Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We wanted to do Spider-man this year for the holidays. The boys just love it. We’re hoping no one else has dibs on it yet.”

  She pauses. She’s waiting for me to weigh in.

  “No. You’re the only one,” I say, not really knowing for sure.

  “That’s great news. Great news!” Debbie sounds almost too relieved, as if I’ve just informed her that the biopsy was benign. “Anyway, you’re going to love it. We’ll have Spider-man spinning a web. And guess who’s caught in it? Santa and his reindeer! And then we were going to—”

  “Sounds great,” I say, cutting her off. “Don’t ruin the surprise for me.” Ho ho ho.

  “Is that all you need to know?”

  “Sure.”

  I feel like there’s more I’m supposed to do, but I can’t remember what. Why would anyone ever want me to be in charge of anything? I hang up.

  I walk into the kitchen. Gabby is spooning potatoes into my mother’s mouth.

  “Look at me. It’s like I’m a mommy and this is my baby.”

  “Grandma and Trinity are going to be living here.”

  “Yay!” She stands up and hugs Trinity’s legs. “I’m so glad you’re here. Our life’s a mess.”

  “Gabby!” I say.

  Trinity holds Gabby’s face in her hands.

  “It’s true,” Gabby says. Does she ever stop talking? The girl couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. “I visit Daddy at a ’partment at the beach. He’s got this tiny beard now. Mommy hasn’t gone to work in weeks and weeks. But we have lots of casseroles. But casseroles make Mommy sad. She says people give you casseroles when they feel sorry for you.”

  “Gabby!”

  Trinity smiles, rubs my arm and stares into my eyes. Her coal-black pupils dart back and forth as she speaks.

  “You Americans expect too much out of life for real happiness. When you come from the place I come from, where every meal is a gift, where people live in cardboard shacks on top of garbage, you don’ want anything except for what is necessary. They say the American way is the best, but sometimes I not sure. So many people have everything but really nothing at all.”

  I stare at the floor, thinking about how to respond when Gabby exhales a world-weary sigh.

  “I know what you mean,” she says. “All I want is a Bratz doll, but Mommy won’t let me have even one.”

  When I tuck Gabby in that night, I read her Cinderella for the thousandth time. She loves this story. Almost all the stories she loves have one thing in common: the mothers are dead. But that’s true with nearly every fairy tale. Cinderella. Snow White. Hansel and Gretel. Beauty and the Beast. The Little Mermaid. Bambi. The Wizard of Oz. The moms are also dead in my favorite childhood books, Nancy Drew. And Hannah Montana, the Disney show Gabby’s babysitter loves, features a dead mom who sometimes appears as a ghost. The list is endless.

  “That’s why we need Daddy back,” Gabby says as I read a part close to the happily ever after.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a boy and boys are always the rescuers.”

  There’s so much to say about this. Fairy tales have been around as long as people could communicate. Mothers and grandmothers would tell their children stories about Cinderella or Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. But the stories were so much different than they are today. They were tales about virtues eventually overcoming adversities. The heroine was always clever, brave, strong, and good. In some early versions of the story, Cinderella performed feats of courage, much like Hercules, to test her mettle and smarts. And the fairy godmother was not just some bag singing “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,” but the ghost of Cinderella’s mom, protecting her from evil.

  But when Charles Perrault wrote down what eventually became the most popular version of the tales, the female heroines were diluted into a one-dimensional character saved by a clever, brave, and handsome prince who whisked her away to happily ever after. I want to explain all this to Gabby, but I know she’ll get that blank look on her face as her brain clicks off.

  So instead I say, “Girls can be rescuers, too.”

  Gabby flashes a patronizing smile. “Mommy, no, they can’t.” She ticks off a list with her fingers. “The prince rescues Cinderella from the stepmother. The prince wakes up Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. The prince kisses Snow White alive. See, Daddy’s our handsome prince. And once he comes back you can live happily ever after.”

  “Gabby, we don’t need a handsome prince to make us happy.”

  “Yes, we do. Everybody needs a handsome prince.”

