I needed to get away from the stress and the hostility. So, Richie and I decided to go someplace where it would be just the two of us and I wouldn’t have to worry about Charlie, lawyers, paparazzi … anything.
Richie had a beach house in Laguna. We picked a weekend when my parents could stay with my daughters. He went directly there, and I snuck down on my own. At least I thought I did. Somehow the paparazzi found us. To this day I don’t know if they followed me or were tipped off or both. They ended up staking out Richie’s house from a quarter of a mile away, in the ocean (someone at a magazine relayed that info to us later). With their long, powerful lenses trained on Richie’s house and the beach, they snapped us on his private balcony. We had no idea.
Driving home, I got a phone call from my publicist, a call that to this day makes me ill. She told me about the pictures. She said she was being inundated with calls from media outlets. Everyone had questions about Richie and me. It was big news.
My heart sank.
I got sick to my stomach.
By the time I got past my front door, I was in a daze. I didn’t know what to think or how to feel; I was just numb. Later, as I calmed down, I was mortified. We got caught in the worst way. I was so humiliated by the way our relationship was exposed.
If you didn’t know the truth about Richie and me, which few did, it had the scent of scandal, and I knew the press would spin it in that direction. I braced myself for the onslaught. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but I thought, “Okay, I can deal with a week of shitty press.”
If only it had been a week. My entire world came crashing down overnight. It was the worst time of my life (this was before my mom got sick). The press about our relationship was horrendous and lasted not weeks or months, but a couple of years. No exaggeration. Until then, I’d always been presented in a positive light, as a nice person, the good girl, if you will. Even coverage of my divorce painted me in an empathetic light. But that changed in a day, literally overnight. Suddenly I was a home wrecker and a husband stealer, Hollywood’s latest villainess. Few knew the truth, but the truth didn’t seem to matter. I was hurt, humiliated, and embarrassed. It felt as if everyone in the world hated me, and I believed they did.
Ironically, prior to this episode, one of my agents had joked that I needed more edge. “There are too many pictures of you pushing a stroller,” he said, laughing. “Can’t you get arrested or something?” I’d warned him to be careful what he wished for, which he reminded me of when all this shit came raining down on me. “I wish you’d gotten arrested instead,” he said. It was that bad.
But there were a few bright spots. Sam gave me wonderful hugs and kisses, and Lola learned to crawl. And then there was Richie. His smile brightened the darkest days. If there was anything positive about the whole world knowing we were involved, it was the freedom it gave us to live our lives out in the open. We went to restaurants and lingered over lunch. We held hands as we got coffee. He drove me to the store when I needed to pick up diapers. We were like a normal couple except that the paparazzi constantly took pictures of us while shouting questions and comments, trying to elicit a reaction that would make their photos more valuable.
But it only strengthened our bond, and personally, it made me one strong bitch. I realized I was tough as nails, and able to handle way more than I’d realized, and though it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with living like that, the lessons I learned were a blessing in disguise. But I wouldn’t figure that out for some time.
Richie went back on the road and asked me to meet him in Europe. At first, I hesitated. I’d done a pilot that didn’t get picked up, and with all the rotten press I was getting, I didn’t know if it was worth giving the world more ammunition to speculate and criticize. My mom urged me to ignore the critics and gossips. “Don’t worry about anyone else,” she said. “Live your life as best you can while you can.” I knew where those words of hers came from, and she was right, of course. Richie wanted me with him, and I needed to escape and have fun, and I was able to leave the girls with my parents, who adored having the little ones to themselves.
I met Richie in Dublin, Ireland, and watched Bon Jovi’s show from the side of the stage. After the gig, we flew to Naples in the middle of the night, hoping the press wouldn’t find us. We drove along the magnificent Amalfi Coast to our hotel in Positano, Italy. Somehow the press found us, photos surfaced, and we were accused of flaunting our relationship. We weren’t. We just wanted to live our lives. We didn’t want to keep hiding. It felt good to be with him, and to this day, I have never laughed more than I have with him.
In May, I was back in L.A. and trying to establish some routine in my life when I received some devastating news: my mom’s cancer had returned. My dad called; my mom was too upset to even talk, which in itself communicated the gravity of the situation. I lost it, and I don’t know what I would’ve done without Richie, who assured me that he’d help my mom and me in any way he could.
Two weeks later, Richie called me with tragic news of his own. His father had just been diagnosed with lung cancer. It was unbelievable. What were the odds? Here we were, both going through difficult divorces, both struggling with single parenthood, and now our parents had cancer. It’s often hard to contemplate the workings of fate, but this wasn’t one of those times. I saw why Richie and I had been brought together. It made so much sense. As we went through this incredibly difficult phase of our lives, we had each other, and we understood each other as only we could.
A strong, solid relationship would’ve had difficulty weathering such a challenging time. Ours was still fairly new, and sadly, I supposed, it was inevitable that these enormous challenges would start to take a toll on our relationship. But we stayed together. Like glue. When Richie’s dad lost his battle with lung cancer, I was with him at the hospital in New York. It was terribly sad and only made me more concerned and fearful of my situation at home, where my mom continued her brave fight.
