Actually, my thinking went even further. I didn’t want to get divorced. Period. I didn’t grow up in a divorced family and neither did Charlie. I remember talking to my mom one day as I played with Sam, my hand on my belly, feeling the baby move inside me, and I could literally feel my heart ache at the thought of divorce. “I’d like to try to make it,” I told my mom.
For the first time in my life I reached out to a therapist. I wanted to speak with an unbiased person. Through friends, I found a woman who was lovely and patient and clearly knew her business. With a few pointed questions, she put me at ease and got me talking, then mostly listened to me. Interestingly, I ended up listening to myself, too. As I detailed my issues at home, I heard a rational woman expressing hurt, disappointment, confusion, concern, loneliness, sadness, and even fear. I knew I had to leave my marriage.
On several occasions, I nearly did. I came close. Each time, though, I got scared and changed my mind. I couldn’t do it. Finally, I decided to stick it out until the baby was born. With only three months to go, I thought it was best to avoid putting any more pressure on myself. I could prepare for our child’s arrival. Charlie and I still didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl. We’d decided this second time around to be surprised.
Another distraction came my way when I landed a small part in Edmond, a dark indie movie from David Mamet starring William H. Macy. It was a couple days of work in town, and my wardrobe fitting was at Trashy lingerie. I kid you not. I wore a bustier, fishnets, and stripper heels; and, no, my character was not pregnant in the film. I had a blast.
I also took cooking lessons from a professional chef who was a good friend of Charlie’s and mine. I was still eating those plastic meals delivered and figured, I can’t feed those to children, I need to cook! The chef came to the house two to three times a week and taught me a series of fabulous recipes. Sometimes my mom came over and cooked with us. I even made a few nice dinners for Charlie, who revealed flashes of the old Charlie, enough that we actually had some good moments that reminded me of how much I loved my husband, truly loved him.
And that’s what made it so painful when I finally knew I had no alternative but to choose Plan B.
It happened after a night that will remain in my mind forever if for no other reason than I realized it was the end. There were other reasons, but they paled in comparison to the tremors that rattled my whole being as I saw that I had run out of alternatives and excuses. Everything exploded that night. I ended up sleeping in Sam’s room—though I can’t say I slept. I lay in the twin bed opposite her crib and stared into the darkness. I had never felt more alone and scared in my life. My face was drenched from tears. I replayed the argument I’d had with Charlie. I heard advice my parents had given me. I heard statements I’d made myself. Finally, as the first slivers of dawn broke through the night, I found myself looking at my daughter sleeping in her crib and I asked, “If this were Sami, what would you tell her to do?”
2
A FEW HOURS later, Charlie left for work. And soon after, with my heart pounding, I left for a hotel.
I’ll never forget my scramble through the house. Shaking and terrified, I packed a suitcase, put my daughter in the car, and explained to our confused housekeeper why I wanted her to come, too. We went to the Beverly Hills Hotel. It was my first time back since Charlie had carried me through the door on our wedding night. But I didn’t want to go to another hotel. I felt safe there and knew the hotel staff would make sure I was taken care of.
After getting settled, I called a lawyer and went straight to her office. I called on every ounce of strength and courage when it was time for me to actually sign the petition for divorce, the document that would be filed with the court. Memories of my brief but full marriage flashed in front of my eyes, starting with one in particular—that of Charlie and me signing the document to get married. I also recalled our first trip, our engagement, our first Christmas together, the birth of our daughter. In such a short time, we’d shared a big life.
Now, here I was, six months pregnant with our second child and putting an end to our marriage. It was a sad time. Divorced. The word resonated in my head like a church bell hitting a sour note. I left the lawyer’s office feeling numb. Plan B, indeed.
I drove straight to a fitting for a pilot I’d booked, crying the whole time to my mom, whom I called as soon as I got in the car. I was devastated my marriage was over. The first thing I said was “I escaped the insanity.” Somehow I managed to deal with my fitting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I thought I was being controlled and professional by not letting my personal life interfere with my work. In reality, I was in shock that I’d actually gone through with it and frightened by not knowing what would happen next.
Afterward, one of my closest girlfriends came to the hotel to provide support and a much-needed shoulder. She brought a bottle of wine. “It’s for me,” she said. “I know you can’t drink.” We sat on the bed and talked for hours. I had the TV on in the background. At some point, I looked up and saw the news about my divorce on the CNN ticker. “Oh my God,” I gasped. It was already in the media before Charlie received the paperwork. I felt terrible, as if my privacy had been invaded.
No one’s asking me, but I think something is wrong with a court system that allows such intimate proceedings to be made public before the parties can deal with matters themselves, or even to be public at all.
I spent a lonely night in that hotel room bed, tossing and turning in a sea of upset and anxiety. I cried the whole time. I knew I’d made the right decision, but my heart ached for Charlie, our daughter, our unborn child, and our family.
