No Ordinary Life (25 page)

56

W
e're famous.

Like a light switch…no, more like a tsunami…our life has been carried away on a roaring wave that makes it difficult to catch a breath.

We woke up the day after the premiere unaware how much our world had changed. Then we walked into the parking garage to half a dozen reporters waiting for us, cameras and microphones ready, and that's when I realized that in the span of a single night, Molly had become a full-fledged, bona fide celebrity.

“Molly, how old are you?”

Molly held up four fingers.

“How long have you been singing?”

Molly's brow crinkled, not understanding the question. Hasn't everyone been singing their whole life?

My heart pounded the whole way to the studio.
Us, celebrities. Us, famous.
I couldn't believe it. It was unbelievable.

The second week things got worse or better depending on your perspective. In the second episode, Molly and Miles sang with the band, and Molly also had a solo performance where she knelt by her bed, eyes closed, hands clasped together as she sang a prayer for her dad called “Moonbeams to Heaven.” Both songs topped the music charts for a week.

Since the premiere,
The Foster Band
ratings have soared into the stratosphere, and Chris and the studio execs are happy as hyenas in a meat locker.

The result of our success is that now, wherever we go, people crowd us for autographs and snap our picture, and the paparazzi trail us from the condo to the studio and everywhere in between.

No matter where we are, a crowd surrounds us. There are websites dedicated to celebrity sightings, and since everyone in the world is connected, within minutes of us doing something as mundane as going into a Starbucks, we have an audience. Cell phones and iPads document our every move, hundreds of photos of Molly blowing on her hot chocolate or me ordering an almond biscotti posted to hundreds of Facebook pages and websites that are then viewed by tens of thousands of followers.

At first it was exciting, but now, nearly two months later, we're all kind of tired of it. Being famous is a lot of work. It takes enormous effort to constantly be upbeat and polite, and there are some days when we're tired and just not in the mood to smile and wave.

Actually most of the time we're tired. Our schedule has become grueling. The demands outside the studio have erupted into a whirlwind of obligations that suck up every spare minute—interviews, photo shoots, appearances, endorsements, and fund-raisers.

Most of it is grand. Molly is treated like a queen, and I'm treated like the queen's mother. The fans love us and are so excited to see us, and if you give them a smile or an autograph, it's as if you've handed them the moon.

Helen has told me that I need to learn to say no, and sometimes I do, but it's difficult to say no to raising money for cancer or diabetes or clean water in Africa, knowing that a few hours of our time can literally change lives. It's also equally difficult to turn down the opportunity to make tens of thousands of dollars for Molly to show up at Toys “R” Us for a few minutes to announce that her favorite game is Twister. So on and on it goes, a demanding, exhilarating merry-go-round that leaves little time for rest and even less time to slow down and smell the roses.

Because of the hullaballoo that surrounds us, the studio now provides an armored limousine to drive us all the places we need to go. This both gets us where we need to be and also provides a layer of protection between Molly and her adoring fans, many whose love borders on obsessive.

There are now dozens of John Lennons haunting our lives, and it seems like every day another inappropriate gift or solicitous letter arrives. I understand now why Monique Braxton shrugged off my concern over the flowers and why the officer was so dispassionate about pursuing John Lennon over the locket. Compared to the lewd gifts and lascivious letters we've received since the premiere, the roses and necklace are tame.

Because of this, I should be scared all the time, living in a constant state of fear, but what I've discovered is that fear is like happiness, it simply can't be sustained. The truth is my adrenaline is worn out, which in turn is terrifying, since it is fear that keeps me on guard, and I know that when I forget to be scared is when something bad is going to happen. Knowing this causes moments of extreme panic and paranoia. I'll be going about my day, totally not thinking about the letters or threats, when something will happen—a sharp movement, the flash of a camera, a loud noise—and my heart will seize up, certain we're under attack. When my pulse finally settles, I promise not to slack off again, but the vow is short-lived because it's simply impossible to maintain that kind of vigilance. So instead, I do what the others on the show do, which is not think about it, ignoring the fact that there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of weirdos infatuated with my daughter. I especially avoid thinking about the “creepers” as Jeremy calls them, the fans who, for some demented reason, are hell-bent on hurting Molly.

We've only received two of those sort of letters. The first from a religious fanatic who thinks Molly is the face of greed and materialism and therefore needs to be punished for her sins. The second from a man with a warped idea that Molly would enjoy a spanking and who has set out to detail all the ways in which he would like to give her one. Both letters were passed on to the police. Considering the number of letters we receive each day, two is a very small number, but two nutcases obsessed with hurting my four-year-old still seems like a lot.

Last week, one of Kira's creepers was caught breaking into her dressing room. It shook up everyone that he made it that far, especially Kira, and now she won't go anywhere without a bodyguard, not even to the bathroom.

Nighttime is the hardest, the time when my guard is down, my subconscious free to roam to all the dark places I don't allow it to go during the day, and lately I've been having a hard time sleeping at all.

Our limo driver's name is Mack, and he reminds me a little of Bo in that he is tough and sweet at the same time. Black as beans, he doesn't have a neck or hair or much of a chin, but he does have a great sense of humor and a heck of a voice that he uses to sing along with whatever happens to be playing on the radio. He also has a temper and no problem whatsoever running over a reporter or fan if they get in his way. He gives them fair warning with his horn, but then it's up to them to step aside so we can get through.

