Going Off Script (27 page)

Joan always had the most gorgeous hands. Even at eighty-one, they were supple and baby smooth. I would often reach out for one of Joan’s hands during commercial breaks so I could admire them. “My mom gave me these hands,” she used to say to me, deflecting compliments as usual. She loved to wear trendy nail polish and big, shiny rings. On her deathbed, her nails were perfectly manicured and painted a deep vampy purple. Her hair
and makeup were done, as well. Joan was just Joan, sleeping. Her favorite show tunes played in the background. I came in the middle of
A Chorus Line.
I spent the first few minutes with my eyes tightly closed, envisioning her suddenly waking up and asking why the hell she was in a hospital room with people crying all around her. When I sadly realized that wasn’t going to happen, I spent the next fifteen minutes talking to her and thanking her for taking a chance on me, for all the invaluable advice, and for making me feel loved each week. Finally, I said one last good-bye through my tears, then walked out and hugged Melissa tightly.

“Thank you for this gift,” I told her. “I’ll never forget your generosity tonight.”

The drive back to the hotel was a blur, and as Bill opened the door to let me in, I fell crying into his arms.

“Bill, Joan’s dying tomorrow.” I wept myself to sleep. I spent the entire next day in bed, buried beneath the covers, crying until there were no tears left. E! kept calling and leaving messages for me to prepare to go on air later that night.

I never picked up the phone.

W
hen is enough, enough?

Bill and I used to ponder this even before we were married, when we would lie in each other’s arms and plan the future we imagined together. We debated the meaning of life, and how we would know whether we were getting it right. Was true success a matter of looking back and saying you had accomplished everything you set out to do? Even then, I wasn’t so sure. “It’s not that complex,” I told Bill. “You know how you know you’ve lived life to the fullest, and you’ve won? If you can say, I woke up happy most days, and I went to bed happy most nights.”

We’re settling into a new house again. We move, Bill and I, from one house to the next. Nine times in as many years, between Chicago and Los Angeles, trying to find the right place, the right time, to put our roots down. We design, shop, decorate, move in, and then out again, restless and unsettled. This house
was too big, that street was too busy, this place grew too small, that one too sad. There are boxes marked “miscellaneous” that seem to exist just to shift with us from place to place without ever getting opened. We both want to leave L.A. but can’t seem to pull anchor. “I don’t want you to resent me later,” Bill says when I swear that Chicago will be a permanent move this time: I want to stop working so much. The plan for now is for me to retire from the shows I work on that require me to be in Los Angeles every day. It’s easier to leave than I imagined, maybe because I have been doing it for almost 15 years and have outgrown the content I am reporting on. Simply put, I’ve evolved. Until my contract is up, I will commute to L.A. and New York occasionally for shows that are less demanding of my time but still exciting to be part of. After that, who knows? Chill on a beach or do a daytime show with my husband out of Chicago. Both sound good. The sky’s the limit. We keep our place in L.A. but bring all our good stuff to Chicago, including Duke’s crib and most of his toys. We hope he’ll have a sibling soon.

Three perfect embryos remained frozen after we had him. Three more chances.

In the meantime, we redouble our efforts to build our other businesses, determined to secure a post-Hollywood future for our family. Bill takes the driver’s seat for the both of us on opening RPM’s sister restaurants in Washington, D.C., and Las Vegas. I decide to import Italian and French wines in unique single-serve glasses that snap together to form a bottle, and am thrilled when my XO, G wine lands a deal with the biggest retailer in the world, Walmart. Whatever city I happen to be in, I search out the nearest Walmart to check the display.
It’s come to this,
I think,
now you’re stalking yourself.
I take quick trips every six weeks to Tampa to sell my G by Giuliana clothing line at HSN, and thank Duke for all the practice he’s given me at being alert between two and four in the morning, one of their prime times
for sales. If I leave television, there’s always a chance these other ventures will dry up and blow away. And there it is again, that word. Chance.

There are weeks when I’m on ten different airplanes. No exaggeration. I spend hours before each flight obsessively checking the weather reports. “Bill, it’s saying the winds are 19 mph, is that bad?” I text my husband from the airport before yet another flight from L.A. to Chicago, where he waits with the rest of the family for me to join them for the holidays. “The planes are built to withstand that,” he assures me, but it doesn’t calm my nerves, ever.

