Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  Gabby’s sobbing into her Sleeping Beauty pillow. I sit on her bed and put my hand on her back. She stiffens.

  “Leave me alone,” she screams. “I hate you.”

  I stroke the side of her tear-streaked face. “Shh, Gabby. Shhh.”

  Her whole body hiccups from sobs, so I keep rubbing her back until she begins to calm down.

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  She turns to face me. “No, you’re not,” she says angrily. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth is taut.

  “Why are you so mad at me, Gabby? Why?”

  “Because,” she says, again hiccupping. “Because . . . because you’re supposed to make everything right. You’re supposed to be magic.”

  I smile and grab her face. I feel tears slide down my cheeks.

  “I’m not magic, sweetie.”

  “Yes, you are. And you’re not using your powers. I want you to fix everything. I want to have the fairy tale back. I want Daddy back. I miss my daddy. I miss my daddy.” She buries her face in her pillow and sobs again.

  “I know, honey. I know you had a lot of fun with Daddy, but I promise tomorrow—”

  Gabby sobs even harder. She turns towards me. Her face is red and hot. Her eyes are tiny slits bubbling with tears. She wants to say something, but every time she opens her mouth, she cries even harder.

  “Shh,” I say. “Shh, you don’t have to talk anymore.”

  “I . . . did . . . not . . . have . . . fun . . . at . . . Daddy’s.” She hiccups out each word. “It was horrible. Santa Claus was not the real Santa Claus. He laughed too hard and too much. And everyone sang Christmas carols, but no one really knew the words, so it was stupid and boring. But everyone laughed too hard like it was the funnest thing in the world. It wasn’t fun because you weren’t there. I missed you so much, Mommy. I miss you and Daddy together. I don’t like this.”

  I am crying, too. I lie down next to Gabby and we look into each other’s face as tears stream out of our eyes. We wrap our arms around each other.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I keep saying this over and over again because I don’t know what else to say. We lay there for a long time, just staring at each other, until Gabby’s eyes get heavier and heavier. She struggles to keep them open, but fatigue gives in. I watch her body relax as she begins to breathe softly. I pull up the covers, cuddle her, and stare into her precious little face until my eyes get heavy, too.

  Before I fall asleep, I tell myself that I can’t go back to that job. I’ll leave a message for my boss tomorrow and tell him I quit. Who am I kidding anyway? I’m not invaluable to my clients. My Gabby needs me more than ever. I will be here for her every day. I will make things as good as possible for her. I think about the present I will give myself—I will file for divorce.

  Soon I can’t think anymore. Exhaustion has settled into every bone of my body. I feel that I have never been this tired in my entire life.

  I drift off, holding onto my daughter, and we sleep deeply, both of us silently hoping to hear Santa’s reindeer on the roof.

  Part Two

  Still Bad But a Little Hopeful

  1

  A Child’s Song

  We are over the Grand Canyon,” the pilot informs us in a nasal and staticky voice.

  He’s been doing this every few minutes for the entire flight. He tells us where we are. Then tells us we’re socked in, so it’s impossible to see any of these places.

  “On a clear day, you would be looking right into the mouth of the canyon. A breathtaking sight,” he says.

  I am on my way to Rochester, New York. From there, I’ll meet up with my friend Lauren and head to a small town on the Finger Lakes where my college is located. Most people go to reunions to flaunt their success and their good-looking spouses. I wonder what I’ll say.

  “Hey, everyone, it’s me. Alice. I’m unemployed. My husband left me for another woman. I have a daughter who’s five and who hates me a lot of the time.”

  They’ll look at me funny and laugh, unsure if I’m making a joke or not. Then they’ll tell me that I look great.

  “Well, my daughter tells me my teeth have yellowed and I have lines underneath my eyes. But thanks for lying to me anyway.”

  But at least I’m thin. All this sadness has melted my love handles and gut. Divorce becomes me.

  Why am I going?

  When it comes down to it, there’s only one reason: George.

  We’ve been exchanging e-mails for months now. A little innuendo here. A little flirtation there. It has been half a year of foreplay and I’m going slightly crazy.

  “You should be creating a future for you and Gabby, not retreating into the past,” Dr. Phil would say.

  But I deserve it, don’t I? It’s the beginning of June. The last few months have been exceptionally draining on me. I filed for divorce. I officially quit my job. I ripped up Rose’s check. (I know. I know. It was a lot of money—but could I have lived with myself?) I put the house on the market and then took it off, decided to put it on again and then took it off. (Sherri Gold, the realtor, hates me more than ever.)