At first I hated the idea of a limo and driver—it felt so pretentious—but now I realize we'd never get anywhere if Mack didn't clear the way. The paparazzi are the worst. They will risk life and limb to get a shot of us. When they first started trailing us, I couldn't believe it was worth their time, but last week I heard one of them got $15,000 for a photo he took of Molly tying her shoe in the parking garage. The headline read,
Molly Martin Learns to Tie Her Shoes!
Molly's been tying her shoes for months.
Fifteen grand?
Suddenly I understood why they're so dogged in their pursuit. Part of me wants to toss them a morsel now and then so they can be successful, but a larger part of me is reluctant to give them anything, hoping they will move on to more lucrative prospects.

Each of the members of our small clan deals with the attention differently. Molly seems immune to it. Once in a while she'll wave or smile, but like squirrels in a park, there are so many that eventually you no longer notice them. Tom avoids. He stays close to my side, his eyes on the pavement. Emily engages. She loves the reporters and takes every opportunity to taunt and tease them.

Yesterday, when we returned home, one of the paparazzi yelled out, “Molly, how about you show us a new dance move?”

Molly ignored him, but Emily leaped right out in front and, to my extreme mortification, spun so her back was to the photographer, bent over, and shook her booty in an exact imitation of Miley Cyrus's VMA twerking performance. She righted herself, pivoted back around, and said, “Miley taught me that.” Then with us trailing after her, she continued on to the elevator, leaving the photographers busting up laughing and with a nice gossip shot to sell to the highest bidder. It was actually a hilarious moment, very funny and not at all sexy, but I wish she wouldn't encourage them.

I'm reluctant to ask her to stop because things are so tenuous between us. Since the night of the premiere, she and I have tiptoed around each other in an attempt to mend fences. I confiscated her iPhone for a week as punishment for what she did but didn't come down any harder than that. The hangover she suffered the morning after seemed punishment enough.

Both of us feel bad about what happened. I feel terrible for slapping her, and she feels terrible for ruining my special night. She's been on her best behavior, and I've made a concerted effort to give her more of my time. I feel like we are getting there, inch by inch our relationship returning to solid ground, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that, so I let her continue to have fun with the reporters.

Today will be a move in the right direction. This evening is Emily's school's open house, and not only am I going to be there, but after, she and I are going to go out for a nice dinner, just the two of us. Her favorite food is lasagna, and there's a restaurant called Angelini Osteria that is supposed to have the best lasagna in the city.

Fortunately today is a table read day, the day we read the script for the next episode. It's the easiest rehearsal day and the shortest. We should be finished by two, giving me plenty of time to drop Molly and Tom at home, change, and get to Emily's school for the event.

As Mack weaves his way through the freeway traffic, I review the script with Molly and Tom. Both kids' parts seem to grow each episode while Miles's diminishes, a result of the audience polls proving that Molly is a fan favorite and that Grant is also gaining popularity.

As proud as I am that the world loves Molly, the added pressure of more scenes combined with her newfound fame is proving to be a lot, and this morning she's done, her head on my lap, her eyes blankly focused on nothing as I read her parts aloud, hoping some of it is sinking in.

Her fatigue can't be blamed entirely on her job. Today her exhaustion has more to do with her father than her fame. Sean has no regard for the demands Molly faces each week or the fact that she needs to be up at the crack of dawn. Last night he brought her home near midnight, sunburned and exhausted after a weekend of nonstop romping and fun.

I keep hoping his notorious wanderlust will kick in and that he will leave, but unfortunately it doesn't look like he's going anywhere. The financial motivation for sticking around is a powerful anchor, keeping him rooted in the role of doting dad and playing the part of a far more devoted father than he has ever been before.

Mack pulls the limo up to the door of the soundstage.

“Later, Mack,” Tom says.

“Stay cool,” he says back.

Molly rubs the back of Mack's bald head. I don't know why she does this, but she does it every time she gets out of the car. Mack doesn't seem to mind.

The set is always quiet on table read days; the crew either has the day off or they come in late, so I'm surprised to see the master bedroom set lit up and to see Griff positioning a camera as if preparing to shoot a scene.

We're almost to the conference room when a tickle in my brain causes me to turn back. The set is almost out of sight, only a sliver of the room still visible, just enough of a view to see Griff and the camera, the lens no longer aimed at the set but instead angled toward me. When he realizes we've stopped, he straightens, and for the briefest flicker, our eyes catch, then he blinks, his intense expression softens, and he turns away.

The conference room is packed as it always is when we do a read-through. Molly and I take a spot at the table with the primary cast members, and Tom takes a seat along the perimeter with the secondary characters, guest stars, and editors.

Bradley Mitten and his wife, the dynamic writing duo, sit at one end, Chris and Beth at the other. Mitten scans the sidelines until he finds the guest star he's looking for, a girl around sixteen with chestnut hair and connect-the-dot freckles. She was cast to play the part of a groupie named Linda who is obsessed with Jeremy, and I knew when I read the script that the part had been written to satisfy Mitten's perverse appetite for young starlets.

Every few weeks, another teenage female guest star, chosen by Mitten, appears for a role. As Henry put it,
The guy's like a horny Hemingway. If he's allowed to dip his pen in your inkwell, you get the part.
I cringed when Henry said it, and I cringe now as I watch Mitten smile at the girl and as the girl twinkles her fingers back.

Griff walks in, breaking my attention and causing my pulse to beat slightly out of rhythm, our brief encounter this morning throwing it off-kilter. He takes his seat on the other side of Chris, and I feel him not looking at me. Then I watch as he takes a deep breath, forces his body to slump in the chair, and deliberately alters his expression to one of practiced boredom.