Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  Mrs. Waring reads a story about a rabbit named Max and his first day of school. He’s scared, but he has a lot of fun and everything works out for the best. After that, she says it’s time for the mommies and daddies to leave. I haven’t felt this relaxed in months. My body is rubbery. I could stay here all day, fingerpainting, singing songs, and learning how to spell. I want naptime and storytime and recess and cookies and milk. I want to be five again.

  Some of the children cry and cling to their moms or dads. I search for Gabby. She’s in the back of the classroom rummaging through a trunk of dress-up clothes. She pulls out a tiara and affixes it to her head. I try to make eye contact with her, but she’s too engrossed. I go over to her.

  “Good-bye, sweetie, I love you.”

  I bend down to kiss her, but she moves her cheek away.

  “Mom, that’s too embarrassing.”

  Only five and already I embarrass her. I didn’t expect to hear this until she was at least thirteen. I watch her for a few seconds. My baby’s already in kindergarten. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of how fast the last five years have gone. How each age is like a little death. Where is my infant? My baby? My toddler? What happened to Tickle Me Elmo? Minnie Mouse? Unicorns? I silently command myself to play Barbies with her the next time she asks, before that phase gives way to the next.

  “I love you very much,” I say, hugging her. She squirms.

  “Mommy, I think I saw a magic wand in here. I have to get it fast before some other girl wants it.”

  “Remember to share,” I say.

  She smiles at me and whispers, “I don’t like to share. But if the teacher’s looking, I’ll share.”

  Another mom heads out at the same time I do. She wipes tears from her eyes. We smile at each other.

  “This is harder than I thought,” she says.

  “I know. If I’m crying over kindergarten, what will I be doing when she’s in high school?”

  She hands me a tissue. “Hi. I’m Nancy Potter. My son’s Ethan.” She sticks out her hand and I shake it.

  “I’m Alice. My daughter’s Gabby.”

  “What a sweetie she is. We’ll have to have a playdate one of these days.”

  Nancy keeps talking. She seems nice but I can’t get past her sweatshirt. It’s got a picture of Winnie the Pooh sticking his paw into a beehive. “I love my honeys,” it reads. Underneath it reads “Ethan and Sarah.” I know it sounds incredibly superficial of me but I can’t imagine becoming friends with a woman who wears a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. Come on, Alice, you’re probably thinking. Maybe it was a gift. But it doesn’t matter. This could be the most wonderful person in the Valley but all I see is the sweatshirt. What kind of person wears a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt? What kind of person judges someone who wears a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt?

  “Sure. A playdate would be great,” I say as I head to my car. I wonder where to go. For the first time in years I have no responsibility. I have taken a few weeks off from my public relations job. Actually, I can’t imagine working ever again. I thought my boss would be devastated, but he sounded relieved.

  “We’re not supposed to make news. We’re supposed to get our clients news. I just think right now your presence might be too disruptive,” my boss said.

  Dr. Phil would yell and say I should jump right back in, forget about that cad and get on with my life. That’s what Judy said, too.

  “You have to come back,” she said. “I can’t imagine being in this place without you here. And you’ll be bored silly just being a mom.”

  But I don’t want to go back yet. I want to wallow in self-pity. I want to cry. I want to figure out what I should do next. Public relations was never for me. I hate being fake and upbeat and perky. I’d rather be real and pessimistic and cantankerous. I had always wanted to be a writer. When I graduated from college, I was brainwashed by some headhunters into thinking that public relations would be a good stepping stone.

  “You’ll make a lot of contacts at newspapers and magazines. You’ll be writing blurbs that will run nearly verbatim in the press.” But it’s not a stepping stone. No one believes a publicist can write anything but blurbs. By the time I figured this out, I felt stuck. I had a house, a baby on the way, and lots of expenses. I played by the rules. But now there are no rules. Alex can do what he wants. So can I.