  Before I left for this trip, I visited Faye again. As a matter of fact, she’s one of the reasons I’m here, on this flight. She promised me the plane wouldn’t crash.

  “Your life is undergoing great change,” Faye said, her gray eyes darting back and forth, inhaling my soul. “There’s someone from the past who will be entering your life again. Someone you were very antagonistic with. But you helped change his life and he will soon return the favor. He is handsome, with striking eyes. If you let him in, he will become important to you. I think you are shutting him out, though.”

  “Who? Who?” I said.

  “I don’t see a name, just these beautiful eyes. It is someone you have met.”

  “George,” I said. “It’s got to be George.”

  Faye shook her head. “I’m not certain. Maybe.”

  “Oh, Faye.” I roll my eyes and snort. “Anyway, should I go to my reunion?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  Faye pinches my cheeks as if I’m a tot.

  “It’s a chance to get crazy. Also, it’s an opportunity of a lifetime. You get to see all the fat, bald, middle-aged men who used to be the hunks on campus. You still look like you’re in your twenties, so flaunt it and have fun.”

  “Uh-huh. So this isn’t your psychic opinion.”

  “No, Ally. This is just a sixty-year-old’s observation. The exceptional men from our youth usually disappoint in middle age. But go. Enjoy. Be merry. Don’t think so much. Stop worrying so much.”

  Then she stared at me and a trouble look crossed her face. “And please, Ally, please really, really listen to the safety instructions at the beginning of the flight.”

  My eyes bugged out.

  Faye laughed. “You’re too easy to get.”

  On the drive home from Faye’s that day, Ruth called.

  “I’m taking you shopping,” she said. “Meet me at King’s Fish House at the Commons for lunch.”

  We sat outside the faux New Orleans facade, picking at salads. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a man devour Ruth. She’s changed her look during the last few months. Her hair is shorter and more of a honey blonde color. Her clothes are a little more conservative—so she’ll fit in with the PTA moms, I suppose. She’s even getting laser treatments on her back to remove a tattoo of an angel.

  However, hard-core Jill Chris aficionados still recognize her.

  This guy kept stealing glances. And I could feel him waiting for a lull in our conversation. I kept talking about anything to prevent him from coming over.

  It didn’t matter. He finally summoned the courage. He awkwardly stood by our table, waiting for one of us to look up. I refused to. He coughed while nervously playing with coins in his pants pockets.

  “Excuse me, you’re Jill Chris, right,” he asked. “I just want you to know I’m a really big fan. I think you’re amazi
ng. My name’s Todd Mott.”

  “Thanks,” Ruth said, barely looking up. She stabbed at some lettuce.

  He stood there, his mouth hanging opened. “You’ve given me a lot of pleasure over the years. A lot.”

  I felt like this guy was going to start pleasuring himself in front of us.

  Ruth turned toward him and spoke gruffly. “Well then, Todd Mott. Can I ask you a big favor?”

  Todd looked like he was going to explode. “Sure. Anything.”

  “Do you have my DVDs at home?”

  “All of them. Hidden, of course. My wife—”

  “Would you send them to me?”

  “Huh?”

  “If I give you my P.O. box, will you send me every DVD that you have? Everything.”

  “Um . . .”

  “If you send me every single copy, I’ll send you one hundred dollars for each. Tell all your friends, too.”

  Todd looked confused. “Okay.”

  “Promise?” Ruth pulled out a business card with her name and a P.O. box number on it.

  “Anything you say, J.C. You have no idea what you mean to me.”

  She held out her hand. Todd shook it and didn’t let go until Ruth finally pried it away. Beaming, he walked away from the table.

  Ruth watched him as she wiped her hand with a napkin. “Gross, was he sweaty,” she said.

  “You think he’ll send the DVDs?”

  “I’m always surprised by how many do. At first I told Mel that this would never work, but he said, ‘You have no idea of the almighty power of the buck. It’ll beat sex any day’. So far, I’ve gotten stacks and stacks of DVDs back. I know I won’t wipe it out, but I want to make it harder for Connor to stumble on it. If only I could get Stone to burn the originals.” She thought about this for a moment. “Well, I guess one day I’ll probably have to tell Connie, but I hope it’s a long, long way off. And I hope he’s old enough to sort of understand why Mom did the things she did.” She laughed sadly and stared at her plate. “First, I guess, I’ll have to figure it out, too.”

