19 The Last Straw
NINETEEN
The Last Straw
One night over dinner with my parents, I decided to discuss the elephant that had stood in the room since I turned eighteen.
“I think it’s time I move out and get my own place,” I said.
Dad looked down at his plate, and Mom put down her glass of wine.
I glanced over at Jansen, and I couldn’t tell if he was stunned or angry.
Probably both. I was keenly aware that when I left home, Jansen would be alone with Mom and Dad.
Moving to LA hadn’t patched up their relationship.
If anything, the distance between them had gotten bigger.
“Where are you going to go?” Mom asked. She looked sad, which I understood. A big part of me was sad, too.
“I think I’m going to buy a house. Somewhere I can spread out and have friends over. Don’t worry, I’ll be close.”
“Are you going to sell this place?” Mom asked.
“No, Mom, of course not. You guys live here.”
Heroes and Neutrogena were keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads.
Mom and I were pitching ideas for movies together, Dad was playing golf, and Jansen attended an excellent private school and acted whenever he could.
Our lives were more than comfortable. Except for the tension between Mom and Dad, everything seemed to be coming up roses.
As far as I was concerned, there was no reason it shouldn’t continue to.
“I don’t want there to be any disruptions when I move,” I said. “We’re a family, and we stick together.”
Mom smiled. “We are a family. Nothing will change that.”
If only she’d been right. But in life, some breakups feel inevitable.
A few months later, I was in my trailer on the set of Heroes when I heard a knock on my door. It was Milo, so I let him in.
“You might want to sit down,” he said, closing the door carefully. “Do you know where your dad is?”
I searched his face, and it was as serious as a heart attack. Panic immediately set in. “What do you mean? Isn’t he at home?”
Milo paused and clenched his jaw. “He’s in jail.”
“What?” I pleaded. “Why? What happened?!”
“He hit your mom,” he answered.
I sat down—just as Milo had suggested—and my heart began to pound so hard I thought it might break my ribs.
Thoughts raced through my head, and I wondered who could have called the cops—and why.
It just couldn’t be true. My parents’ relationship was hanging on by a thread, but was no way Dad would hit Mom.
Maybe they were fighting so loud that the neighbors intervened, I thought.
Or maybe this is all a misunderstanding.
Then I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to think.
Even though almost nothing about my family surprised me at that point, there had to be another version of the story.
In fact, I’d seen Mom and Dad the night before, and while they weren’t getting along, there was no way Dad went home and did something that would ruin my family’s lives.
The previous evening, Mom, Dad, and I had attended a charity event for the Whaleman Foundation.
I had started serving as Whaleman’s international spokesperson and had been the fundraiser’s official host, and both were huge honors for me.
The party had been a massive success, with tons of money raised and terrific exposure for Whaleman. It was also a pretty spectacular time.
Then there were my parents. The last image that planted itself in my mind before I left suggested something deeply hostile was happening between them.
Both had been drinking, Mom had started arguing with people, and from his body language, I could see that Dad was at his wit’s end.
I’d witnessed my parents’ inability to communicate in a healthy way a thousand times, and this entire scene was case in point.
But it was their problem, not mine, so I decided to bow out.
Besides, if anyone from the press saw me intervene with my bickering parents, they’d twist the story, and it would make all of us look like jerks.
So, I walked out of the event without saying goodbye to them.
“I have to get Dad out of jail,” I said to Milo as I picked up my phone and started scrolling through my contacts.
“Yeah, I get that,” he answered. “Just be prepared to spend some money because bail isn’t cheap.”
“How expensive are we talking?” I asked. Milo cringed, which gave me a good idea. Then I found my lawyer’s number and prepared to spend tens of thousands of dollars to rescue Dad.
I’m going to stop here and say something important.
Given what I’ve endured in my own personal life—which I will get to later in this book—I am more passionate about this message than almost anything.
Domestic violence of any kind—physical, verbal, financial, sexual, emotional, or psychological—is inexcusable.
It destroys lives and scars people forever.
The trauma I feel from the abuse I’ve suffered is painful on a level I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I do not take the subject lightly. If you are in an abusive relationship, please take care of yourself, put your needs first, and lean on your support network.
I know how hard it is to do these things—and if I could take my own advice, I’d be in much better shape than I am—but try to set boundaries and take the necessary precautions or actions to make yourself safe.
No one should live in fear of a loved one, and no one should ever lay their hands on you or harm you in any way. Period. Full stop.
However, violence within families and between intimate partners is also a complex and personal issue.
Because of this, I refuse to judge or comment on other people’s situations or experiences.
I respect their privacy and dignity, and I ask that others respect mine.
