Stories From Candyland (7 page)

We were lucky, though, in that Aaron and I were basically homebodies, and dinner at home with the kids was the ultimate pleasure for us. Our kids had privileges, but they did have rules, too. The trick was to balance the two.

When Tori was very young, she started talking about becoming an actress. Oh no, I thought. I don’t want her to become one of those “child stars,” and I’m not going to become one of those terrible mothers pulling her kid out of school for auditions, rejections, singing lessons, meetings, and other activities that had no place in a normal child’s life.

I had seen so much heartache with actors and actresses, and I didn’t want my little girl to become part of what could be the most insecure and unreliable profession, where failures were magnified and so public. I thought it would be nice to expose her to different kinds of experiences; and when she was older, if she still decided she wanted to act, I wouldn’t try to stop her.

But Tori was persistent. My husband was madly in love with his little girl and couldn’t stop himself from casting her to get her established. That’s a short way of telling you what
you already know: Tori became an actress. She earned millions of dollars on her father’s show
Beverly Hills 90210
, where she appeared in 292 episodes; and she had other high-paying acting and producing jobs, as well. She benefited far more than most actors, as her father even arranged for her to be represented by the top Hollywood talent agency.

The kids’ early visits to the sets were a combination of Disneyland and seeing Dad at work. The pilot for
Charlie’s Angels
had been shot at our house on North Mapleton Drive (just blocks from where my present home, The Manor, would later be built), so the kids were used to all the cameras, crew, and chaos. Randy would get excited examining everything, and Tori loved the glamour of it all.

I remember Tori begging her father to let her “act” when she was four. I didn’t encourage it, because I knew the life of rejection most actresses led. Her first role was on his series
Vega$
, where she had a recurring role as the daughter of Bea, Dan Tana’s secretary.

Her first line, which we rehearsed for what seemed like hours, was, “Hi, Uncle Dan.” She nailed it in one take, and her father couldn’t have been prouder.

Randy first appeared as “Ryan,” the younger half brother of Ian Ziering’s character on
Beverly Hills 90210
. He was billed as “little blond boy,” and he helped out at the beach club. He and Tori were in different scenes, and he would get caught up in her excitement, too.

We were both very proud of her. She was a millionaire mini-mogul, acting and getting ready to produce, wanting to follow in her father’s footsteps. She worked hard, had a thick skin when it came to accusations of nepotism, and she did quite well.

Randy was more casual about his acting than his sister was. It was more about fun than passion for him.

As both got older, I knew I couldn’t control their career choices. And as much as I hoped they would find careers with more stability, less insecurity, more genuine people, and some sense of logic, I must admit that I was pleased they were both successful.

One of the most surreal experiences I’ve ever had was driving down Sunset Boulevard into Hollywood one day in 2006 and seeing, first, a billboard with Tori’s photo announcing her new TV series, and then, a block later, another with Randy’s face overlooking Sunset, as his new series was announced. I was used to seeing famous people, but these were
my kids
! I was impressed. I bought a digital camera at the first drugstore I passed, and took pictures of both billboards. I can’t look at these photos without smiling at the ingenuity and drive of my children.

But for the sake of full disclosure, I sure wouldn’t mind if Tori took her career in a different direction. She and Randy both had large trust funds, and they had the means to do whatever they wanted (or not work at all). She was a great
artist, and loved to paint. I knew that wasn’t a secure career either, but I wanted to protect her from the rejection of a career in entertainment.

It’s fine if she wants her own reality show or wants to write books about her childhood. I just wish she’d leave me out of it. I’d be glad to testify in any court of law that Tori has had a fascinating life. She has great stories to tell. She knows wonderful people. She has plenty to talk about without saying things like, “I wish I were closer to my mother” or “Did you see what my mother wrote on her Web site?”

Let me walk you through what happens every time Tori talks about me. It doesn’t matter if what she says is true, if she’s joking, if she’s testing, or if she’s just being provocative for ratings. But, of course, each of us has her own perception of reality. When Tori says the word
mother
, the focus of my life changes temporarily; and I like the normal focus better than the distractions.

