Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “For the first year of Connor’s life, I didn’t know what I was doing. I had never imagined being a mother. As you probably guessed, my mom wasn’t much of a role model. Even as a little girl, I never, ever played with dolls. And I had no friends with babies to call for advice. So I called Melvin up all the time about every little thing. I figured he thought I was crazy, but I was so petrified I’d do something wrong to this little baby.”

  She wipes away tears. “I love Connor more than anything in the world, but I felt I didn’t deserve him. Every day, I lived in fear that God would realize his mistake, punish me for my life, and take Connor away from me. In my mind, every cough was tuberculosis. Every fever was going to reach one hundred ten degrees. Every bad night of sleep was a sign of some evil invading his tiny body. I could barely function.”

  Ruth blows her nose and Nancy puts her arm around her. “I wish we’d known you then, Ruth. I would have told you that we all feel the same way to some extent. Babies are a miracle and no one feels worthy. No one.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t know any of you, because that’s how I got to know Melvin. He was always there for me. I didn’t think anything of it. I just assumed doctors would speak to you for hours any time of the day if you needed them. One day, he blurted out that he usually didn’t spend this much time with a patient. But since this patient’s mother was so special, he couldn’t resist.”

  We listen to her, completely riveted. Who would have thought a porn star could have a great love story? Faye was right. I am too quick to judge.

  “He stared so hard at me with these steely eyes and, well, the rest is history. He didn’t even know about my past. And when I told him, he didn’t care. He said, ‘You are a beautiful person. I love you for who you are. Not what you’ve done. I can’t imagine my life without you.’ ”

  “Wow!” we all say again.

  An hour later, Nancy, Renee, and a few other moms are slightly tipsy. Nancy’s mixing another batch of Mojitos and I watch as she pours in nearly a whole bottle of white rum. I take a few sips of one and my throat burns. It’s much too strong for the lightweight I’ve become. Someone clicks off the endless loop of Disney princess music and locates KBIG’s Noontime Disco Workout. “YMCA” blares.

  I take inventory of my living room. It seems big, stark, and cold. More like a warehouse than a home. The white walls are bare except for the entertainment center with the steroid TV. There are no photographs or artwork to give the room a cozy feel. I had so many plans for this place when we moved in. But right now it has the look and feel of one of those model homes up for sale with the hotel furniture and the vases filled with artificial flowers. Mind you, I don’t have fake flowers, but they would fit in perfectly with my style choices, or lack thereof.

  Trinity and Mom come into the kitchen from the guest house. The moms say hi and Mom actually smiles and says hi back. Renee starts having a conversation with Mom about how pretty her hair looks and Mom smiles and nods her head. I wonder if Renee has any idea that my mom isn’t really there. She keeps going on and on about how thin her hair is and how lucky my mother is to be able to wear it in a bun. Mom keeps smiling and nodding.

  And then Mom’s expression changes. She suddenly hears the music. It’s the BeeGee’s “Stayin’ Alive.” Mom’s head starts bobbing and she shuts her eyes.

  I wonder if somewhere she remembers that Saturday Night Fever was the first album I ever bought. She drove me to Musicland on the Post Road where I purchased it from some cashier wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt who told me that disco sucked. When I got home, I blasted the music. Mom and I tried to imitate John Travolta’s moves.

  Mommy, Mommy, look at me. Remember? Remember? Remember? Just make some eye contact and I’ll know somewhere you are still there. Please.

  Mom stares off into the distance with a smile on her face. Her head continues to keep the beat with the music.

  “Oh, Mary, you like disco,” Renee says, still completely clueless.

  Arms swaying, hips slightly gyrating from side to side, Mom moves into the living room near the stereo with Trinity in tow. She slowly spins around and then puts her arms around Trinity’s shoulder and clumsily waltzes around the room. Trinity holds herself rigid, but when Nancy and I start clapping, she loosens up a bit. Some of the other mothers circle around them, dancing.

