Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “The Enquirer?” I said.

  The tea I sipped got stuck in my throat and I coughed. One thing I had learned over the years about the Enquirer was that no matter how sleazy it was, it was almost always right. If it said someone was on their deathbed, they’d be dead in a month. If it said a celebrity was cheating on his wife, in a week they’d be filing for divorce, announcing it had nothing to do with the horrible tabloid reports, and that they were still the best of friends with mutual respect and love for one another and to please honor their need for privacy at this most sensitive time.

  “Ally, it’s crazy.” Alex checked his watch as if trying to decipher something. “Well, it’s good to see you up again. I’m just going to read some e-mails.”

  Gabby brought out her Barbies. “Let’s talk dolls,” she said. “My Barbie is Cinderella. You can be Ariel. But you’re not still living in the sea. You already have legs, okay? If you try to go back, you’ll drown.”

  Later, I checked the phone messages. The phone had been ringing nonstop all day but I’d been too tired to answer. I figured everyone was checking up on me. Now, I realized that they had seen the Enquirer and wanted to know what was going on. There was a message from my Aunt Maddy, Claire, and Judy. I decided to call Judy. She’d have the story right next to her and be waiting for my call.

  “It says here they were seen canoodling. God, I hate that word. Anyway, witnesses say they were canoodling at a remote table . . . Wednesday night at Spago’s.”

  Wednesday night I drove myself to the hospital. Were they snuggling at Spago’s while I was struggling with a toll machine at the hospital?

  “So are they canoodling? Is there a picture of them canoodling?”

  “No. There’s just a picture of Alex holding open a car door for her. But I mean, come on. Alex would do that for anyone. It could have been just a confab about the case.”

  “Sure. You’re probably right,” I said, while thinking, why did he tell me it was a staff meeting? And why would Judy suddenly pretend everything’s okay when for weeks she’s been warning me that everything wasn’t?

  “You okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to smile into the phone. “No. I mean, I really don’t know what I am.”

  That night I waited on the sofa for Alex as he read Cinderella to Gabby. He seemed to take longer than usual, nearly an hour. Afterwards, he grabbed a Red Trolley Ale out of the refrigerator and headed towards his office. I grabbed my stomach—the pain was like a few quick stabs with a knife.

  “I gotta shitload of work,” he mumbled.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can it wait? I’m so behind, what with taking the last few days off and all.”

  “Alex, what’s going on?”

  My head pounded. I felt sick. Please say the right thing, I begged. Please, make this easy and we can just move on.

  “Shit, Alice, it’s horrible, isn’t it? It was an innocent dinner. We needed to discuss some aspects of the case. We were both hungry. I probably should have kept it at the office, that was stupid of me, but I wasn’t thinking. I’m not used to the press. I mean, I go out to dinner with lots of clients. But canoodling, come on. We were hardly canoodling. It was a lawyer-client meeting. You know you’re the only one for me. But if this has upset you, I’ll tell Rose someone else at the firm will be handling the case from now on. I’m not going to risk my marriage for some stupid breach of contract bullshit, which by the way, she is completely guilty of. God, she’s just a vapid idiot.”

  If only he would say it. My whole body was on the brink of convulsing. I swallowed hard. A few knives stabbed my sides.

  Alex stood there for hours, it seemed. He took a long, slow slug of his Red Trolley and wiped his mouth with a hand. He took a deep breath and shifted his eyes towards the floor. Everything was in slow motion.

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know. What did that even mean?

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Honest, I didn’t. And I feel like a complete shit, especially with what happened to you the other day. I should have been there for you.”

  I couldn’t see. Everything was suddenly blurry. My stomach felt turned inside out. Maybe I wasn’t hearing right.

  “You didn’t mean for any of what to happen?” My voice was loud and unsteady. “You mean you should have told me you were having a business dinner with Rose, right? You forgot to tell me and you feel bad. No big deal, right? A client-lawyer thing. Right? Right?” Just. Say. It. Even if it’s a lie, just say it.

  My voice throbbed in my ears. I was screaming. Alex’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, up and down. It looked like it was having some weird seizure. My head felt like it would implode. I braced for what I imagined would be the worst, but still hoped for a miracle.