I can give you a graphic example from March 2008, when Tori’s book was published.

During that time I had a series of surgeries on my arm, elbow, and shoulder, and two of them coincided with Tori’s TV interviews to promote her book.

During the first surgery, everywhere I turned, people were talking about Tori’s media appearances. I’d never thought to check the TV schedule before planning the surgery, but I should have.

I went to a different hospital for the second surgery, on my
right arm. I checked in early in the morning and was in a series of holding and prep areas prior to going to the operating room.

I knew it wasn’t going to be a routine day when the bag that read
PATIENT POSSESSIONS HERE
started swinging for no apparent reason. Memories of an earlier hospitalization came flooding back: My phone kept ringing, and it made the locker holding my purse vibrate. It couldn’t be happening again.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Spelling?” the nurse writing down my prescription medications asked. “Are you nervous? You don’t need to shake. We can get you an extra blanket.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I think my phone is vibrating, and that’s making the bag swing.” Sure enough, the shaking bag hanging from my hospital bed was being accompanied by a humming sound.

The nurse asked if I wanted to check for messages. I said I didn’t. Anyone trying to call me at 6:15
A.M
. was either a stranger or an enemy. I knew that if anything was important, the security man at my house would get word to me.

I watched the bag shake and vibrate. Then the humming was replaced by strains of “My Way,” Beethoven’s Ninth, “Funny Face,” and “It’s a Lovely Day.” I realized that some of those calls were coming from friends who had been assigned their own ringtones.

The mystery of my sudden popularity was solved.

“Mrs. Spelling, look!” the nurse said. “Isn’t that your daughter on TV?”

I looked up at the wall monitor, and there was Tori on a morning show.
Oh no. It can’t be happening again
.

“Mrs. Spelling, she says your relationship is complicated. What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I don’t think she is being complimentary. Just a guess.”

It was one of the longest days of my life, as Tori’s publisher had booked her on one show after another, and I was having surgery. It was like the movie
Groundhog Day
, where Bill Murray experiences the same day over and over.

When I was moved into the pre-op room, I was greeted by the happy news that my new room had a television.

“Oh, you can turn it off,” I said.

“Wait. Isn’t that your daughter? What a pretty dress. Listen. She’s talking about you.”

I wanted to know when the anesthesiologist would be arriving.

“Oh, he’s here somewhere,” the nurse said, not taking her eyes off the TV for a second. “Why are you complicated? You seem nice to me.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “Can I have drugs now?”

She laughed. “Oh, your daughter is funny when she talks about you. Did you really dress her as Marie Antoinette one Halloween? I read that somewhere.”

“Yes, and she looked beautiful. She loved the costume, the wig, and jewelry, and we had so much fun doing her makeup.”

“Huh,” the nurse responded. “She says you forced her to be something she wasn’t.”

I had to agree that yes, she wasn’t Marie Antoinette. Thank heaven for small favors. I’d hate to have been Marie’s mother. Just thinking about it made my neck hurt. I tried to explain again.

“She loved that costume. She kept the pictures in her bedroom for years and showed them to everyone. We proudly displayed the portrait of Tori as Marie and Randy as her young Louis XVI, complete with powdered wig, in our home, and Tori would proudly show it to her friends. Where are my drugs?”

“Hi, Candy,” my surgeon said when he entered my cubicle. “Guess what? I just saw Tori on TV, and she’s talking about you.”

On cue, my possession bag started doing its dance to “I Am Woman.”

“Hi, Doctor,” I said, ignoring the ringing phone. “When is my surgery?”

He told me there was no need to hurry. “Oh, Tori is on a different show now. No rush. We can move you to a later time, so you can watch the whole show.”

“No,” I said, way too loud for a hospital, hoping no tabloid spies were around to report that I’d screamed my head off. “I want to get this over with.” He thought I meant the surgery.

By the time the anesthesiologist arrived, a little group of people had assembled to watch Tori with me.