  I stand back, watching and grinning. This is one of those rare moments when I actually forget about everything. Mom seems like Mom again—carefree, lost in this dance. After the music stops, I can almost imagine her saying, “Well, I better get back to the kitchen and fix dinner. Your father will be home soon.” For a second, I have forgotten about Rose and Alex and Alzheimer’s. I am a daughter watching her mother waltz around a room. I am a mother surrounded by other mothers whose children are playing with dolls and princess dresses and teddy bears, whose husbands are at work, but who will return to us in a few hours. We’ll greet them and smile and be happy and safe and cozy in our lives.

  Ruth puts her arm around me and squeezes me.

  “Ruthie,” I say. “My mom can move.”

  She smiles at me strangely. “Honey,” she says while rubbing my back. “You have a . . . um . . . a visitor.”

  “Huh?” My heart pounds. Alex? Ruth’s concerned look confirms this. It’s got to be Alex.

  “Alex?” I ask her, my throat closing up on me. Isn’t this how it always works? When you suddenly forget, that’s when they show up, begging you back, telling you it was all a big mistake.

  Ally, I love you. I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back. I know I don’t deserve you, after all I put you through. But these last months made me realize how much I adore you. How I can’t live without you. How you’re the only woman for me.

  Ruth shakes her head. “No,” she says, her voice slightly shaky.

  I squint at her as if trying to decipher something.

  “Ruth?”

  “It’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Her.”

  13

  We’re in the Money

  There’s an enormous limo idling outside my gate. An Armani-clad chauffeur stands next to it. I feel rage bubbling within me. If she’s going to come to my house, can’t she at least be discreet? Why the hell is she here anyway?

  “Oh, Ally, I’m so sorry. I forced Alex into this whole thing, but he’s in love with you. You’re all he talks about. I just wanted you to know this. He wants to come back so bad, but he’s afraid you’ll never forgive him. Well, forgive him, Ally. The man really loves you.”

  “Hello, Ms. Hirsh, Rose would like a word with you,” the chauffeur says. “Would you mind stepping into the limo?”

  “She can’t get out and talk to me?”

  “Well, Ms. Hirsh, she would, but . . .” He smiles condescendingly, then tips his head across the street to a cluster of paparazzi gathered there. In my fury, I hadn’t noticed them. They snap away at me. I refuse to look in their direction, although I do wonder if Johnny’s one of them.

  “Rose, come out. Give us something. A quick smile. Anything.”

  The driver opens the door and I quickly jump into the limo. I practically sit on Rose’s lap.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. Sorry? Sorry? What the hell am I saying? She steals my husband and I tell her I’m sorry for sitting on her lap? What am I doing in here anyway?

  Rose slides over on the seat.

  “What are you doing here? What do you want?” I shake my head and tug at the door handle. “What am I doing here? I’ve got to go.”

  Rose grabs my wrist.

  “No, Ally, wait, please.”

  “What? What could you possibly say to me right now?”

  She stares at the floor as she speaks. “I’m sorry about all of this. I mean it, Ally. You’re such an incredible person. Xands and I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  My hand reaches for the door.

  “No, please. I know there’s no reason you should talk to me. I
f I were you, I’d probably have killed me by now, but just hear me out for a second.” She rummages through her pink leather Prada handbag and pulls out an envelope. She holds it out for me.

  “I don’t need your apology letter.”

  With perfectly manicured peach-colored nails, Rose adjusts her oversized Fendi sunglasses. “It’s not an apology,” she says. “Go on, open it.” She suddenly sounds excited.

  I shoot her a confused look.

  “Please, Ally, I think you’re going to like this, a lot.”

  My heart palpitates. Maybe it’s from Alex. Begging me back. Rose vigorously nods her head. “Open it.”

  I shouldn’t open it. I should just leave. Instead, believing that this envelope contains the keys to my eventual forgiveness of Alex, I tear it open.

  Then I stare at its contents in complete disbelief.

  Pay to the order of Alice C. Hirsch. $1,000,000.