  Say this, Alex, please say, “Things got a little out of hand. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anything to happen, but she was so persistent. It really was not a big deal. It will never happen again, Alice. I promise. I love you. Can we get past this? I’ll do anything not to lose you.”

  I waited and imagined that I could eventually live with this. I never thought I could be one of those forgiving wives. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I remembered Greg, my personal trainer. I had some impure thoughts about him. He had the best body I’d ever seen, with those crazy ripples of muscle everywhere. Maybe if he hadn’t been gay, I would have cheated . . . No, Alice, who are you kidding? You’re not the cheating type. No one in your family’s the cheating type. You hate cheaters. You said you’d never ever put up with a cheater.

  The thoughts churned in my head. It had been minutes since Alex had spoken. I looked over. He held onto the back of the sofa and his eyes were shut. I wondered if he was about to faint.

  “Alex . . .”

  “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Can’t we talk about this later? I have to sort through things before I put them in words.”

  “Sort through what?”

  He squeezed his eyes tighter and inhaled. Suddenly cheating seemed innocuous. Suddenly I had the most horrible thought in the entire world. My heart pummeled at my ribs.

  “Are you . . . are you . . . in love with her?”

  I felt like I was reciting cheesy dialogue from a bad rom-com starring Kate Hudson. The word love got caught in my throat as if I had swallowed it the wrong way.

  Cue the laughter. Hysterical laughter. “With who? Rose? You’ve gotta be kidding me. Alice, I love you. I don’t love Rose. I told her you were the only one for me. Oh, Ally, you and that imagination of yours.”

  But instead there was silence. The loudest silence I’ve ever heard. The refrigerator hummed. A fly buzzed somewhere. Air molecules crashed into each other. A clock in the kitchen ticked off each incredibly endless second of silence.

  “Are you in love with her? Alex? Alex?”

  He stared at the floor while holding the couch as if it would somehow protect him.

  “Alex?”

  Come on, you moron. How could you be in love with her? Sure, she’s beautiful, rich, and a movie star. But it’s Rose Maris. She’s not someone you fall in love with. You might want to sleep with her. I can’t blame you for that. But come on, you have a wife and a child. She has a new boyfriend every week. When we went out to dinner it was Finn. Since then, she’s been linked to someone named Cory and someone named Marlon. You’re willing to give up all this for a week with a flaky movie star with a Chihuahua with painted nails? Come on! Where’s Alex Hirsh? The man I married? Who is this alien standing in front of me?

  He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. And everything became clear. But as if I needed the words, he spoke in the smallest voice I’d ever heard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You don’t know? What don’t you know?”

  “Mommy? Mommy, I want water,” Gabby screamed from he
r bedroom. Gabby always has impeccable timing. It’s like some unconscious part of her detects stress in the house.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  I was paralyzed. Alex didn’t move. He gripped the couch even tighter.

  “Get out,” I growled in a voice I’d never heard before just as Gabby shuffled into the room in her Ariel nightgown. She clutched Lambie Pie, her stuffed wooly lamb that plays “Jesus Loves Me” when you wind it. She was sleepy and beautiful and disheveled and the most innocent thing in the world. I felt all her innocence slipping away and she was too innocent to even know it. As she stood there, she was losing all the things I took for granted as a child. And I started bawling right there, uncontrollably.

  “Mommy? Mommy . . .”

  “Mommy’s just a little sad about the baby,” I said. “But it’s okay.”

  So that’s what I would have told my mom. Just a few days ago, I was sipping tea, looking out into the Valley and believing life couldn’t be better. Now I want to cry. My husband is living in a condo in Marina del Rey while trying to decide whether or not he’s in love with Rose Maris, whether or not he loves me. What to do next. Gabby and I are in limbo, holed up in a still mostly unfurnished, undecorated house, trapped by paparazzi vultures feeding on the entrails of our marriage.

  The Laugher chortles. Dr. Phil chastises another chubbo who doesn’t look nearly as large as good ol’ Phil. “You must take control of your life.” The Satellite shuffles through minus the Waxie. I wipe away tears as I stroke Mom’s hand.