“Oh, this is so exciting, Mrs. Spelling. It must be so great to see your child on television.”

“It can be.”

The hospital staff was discussing Tori’s story about our giving her a BMW instead of a VW. A man sticking me with an IV needle, while watching the wall-mounted TV, said, “Oh, she must have that backward. You got her a Volkswagen when she wanted a BMW, right?”

“No,” I said. “My daughter is actually complaining that her father and I bought her a new BMW—you know, one of those really safe and ultimately sporty and luxurious cars—instead of a tiny little car.”

There was silence. I wouldn’t have known how to respond, either.

“I have a BMW,” the anesthesiologist finally said. “It’s red. I love it.”

“When is my surgery?” I asked meekly.

“As soon as the show is over,” he told me cheerfully.

Darn.

I’d like to be able to report that the hospital scenario of that day was an aberration—but it wasn’t.

When the surgery was over, Tori was on the news.

“I just wanted to be a normal kid, but my parents lived in this big house and took us to all these fancy places,” were the first words I heard on the way out of the recovery room. I figured she was complaining, but I wasn’t sure.

When I got the good news that I could go home, a place
where I had my own remote control and could watch whatever I wanted, I figured that my second surreal hospital day of listening to people interpret my daughter was over. I was wrong.

When we got to the parking lot, a woman wanted to know if I was “that Mrs. Spelling.”

“Hi. I’m Candy Spelling,” I said.

“Why did you give your daughter only eight hundred thousand dollars when her father died? What kind of mother are you?”

I knew I couldn’t get any more drugs, but I did see my car approaching. I leaped from my wheelchair and into the car. Had she really said, “
only
eight hundred thousand”?

I thought about going back and explaining to this complete stranger that she was so wrong, how wills worked, that eight hundred thousand was an inaccurate number, that Tori was fine and had plenty of money, that she and her family were provided for. Both the kids had large trust funds and had never worried about, or probably even thought about, money. I wanted to ask her if she had seen Tori’s supposed “garage sale,” and had stopped to think about the number of possessions Tori had amassed. She took just some of her possessions out of storage and still had so much furniture, clothing, gifts, appliances, jewelry, shoes, and, of course, dog clothing that she made thousands and thousands of dollars. Tori always had money, and was making millions of dollars.

But I didn’t want to get into a discussion with a stranger
in a hospital parking lot about how much money my daughter had inherited.

At home my voice mail was full with messages telling me not only what shows Tori had been on, but also much of what she’d said.

My nicest friend whispered into my voice mail, “I don’t think a complicated relationship is that bad. Hope your surgery went well.”

My closest friend said, “Just let me know if you want to leave the country until the book tour is over. I’ll go with you, but I don’t want to go to Asia. It’s too long a flight.”

Others left messages including, “Oh, you poor thing. You are such a good mother”; “Tori must be in a really bad mood today”; and “Tori found out she could make a living talking about you. This is like Joan Rivers and her Edgar, and those poor ex-wives of Johnny Carson. Ouch.”

I hadn’t been married to one of Hollywood’s greatest showmen for decades without figuring out that the publication of Tori’s book had been timed to promote the new season of her TV show, and vice versa. So, although there was a brief lull, I knew there was more to come.

Tori’s reality show was moving from its setting at an inn to her home in Hollywood. So, without having to worry about feeding guests and cleaning rooms, she would now have fewer concerns and more time to talk about me.

Darn.

Fade to the start of the new TV season.

Now when my home phone lines light up all at once and my cell phone begins belting out show tunes, I know Tori’s on television again.

Sure enough, the night her show made its debut, my phones went crazy. Every time zone reported in, hour after hour, so by the time a show had run at ten
P.M.
in L.A., I had had a full report.

“Oh, Tori wishes you guys were closer” seemed to be the consensus. That was from people who knew my phone numbers.

What I never imagined was the uniquely twenty-first-century phenomenon of everyone having access to everyone else, otherwise known as e-mail.

The man who operates my Web site faxed me a cryptic message.