Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  Mudderfucker.

  I decide to mention it because I’m certain they’ve all discussed it already.

  Renee swats her hand. “Oh, that’s your daughter? It was really not the biggest deal in the world. I wasn’t even going to say anything to Myrna but . . .” She shivers. “God, that woman just drives me nuts. She calls me in the office the other day like I’m some kid in need of discipline. Then she tells me that she strongly suggests I enroll in her seven-week parenting seminar to learn about problem ownership. Whatever that means. She says Cara’s exhibiting ‘inappropriate behavior.’ She had a temper tantrum because she hadn’t slept and now I’m the worst parent in the world. So when she told me that, I just mentioned that how come my daughter goes to school every day and the only thing she’s learned so far is to say motherfucker?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve had a talk with Gabby about it.”

  “I didn’t even know it was Gabby. Cara loves Gabby. She talks about her all the time. But Myrna is insane. She launched a full-on investigation. She was hoping it would be some enormous scandal. Sex and drugs.”

  “Well,” I say. “My mom has Alzheimer’s. For some reason the only words she uses are cocksucker and motherfucker. Don’t ask me why, because she never said those things pre-Alzheimer’s.”

  “God, that’s horrible,” Renee says.

  “It is. But I guess it’s kinda funny, too, in a weird way. Maybe my mom’s making up for all the cocksuckers and motherfuckers she should have said when she was of sound mind.”

  “You’re right. We probably all need to say cocksucker and motherfucker more,” says Nancy. “Maybe it’s a way to prevent senility. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. I feel younger already.”

  “Nancy,” Amy whines, acting shocked.

  I laugh. “You should have seen Myrna’s face. She was so disappointed. She was hoping I’d tell her about some down and dirty fighting I’ve been having with my husband.”

  There, I put it on the table. I didn’t care. These women know. Everybody knows. So why not? Why be secretive when some alleged friend of mine is telling the tabloids that Alex wasn’t happy? That we fought all the time? That I was a shrew?

  “Yeah, we heard about your situation.”

  “How could you not? It was just all over the tabloids.”

  “It must be a tough time for you.”

  “It is,” I say. “I just feel really bad for Gabby. She’s too old to lie to and too young to really know the truth.”

  For some reason I tell them everything. It just pours out of me. I tell them more than I’ve told Judy or Lauren or Claire. I even told them about the realization I had the other day when Alex/Xander picked Gabby up. Maybe it’s because they don’t know me or Alex. They don’t know about Al Squared. Or maybe it’s because these women seem like the type you can just tell anything to. I’m not sure.

  “If my husband cheated on me, I’d kill him,” Amy says. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “God, that’s horrible,” Nancy adds. “I met your . . . your, um, husband? He was at that birthday party the other day. By the way, did anyone think that party was just a tad over the top? I mean, a Ferris wheel in the backyard? Please. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Oh, lighten up, it was cute,” Amy says. “They just went all out for their kid. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Cute? What’s a kid gonna expect from life when at five he’s already getting Ferris wheels and hoedowns and pony rides? You can tell he’s already a spoiled little brat.”

  “Nancy, that’s not nice,” says Amy, rubbing her temples. “Listen, guys, I’ve got another migraine. I’m going to head home to take a nap. I’ll call you later.”

  “I hope it wasn’t caused by my foul mouth,” Nancy says.

  “No. I think I can handle your mouth, Nance.”

  Amy kisses everyone—including me—good-bye, throws some money on the table, and leaves.

  “That woman gets more migraines than anyone I know,” Renee says. “Has she had a CAT scan or anything? Maybe she has a raging tumor.”

  “No idea. I think life just stresses her out. Everything stresses her out. I mean, I love her, but I think I stress her out, too,” Nancy says, turning to me. “So anyway, your husband shows up and people act as if he’s Tom Cruise. It was crazy. These women were fawning over him.”

  “He dumps his wife and becomes a celebrity.”

