Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  I didn’t expect a porn actress to use the word oeuvre.

  “Gabby is a real sweetie. She saw me yelling at Bob the slob, and came over to help. She grabbed my hand and the next thing I knew, I was running down the hill with her. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be a part of her little adventure. In a way, she really did save me.”

  The doorbell rings. It’s Nancy. I invite her in, wondering what a woman who wears a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt would think if she ever discovered the woman at my table is a former porn star. But I doubt she’s ever seen a porn flick in her life.

  “Oh my God, you’re Jill Chris Monroe, aren’t you?” she says, putting out her hand. “I’m Nancy.”

  I look shocked. Nancy laughs. “Ally, I’ve been married for ten years. We’ve got to find some way to keep it exciting.”

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind throwing them all away, I’d really appreciate it. I’m trying to rid the world of movies like Head in the Class and Three’s Humpin’ Me.”

  Nancy promises to discard all her copies of Ruth’s movies. Then she invites Ruth, who has no mommy friends, to our next playdate. She informs me that I’ll be hosting it.

  “It’ll be good for you. There’s nothing like a playdate at your home to make you forget about all your problems.”

  I guess I give her a confused look.

  Nancy laughs. “You’ll see.”

  The next day when I go to school to pick up Gabby and have another chat with Myrna, Alex is waiting out front.

  “Alex?”

  “Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

  “E-mail?”

  “I figured that was the best way to get in touch with you since you check it a million times a day,” Alex says, as if this is something that’s annoyed him for years. “I know you’ve been screening calls.”

  Yesterday I forgot to check my e-mails.

  “I’m meeting with Myrna. She sent a note to me about Gabby’s language.”

  I had received the same note, but I had no idea that bitch had sent one to Alex, too.

  Dear Mrs. Hirsh,

  It has again been brought to my attention that your daughter, Gabrielle, has been using inappropriate language in the classroom and on the schoolyard. Please meet with me at 2 P.M. tomorrow to discuss this very serious matter. I hope we can work together to resolve this problem before we must take it to the next level. I have fielded several complaints from anxious parents. As our handbook outlines, we are a zero tolerance school.

  Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to this most delicate matter.

  Last night I asked Gabby what had happened.

  “Didn’t I talk to you about not using those bad words?”

  “Mommy, I couldn’t help it. When Cindy told Joey I had a crush on him it made me so angry. I wanted to kick her and punch her, but I stopped myself. I thought you’d be proud of me. You always say I should use my words.”

  “Not those words. What did you say anyway?”

  “I called her a mudderfutter.”

  “Aha. Is that it?”

  “And a codshucker.”

  The school bell shrieks. Gabby runs out of the classroom. She sees both of us and beams.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Gabby leaps into his arms.

  “Daddydaddydaddydaddy.” She slathers him with kisses.

  Alex hoists Gabby in the air and she’s got her legs wrapped around him. My insides are exploding. And I imagine this is how malignant tumors begin. You reign in your anger and the imploding fury forms cancer cells. Why didn’t Myrna address the letter to both of us, so I’d have some advance warning? How can Alex stand here as if nothing is wrong? And why doesn’t Gabby love me as much as she does Alex? I know she’s only a child, but I can’t help feeling so very hurt.

  Alex jiggles Gabby in his arms and kisses her neck. “I hope you didn’t say anything too horrible,” he says to her.

  She laughs and rubs her nose against his. “Daddy, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Gabbybabbysabby.”

  Myrna calls us in to her cramped office. She asks Gabby to wait outside. Her face is expressionless and I wonder if Gabby’s about to be expelled.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Hirsh.” She gives us a tight little smile. “Thank you both for coming here today.” She pauses for a moment as if waiting for one of us to say something. “Even in times of crisis, it’s imperative to your child that you form a united front. I commend you both.”

  Again, the tight smile and a pause. Her eyes skitter from me to Alex and back, as if waiting for one of us to confess something. Anything.

