by Irene Zutell
“Baby. It’s okay. It’s okay . . .”
“No, Mommy. No.”
She looks up at me, her enormous hazel eyes welling with tears.
“Daddy’s gone?” Her voice sputters and chokes. “Daddy left us? Mommy, Daddy left me? Doesn’t he love me anymore? I’ll be better. I won’t throw my toys. I’ll clean my room. I won’t have meltdowns anymore. I promise. I know I’m a really bad, bad girl, but I’ll be good.”
She starts sobbing so hard I pick her up. Her hot tears race down my neck.
“Shhh, you’re the best girl. You didn’t do anything, baby. You didn’t do anything. Daddy loves you.”
A video camera whirls. Cameras click away. A reporter holds out a tape recorder. I don’t care. I close my eyes and squeeze my daughter tight as her tiny body convulses in sobs. My car keys drop. I feel a hand on my back. The photographer Gabby barreled into slowly turns me and guides me toward my car. I don’t resist. I’m not even there anymore.
“Johnny, move. You’re blocking our view,” someone yells.
“What are you doing? Getting an exclusive? We’re onto you. Move your ass, John.”
“He’s sabotaging our photos! Move it.”
He ignores them. I feel his hand leave my back for a second. I imagine he’s flashed the finger. He opens the car doors for us and straps Gabby in her car seat. Even though I hate him, I let him. Every drop of energy has been sucked out of me. He hands me the keys. I stare at them as if trying to figure out what they’re for. As my hand shakes, I fit the key into the ignition. I try to remember how to drive. The window is filthy with tree sap. Alex would never have let that happen.
Johnny slams Gabby’s door and moves toward mine. “I’ll shut your front door. Just drive out of here and don’t make eye contact with any of them. Okay? And as for what you said before, you’re more beautiful than she is, even in jeans and a T-shirt. Okay? I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, sure,” I snarl. Johnny actually winces as if my words have punched him in the jaw. I guess everyone else he’s said this to has believed him. I shut my eyes and pull at the door. Tomorrow he’ll get his check and move on to the next pathetic subject.
My eyes well up again. I can barely see out of the window. I hit the wiper fluid button and am surprised to find that some water trickles out. I turn on the windshield wipers.
Rainbow makers. That’s what Gabby calls them. Every time I turn them on she claps her hands as if it’s a magic trick. Today she is silent as the wipers smear sludgy sap across the window.
I slowly back out of the driveway. I can sense them on either side of me, snapping away, but I refuse to turn. I hear them calling for me.
“Alice! Alice! Alice!”
I look straight ahead. My eyes land right on Johnny. For a second I forget what he’s done and I think they might be the kindest eyes I have ever seen. Deep blue with little wrinkles underneath, probably from squinting through a lens for so many years. Then he pulls his Nikon up like he’s about to take my photo. Asshole! But instead of clicking away, he turns it around so its back is facing me. Then he presses what I imagine is the delete button. He pounds away with his thumb, throwing out all the photos of Gabby and me.
I nod. But I don’t really believe him. It’s for show. Maybe he just deleted a bunch, but there’s probably hundreds more. Maybe later he’ll pull the photos out of the trash bin. I’m a publicist. I know the game. He’s playing good cop so tomorrow or the next day he can ring the bell and get the exclusive.
“Remember me? I’m not like the others. I’m a good guy. So, you think I can have some photos of you and Alex in happier times? Maybe from your wedding? Your honeymoon? The birth of Gabby?”
After all, if you can’t even trust the man you thought you loved more than anything, how can you trust anyone?
2
Try to Remember
Sometimes I call my mother by her first name, Mary, because it’s easier. This woman with the expressionless eyes and the clamped dry lips and the disheveled hair doesn’t resemble my mother in the least. My mother died about three years ago. The gods shut down her brain but forgot the heart switch, so it beats on, oblivious.
For a while I would try to force her to remember. I’d show her pictures of Dad, her sisters, Madeline and Margaret, her house in Larchmont, Gracie, our black Lab, vacations at the Cape or the Jersey Shore or Montauk.