  “I’m sorry, but that Rose Maris is a fucking skank as far as I’m concerned. You’re much more beautiful,” Nancy says. “And I’m not just saying that to make you feel good. Renee, didn’t I tell you that the other day?”

  “She did.”

  Maybe I can overlook the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt.

  I am filled with love for these women I barely knew a moment ago. I feel the way I did the other morning at Gabby’s school. I don’t want this moment to end. I want to order another latte, sit here all day, and forget about everything else—the filthy house, the laundry, the lawyer I need to see. I never want to leave. I want these women to like me. I want to be invited to coffees and playdates and girls’ nights out.

  “We should do a playdate,” Nancy says, as if reading my mind. “I hate playdates, but maybe we could make it cookies and milk for the kids and vodka for the mommies.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say.

  I turn towards the window and my heart bangs in my chest. It’s Johnny, the paparazzo, exiting a black Subaru Outback with a camera dangling from his chest. I gasp.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s this photographer who stalked me and took photos of me looking horrible.”

  “I’ll spill my latte on my girls to distract him,” Renee says, nodding to her chest. “You head out the back way, through the kitchen.”

  “You should let him just take your picture. You look great,” Nancy says.

  I smile. Then I leap out of my seat and head for the back exit.

  “We’ll call you,” Nancy says.

  I turn back and smile again. Renee. Nancy. Amy. I’ll remember their names.

  Dear George,

  Your e-mail took me by surprise the other day. It was great hearing from you. You sound like you’re doing great.

  God, it’s horrible. Two greats in three sentences. I can’t even write an e-mail. If I wait much longer, he’ll think I really labored over this. I have to respond today or it will be too late to ever respond. But what do I say?

  George. Maybe he had been the one for me all along, but I was too young to know it. Should I tell him that I have a daughter named Gabrielle, too? Should I tell him that I haven’t forgotten about him? That I still think about him? Think what if? What if? What if? How many what ifs can one person have? Do a certain number of what ifs constitute a failed life? How can I make sure Gabby never has a what if?

  Dear George,

  I am at a loss for words. Of all the people in my life, I never ever expected to hear from you again. Your e-mail completely took me by surprise. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but mostly I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I wish things could have been different, but what can I do? I was twenty-something and very stupid. Now I’m a wise old lady. I can’t believe how old I am.

  What should I tell you about my life? I have a daughter. She just turned five and her name is also Gabrielle. She’s incredible. I am taking a hiatus from work and am just really learning how incredible she is. She calls windshield wipers rainbow makers. She thinks she’s a princess. She’s got it all figured out. I’m not her real mommy. There’s a queen out there just waiting to tell her that she’s really her daughter and a princess of some land far away from here. Sometimes, when she’s particularly angry with me, she convinces herself that I stole her from her queen mother. She dresses in gowns all the time. Whenever she meets someone, she asks, who are you supposed to be? She thinks the entire world is dressed up in a costume and we’re never really who we are. She’s right, I suppose. At least in L.A., she’s right. And maybe that’s the thing. We’re always righ
t when we’re five. Everyone teaches us how to be wrong until we’re wrong all the time.

  My mom has Alzheimer’s. My dad died five years ago. Heart attack. I never told you this, but after we broke up, my father wouldn’t speak to me for months. He was very angry. I think he was secretly in love with you. He actually said, “Don’t introduce me to any of your boyfriends again, because I don’t want to be hurt like this when you break up with them.” Anyway, my parents really liked you.

  My mom lives a few blocks away from me at a board and care. She’s about to get kicked out of it for, of all things, bad language. Can you believe my sweet mother? That’s what Alzheimer’s does to you. It takes away everything. Or maybe it gives you the truth you lost when you were five. She calls people cocksuckers and motherfuckers. Maybe she’s right about them.

  I’m probably making no sense. It’s been a tough last few weeks. But Lauren and I are thinking about going to the reunion. It could be fun. Although a different fun since the last time I was on campus, I’m sure. I really toned down the drinking.