  I return the little smile and nod. I refuse to look at Alex.

  Myrna sighs and stares at some notes on her desk. She clears her throat.

  “As Mrs. Hirsh is well aware, there have been some complaints from parents regarding their children’s language. Our staff did some investigating and it led to your daughter.” She stares at me. Another tight smile.

  “I know Mrs. Hirsh attempted to remedy the situation, but it seems your efforts at this point have been unsuccessful. I thought we could brainstorm and come up with a solution before more serious measures must be taken.”

  Alex nearly jumps out of his seat. “Serious measures? What the hel—heck is Gabby saying? From the way you’re speaking you’d think she was saying really horrible things. My daughter would never—”

  “Mr. Hirsh, we consider Gabby’s language to be highly inappropriate.”

  Alex’s ears turn bright red. His eyes pop out of their sockets. “With all due respect, I think you’re blowing this out of proportion. I’m sure it’s my fault. I occasionally use damn and ass. You know how it is on the freeway, when you’re stuck in traffic.”

  He gives one of those chuckles that he’s hoping is contagious. But Myrna clears her throat and pinches her mouth. “Gabrielle’s words are far worse than those, Mr. Hirsh. But even so, as I outline in the student handbook, we are a zero tolerance school.”

  She clears her throat again. “As Mrs. Hirsh is aware, your daughter has been using some horrible profanities. I hate saying them aloud myself, so please excuse me.”

  She bites her lower lip as if this is too much to bear, but I know she enjoys spitting them out. I swear I see a flush of excitement flash on her face. She stretches her neck out towards us and lowers her voice. “She’s been saying mother F-er and well, C-S-er.”

  Alex’s eye bulge. “What?” He looks from Myrna to me and back again. “This is a misunderstanding. We don’t use those words.” He turns towards me as if waiting for an explanation. “Ally?”

  I shake my head and smile. No big deal. “She’s not really saying it like that. She’s saying mutterfudder and codshucker.”

  Myrna burps out a tiny laugh. “Mrs. Hirsh, the parents here aren’t making that kind of distinction. They send their children here to learn and grow as human beings, not to come home with filthy mouths.”

  “I don’t understand this at all,” Alex says.

  “Well, Mrs. Hirsh mentioned her mother has been using these words and—”

  Alex guffaws. “Your mother? Your mother?” Still laughing, he turns towards Myrna. “Her mother wouldn’t even know what those words meant.”

  “Maybe this is something you two need to discuss as co-parents. All I know is what I’ve been told. I was hoping we could come up with a solution. I think the first thing you must determine is why is Gabby using inappropriate language. Ask her, ‘Why did you say that?’ Is she seeking attention? Expressing anger? You must determine if she’s having problems with language or emotions. Perhaps I could recommend a child psychologist.”

  Alex stands up. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Schafly. I can assure you that Gabby is fine—emotionally and linguistically. This was just a fluke. I will talk to her. This won’t be happening again.”

  Myrna is perturbed. From the looks of the pile of papers on her desk, she had a whole lecture planned.

  “I hope you can work this out for Gabby’
s sake. She is an extraordinary child.”

  I stand up. She extends her hand and I shake it. It’s so weak it’s like holding a leaf. I can tell she doesn’t buy any of this. She doesn’t believe Alex can get Gabby to stop cursing. She also doesn’t believe Gabby picked this up from my mother. In her mind, Alex and I run around, throwing things at each other while screaming cocksucker and motherfucker.

  “I hope this is the last we’ll see of each other—on this matter,” she says.

  We head out the door. Gabby’s no longer in the lobby. I spot her outside on the swings. A teacher’s aide is pushing her. I wave at her and head outside. Alex follows.

  “So where did she really pick up these words,” Alex says, his voice a contained fury. “Is this what you and your friends have been calling me?”

  Anger pulsates through my body. To disguise it, I give a fake laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Alex. It’s the truth. I read it’s not completely uncommon for Alzheimer’s patients.”