  “I wish you could understand,” I whisper.

  She squeezes my hand hard and I imagine she’s saying, “I do understand. I just don’t have the words to tell you. I’m still here, right next to you. It’s me, Mommy. The same person who sang you to sleep with ‘Puff the Magic Dragon,’ who cooked you chicken soup when you were sick, who told you bedtime stories, who took you shopping for prom dresses and a wedding gown, who rocked the infant Gabby to sleep while singing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’ Don’t listen to what they tell you. I could never really leave you. I’m still here.”

  But I look into her eyes and see nothing, just emptiness and distance. Does she even know who I am?

  No, Mommy doesn’t understand. I stare out the window. Trinity is trying to help Gabby cartwheel. Her Cinderella gown hangs over her head.

  I turn back toward my mother. I notice her lip is trembling. It’s as if she’s trying to say something.

  “What is it, Mommy? What is it? It’s me, Ally. Remember me? Tell me something. Anything. Help me, please.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut as she bites her lip. Then she slowly opens her mouth, looks straight ahead, and whispers in a voice almost as quiet as silence. I lean in to hear.

  “Cocksucker,” she says. “Cocksuckercocksuckercocksucker.”

  Despite what Trinity says, I can’t help feeling that somehow, somewhere in the depths of her being, my mother understands. Some part of her is still there.

  “Cocksucker,” she whispers again.

  3

  School Friends

  It is the first day of kindergarten. Gabby sits in the back of the Toyota singing along to a Disney princess CD. Ariel is trilling about the futility of life under the sea. I sip my grande nonfat latte as we head into the parking lot of Gabby’s school.

  It is overwhelming. A sea of mostly white and black and a few red SUVs, minivans, and even one enormous, bright mustard-colored Hummer cram into the parking lot. I search for a spot. The SUVs have hoarded them all; the Hummer pulls into a spot marked “compact.”

  Ariel, believe me, stay under the sea.

  As I wait for somewhere to park, I search for future friends. There are buffed women with well-manicured nails and perfectly made-up faces, wearing low-riding velour sweatsuits with lettering that reads “Juicy” or “Hello! Kitty” or “Angel” on their perfectly Pilatisized butts. They stand back as the nannies unbuckle screaming children. There are pony-tailed women in baseball caps, T-shirts, and stained Gap sweats cajoling kids from the backseat. There are harried businesswomen in suits, their makeup half done, their hair still wet, pulling tots to the front door of this primary-colored building while juggling cell phone conversations. Where do I fit in all of this?

  I am going to be positive. I am going to open myself up to these women. I will not be judgmental because they have boob jobs, collagen lips, and always look like they’re on the way to the gym. I will not judge the ones who look dowdy and stained. We are mothers. Maybe if I get to know some of them, I won’t find them all so boring and one-dimensional. We are in the same club. Maybe we can forge friendship. And I have no friends in the Valley, so I will make an effort. I can do this.

  I find a spot. Gabby unbuckles her car seat and checks herself in the dashboard mirror. She pats her pigtailed hair and smiles at the reflection. She’s a beautiful honey-blonde girl with thick red lips, big almond-shaped eyes, and chubby cheeks. I check myself in the mirror, too. My eyes are still red, puffy, and swollen from nights of endless sobbing. I look one thousand years old. The teacher will say, “Oh, you must be Gabby’s granny. Nice to meet you.”

  “Mommy, can I borrow your lipstick?

  “No.”

  “Darnicles. Why not?”

  “You can’t wear lipstick to kindergarten.”

  “That’s ridicleus. You wear lipstick when you’re going out. I should be able to! Mommy, do you think I’ll make school friends? Do you think my teacher will be beautiful?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I hope so.”

  We head into the building. I search for Mrs. Waring’s room. It’s the name of the teacher listed on a note I received about a week ago. According to the note, I was supposed to schedule a quick meeting for Gabby, since “this will help transition them into kindergarten.” I wanted to send the note back and write in big red block letters: TRANSITION IS NOT A VERB. But I stopped myself. And instead forgot about the meeting altogether. Besides, Gabby is the most self-confident person I have ever met. She doesn’t need to help transitioning, unlike her mother, who has no clue.