The next day, as expected, the shit hit the fan. The divorce was all over the news, Charlie was calling and texting me, and hundreds of others, it seemed, were doing the same. In the midst of the storm, I made sure Sam and my housekeeper were set up in the hotel, then, believe it or not, I went to a table reading for my new pilot. Several people asked, why didn’t I drop out of the project and deal with my life? I had a simple answer. Only a few people have the luxury of pulling over to the side to focus solely on one issue at a time; I wasn’t one of them. Stuff happens every day to people and they still have to go to work. You deal the best you can. Reese Witherspoon can take time off from her career and jump back into amazing roles. At my level, I have to plug away. And I was plugging away. Hey, given the size of my belly, I was amazed to be working at all. Despite all the shit in my life, I was grateful to have a job.
At the table reading, I acted as if nothing had happened. I’m not one to air my dirty laundry to everyone. I figured most had heard that I filed; it was on every media outlet. I also didn’t want the producers to worry that I was too distracted to deliver the performance they’d envisioned when they cast me.
Only those who’ve been through similar situations know the level of multitasking that was required to keep my life running so I could focus on doing a good job. Right before we shot the pilot, Charlie got an apartment and I moved back into our home. Ultimately, the pilot was a nice distraction. For a few hours a day, I could step out of myself and into a character that wasn’t on the verge of becoming a single working mother of two children.
One of the biggest and most unanticipated problems I encountered was the paparazzi. They followed me everywhere. Following the initial shock of our divorce and a joint statement from Charlie and me, I thought the news would fade from the headlines and we could get on with our lives. I was wrong. Very wrong. It was the split that wouldn’t die. I guess that I filed while six months pregnant gave the drama staying power. For the next three years, our split became a soap opera for every celebrity-media outlet, whether on the newsstand, TV, or online.
Some stories were true and some weren’t. Most were full of speculation from unnamed sources and so-called “friends close to the couple.” As hard as I tried my best to ignore the cover stories and articles, the attention turned a difficult situation into an embarrassing nightmare that
I desperately wanted to disappear. I was horrified when reporters called about Sami’s first birthday and paparazzi staked out her party. Everyone advised me to cancel it. But no way was I going to cancel her celebration because Charlie and I were going through our shit. The point was to make life better, not worse.
In hindsight, I should’ve either canceled or postponed it. Sami was too young to even remember the party, and I’m sure the majority of the guests were uncomfortable watching as Charlie pretended to be cool and calm while I powered through the party with a mama bear ferocity that would probably frighten me if I saw a tape of it today. Hey, I never claimed to be anything more than a work in progress.
That’s the best advice I can offer. You must think of yourself, and your life, as a work in progress. For me, the next three months were exactly that, work, and often I wondered whether I could call any of it progress. I tried not to think too far ahead. When I did, I’d get overwhelmed. I took it day by day, sometimes hour by hour. I frequently got emotional thinking about how much had changed in a year. At times, I blamed myself for not doing more or trying harder, and other times I looked heavenward and asked, “What the hell happened?”
My mom came up more often to help me with Sami, I still took cooking lessons, my girlfriends would come over, and I doubled up on a great mommy-and-me class with Sami. It all helped. Gradually, I worked myself into a new routine, and when I was hit by a wave of sadness or loneliness, I reminded myself of all the wonderful things in my life, starting with my daughter, the baby I had on the way, the many special moments I had enjoyed with Charlie, and my precious, patient, strong, and supportive family.
As I got closer to delivering, I changed my mind about finding out the baby’s sex, and I was ecstatic when my doctor said I was having another girl. Having grown up one of two girls, I loved the idea of sisters. I shared the news with Charlie. Obviously this pregnancy was a different experience from the first one, but I tried not to dwell on the negative. I kept moving forward. A baby was a blessing.
I moved out of our house and into a gated community where I had more privacy and felt safer from the paparazzi, who’d stood outside our house every single day. They actually filmed over the fence. I felt too vulnerable there. But three days after moving, I encountered another unforeseen danger. During my checkup, my doctor saw that the cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. I wasn’t at the point of delivering her right then, but nobody wanted it to get worse. An amnio was performed to see if her lungs were developed, and I was told to get ready just in case. Sure enough, the next afternoon I was instructed to return to the hospital, this time to have the baby.
I called Charlie, and he took me to the hospital. My mom came, too. I wanted her in the delivery room with me. Despite the fissure in our family unit, Lola was greeted upon her arrival on June 1, 2005, by an outpouring of love and affection. She was three weeks early, but seemed fine, weighing six pounds ten ounces. However, we had a brief scare. Moments after the nurse placed her on my chest, they snatched her away. She had stopped breathing and turned blue. They pumped fluid out of her and the fragile baby spent the night in the ICU.
I felt helpless seeing Lola with an IV in her tiny arm and needing oxygen to breathe. But she was my little fighter. By the next day, she was back with me, and three days later I took her home. Now I had two babies to raise on my own. Strangely, instead of being overwhelmed or scared, I felt the opposite—excited, blessed, and in a role meant for me.
Not that it was easy or perfect. I had one in diapers who was just learning to walk and a newborn that I was nursing every two to three hours. My mom was an invaluable stabilizing force at this crucial time, helping me with the girls, and also helping to settle us into the new house. She was never ruffled and preached the virtues of staying calm and dealing with life one dirty diaper at a time. Charlie’s absence made me sad. As any new parent knows, countless special little moments happen with a newborn, as well as a one-year-old, and I missed not being able to share them with him.