  “Maybe you should limit Gabby’s exposure to your mother.”

  “Exposure?” I turn towards him and speak in a flat, even tone as if I’m not on the cusp of losing it. “You’re talking about my mother as if she’s nuclear fallout or some kind of virus. Exposure?”

  Alex coughs. “Maybe she shouldn’t be living at your house. I have some contacts who could put you in touch with a good nursing home. I don’t think this is healthy for Gabby.”

  I don’t think this is healthy for Gabby? A bomb has been detonated inside me.

  “Alex, please don’t tell me what’s healthy for Gabby.” My voice is louder than I want it to be. “After all you put her through. This is my mother. She’s not going to be hidden away just because she has Alzheimer’s.”

  Alex closes his eyes and breathes deep. “Alice, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease. Your mom needs professional care at a place that can handle people like her. That’s all I mean. It’s too much for you or Gabby.”

  “Well, we’re doing just fine,” I growl. “You left us, so stop telling us what’s best for us.”

  Xander. They say every seven years people change. Every cell in their body is different. Their metabolism is different. Why can’t their brains be different, too?

  I stare at him and hate him so much right now. Then something distracts me. A tiny cough.

  I turn toward the swings. Gabby stares at me, tears running down her face. The teacher’s aide has her arms tightly wrapped around Gabby as she shoots us a pleading look that says, “For the sake of your child, stop acting like monsters.”

  “Oh, Gabby,” I whisper.

  I head towards her. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her I’m sorry. But she runs past me and jumps into Alex’s outstretched arms.

  That night, I dream about Alex. He has a brain tumor and that’s why he’s been acting horribly, he tells me. He says he is going to die. I am happy. “Oh, at least that explains everything,” I say.

  In my dream I suddenly remember I was supposed to call my boss at the end of the day. This jolts me awake. I look at my clock. 11:55.

  Alex is not going to die. He just doesn’t love me. I feel sick.

  I think about my Gabby. I can’t abandon her now.

  I leave a message for my boss. I make a joke about it literally being the end of the day. Then I ask for just a little more time. A few more weeks. I’m not sure if he’ll agree or fire me. And I don’t really care.

  12

  Home Invasion

  Amy shows up at the house a half hour before the playdate is supposed to begin. “

  I hope this isn’t an inconvenience, but would it be okay if I dropped Amanda off and left?” She clutches her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “I have a killer headache. All I want to do is go home and go to sleep.”

  “Sure,” I say. I wonder if this woman has had a CAT scan or an MRI. Renee’s convinced Amy’s dying of a brain tumor. Nancy thinks it’s some weird food allergies.

  I can’t believe a bunch of kids and their moms are on their way over any minute. I am not in the mood for this. I have not been in the mood for anything lately. Gabby’s beyond excited, though. We haven’t entertained in ages. I haven’t been much fun for Gabby at all.

  The last few weeks, a fierce depression has taken up residence. I can’t shake it. During the day, I’m exhausted, slogging around, having difficulty doing the slightest chore. Even something as simple as making the bed has become overwhelming.

  Thank God Trinity’s here. She’s taken over and become a mother for a thirty-eight-year-old child. She makes beds and cleans. She miraculously removes stains from Gabby’s princess dress. She gives my boss excuses for me when he calls to see when I’m coming back to work. For me, the question is no longer when I’m coming back to work, but will I? I can’t imagine being back there. But then again, I can’t imagine being anywhere except curled up in my bed.

  Here I am, though, about to host a playdate. I look at Amy. I should feel grateful, I suppose. At least I don’t have a tumor buried inside my brain.

  “Gabby’s in her room playing,” I tell Amanda. “Why don’t you tell her to take you outside and play.”

  I have put everything outside—food, drinks, toys. The thought of a bunch of kids trampling around the house makes me nervous. I know so many moms think nothing of it. They surrender their home to the kids and their friends, barely wincing when they hear a crash or shattering of glass. They’ll blow bubbles, feed the kids spaghetti, let them rampage through the house with squirt guns. They must be on Zoloft. Other than Gabby, I can barely tolerate children.