  Alex stopped by yesterday to take Gabby to the zoo. Gabby ran to the door screaming, “Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here.” I snuck peeks from the bedroom window. She grabbed Alex’s hand and pulled him towards the car. He looked different. His hair was shorter and the front was cut in a trendy faux hawk. No more weekend Hawaiian shirts. He had on a tight white T-shirt with something written on the front that I couldn’t read. Gabby beamed at him. She thinks this is all some great adventure.

  “Daddy’s living somewhere else—for now—and when I see him, I get him all to myself. We always do really fun things. He lets me eat whatever I want.”

  “Are you okay,” I asked Gabby after Alex dropped her off last night.

  “Sure. Great. The elephant ate peanuts right out of my hand. Daddy said when he was a little boy, he didn’t keep his hand out flat and the elephant sucked up Daddy’s hand in his trunk. When he pulled it out, it was covered in boogies. Isn’t that disgusting?”

  I looked hard at her. “I mean, are you okay with Daddy not being here all the time?”

  “Sure.” She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not? It’s nice and quiet here.”

  “Oh, Daddy was too noisy?”

  “No, you were. You were always yelling at Daddy.”

  “I was not.”

  “Yes, you were. And then he’d yell back. Then you’d yell. Then he’d yell. It was loud. It really damaged my cochlea.”

  Cochlea. I had read Gabby a book on her body. I explained to her when she screamed, she could damage her cochlea, or inner ear. Now she was using it against me.

  “I don’t think I yelled that much at Daddy.”

  “Okay, Mommy, I could be wrong,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, now I get to go to all these fun places and Daddy buys me tons of ice cream. If you were there you’d say I’d get cavities, blah, blah, blah. You’re really mean sometimes.”

  I have already become the enemy. The nagging fishwife. Moms don’t stand a chance in separation’s ugly battlefield.

  I don’t know what’s going on with Alex. He said he was taking time to think, to be on his own. Judy says it’s a midlife crisis and he’ll come to his senses. She’s probably right, but every day I Google his name and Rose’s to see if there have been any sightings around town. So far nothing. According to E! Online, Rose is in Toronto shooting a movie opposite Colin Farrell.

  Fall in love with your costar, just like you always do, I silently pray. Colin is cute and charismatic and much better looking than Alex. Come on, Rose, fall in love with him. Let Alex remember how good he had it. Make him beg for me back. I will make him work for it. But please, let us live happily ever after.

  Every day I read Page Six, hoping for a mention of Colin and Rose. I even scan the Toronto papers online—nothing. Defamer.com and Thesuperficial.com have photos of Colin and Rose embracing, but it’s just from a scene in the movie.

  If I had been born in another time—even just fifty years ago—I’d be dead right now, I realized the other day when I sat with my mom. The baby in my tube would have kept growing until the tube burst and I hemorrhaged to death. Matricide. I can’t stop thinking about it. Modern technology saved me. But the truth is, I’ve worn out my welcome. I’m living on borrowed time.

  Maybe things happen for a reason. I should have died, just like my pioneer foremothers would have. Alex could have played the grieving widower for a few months. Then Rose, the eccentric neighbor in the township who performs at the local theater, would have stopped by to mend his overalls and fix him some home cooking. They would have married. A marriage based on grief, everyone would think. Someon
e to be a mother to Gabby. There would be a picture of me on the mantel. They’d plant flowers at my grave. No one could really ever take my place.

  I pull into my driveway. The paparazzi left over a week ago, and strangely, I miss them. I didn’t expect to feel this way. My story is over. They’ve moved on. I’m a footnote in tabloid history.

  “Rose Maris broke up another marriage. This is the woman scorned. End of story. But now Rose is in love with Colin Farrell. Maybe in ten years we’ll check back on Alice Hirsh to see if she’s addicted to crack or fat as a house.”

  The other day, I scanned the photos that ran in the tabloids and newspapers. I even looked for Johnny’s name, but it just listed the wire services. I’ll never know if he really did toss his pictures. He never did come back looking for a favor.