“Remember? Remember?” I’d plead. “Of course you remember Dad, right? Remember? Look how handsome he was. That’s you, me, and Dad when we took the cruise to Bermuda. Remember how seasick you were? I won one hundred fifty-nine dollars at bingo. Remember?”
She’d smile and nod her head, but her cloudy gray eyes remained unfocused. Still, I’d convince myself that it was all coming back, that any day Mom would return to me. Despite what the doctors had said, it wasn’t really Alzheimer’s. Only an autopsy can diagnose Alzheimer’s. Every day Mom’s memory was improving. Even Hilda, the Teutonic caregiver, would agree. “Yes, your mother hass more clarity.”
Only Trinity, one of Hilda’s employees, was honest with me. She was in her mid-forties, but sometimes she looked like she was barely twenty and other times she looked sixty. She’s from Manila, where Filipinos leave their mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and husbands to come to America to care for our mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and husbands.
Trinity met me outside one day before my visit.
“If you don’ mind, you visiting with the mommy of yours is berry much upsetting. When you leave, he cries,” she said, bungling pronouns as usual. “If you don’ mind me tell you this, he will never be better. It is berry much frustrating for him.”
She looked at me, nervously, her eyes brimming with tears, and I knew she loved my mother. She was the only one I could trust.
“Thank you,” I said weakly.
“If you just sit with your mommy and hold his hand, he would be berry much liking that. Or talking, too, but not force, force, forcing to remember what’s forgotten forever. That mommy of yours is dead, I’m berry sorry to say. You must be accepting of that.”
So that’s what I do now. I sit and hold her hand and tell her about my life and imagine what she would have said just a few years ago. I force myself not to use the word remember.
When I arrived earlier, Hilda met me at the door.
“Your mother’s language iss very bad. It iss very upsetting to zee other boarders. You must do something ASAP. I cannot subject my boarders to such vulgarities. Zey are very sensitive.”
Trinity had mentioned a few weeks ago that my mother had started cursing.
“He has been saying cockasucka and muddafooker,” she whispered, her eyes staring at the floor.
I laughed. “What?” Surely I heard her wrong. This is a woman who said “heck” for hell, and “cripes” for everything else when she felt naughty. I must be naïve, but it’s hard for me to believe that my mother even knows these words or what they mean.
“He has been using berry bad words.”
“It’s a mistake. You must have heard wrong.”
Today Mary and I have the drab living room with the pilled and stained beige carpeting practically to ourselves. Trinity is outside playing catch with Gabby. Hilda went to Costco with her son, Hans, who helps run the place. Dorothy is napping in her bedroom. DeeDee, the other caregiver, is changing Hal’s diaper. Agnes went to lunch with her daughter. Only The Laugher sits near us on the other beige floral couch. Her eyes stare at Dr. Phil on the television. Every few minutes, she’ll break out into a fit of hysterical laughter that ends as abruptly as it began. And The Satellite walks in and out every few minutes. All day long she slogs through the house as if searching for the mother planet.
“Alex is gone,” I say. I can’t help but study Mom’s face for a moment to see if it registers. Her milky eyes stare at something ahead only she sees.
“Alex is my husband. We’ve been married for six years. Rem—” I stop myself. “I really thought it was
forever. I never ever imagined this would be my life. I know it’s probably naïve of me, but divorce is something for other people. I mean, look how happy you and Dad seemed to be. Re—I know Alex and I could fight, but every couple has problems. I always figured we’d work everything out.”
I pause and take a deep breath as The Laugher guffaws for a moment. The Satellite does a lap through the living room and heads toward the back bedrooms. I see a Waxie, those paper toilet seat covers, hanging out of her faded elastic-top polyester pants. The Satellite was once a headline singer with the Tommy Dorsey Band. Frank Sinatra hit on her, her son once told me. Maybe she believes if she walks long enough, she can reenter that world.