Alas, as a newly separated mom I had a lot of issues to figure out. One issue that I had no questions about was Charlie’s involvement with the girls. He spent Father’s Day with us, and I wanted him present on every other family occasion. Even before I filed for divorce, I vowed our children were going to be raised by two parents. Divorced or not, I wanted the girls to grow up knowing how much we loved and cared for them.
3
TWO MONTHS AFTER Lola was born, I went back to work. Sex, Love & Secrets was picked up for thirteen episodes. Since I wasn’t able to work out for six weeks again, I obviously hadn’t lost all my pregnancy weight, but I shrugged off those concerns, figuring they’d shot me in the pilot while I was pregnant, they could no doubt figure out how to shoot around my postpregnancy figure. My boobs were big from nursing; that gave them something extra to focus on.
Bizarrely, I lost weight faster than after having Sami. I think it was because I could rest when Sami napped. With Lola, though, I was also busy taking care of a toddler. I rarely had time to close my eyes, let alone sit down for ten minutes. I’m sure the stress of the divorce also was a factor. One day when Lola was just a couple weeks old, my publicist called and said one of the glossy magazines had a photo of me coming out of a store. They wanted to know my tricks for losing my baby weight. “It’s called divorce,” I said with a rueful laugh.
Summer finally arrived. It’s my favorite time of the year, and I got into a wonderful routine with the girls. I took Sami to the pool, entertained girlfriends, and had sleepovers with my sister, who was about to give birth to her third child. I also had special times with my mom, who stayed over on most weekends, if not more often, helping with the girls and talking with me for hours. We never ran out of conversation. I appreciated all the advice she had about raising children, as well as old family stories she shared, opportunities she gave me to ask her questions, and most of all just being a great listener as I tried to figure out my life.
She could tell that I obviously still loved Charlie, something I made no secret of. I wished our situation were different. Call me stubborn or stupid, but with the two girls, it was hard for me to accept it still couldn’t be different.
Charlie seemed to think so, too. In August 2005, he began to spend time at my house and see the girls, and we started to talk. By early fall, Charlie suggested trying to repair our relationship, and when I asked what he had in mind, he said he wanted to work toward reconciliation.
Although being together as a family was what I wanted deep down, my reaction surprised me. I felt vulnerable. Yes, I was also excited, scared, and confused by the possibility of getting back together, but all the guilt I had about splitting up our family suddenly resurfaced—as did a myriad what-ifs that hinged on my decision. I don’t believe two people should be together for the sake of children if their relationship is toxic, but Charlie and I seemed to be headed in the right direction, a sympathetic, open, and loving direction, and despite all my trepidations, I still loved him, and so I agreed we should give it another chance. I told my lawyer to put the divorce proceedings on hold while we attempted to figure some things out. I also slipped my wedding ring back on.
Deep down, I think I knew it wasn’t going to work out. But I wanted to make sure we had done everything we could to make our family work. I didn’t want any regrets.
So we went on a trip to the Caribbean to get away, be alone, and to try and save our marriage. In my heart of hearts, deep down, I was hoping that we would be able to make it work. But when some deep, dark revelations came to light and rocked me to my core, I knew it was best for my family and for me to get out for good.
I didn’t, and still don’t, regret seeing if we could rekindle our marriage. It was too important to not try, and I would’ve always wondered if I hadn’t made the effort. However, as much as I wanted to save my marriage, as hard as I tried, it was done—and that finality was in some ways even harder than the first time we split. I went through all the same emotions again,
plus more, and I moved forward with the divorce proceedings.
I knew God never gave a person more than he or she could handle, and when I seemed to forget that, my mom reminded me. Her reassurances never wavered. Though I’m not one to complain or feel sorry for myself, I had no idea why I was being asked to handle what seemed like more than my fair share.
Little did I know how much more would come.
PART SEVEN
Relationships
1
IN MARCH 2006, I ran into Richie Sambora in a neighborhood restaurant parking lot, and from afar, our meeting looked like two acquaintances saying hello, which, I want to say emphatically, was exactly what happened. I didn’t know Richie well, but we’d enjoyed each other’s company on the handful of occasions he and his soon-to-be-ex, Heather Locklear, and Charlie and I had gone out to dinner. Both of us were going through difficult breakups with our spouses, and it felt as if we had a lot to say to each other. As for romantic sparks, as some in the press speculated, I can tell you there weren’t any—then. We were in a parking lot. We said hi. Both Richie and I had a thousand things on our to-do lists other than starting another relationship at the same time we were trying to end marriages. In retrospect, of course, our chance encounter had all the elements of destiny—and disaster.
But before I get into what happened, why, and the effect it had on my life, I want to share my take on relationships and some of my romantic history, both of which will help shed light on my relationship with Richie. First, I’ve never been the kind of girl who has to have a boyfriend. I’ve never jumped from one relationship to the next. I know girls—and women—who do, some out of a fear of being alone, and others for different reasons. I’ve always been independent and would rather be single than be with the wrong partner.
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