  Thanks for the e-mail. I don’t think a transportation reporter sounds that horrible. At least you always followed your dreams.

  All the best,

  Alice

  Before I have time to think it over, I hit the send button. I’m sure when I reread it, I’ll regret sending it.

  “Alice, you must rid yourself of the baggage from your past, not embrace it,” Dr. Phil would say.

  • • •

  “We must maintain the integrity of North Pole Way,” Sherri says when I walk into the meeting at her house. A group of ten people sit around a table, listening intently. “Last year, we seemed fractured. Maybe we’ve stopped trying to get to know each other and our interests. There seemed to be a lack of communication. This year, I think everyone should submit their ideas to the Holiday Board before executing their designs.”

  “Holiday Board,” someone asks. “What holiday board?”

  “The one I’m electing this evening,” Sherri says. “We need unity on North Pole Way.”

  Gabby is spending the weekend at Alex’s bachelor pad. I wonder how it’s going. She hugged me so tight when he picked her up. Gabby has never been away from me. Sure, I’ve taken business trips, but this is different. She’s the one who’s gone. I miss her already. I want to call her right now and see if she’s okay.

  I wonder if anyone has seen me enter this room. I want to sneak out, call Gabby, and head to a movie. Anything is more productive than this. Sherri said the entire neighborhood would show up. There’s only a handful of people.

  “Has everyone met Alice . . . Hirsh? Alice lives at 4612 Monet Drive.”

  “Hi, Alice,” they say. “Welcome to North Pole Way.”

  “I’m so glad—and relieved—Alice showed up,” Sherri says. “Up until a week ago, she was in the dark about North Pole Way. She had no idea what living on this block entails.”

  “We’re a regular bunch of Santa’s Elves,” a chubby guy in the corner says before bursting into hearty laughter. “So, Sherri, did you invite our friends on Pissarro to the meeting?

  There’s some more giggles. Pissarro’s the street above mine, where The Moaner lives. All the streets in the area are named after impressionist painters—Monet, Sisley, Cezanne, Renoir, Pissarro. There’s a sign when you enter the area that reads: WE MAKE GOOD IMPRESSIONS. Every time I pass it, I fantasize about vandalizing it.

  Sherri shakes her head and pinches her cheeks. “I’ve had the police there four times, but they think it’s funny. I swear, Bob Stone just has his girls give the cops, well, you fill in the blanks.”

  “That’s the rumor,” the chubby guy says. “Maybe I’ll go up there and complain.”

  More giggles. Sherri catches the puzzled look on my face.

  “Honey,” she says to me. “Don’t tell me that you don’t know about Bob Stone either.”

  “Well, it sounds like whoever’s living there is having fun.”

  The chubby guy looks up. “Your realtor must have been brilliant, keeping you in the dark about all the ho, ho, hos on the block.”

  Chubby laughs so hard his face turns purple.

  Sherri rubs her neck, as if this conversation is causing her stress.

  “What Tad over there is trying to tell you is that they shoot pornographic movies there,” she says.

  “Yeah,” says Tad. “Bob Stone is the king of porn flicks. He makes a few a week, the lucky S.O.B.”

  Sherri clears her throat. “We’ve been trying to get them shut down for years now, but everyone takes it as a joke. The last cop I had here said I was just jealous that I wasn’t in any of them. Can you imagine? Our property value is going straight to hell.”

  For a moment I feel what I can only characterize as relief. I’m glad it’s not some happily married woman having great orgasms a few times a day. I don’t want to know about people like that.

  “Really?”

  “I don’t want to . . . to destroy the integrity of this meeting by talking about that horrible place. I don’t want that house to participate. Besides, no one drives up there anyway. Let’s forget about it. We have more important items to discuss. Who wants to head up the Holiday Board with me? Anyone? Anyone?”

  Sherri’s eyes dart around the room. When they land on me, I smile. Then I look down at the table.

  “Okay, how about our newcomer, Alice? We could use some new blood.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Tad says.

  Sherri smiles at me as if she’s bestowing a precious gift.