“And even now I think it’s somehow going to work itself out. I never thought I’d be one of those people, but part of me thinks I could forgive him. Well, he’d have to come crawling back, admit he was a fool, tell me he always loved me, what a mistake it was, how he was going through a crisis. Of course, I’d say I need some time to think about it. But he’ll probably be persistent. He’d beg and beg. He’d leave me bouquets of flowers. He’d write me poetry. He’d send me romantic homemade CDs. Then when I couldn’t resist anymore, I’d take him back, but I’d insist on serious couple’s therapy before he could live in the house again.”
As if on cue, The Laugher erupts into hysterics. She clutches her stomach and wheezes. She curls her head into her lap and her body shakes. Then it abruptly stops. Dr. Phil chastises some woman about her weight. Dr. Phil, a paunchy guy who reeks lethargy, has somehow become a weight loss guru. Am I the only one who doesn’t get it?
Mom would have understood. She would have loathed Dr. Phil. “That fraud,” she would have said. “Why are people so stupid? He’s fat and he’s telling them to diet? And they’re eating it all up. See the way they look at him? Like he’s their god.”
Mom would have been the one I’d talk to about this. The infidelity part would have been hard, though. Mom would have said don’t ever take him back. But right now, in order to get through the day, I have to believe I could eventually forgive. Just like we all must believe we’ll always be the same person we are right now, never some old lady shuffling around wearing a Waxie like a tail.
I would have told Mom everything. This is where I would have begun.
Alex is an entertainment lawyer. He works for a big firm that handles actors, singers, directors, producers, screenwriters. For the most part, Alex negotiates contracts for the behind-the-scenes people, like set designers and costumers. It wasn’t the most glamorous job at the firm, but he seemed happy. Then, a few months ago, he was hand-picked by Rose Maris to represent her in a breach of contract suit. It turns out the woman who designed her costume for some period piece raved about Alex, so of course she had to have him represent her. Although she’s the biggest movie star out there, Alex was blasé about handling her, even if he was slightly giddy about the publicity the case would receive. He was on his way to big times, we thought.
At first we made fun of her. He’d come home from the office, pop open a bottle of Sierra Nevada, and tell Gabby and me stories.
“Today she showed up with Taquito, her Chihuahua. She was dressed in a plaid pea cap, a matching scarf, and her nails were painted red.”
“So?”
“So? I’m not talking about Rose, Al. I’m talking about the dog. It’s crazy. She talks to the thing like it’s a person. She kept feeding it these little macrobiotic dog bone treats she had specially baked. She’s making twenty mill a picture and she’s completely insane.”
“I want a Chihuahua with red nails,” Gabby said. “Can I? Can I?”
The case consumed him. Rose had signed on to star in a thriller called Calm Storm. Three days into production she decided it was a mistake and she just didn’t show. Because of it, the producers lost millions and sued her. She says they reneged on many of the contractual agreements, including creative control and final script approval.
“This is great for my career, but stop me if I ever take on another celebrity, please. She’s nuts,” Alex would say.
All the women at the office I worked in thought I was nuts.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. I would never allow my husband to take on that case,” Judy said. “I mean, I trust my husband up to a point, but come on, they’re only human.”
“You know her reputation. She’d sleep with her dog if its cock were big enough,” Claire said.
“Her dog’s female,” I said. “Besides, I completely trust Alex.”
“There’s no such beast in Hollywood. Trust is something you can have when you’re a beauty queen living in the Ozarks.”
But I laughed it off. Alex and I were soulmates. Yes, he started working later and later, but I supported it. He needed a big high-profile case like this to get him in the spotlight. We’d just built a 3,500-square-foot ranch house and dumped most of our savings into it. The bulldozers had started digging up our property for the infinity pool. We were hemorrhaging money. And while I questioned the need for a state-of-the-art entertainment center, an infinity pool, and a Jacuzzi with jets that could blow you to another planet, Alex said I needed to relax. He was on his way to partner. Soon we’d be having lots of parties.