  “Gabby,” I yell, again in my weird sing-songy voice. “Go outside with Amanda.”

  “Is Nancy coming over,” Amy asks.

  “She better,” I say. “This whole thing was her idea.”

  “Well, could you ask her to take Amanda home for me? Tell her to call my cell about a half hour before she leaves. I don’t like Mandy to see me lying in bed in the middle of the day. I’ll try to make myself all perky for her.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll tell her.”

  She winces and clutches her head. She takes a deep breath.

  “Poor Nancy. She’s pretty stressed lately. The bar she and her husband run isn’t doing very well. They might have to close it. Thank God my Glenn has a stable job. Accounting might not be glamorous, but it pays the bills. Plus, Glenn’s so motivated and so devoted to his family.”

  “That’s great,” I say, although I don’t know why she’s flaunting her great husband to me. It’s like she’s thinking out loud or convincing herself of something.

  She presses her index fingers to her temples. Then she grabs onto the sides of the door to steady herself. “Well, I guess I’ll go.”

  “Amy, are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “Yeah, I’ll manage.”

  But the thing is, the moment she steadied herself in the doorway was the moment she lost me. I don’t believe her. She overacted. There are no tumors or allergies or headaches. This is about something else. But what?

  What the hell is wrong with you, Alice? You are too cynical for words. The poor woman has a splitting headache and you’re doubting her? How guilty will you feel when she dies of a brain tumor?

  I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. But what could be the reason a person would fake a migraine? Could she hate playdates that much? Then again, people do get desperate when they don’t want to do something—especially when it involves lots of children. A few months ago, a nanny in Encino told police that a man was roaming the local playground attempting to buy babies. She sent Encino moms into panic mode. Turns out, she concocted the story because she hated going to the playground.

  I walk Amy to her white Range Rover.

  “Feel better,” I say.

  She nods her head, grimaces, and turns the ignition. As she drives away, I read the frame around her license plate: “Love my life as mommy and wife!”


  In a half hour the place is teeming with kids, most of them holed up in Gabby’s room, trying on dresses and playing with Barbies. It’s another beautiful Los Angeles day, but, as usual, most residents don’t seem to notice the weather. If you’re from a place like New York, you treat each sunny day as a gift. As much as I’ve tried, everyone’s migrated inside. Nancy’s in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of Mojitos.

  When Ruth walked in a few minutes ago, the women stopped what they were doing and stared. I guess I’m the only Valley resident who wasn’t familiar with Ruth’s oeuvre.

  Now Ruth holds court with a bunch of moms in the kitchen. They keep asking for sex tips. I cringe. Ruth came here today to escape her past and just be a mom. That’s what Nancy and I promised when we invited her.

  But Ruth just laughs. “I think the best sex is a mental thing anyway.”

  I leave the kitchen for a few minutes to survey the damage so far and throw away juice boxes, half-eaten cookies, and Goldfish crumbs.

  When I return, a bunch of women are listening intently to Ruth as she discusses something.

  Nancy plops down next to Ruth. She sips a Mojito. I inhale the mint and the rum.

  “I’ll take any advice I can get. My husband is totally going through a midlife crisis,” Nancy says. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was having an affair. He doesn’t seem interested in me at all.”

  “Well then, make yourself interesting,” Ruth says. “Spruce it up. Buy a costume. Buy a sex toy. Learn to pole dance. Surprise the hell out of him. I promise he’ll be interested. They’re all interested. You just have to be different.”

  Ruth has been married to Connor’s pediatrician for three years. They met a few hours after Connor was born. She thought he was cute in a nerdy way, but definitely wasn’t thinking romance. “Who thinks about that stuff after you give birth? It’s the last thing on your mind. He was the perfect catch. A Jewish doctor. He was in his late forties and, best of all, never married. No baggage.