  I settle in front of the computer to check my e-mails. Judy tells me how much she misses me. How boring things are there without me. Then she asks questions about one of my accounts that she’s now handling. “Just until you come back.” Claire says she’s stopping by with a casserole. Lauren, my best friend from college who’s an acupuncturist in Rochester, New York, says she’s inserting needles into the balls of the voodoo doll she’s made of Alex. I start deleting spam. I am about to delete what I think is spam when the subject matter makes my heart race: GeorgeK77@aol.com Re: SCHOOL FRIEND.

  I hit the open button and leave a trace of sweat on the mouse. There’s only one person I think it could be. George Keller, my boyfriend for the last two years of college. I haven’t heard from him since we graduated in 1993. Could he be George K? The e-mail seems to take forever to open. I hit the open button again and again. Finally, the screen blinks alive. I begin to read.

  Dear Ally,

  I’ve been feeling very nostalgic lately. I thought I’d be bold and drop you a line from the safety of the Internet. You can stop here and throw me into the recycle bin right now.

  Hello! If you’re still reading. I live in Arlington, Virginia, and am a reporter for the Washington Post. I cover the transportation beat. I know that probably sounds horribly boring to you and guess what? It is horribly boring! I know what you’re thinking, too. I was supposed to be exposing Watergate-type scandals. But alas, I’m a glorified traffic reporter. I have two children—Frankie, 7, and Gabrielle, 4. I remember we said if we had a girl, we’d call her Gabrielle. I guess I could never get the name out of my head.

  Yes, I heard about what happened to you so I Googled your name. Your company’s name came up with a phone number. I was able to cajole an e-mail address from Samantha, your secretary. By the way, she’s not really from England is she? That sounded like a fake accent to me.

  I also saw your picture in the Enquirer. Our office always gets a copy. It’s one of my guilty pleasures—when no one is looking—to thumb through it while feigning indifference. But who can resist the sordid stories? Then I saw you. You in the midst of all this. I was stunned. I hope you’re doing okay. It sounds like you’re going through a tough time. I want you to know that while it may sound clichéd, I am here for you. It probably doesn’t sound like much since we haven’t talked in—what?—fifteen years, three months, and two weeks.

  If you feel like updating me on your life, I’d love to hear from you. I think I’m going to be crazy and get to our reunion this June. Maybe I’ll see you there?

  Love,

  George

  Love, George. I read it again and again. Is it filled with innuendos or am I just an abandoned, bored housewife imagining drama? Does George still love me or am I losing my mind? Why didn’t he mention a wife? I want to write him immediately and tell him that I, too, have a daughter named Gabrielle, but I stop myself. I need to think about this first. After all, I am vulnerable right now, Dr. Phil would tell me. I need to be careful.

  “Alice, what were you thinking? Internet relationships are so clichéd. What you need right now is a gym membership! Exorcise the demons with exercise!”

  Speaking of demons, Claire’s red Matrix pulls up into the driveway. I want to hide, but my car’s in the driveway. She’ll know I’m home. Claire’s one of those people you have to be friends with when you work together because it’s too dangerous not to be. She’ll stab you in the back. She’ll talk about you to other colleagues. She comes across all sweet and caring with her pudgy freckled face and her intense brown eyes and her homemade brownies and cookies with M&Ms instead of chocolate chips. But I’ve learned over the years that people who bake are dangerous. They spend too much time in the kitchen trying to make sweet things to compensate for the bile churning inside of them. Think about bakers you know and you’ll see I’m right. Betty Crocker was probably filled with rage. And if Duncan Hines was a real person, he or she was probably mean as hell.

  She lives for moments like this, reveling in someone else’s misery. She’s heading to the door with an enormous smile plastered on her face and a big vat of something fattening in her arms. Comfort food, I’m sure. And a plate of cookies to wash it all down.

  I open the door and she pinches her face with concern.

  “Oh, honey, how are you doing,” she says, her voice verging on collapse. Then she hugs me tightly with one arm, while balancing her casserole with the other. I hug her back. Until I know I’m leaving the firm for good, I must play the game.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you.”