“So? I hate big TVs. You used to hate them, too. You’d say the bigger the TV, the smaller the IQ.”
“I’m an entertainment lawyer. I need an entertainment center. And I need a big HDTV. I’m going blind from reading fine print all day. Stop being such a downer.”
Yes. It’s true. Alex was working longer hours and we were fighting more. And one day I realized he’d stopped telling horror stories about Rose. I think it dawned on me the day he came home with an enormous box of Krispy Kremes.
“We don’t eat this junk,” I said. “One of those and Gabby will be jumping on the ceiling for days.”
“Rose brought about five hundred donuts in for the office. She gave me this box to take home for you and Gabby. She said to tell you thanks for sharing me with her.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Jeez, Ally, she was just being nice. She’s not so bad. She knows I haven’t been home as much as you’d like. This was a kind of peace offering.”
“Yeah, a peace offering designed to turn me into a blimp. I bet she’s never eaten a donut.”
Alex smiled at some private thought. “Actually, I saw her eat two enormous chocolate ones right in my office. Really, she’s not obsessed with her weight.”
I suddenly flashed to the movie Vegas Charade, where she plays a stripper who suggestively devours a box of Godiva. She licks the chocolate off with more passion than most of us have for our husbands. God knows what kind of head she gave a Krispy Kreme.
“And then she probably left to puke.”
“You know what? She’s pretty down to earth. I bet the two of you would hit it off. Actually, she really wants to meet you. Well, listen, I’m going to run to the gym.”
That’s another thing. The gym. Alex, who’d usually come home from work, eat dinner, scoop out a bowl of Cherry Garcia, and stretch out on the couch in front of the steroid-laden TV, started heading for the gym. His beer gut melted away.
“Daddy, your arms look just like Popeye’s,” Gabby would say.
He’d flex for her. Then hoist her into the air until she’d scream with glee.
“I love you, Daddy. You’re the best daddy in the whole world. And I love this,” Gabby said, pulling at the tuft of hair growing on Alex’s chin. “Even though Mommy doesn’t.”
That would be his new goatee. Another sign I ignored. Alex had just turned thirty-nine. I chalked it up to a midlife crisis.
And then came the baby issue. We’d wanted a playmate for Gabby for a long time, but kept procrastinating. We decided our Laurel Canyon bungalow was too small for another child. We’d wait until we could afford to move. Then we bought property. We’d wait until the house was built. Then we’d wait until Alex got a bonus, a promotion. We’d wait until I had enough clients
to freelance.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Tick. Tick Tick.
One day I was thirty-eight.
We finally had the house. Alex was close to a promotion. I had a lot of clients. There was no reason to wait.
“Just let’s see how this case unravels.”
“What? You can have an entertainment center and an infinity pool, but not another child? What are we waiting for? This is what we always wanted.”
“It’s just . . .”
“It’s just what?”
“No, you’re right. It’s what we always wanted.”
“Gee, that’s convincing.”
“I’ve just been so tired lately.”
“Then don’t go to the gym every night.”
“What do you want, Alice? A few months ago you told me I had a gut. Well, look, I got rid of it.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Mommy, stop yelling at Daddy.”
“I’m not yelling at Daddy. I’m discussing.”
“Why does dis-custing sound just like yelling?”
A few weeks later, Alex took me to dinner at Koi, an oh-so-trendy Japanese restaurant in West Hollywood frequented by the people Alex and I used to loathe. We were having a night out with Rose and her boyfriend, a musician I’d never heard of named Finn.
“I can’t believe you’re having dinner with her. I mean, you know what her motives are,” Judy had said earlier that day.
“Motives?”
“She wants to check you out before she swoops in for the kill. She wants to meet the enemy.”
“I don’t consider her competition.”
“No offense, but she doesn’t consider you competition either.”
“Gee, thanks for the support.”
“Come on, Al, she’s a multimillionaire hot mega star. She gets what she wants. And it sounds like she wants your husband.”