  I can’t speak or move.

  “Ally, it’s the very least I could do.” Rose smiles as if everything’s going to be just Great!

  “What? You think I want or need your money? You think you can buy my . . . my forgiveness?”

  Rose takes off her sunglasses and gives me a look—a mix of pity and contempt. “Oh, Ally, I wasn’t trying to buy your forgiveness. I want to buy Xander a quick divorce.”

  I’m paralyzed. I want my hand to squeeze the door handle, but my body betrays me.

  Rose smiles as if she’s going to bestow some great news. I can’t help but think that Gabby is right. Rose’s teeth are whiter than a fresh piece of chalk. They’re neon white.

  “It’s over, Ally, face it. He’s not coming back. So why not get something out of it? Be smart. Help me and I’ll help you.”

  My mouth hangs open. This woman is beyond insane. She’s not even human. I will my hand to the door handle, but it’s limp against my leg. I can’t escape.

  “Believe it or not, I love him. This is not some boy toy of mine, if that’s any comfort to you. I’m in this for the long haul. He’s a man among men, Ally. I’m sure you know that. I want to make it official.” She giggles like she’s telling her best friend the good news. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I want to get married. I want to have a baby. Xander wants a baby very badly, too.”

  I think about the baby again. Maybe it will come back, just like Faye said. Maybe it will return to Alex but not me. Maybe Rose will have the baby that was supposed to be mine. I feel dizzy. My stomach turns. I am going to throw up all over this limo.

  “Alex already has a baby,” I choke out.

  “I know. I know. And I love the Gabster.”

  The Gabster?

  “She’s not yours to love,” I sneer. “And she never will be.”

  The door opens. Ruth grabs me and pulls me out.

  “Get the fuck out of here and never come back, you piece of shit asshole,” Ruth snarls.

  The paparazzi click away as the limo screeches down the block.

  “Party’s over, boys,” Ruth yells.

  Ruth puts her arm around me and leads me back into the house.

  Inside it’s quiet. Everyone has left. Trinity straightens up while Connor and Gabby lie on their backs watching Beauty and the Beast.

  I slump down on a chair, shut my eyes, and breathe deep.

  Ruth sits next to me, rubbing my hand. We don’t say anything for a long time. From the TV, Mrs. Potts sings about a tale as old as time.

  “You know, I know her,” Ruth finally says. “Not well. We were both starting out in the business at the same time. We were up against each other for some roles.”

  “Roles? You mean Rose was a . . . ?”

  Ruth shakes her head and laughs. “No. I didn’t come out here planning to be a porn actress. I came out here hoping to be, well, what Rose Maris is now. We got here at the same time. We’d always be at the same auditions for the same cheesy horror movies and sitcom pilots, it seemed. Believe it or not, we both were typecast as the wholesome girl next door. As you probably guessed, she wound up getting the roles.”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Stupid me. You wanna hear something funny and a little catty?”

  I nod.

  “What I did in front of the camera, she did behind the camera. She’s a star. I’m a washed-up porn actress desperately trying to forget my past.”

  I begin to cry. Not because of Alex or Rose or what just happened in front of my house. It suddenly dawns on me that this woman I barely know has done something remarkable for me. By coming outside to rescue me from Rose, Ruth put her past back in the news for all to see—Melvin’s colleagues, Connor’s teachers, other parents. She’s spent the last few years trying to escape it. Tomorrow, her photo and her former profession will most likely be glaring from a newspaper because of me.

  I cry harder, remembering my first impression of her. How I wanted to get her out of my house, away from Gabby, away from me. In just a few weeks, she’s become a true friend. I understand why Melvin was drawn to her, despite her past. I think again of Faye and how she said I’ve missed many opportunities because I judge too fast and too hard.

  I stare at Ruth and I can’t get the words out to say thanks, but she smiles at me.

  “It’s going to be okay. I promise. I know you don’t believe it now, but it really will be one day.”