Not long after, Richie and I broke up. The stress was finally too much to shoulder. My divorce was especially heated and contentious, and Richie was dealing with other things on his end. Ending the relationship was sad and hard; he was a dear friend with whom I had some wonderful times and confided some of my darkest fears, and it was hard to give that up. But I needed to focus on my divorce, which had unfortunately turned into a messy custody issue, and my career, which the negative press had affected badly.
I was left with mixed emotions. I paid a dear price for my relationship with Richie, and I’d be lying if I said I’ve never wondered how things might’ve been different if I hadn’t got involved with him. I know I harp on the press I got at that time, but for good reason: it was almost unbearable. I do understand why it was perceived the way it was, and looking back, perhaps I should’ve handled it differently. But I don’t regret my relationship with him. I learned hard lessons from our journey together. My heart may have been bruised, but it was pure. Richie is a wonderful man. He came into my life when I needed him, and he needed me. We’ll always have that bond.
The lessons I learned from my relationship with Richie, especially from the fallout in the media, changed the way I think and act and relate to other people. Before, I was careful with my image and basically a people pleaser, someone who tried to say what I thought was expected rather than what was true. Since then, I’ve lived my life the way I choose to live it; I make choices for me and my kids. What you see is what you get. I’m fine knowing that not everyone is going to like me. That’s life. I’m being my authentic self, and something about that is freeing.
A little secret: Richie and I saw each other a few times in the years after we broke up. No one knew it because we reverted back to our original tricks. We called us “The Jack and Lucy Show.” We never went out in public. One night, after the girls went to bed, he came to my house. We were talking in my room (thank goodness that’s all we were doing) when I heard Sami at my door. I motioned for Richie to hide in my bathroom. It turned out Sam
i’s tummy hurt. I had her lie on my bed and told Richie to give me a few minutes while I calmed her down and got her back to her own bed. On the way back to her room, she threw up, which triggered my phobia. I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I rush her back into my bathroom. Richie was stuck in there.
I ran back to tell him what was going on. I don’t freak out easily, but I was a wreck. Knowing I had a hard time with throw-up, he offered to help. But I didn’t want Sam to see him. As I cleaned her up, she puked again. I woke up my housekeeper, who helped, while I told Richie he had to crawl the fuck out of my room. He shook his head, he thought I was nuts! At six feet two inches, he wasn’t going to crawl, which would’ve been kind of funny. “In that case, you’re going to be in the bathroom a while,” I said.
Such are the complications of having a social life as a single parent. My girls, though close to Richie when we dated, hadn’t seen him since our breakup. I didn’t want to confuse them. That’s why I didn’t want Sami to see him, especially when the poor thing was so sick. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong. It’s just my way. I get advice from friends, but mostly I go with my gut. Dating as a single mom is difficult. Period. I want a dating life, but I also don’t want my kids to see me with a bunch of different men. Nor do I want the media turning a first date at a coffee shop into a hot new relationship. I do the best I can to let acquaintances develop naturally into friendships and perhaps more. To ensure privacy, I’ve had dates in hotel rooms and then gone home after dessert. It’s not about hanky-panky; it’s about trying to balance dating as a single mom discreetly.
Being aware of the differences in dating and relationships at this time in my life helps me get over the hurdles. First, I’ve realized life is too short not to compromise. If there’s conflict, I like to resolve it and move on. I don’t harp on the past. I had a friend who was pissed her husband went to a strip club, and she was still bringing it up seven years later. Don’t waste the energy. Drop it and move forward—or examine what the real problem is. In addition, I don’t try to change a man. Not only is it impossible, why would I want to? Actually, the better question is this: what would I be doing with a man I wanted to change?
Take cigarettes. Charlie chain-smoked. I tried my first puff on our honeymoon and nearly choked to death. That one puff was more than enough for me. But I didn’t bug Charlie to quit, and I wouldn’t do it if I was with another guy that smoked. It’s not fair to him. If you’re fine with it in the beginning, you better be fine with it two years later. If you date a guy who drinks his face off and think he’s going to quit after you get married, you’re going to be disappointed, because he’ll probably end up drinking even more after you get married. In my marriage, I discovered things about Charlie that I didn’t know beforehand, and those were the crux of our problems. I didn’t give him a hard time about the things I was aware of during our relationship.
Experience along with age has made me more tolerant and practical. I no longer play hard to get, the way I did in my twenties (not that I’d advise anyone to use those tactics). I’m an open book. If I like someone, I let him know it, and if he likes me, I lay out the facts of my life ahead of time so he knows exactly what he’s getting into.
As a single, working mom, my time is precious. I don’t wait for a man to call three times before I call back. I’m spontaneous. If someone I like calls Saturday morning to go out that night, and I’m free, I’ll say yes. Sometimes I need more time to plan. It depends. Years ago, I checked my voice mail every fifteen minutes. Now, I’m lucky if I check it once a week. I’ve realized there are no rules. I let my heart and common sense guide me through the straits and narrows of amour.