  It’s hard to argue with a five-year-old who must always be right. I quickly scan my brain’s fairy tale repository.

  “Look at Rapunzel,” I say. “She’s the one who finds the blind prince and her tears make him see again. It sounds to me like she’s the rescuer.”

  “Mommy, the only reason she got out of the tower was because of the prince. She’d still be up there, just like the lady up the street. Maybe if we rescue the lady up the street, I’ll believe you.”

  Rescue the porn actresses? My daughter doesn’t give up.

  “We’ll see about that,” I say. Then I proceed with caution. “So . . . that lady stopped by Daddy’s? Rose?”

  Gabby grabs her teddy bear tighter and squirms in her bed. “I think tomorrow we should go up to that house and save that princess. She’s very lonely and very, very sad. I hear her crying. Maybe her prince hasn’t shown up yet and we can help her find him.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Mommy, I like every princess. You know that. My favorite is Ariel. Then Belle. Then probably Cinderella. But what I don’t understand, Mommy, is that if everything’s supposed to change back at midnight, why doesn’t the glass slipper?”

  “I don’t know. You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “My least favorite princess is probably Snow White because I don’t understand why she eats that apple. Everyone tells her not to open the door for anybody. She’s kind of stupid, if you ask me.”

  “Do you like that Rose woman?”

  “She seems nice, I guess. Her teeth are so white.” She squints at my mouth. “Your teeth are not so white. They’re a little yellow.”

  “My teeth are yellow?”

  “Well, compared to hers. But I think yellow is really pretty.” She smiles at me as if trying to mask her pity. “I like yellow much more than white. Yellow is my favorite color, after pink. I think your teeth are beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I make a note to buy teeth whitener tomorrow.

  “But I really, really like her dog. Do you think we could get a Chihuahua?”

  “Let’s think about it.”

  “I hate when you say that. It means no. Why do you say no to everything?”

  She’s right. I say I’ll think about it when I really mean no all the time. It’s my way to avoid a meltdown instead of being honest. But why can’t we have a dog? I always thought we’d have another baby. I figured a baby and a dog would be too much. But now it doesn’t look like that baby’s coming anytime soon—despite what Faye says.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll get a dog. Just give me a little time. I promise.”

  9

  Vanilla Ice Cream

  Everybody is in bed, so I can finally exhale and convulse into tears. My husband is in love with someone else. My mother can no longer chew. And to top it off, my daughter thinks my teeth are yellow.

  I fix myself a double vodka tonic and check my e-mails.

  Dear Ally,

  It was good to hear from you. Isn’t the Internet great? Without it, we would have gone our entire lives without ever speaking again. And here we are—sort-of friends. I’m glad you’ll be going to the reunion. I know Mike, Jack, and Riley will be there, but I don’t know who else from the old gang is planning to show up. I’ve lost touch with a lot of people over the years.

  Will you be taking Gabrielle? I’d love to meet her, but I think I’ll be leaving the family behin
d. They’ve both got their final exams that week.

  But I’ll be sure to bore you with lots of pictures.

  George

  I read it a dozen times. He keeps it pretty neutral, but makes a point of mentioning he’ll be going solo. Is he hoping I’ll get the hint and leave Gabby at home? Or is he just casually mentioning it so I won’t get the wrong idea? I’m clueless. Or maybe I’m just desperate. I need to feel that someone somewhere is thinking about me, because my husband barely knows I exist anymore.

  When Alex dropped Gabby off, did he rush back to Rose? Right now, as I’m reading sex and romance into innocuous e-mails, is he having sex and romance? I guess Rose didn’t fall for Colin Farrell in Toronto. Could the tabloids be right? Could she really be in love with my husband?

  Is my husband in love with her? I want to believe he isn’t. I want to believe it’s some weird infatuation that’s coming to an end. The spell’s been broken and he wants his old life back. Being away from Gabby must be killing him. But do I want him back because he misses Gabby? No. He must be in love with me, too. I can’t take him back for any other reason. I will not use Gabby as bait, no matter how tempting it might be.