  Translation: “I’ll be here as long as it takes you to tell me everything. Then I’ll head back to the office and tell them everything.”

  “No, come in, sit down a while. Do you want something to drink?”

  “Just some water.”

  I will not cry in front of her. I will not cry in front of her. I will not cry in front of her.

  I grab the casserole, thank her, head to the kitchen, and take a deep breath. Claire’s right behind me, her eyes leaping over counters and stoves and settling on the oversized Subzero refrigerator.

  “A Subzero. Viking appliances.”

  “So, how are you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” I say as if she asked me about a common cold.

  She puts her arms on my shoulders and looks hard into my eyes. “Really, Ally, how are you doing?”

  “Seriously, it’s all going to be fine.”

  I fill glasses with water from the refrigerator and plop down on the sofa in the living room. I follow Claire’s eyes as she scans the photos of Alex, Gabby, and me. We all look so happy. The perfect family. There’s Alex and me beaming on our wedding day. Alex and me snorkeling on our Hawaiian honeymoon. Alex and me with the newborn Gabby.

  My eyes cloud. Please don’t do this in front of Claire, I beg. But the tears slide down my face and before I can stop any of this, I am sobbing. I put my face into my hands and feel my body convulse.

  Claire rubs my back.

  “There, there,” she says. “Come on, Ally. People magazine is a complete rag. They probably got all their facts wrong anyway.”

  I suck in my tears and breathe. “People magazine? What are you talking about?”

  Even though I can barely see, I can feel Claire’s eyes as they pop out of her skull.

  “Oh, I thought you knew. I thought that’s why . . .”

  “Knew what?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Claire.”

  “People magazine just came out with an article on Alex and Rose.”

  “What?”

  4

  Sexiest Lawyer Alive

  Xander Hirsh is one of the sexiest men alive.”

  No! I want to scream to the People magazine editors. Xander isn’t sexy at all. He used to have a beer gut that he’d hide behind oversized Hawaiian shirts. He never picks up after himself. He never cleans out the toilet bowl. He wakes up in the morning with horrific breath.

  And most important, Xander doesn’t exist. He’s Alex. Alexander Stephen Hirsh.

  Xander is my husband’s reinvention of himself. Or it’s Rose’s creation. He’s this guy with
no beer gut, a goatee, gelled hair, and tight T-shirts that show off his newly rippled biceps.

  No more Al and Al. Al Squared.

  Rose and Xander. “Rx for love,” was the caption under a photo of the two of them walking towards a parked Porsche. According to sources close to the couple, Rose calls him her “Hirshey” bar. She’s never felt like this before. This is the real thing. “They seem really good for each other.” “They’re a fairy tale couple.”

  My daughter, who practically holds a doctorate in fairy tales, would know this one is severely flawed. The prince doesn’t tell Cinderella you can move into the castle once I kick my wife and kid out. The prince doesn’t wake Snow White with a kiss and then mention he’s still married. What about me, I want to scream. Does it matter that Rose is a homewrecker? Alex is a cad? No, it’s a beautiful love story with just an oh-so-minor inconvenience.

  “Hirsh had recently separated from Alice, his wife of six years. “They’ve been drifting apart for years,” says a source close to the couple. “[Xander] hasn’t been happy for some time. They don’t have much in common. He adores his daughter, so this has been a rough time for him. But I think Rose is the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time. He seems so happy . . .”

  What?

  I scan our friendships for this traitor. It has to be one of Alex’s friends. Ben? Tom? Carl? I thought they all loved me. I’m fun-loving Ally. Ally with the great appetizers—spinach dip, homemade guacamole, baked brie with caramelized walnuts wrapped in a puffed pastry. Ally who crushes mint with a mortar and pestle for Mojitos. Ally with the witty retorts. Ally who helped Carl decorate his apartment; who introduced Peter to her cute assistant. Alex not happy? Who could say such a thing?