“How’s your flight, Boo?” he messages me another time, knowing the panic doesn’t subside once I’m airborne. “This anxiety is too much,” I respond. “Clenching the seat belt for three hours. Praying so hard. There are storms left and right, I’m so scared. There’s lightning out the window.” Only three things make flying tolerable for me once we are on the runway and about to take off. Three things that keep me from pushing the attendant button and making up some bullshit about needing to get off because I suddenly have Ebola or the measles and don’t want to be a threat to the other passengers. Those three things are half a Xanax, red wine, and iPhone videos of my son. I have about 320 videos of him that I watch to calm my nerves once we are in the sky. I never get tired of them, and fall deeper in love every time I hear his giggle or see him playing or making a grand mess out of lunch, or excitedly repeating his first word, “Bar? Bar?” to strangers on the street, who are aghast until I explain that he’s looking for his favorite granola bar, not a pub. I fantasize again about life as a full-time mom, walking Duke to school every day with that little hand in mine, going to his soccer games, all three of us cuddling together on the couch under blankets while the wind blows outside and the sound of it brings me peace instead of panic.

We ask our surrogate, Delphine, if she would carry another
baby for us, and she happily agrees. We have two of our remaining three embryos implanted. The good news comes. We’re pregnant! But like many times before, the joy is quickly turned into sadness when Dr. Schoolcraft calls to tell us the embryo detached from the uterine sac and after eight weeks of pregnancy, the baby is gone. I put him on speakerphone so Bill can hear, too. “It seems so illogical sometimes,” the doctor says in his soft-spoken way. “There is a little bit of a random chance. Ultimately, it’s up to the universe.”

“So it didn’t work?” I ask him.

“It’s obviously such an emotional thing when it doesn’t work,” he replies. “It’s statistically like flipping a coin. It doesn’t mean the next time won’t be a success.”

I trusted more than ever in God’s plan for us. I remember when I hit my lowest point after learning I had cancer, when doctors told me I would have to do chemotherapy even after my double mastectomy. I had already sacrificed both breasts to this disease—how could that not be enough? The levee burst, and all the fear, anger, and resentment I already had been struggling so hard to hold back suddenly swallowed me whole. I was in a place too deep, dark, and lonely for even Bill to reach me. Alone, I went to church and knelt down before the Virgin Mary to cry and pray.
Mary, please take care of me in this time of need. I am grateful to have you watching over me and never ask you to do anything but to look over my family and friends. Today I ask you to please grant me a miracle and let me receive some good news in this time of darkness.
The very next day is when we got news from the NIH that a pathologist had determined that the cancer had been caught so early, there were fewer cells than they thought—not billions—and the likelihood that a rogue cell had escaped into my bloodstream was virtually nil. That meant no chemo.

My hair has always been my vanity, always long and wavy, so long it would flow over my breasts like a mermaid’s. I started
using extensions at E! because if more is always better, then more and free must be best. About two years after my surgery, I feel stronger, braver, bolder than I ever have. It’s true what they say about time being the best healer; I feel less sad with every passing day. “I need to cut my hair,” I tell my stylist one day. “I want to cut it off.” I don’t want to think about it, discuss it, or second-guess it. I am excited.
Are you sure?
everyone keeps asking me as I sit in the chair.

“Yes,” I insist. I need a break. I just want to be me for a minute.

Piles of hair fall to the floor, until a sleek, angular bob grazes my jawline. Bill has no clue what I’m doing. I just walk through the door—surprise, what do you think? He and I both love it, and I take it a step further, impulsively dying it bright blond one night after work. It takes my colorist four hours to get it so light. I love it, but E! hates it. The president of E! calls my manager and orders it dyed back—I suppose the network has “reasonable consultation” regarding my hair, but the demands seem anything but reasonable. “We want her brunette by the Emmys,” Suzanne warns Pam.

I don’t go darker. I go even lighter. I’m talking so platinum it was as if I had bleached my scalp to ensure I would have no roots and be as shockingly blond as possible.

Before I hit the red carpet, Suzanne asks the producers on Emmy day whether I’m brunette, and they’re too scared to say, so she comes looking for me as I prepare for the big show. She says nothing about my hair, but I can see her seething as she asks how I’m feeling and if I’m ready for the show today. I’m just as angry as she is. How dare she mess with me on Game Day? Both of us are smiling and cordial. Suzanne calls Pam right afterward:
She showed up blonder! You have to reel her in and get her to change it back immediately.
Maybe she had a point, but I’ve never been someone who likes to be told what to do…especially when it comes to something as personal as the color of my hair.

I turn forty in triumph. I feel more beautiful than I ever have, gloriously alive in this body that’s been crooked, infertile, cancerous.

I realize that something inside me has been shifting, that what I’m seeking now is affirmation, not approval, a gift I can only give myself. I remember the time I was on the red carpet covering the Emmys when I felt someone reach up and tap me from behind. I looked down from my platform at Jerry O’Connell, who was lingering while his wife Rebecca was doing an interview. “You look beautiful, homegirl,” he said. “You really do.” I said thank you without really meaning it, and turned my back on him.