  I open wide and look at my teeth in the mirror. Gabby’s right. They’re yellow. Too much coffee and red wine, I suppose. When did that happen? I rummage through the bathroom cabinet and find a mouthpiece and a tube of whitener. Alex must have been bleaching his teeth for Rose months ago. I squeeze the tube and the gel squirts into the mouthpiece. Then I put it in my mouth.

  I look ridiculous. I study my face. My forehead is wrinkled and my eyes look swollen. Maybe George will be shocked when he sees me.

  I wonder if I should try Botox. I can’t imagine injecting my face with botulism, but it seems a lot of people do it without any problems. Maybe I should try Restylane, Radiesse, Juvéderm. Perhaps I should treat myself to an endoscopic browlift. If my mother could speak, she’d tell me I’m being self-absorbed. The only time my mother even had a manicure was when I forced her to go with me the day before my wedding.

  I give myself a facial. I smear green clay that’s supposed to rid my face of old, dry skin and make me look younger and refreshed. I know it’s bullshit, but I’ll pretend to believe. Just like we must convince ourselves that we may be older, but we’re smarter and better and happier.

  As the mask hardens on my face, I head to the liquor cabinet and fix myself another vodka tonic. I take a few gulps, while thinking of my response to George. I know if I write to him now, I’ll most likely regret it in the morning. My logical side says to put if off, but the booze-influenced side has rendered me warm and mushy. Why not tell him how much I wish I’d never let him get away? Why not ask him if he still has feelings for me?

  I turn around to head to the computer when I nearly collide with Trinity.

  “Wha—?” I say, my mouthpiece flying out to the floor. Trinity goes to pick it up.

  “That’s okay,” I say as I bend down to pick it up.

  “Are you okay, missus?” she says, eyeing me funny. I forgot I have a green mask on my face.

  “Sure. I was just . . . well, just . . . well . . . Can I get you anything, Trinity?”

  “I was going to ask you for ice cream. Every night, I put your mommy’s water pills and heart medicine in vanilla ice cream for him to swallow. He love the vanilla ice cream.”

  “I know,” I say, smiling. “My mother ate a scoop of vanilla ice cream every night when I was a kid. She was so addicted to it that she’d give it up for Lent.”

  I find a carton of ice cream buried in the back of the freezer. There’s about a mouthful of crystallized vanilla left. It probably hasn’t been touched since Alex started dieting and going to the gym—around the time Rose became a client. I hand it to Trinity. “That’s all I have. Tomorrow I’ll buy more.”

  Maybe there is some joy left. Mom remembers ice cream. She still savors the sugar, the cream, the vanilla bean, just like when I was a child. She’ll roll it around in her mouth until it melts. Then she’ll smile as she swallows it.

  “Good night, missus.”

  “Good night,” I say.

  The liquor buzz is gone. I decide to head to bed and compose that e-mail tomorrow.

  10

  Wicked Stepmothers

  Suzannah Oakly won’t get off the phone. She lives down the street at 4819 Sisley Court right at the intersection of Monet. I don’t get the impressionist artist theme that runs through the neighborhood. There’s no reason for it. This area doesn’t resemble the French countryside. There are no cobblestone roads or cute cottages or fields of poppies. People don’t ride around on rusted old bikes with baguettes under their arms. Instead, it resembles the San Fernando Valley suburb that it is. Faux Spanish-style stucco tract houses with bright orange tiled roofs next to monolithic Persian palaces next to nondescript rambling ranch houses. There are Hummers, SUVs, and minivans parked in the driveways and on the curbs.

  Anyway, Suzannah’s explaining in detail her plans for a Shrek Christmas.

  “I hired a company to design a Santa Claus Shrek. He says ho ho ho and then makes a farting sound. Of course that’s Dennis, my son’s, idea. Fiona will be Mrs. Claus. My children are so excited. Puss in Boots and Donkey will both be reindeer. I’m working on some other design elements. For instance, we’re creating a North Pole that will incorporate swamp-like themes. The elves, who’ll be mini ogres, will make mud canes instead of candy canes. It’s going to be very unique and special.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Last year we spent months planning a SpongeBob Christmas. Did you happen to see it?”