  I open the door to Gabby’s classroom. Mothers and a few fathers sit in a circle with their children on their laps or next to them, waiting for the teacher. We walk in and I can feel the looks of recognition on some of the parents’ faces. They have seen my photograph in the tabloids, I’m sure. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. Some smile. Some just allow their eyes to graze over me.

  “Hi,” I mumble as I crouch toward the floor. My joints crack.

  Gabby stands next to me. “Hello, everybody! My name’s Gabby. This is my mother. Her name’s Alice or you can call her Ally. People call her both. Mom, say hello.”

  The moms laugh.

  “Well, good morning, Gabby and Alice,” someone says from behind us. I turn. It’s a morbidly obese woman wearing a bright purple muumuu decorated with gold flowers.

  “My name is Mrs. Waring. I’ll be your teacher this whole year. I promise we’ll have lots of fun together. And we’re going to do a lot of learning.”

  “Hello,” I say, sounding as pleasant as possible while my heart gallops. Gabby has become so obsessed with beauty and princesses that I’m afraid she’ll run out of this classroom right now because her teacher hardly has Cinderella or Jasmine or Ariel’s body type. Hell, even Ursula the Sea Witch is more svelte.

  I watch Gabby. Her mouth is wide open and her eyes are huge. I watch her study Mrs. Waring. Please, Gabby, please, I silently beg. I’ve got to wean her off princesses and Barbies. I never encouraged it. As a kid, I was a tomboy. When I became pregnant, I swore we’d never have a Barbie doll in the house. Now she has at least thirty. There are Swan Lake Barbie, Happy Family Barbie, Pink Sparkle Fairy Barbie, Lavender Sparkle Fairy Barbie, the Princess and the Pauper Barbie, Pet Doctor Barbie, Barbie Loves SpongeBob, Barbie Loves Patrick Star, Holiday Barbie, Totally Spring Barbie, Magical Mermaid Barbie, My Scene Barbie Styling Head, Beautiful Bride Barbie . . .

  “Oh, that’s the
mother who conditioned her child to be completely superficial. Alice Hirsh. You know who she is, right? Her picture was plastered all over the tabloids the other day. She looked insane. And she’s one to talk about appearances—her hair was horrible, all split ends and disheveled. I don’t think she had any makeup on, either. I don’t blame her husband for leaving her.”

  Gabby squints her eyes and scrunches her face. She’s about to make a declaration, I can feel it. I quickly try to distract her.

  “Isn’t this classroom nice?” I whisper to her.

  “Shh, Mommy. I have to talk to the teacher about something.”

  “Gabby! Stay here!”

  She ignores me as she heads toward Mrs. Waring.

  “Is it okay if I tell you something?” She cranes her neck up.

  Mrs. Waring smiles down at her. I imagine it is the last smile Gabby will receive from this woman.

  “Yes, Gabby, what is it?”

  “Well . . . well . . . it’s just that dress you have on,” Gabby starts.

  “Gabby,” I say, again in the weird sing-songy voice. “Don’t bother Mrs. Waring.”

  Gabby rolls her eyes at me as Mrs. Waring smiles too hard at her. I feel even she’s bracing for what’s next. I’m sure she’s been battling insensitive comments about her weight from kids who don’t know any better most of her life.

  “Anyway, that’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. You look just like a princess.” Gabby looks over at me. “I wish my mommy wore dresses like that. But everything is jeans, jeans, jeans. She must have one hundred pairs of jeans and one dress and it’s black. Why would you just wear a black dress when there are so many beautiful colors in the world?”

  Mrs. Waring chortles as the rest of the moms look at me and laugh. I relax and smile. Gabby has instantly become the teacher’s pet.

  “What a wonderful little girl. Her mother must have really instilled her with good values. You know who her mother is, right? Her picture was plastered all over the tabloids the other day. She looked great, even without a drop of makeup on. Her husband, the cad, is having an affair with Rose Maris. Can you imagine? We should invite her over for dinner. Maybe our cute single doctor friend is available?”