. I’m the queen of nonconfrontation. This was a major moment. And yet, as she approached us and I found myself just seconds away from seeing her again, I wasn’t crazy scared. She was my mother. Something told me it was going to be fine.
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