A Hollywood life is filled with loyal fans and rabid haters. I’ve learned to say what I want to say, do what I want to do, and let the chips fall where they may. When I post a cute picture of Duke in his car seat with chocolate all over his face, the comments instantly fly:
The straps aren’t tight enough, you have him facing the wrong way.
The pic ignites a feud, and people fight all day long on my Instagram page about the different state laws regarding car seats, and what the correct age is to face forward instead of backward. I post a picture of Duke on Santa’s lap like any proud mama who wants to show off how precious her two-year-old is in his little white sweater, and suddenly, the haters pounce on Santa Claus.
Is that Santa’s hat on the chair instead of his head? That’s the worst-ever Santa! What mall is that, someone should complain!

Even when the reality cameras aren’t following us for the four months it takes to film a season of
Giuliana and Bill
, my everyday life sometimes feels like a documentary in progress that anyone can just step in to start filming.

I’m in the public restroom changing my baby and realize a woman behind me is surreptitiously taking photographs. I turn around and she slips out the door. It happens in the waiting room
at the doctor’s office. I see a flash go off at the airport when I’m chasing Duke around trying to get him to eat oatmeal from McDonald’s and look up to see a sheepish couple who say “sorry,” and I smile with gritted teeth and say, “No, it’s fine. Just trying to be a mom, here. Just trying to be a mom.”

We’re at the airport again when I notice the woman sitting across from us in the lounge pretending to text while I hear the familiar click of a camera. She calls her daughter over to show her, and they grab a few more shots. My blood begins to boil. Here’s the thing, taking pictures isn’t the issue, it’s the covert way in which some people take them that makes it feel like an invasion of privacy sometimes. When people come up and say hi and ask for a picture, I always oblige. I remember when I was seven or so, and my soccer team was called the A-Team. Our coach heard Mr. T was filming in D.C. and piled us into a big van to go see him. It was raining, but we waited hours for Mr. T to surface. Finally he came out of his trailer, and we all rushed up to the fence with our little noses pressed through the chain link, shouting, “Mr. T! Mr. T! We’re the A-Team!” and he walked right past us without even waving. “Mr. T! Mr. T! You suck!” we started shouting. “All right, stop yelling shit at Mr. T,” our coach said, as he herded us, betrayed and humiliated, back into the van.

I confront the sneaky woman in the airport lounge.

“Are you taking pictures of me?” I demand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she blusters.

“I saw the flash,” I say. I feel invaded, and I’m not going to let go. I pick up my phone and begin furiously taking pictures of her. “So I’ll have pictures of you to show all my friends,” I say. Bill gets up and walks away. He comes back. I know I’ve embarrassed him. He keeps his voice low and even, not wanting to create more of a scene.

“Why are you being such a brat?” he wants to know. “You
know what? You signed up for this. Welcome to Hollywood, honey!”

I’m surprised and a little angry that he isn’t on my side this time.

I’ve never met him, but I still half hope, sometimes, that Mr. T has a brief comeback and merits coverage by E! I promise my long-lost A-Team that I will punch him in the nose.

Our new place in Chicago is a townhouse on the Gold Coast. We can walk to shops and restaurants and run into old elementary school friends of Bill who beckon us into a wine bar to relax. We spend raucous evenings playing Cards Against Humanity in the basement rec room of friends who have nothing to do with “the industry.” Duke runs wild with the other kids, and I hear him laughing as he dives into the cushions of an old sofa with them.
He needs this,
I think.

At two, Duke is growing by leaps and bounds. One morning, I’m on a business call when he asks for his blanket. “Do you want the monkey blankie or the cow blankie?” I ask, searching the chaos of our still-unpacked kitchen while trying to finish up on the phone. Without missing a beat, he answers me like a kid three years older. “Mommy, what happened to my monkey blankie?” I apologize to Duke. I’m so amazed, I forget my caller and excitedly yell to Bill in the next room: “Did you hear that, Bill? He wants to know what happened to his monkey blankie!” Bill doesn’t get it at first, and says he doesn’t know where it is. “No!” I say. “He said it perfectly, not me! Duke, say it again!”

Duke repeats it. I’m amazed all over again. Not just a full sentence, but a complicated thought, this little two-year-old mind suddenly able to put together pieces and not just want something, but wonder about it. We’ve been so consumed with asking God for the big miracles these past few years, I forgot what we really are, what I see now in my child, this constant gathering of small miracles.