  14

  A Thousand Things

  Before school, Gabby asks me to read her Cinderella for what has to be at least the thousandth time. After I finish, Gabby tells me the secret to all fairy tales. She says they’re divided into three parts. There’s the really bad stuff at the beginning. Then there’s the stuff in the middle that’s still pretty bad, but at least there’s a little hope. And last, there’s the happily ever after. The prince kisses the princess and she’s alive again. Or awake after a deep sleep. Or the shoe fits. Or the girl in the tower cries and the prince has his vision restored. Gabby believes life is the same way. She says one day, no matter what, everyone gets their happily ever after.

  I nod and smile, but I don’t tell her the truth. “Okay, honey,” I say. It’s the best I can do.

  The phone rings. Monica Brent who lives on Cezanne Court explains that she wants to create a holiday in New York City motif. “We’ll have skyscrapers, scaled down, of course, Rockefeller Center with skaters and a big tree, holiday shoppers on Fifth Avenue. It will be quite spectacular. I’m assuming no one’s come up with anything nearly as original.”

  No wonder Sherri laughed when I said I’d string up some lights. These people are all fanatics. Who has time for this?

  As she talks, I rummage through the drawers for my pad with the list of all the Christmas displays I’ve collected so far. It’s vanished.

  “We need to celebrate our individuality as a neighborhood. We have to change the mindset of people who assume everything is about Christmas. There are a lot of other holidays going on besides Christmas. I plan to incorporate them all in my New York holiday vignette.”

  I finally hang up with Monica and rummage through more drawers for my legal pad. “Have you seen the big yellow notebook that was in this drawer,” I ask Gabby.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Well, where is it?”

  “It’s not there,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “I can see that, but where did it go?”

  “It’s in my room.”

  I’m relieved. Silly as it sounds, that pad is the only part of my life that’s been organized lately. I’ve collected ideas from about fifty houses now—everything from Santa on the roof, elves in the toy factory, dancing candy canes, to SpongeBob, the Rugrats, Shrek, Dora the Explorer. If I lose that list, I don’t know what I’ll do. I bet the neighborhood would hold a public lynching. They’d hang me and then string me with lights. The perfect holiday display.

  “Could you get it for me?”

  “Sure.”

  Gabby runs down the hall. When she returns, she proudly holds up the legal pad.

  “Isn’t i
t beautiful?”

  I grab the pad from her. Every page has been painted over. Big, broad strokes of colors. Blacks and reds and blues and greens and oranges. My notes are devoured by paint.

  “Gabby!” I snarl. “This was Mommy’s. You have paper everywhere.”

  “No, I don’t. I ran out about three hundred and seventy-nine days ago. You never buy me anything. Connor and I wanted to paint, but you were outside and so was his mommy, so I found this. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Go to your room.”

  I think about what to do. I could call Sherri and get a list of all the phone numbers to every house in the area. Then I could call and pretend I’m confirming decorations. But that sounds like a full week’s work. Something for tomorrow, or the next day. Right now I have to get Gabby to school.

  I drop Gabby off at kindergarten. Then I go to the coffee shop down the street and order a latte. I sit in my usual spot. I look up but the photo I love is gone. In its place is a painting that resembles a Thomas Kinkade. A country cottage with too much light, too many flowers, and too much cobblestone. I take all of this as a bad omen.

  Ruth shows up a few minutes later and says I look depressed.

  I tell her something I haven’t told anyone yet—I called Alex after Rose’s visit.

  She shakes her head. “Ugh.”

  “I’m so sick of these games. He was my husband for a long, long time, and now he’s this stranger. I want answers. I was furious at him for letting Rose come over. He said he had no idea.”

  Ruth laughs. “That sounds hard to believe.”

  “I know, but I believed him. He said that’s what Rose is like. She takes things into her own hands. He said she shouldn’t have done that, but it’s her style.”

  “To be a psycho?”

  “That’s what I said. Then I asked him if that’s what he wants, a divorce.”