Dating experts may not agree, but these methods work for me, though what am I really talking about? Honesty. Openness. And communication. It’s that simple. If it’s too much for a guy, then it’s not meant to be, and I’m okay with that.
I do still have my insecurities with dating. At times I wonder, who the hell would want to jump into this chaos with me? Even though Charlie and I have been divorced for six years, he is very much a part of my life and forever will be. My baggage is the size of a fucking U-Haul, and it’s going to take a strong, secure man to be in a relationship with me. The good part? He will have a house full of girls who will adore him. I find myself now being more attracted to men with children. Seeing a man who is a good dad? There is nothing sexier! Remember that picture of Brad Pitt with the baby bottle in his back pocket? Now that’s a man, and a sexy father, I might add!
One other tip: I never tell my girls I’m going on a date. When they ask where I’m going, I say that I have a meeting. Technically, I’m not lying. And my gut tells me to keep calling these “meetings” until I meet my next Mr. Right.
PART EIGHT
Loss
1
AS YOU CAN tell, I’m a big proponent of living in the moment. To not focus so much on the past and to try not to worry about the future. We never know what’s going to happen or what kind of cards we’re always going to be dealt. I learned to truly enjoy the simplest things in life. When I felt as if I were drowning, I dug deep in my soul to remember what was important. I have two gorgeous, healthy children, a beautiful home; I’m healthy and happy, and I have wonderful friends and family who give me love and support. I reminded myself that I did have my feet firmly planted on the ground despite what was being written about me. My daughters made an out-of-control situation more manageable.
I try to embrace the good moments and savor every morsel. Watching Lola learn to crawl was a joyous event amid a dismal time, as well as a reminder that life goes on no matter what, and I was very conscious of paying attention and appreciating that milestone. We can choose whether we get on with life or root ourselves in the past. My approach is to deal and move on. To enjoy every moment. I know it’s basic pop psychology, but it works for me.
One of the most special moments of my whole life was in May. My mom drove up for a visit, and while she was at the house, we did a photo shoot for a special Mother’s Day album in People magazine. We represented three generations—my mom, me, and Sam and Lola. We had a lovely day, and I treasured those photos then and even more now. They are the last pictures I have of all of us before my mom started to look ill.
A week later, my dad called with the news her cancer had returned. My mind was reeling with thoughts after I hung up, including the afternoon we spent posing for pictures. It stood out like a breezy Saturday in my childhood, a perfect day I wished could last forever. The Polaroids from the shoot were still on my kitchen counter. How did that day suddenly seem so long ago?
Life changed that fast. I’ve never been one to feel sorry for myself or ask, why me? No matter what I was going through, no matter the challenges or frustrations I faced, I knew my life was blessed. I have two healthy children, my bills are paid, and no matter what, I’d tell myself it could always be worse. Well, this was worse. As far as I was concerned, it was the worst thing I could imagine. I found myself asking, why her? Why was this happening to my mom?
She never asked that question herself. No, she was the one who, when we finally talked, tried to comfort me by saying, “It could be worse. It could’ve been one of the kids.” That attitude had gotten her through the first bout of cancer nearly two years earlier. I replayed that time in my head as if I could will another outcome. For about six months prior to diagnosis, she’d been slowed by shoulder pain, calcium deposits, headaches, a constant ache in her right side, and forgetfulness, which wasn’t at all like my mom, who was razor sharp and on top of everything.
Her doctor had attributed it to premenopausal aches and pains. That never sounded right to me, but no tests were ever ordered.
She and my dad flew to Chicago to visit their best friends, Diane and Tom. By the time their plane landed, though, my mom was doubled over in pain. Diane’s daughter was a nurse, and they rushed my mom to the hospital where she worked. The ER doctor who examined my mom helped her with the pain but told her she nee
ded to get an MRI when she got home. He knew what was wrong but didn’t tell her. At home, she found out the story: renal cell carcinoma—or kidney cancer.
A smoker, she gave up cigarettes that day. She was pissed at how easily she quit after numerous failed attempts over the years. It shows you the power of the mind. She also sent the ER doctor in Chicago a note thanking him for what she thought was his saving her life. At her diagnosis, she’d been told her cancer was stage 2, still early enough to give her a fighting chance, though there wasn’t treatment for kidney cancer at the time. Chemo and radiation were ineffective. They had to remove her kidney, then pray it didn’t come back.
I was making Elvis Has Left the Building in Santa Fe when she went in for surgery. I left the set and flew directly to San Diego. She was already in surgery when I arrived. I waited with my dad until they wheeled my mom into her room from surgery. The sight of her in bed connected to all the tubes and still suffering extreme pain scared the shit out of me, yet I put on a brave face. When she opened her eyes, I wanted her to see me staring back with love, strength, support, and hope—all the same things she’d been giving me.
Her spirits rose when she heard I was having another little girl, but the good news was tempered by a distressing report. Her surgeons found her cancer had spread and was stage 4, not stage 2 as originally thought. The odds had already been bad; now they were worse. But my mom was a fighter. She loved life and loved being a grandma. If anyone could beat the disease, it was my mom, and she came out of the surgery with the right attitude, vowing to do whatever it took.
Real Girl Next Door Page 14