  “No. I just moved in a few months ago.”

  “That’s too bad. I feel it would really be helpful if you were better acquainted with North Pole Way. Perhaps I could come over with the DVD of all of last year’s decorations? Anyway, we turned our lawn into the bottom of the sea. And you know what happened? The Mullens, just a few doors down from us, did the same thing. They copy everything we do. Everything! Did you see their cars—a yellow Hummer and a black Range Rover, just like us. The kids were devastated. That’s why I’m really pleased you’ve volunteered to do this for us. Promise me this won’t happen again, Alice.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, wondering if everyone around here is this insane. I jot down Shrek next to Oakly on the yellow legal pad I’ve been using for this assignment. I’m surprisingly organized about this. After all, you can’t have your neighbors hating you.

  “If you want to come over to take a look at the diagrams, I’d love to show them to you. Then I can give you the DVD,” she says.

  “That sounds great, Suzannah.”

  “Well, I’m just looking at my calendar—”

  “Mommmy! Mommy! The poo-poo’s coming.”

  “I’ll call you back,” I say.

  Gabby races into the house, discarding clothes. She heads towards the bathroom. Celia, her sometimes babysitter, follows behind shaking her head. When she’s not babysitting, Celia, a struggling actress, goes on auditions or dresses as princesses for kiddie parties. That’s how I met her. She was Ariel at a party Gabby attended before we moved. Gabby spent the whole party following her around and staring at her, so I asked her to come over and babysit when we needed a night out or when Gabby had a day off from preschool. At first Gabby was tremendously disappointed when Celia showed up without a costume and without her butt-length red wig.

  “I wanted Ariel! She’s not Ariel! She’s just a girl and she doesn’t have fins or beautiful red hair!”

  Eventually Celia’s personality won her over. Now Gabby adores her. Once a week after school she babysits. They usually go to a park. Celia likes hanging out at parks where celebrity kids go. Sometimes she’ll drive Gabby twelve miles to Studio City where the celebrity quotient is higher than around here. She and Gabby work as a team. Celia will spot the celebrity kid or someone she imagines is a celebrity kid. Then she’ll have Gabby go over to play with him or her. So far, according to Ce
lia, Gabby’s played with the children of Tom and Katie, Reese Witherspoon, and Denise Richards. Celia doesn’t know for sure if the kids are celebrity kids, but she convinces herself she sees a resemblance to some star. Then she befriends the nannies in hopes they’ll introduce her to their famous employers and she’ll be discovered.

  “How many days has it been?” Celia asks.

  I think about it. “Five. Give or take a day.”

  “She was at the park squirming the whole time. I could tell she had to go because she wouldn’t run or anything. She just sat on a spring horse. Her body looked like one big question mark with that tiny stomach bulging out. But, of course, she kept saying she was fine, to leave her alone. And then the minute we’re halfway home, she starts screaming. She wanted me to carry her.”

  I sigh. “She’s five years old and she’s been doing this for nearly two years. She’s going to hurt herself.”

  “Maybe he holds it in because he’s afraid of losing more.”

  It’s Trinity, standing by the doorway with a bag of Depends in her hands.

  “Who?” Celia says, confused by Trinity’s pronouns.

  “Gabrielle,” Trinity says. “He has lost the family life he has known so he is holding onto the poo-poo. It’s comforting to him.”

  I know she means well, but Trinity has a knack for making me feel like, well, shit.

  “She’s been doing this for years. Before there were any problems,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Children are very sensitive. Maybe he felt the problems before you did. Gabby is a very smart little girl. Maybe he has radon for it.”

  So even Gabby’s anal retentive disorder is my fault.

  Gabby cries and moans. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  I go to the bathroom. Gabby is crouched over by the toilet. Her Cinderella dress lies in a pile.

  “Get out, get out,” Gabby screams.

  “Baby, it’s okay.”

  “Get out and close the door.”

  I do as she says and stand outside the door. My poor baby.