  “There’s no way. I have too much going on right now . . .” I am chairwoman of the Holiday Board. I have to ensure the “integrity” of North Pole Way by making certain every house has a holiday theme and that no two houses have the same holiday theme. Last year there was the famous Spongebob Debacle, where three houses had SpongeBob displays. There were also two Simpsons Christmases and two Shrek displays. I don’t know what any of these characters have to do with Christmas or Hanukah, but I decide to keep my mouth shut.

  Sherri tells me she’ll be putting a note in everyone’s mailbox. Within the next few weeks, they must call me to get the board’s approval. I’m supposed to make sure no one overlaps. I think Sherri believes she’s somehow helping me feel welcome in the North Pole community. But being in charge of anything is not my forte.

  Take for example my life.

  When I return home I check my e-mails. There’s nothing from George. Dr. Phil was right. I never should have answered his e-mail. I probably scared him. I took the mystery away.

  “She’s still in love with me, just as I suspected. Just like she was the day I pulled her off the hood of my car and drove off to a better life while she barfed on the curb. A life without drama. Look how stable my life is now compared to hers. The best thing I ever did was dump her ass, which, by the way, looked enormous in the Enquirer photo.”

  The house is so quiet without Gabby. I want to run into her bedroom and listen to her soft, deep breathing. I love watching her sleep. It’s so peaceful and uncomplicated.

  I pick up the phone to call her at Alex’s. Then I put it down. No, I can’t check up on them. If there were problems, they’d call me. If I call, I’m just being nosy, clingy, annoying.

  I remember that Gabby hasn’t pooped in five days. Ever since Gabby was three, she has been terrified of pooping. She’ll hold it in for a week, each day becoming more and more unpleasant. Nothing seems to work. She’s developed an almost superhuman immunity to bran, fiber, and mineral and flaxseed oils. We’ve bribed her with candy, ice cream, trips to Disneyland. Some experts out there have even given it a name—Anal Retention Disorder or Fecal Retention Syndrome. These experts say these children feel like they’re losing a part of themselves and want to keep it inside. Or they say children with the condition want to control everything around them, including their crap.

  I wonder if she’s giving Alex a hard time with this.

  “Alice, don’t use your child as
currency in your marriage,” Dr. Phil would say.

  The next day, Hilda stands by the front door, arms akimbo, a scowl on her Nazi face. I want to drive on without stopping, but she’s waiting for me. I like to visit Mom when she’s not around, but ever since Trinity left, she’s become a permanent fixture. I take my time unbuckling, turning off the engine, opening the door, hoping she’ll be distracted by a phone call, a dirty diaper, anything. I look up. She’s still waiting.

  “Good morning Hilda,” I say as pleasantly as possible as I attempt to breeze by her into the house.

  “Vee must discuss your mussa,” she says, her eyes cutting into me.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Her language is inappropriate for my board and care,” she says.

  Inappropriate? God, is there any word more annoying in the English language? When all else fails, call something inappropriate and you’ll get instant respect even if you don’t know what you’re talking about. Inappropriate. Unacceptable. Offensive. Those are the catchphrases for the mentally challenged.

  “My clients do not like to be subjected to such vulgar expressions. Zey are a genteel group of people who vant to relax in comfort during zair golden years. Yesterday your mother called Dorothy a muzzahfucker. Ze woman was a singer in her church choir. I cannot tolerate zis here.”

  “My mother has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Hilda shakes her head as if this were the silliest thing she’s ever heard. “I haff no choice,” she says.

  I can see her in Auschwitz, standing in the showers, about to turn the dial. “I have no choice.”

  “No choice?”

  “You must find another board and care. There have been too many complaints.”

  I look in the living room. The Laugher rocks back and forth on a couch in front of the blaring television. The Satellite does a lap through the living room.

  “Complaints?” I yell, furious. “Complaints from who? These people are all vegetables.”

  “She must go ASAP.” Hilda brushes her hands together. Case closed.