Family dynamics aren’t always healthy, and mine was no exception.
In 2008, the Panettieres were feisty and feistier.
I love my family with all my heart, but we fight hard.
Jansen and I spent hours of our lives rolling on the floor pulling each other’s hair and punching each other’s kidneys.
Mom and Dad bickered about issues both big and small, and their fights were loud and intense.
We’re fiery Italians, and “fuck you” was our way of saying “I love you.” Sometimes, we also meant “fuck you” literally.
To the best of my knowledge, none of my parents’ disputes ever erupted into physical violence, and certainly not after the Whaleman event.
The paparazzi that lined the streets and flew in helicopters over my house and condo reported that at about 4:00 a.m., Mom called 911 from my condo.
When the police came, she told them that Dad had struck her across the face two or three times.
Dad wasn’t home, but when he returned, they arrested him on the spot and charged him with felony domestic assault.
Dad later told me that the trouble started before he and Mom had left the gala.
After having a few drinks, Mom saw a guest in a corner kissing a woman who wasn’t his wife or girlfriend.
Mom told Dad she planned to say something to him, and Dad told Mom to leave him alone because he was a grown man.
Mom disagreed, and she marched over, told the man he was being inappropriate, and insisted that he stop.
The man looked Mom straight in the eyes and told her to go to hell.
Mom stormed off and found Dad. “Skip, that man over there said the most offensive thing to me,” she complained.
Dad sighed. “Do you want me to go do something?” he asked. “I mean, why’d you even bother the guy?”
Mom protested, and Dad stood firm, refusing to validate her feelings.
Mom complained, and Dad got more irritated.
I witnessed this interaction, and—even though I found it almost impossible not to intervene—I chose to leave the scene.
Not long after, Mom and Dad decided to go home, and they went back to my condo, still swimming in the toxic, drunken cesspool of tension that had started at the party.
Dad got into bed because it was late, but Mom didn’t feel settled.
“We need to talk, Skip,” she said, following him into the bedroom.
“For God’s sake,” Dad answered, “it’s three a.m. Jansen is asleep upstairs. I know where this is going, and I don’t want it. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she kept insisting that they talk. Dad got up, grabbed his pillow, and walked to the spare bedroom, then crawled into bed. Mom followed him and pulled the blanket off his body, making Dad roll onto the floor along with the blanket.
“What the hell, Lesley?”
Dad stood up. Mom approached. Dad balled up his fist, placed it against Mom’s face, and said, “Get out of my way. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m afraid I might hit you.”
Mom backed off. Then Dad ran out of the condo, got into his car, and drove to my house. When he saw Milo’s car in the driveway, he returned home, just in time for the police to arrest him.
Mom instantly regretted calling the cops, and when Dad came home from jail, she begged him for forgiveness.
She also tried to get the charges dropped, but in the state of California, only the district attorney has the power to drop domestic violence charges.
On the advice of a lawyer friend, Dad pleaded no contest so that the issue would fade away without a trial.
Unfortunately, the opposite happened. The fact that he didn’t claim he was innocent made everyone believe he was guilty, and the tabloids ran with it.
Dad was sentenced to fifty-five weeks of anger management classes—all of which he attended—and boy, did he have some stories about the people he met there.
That was the last straw for Mom and Dad’s steaming pile of a marriage.
Their connection had faded over the years as the differences between them grew and their interests diverged, but now real damage had been done.
They might have had love for each other—and they certainly had a codependent, explosive kind of passion—but they didn’t like each other anymore.
All they saw was anger, distance, betrayal, and resentment.
A few weeks later, Dad moved out and got an apartment close to Jansen’s high school. Mom stayed with Jansen in my condo.
I was furious at Mom because I was sure she’d called the cops based on a knee-jerk reaction to Dad blowing up and leaving that night. I also couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of how this would land on my shoulders when the press ran with it.
“It’s a mess,” I said to Milo. “This whole incident is in every paper in America and in other countries. But instead of running Mom and Dad’s photo, they’re showing me.”
Dad later said he thought Mom got so upset because she suspected he wanted to leave her.
He’d even accidentally left his phone out while he was searching for apartments, and Mom had likely seen what was on his screen.
But that was all just the icing on the cake because—as far as Mom and Dad’s marriage was concerned—the writing had been on the wall for years.
Now it was out in the open. And I don’t mean out in the open in the comfort of my own home.
I mean on TMZ, US Weekly, and every other publication you could think of.
The Whaleman event was the last I saw of my family. Rather, it was the last I saw of my broken, but still somewhat intact, family. I’d been growing up fast for years, but now, I was officially out in the world, on my own.