  After lunch, we headed to Nasty Kitty, a lingerie and sex toy shop on Ventura in Tarzana.

  “We’ve gotta find you something sexy,” Ruth said.

  “I don’t know why I’m here. George is probably still married. I’m reading into things.”

  “Be prepared. You’d hate to have everything going well and then remember you have on big ol’ gray underwear with a big ol’ hole in the crotch.”

  The saleswoman was a short, big-breasted woman with peroxide blonde hair and a squeaky little voice. Her eyes followed Ruth around as Ruth plucked up various nighties.

  “Look at this one,” Ruth said, laughing as she held up a skimpy little police uniform. “The badge says Officer Nasty.”

  “Maybe I’ll wear that during my next parent conference with Myrna.”

  The squeaky-voiced saleswoman was right behind us. “That would look great on you,” she cooed to Ruth. “It looks like it’s your size. A two? Why don’t you try it on? Please.”

  “I’m not in the market today. I’m shopping for Ally, my friend. Do you have any recommendations?”

  Squeaky could barely hide her disappointment as she surveyed my body.

  “How about a Rabbit? You look like you could use one,” she decided.

  “A Rabbit?” At first I thought she was talking about a furry costume with ears and a fluffy tail. Then I realized she meant a vibrator.

  “That’s our top of the line,” Squeaky said, holding up a vibrator with rabbit ears. “Every woman should own one of these. Do you?” She studied me. “You don’t, do you? Honey, do you even know where your G-spot is?”

  I instinctively stepped back, half expecting this woman to stick her hand down my pants. Instead, she pulled one of the Rabbits off the shelf and fondled it.

  “This is the Rabbit Habit. It’s a good choice for a first-timer.” She turned it on. The bunny ears spun. She rolled her eyes skyward, as if just watching this thing was getting her all hot and bothered. “I use the Habit a few times a day. I haven’t had a man in years.”

  She beamed at me as if this was some kind of wonderful accomplishment. I felt like she was waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. “Good for you,” I said.

  “Trust me. This thing is better than anything a man can give you.”

  It didn’t happen. I grew up in a strict Roman Catholic household and was shuttled to Catholic schools until I broke free of it in college. I associate a rabbit with Easter and Easter with Christ on the crucifix. How could those ears ever bring pleasure? I’d be thinking of Jesus dying for my sins, including the one I would be committing at that moment. Besides, cute bunny ears? Did some inventor see a little rabbit hopping through the fields, munching on a carrot and think, Wow! I’m so aroused! But then again, what do I know—I’m so repressed.

  Instead, I wound up at Victoria’s Secret, where I bought a black lace bra and matching undies. Just in case.

  George. George. George. What am I thinking? Maybe he is happily married. Maybe his wife decided to come along. I was placing way too much stock in a few silly e-mails. I haven’t figured out the art of interpreting e-mails. It’s too easy to jot out a few thoughts and hit send. Writing e-mails doesn’t mean as much as sitting down at a desk, putting your thoughts on a piece of notepaper, crumpling it up, and beginning again and again until it’s perfect. With e-mails, you might say more, but the words have less meaning.

  “It’s a little bumpy up here. We’ll be experiencing some turbulence for about the next twenty minutes or so, so please, buckle up and remain in your seats.”

  Gabby is spending the weekend at Alex’s condo. I packed her suitcase and left it by her bed. Later, when I lifted it, I was shocked by how heavy it was. I assumed Gabby had added her hardcover collection of fairy tales. I unzipped it and discovered dozens of glinting white rocks and pebbles. She must have painted the stones in our backyard white.

  “You weren’t supposed to open that,” Gabby whispered when she caught me.

  “I thought we discussed this already,” I said. “No one is going to take you into the middle of the woods, honey. You know your daddy loves you.”

  “The Daddies always love their kids, but that doesn’t stop them from doing horrible things to them. Especially if their wives tell them to.”

  “Daddy isn’t married to Rose.”

  “But I think he’s going to be, don’t you?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. How to answer such a question? According to the magazines and my Hollywood friends, they should have been broken up by now. But they’re not. And maybe they never will be. Maybe this is the real thing for both of them.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said.

  “You say that a lot lately.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You say that a lot lately, too.”

  The pilot broke into my thoughts. “We’re beginning our descent into Rochester International Airport.”

  A few hours later, Lauren and I check into a Ramada right off campus. I stare out the window at the lake while Lauren unpacks.

  “It’s strange being here,” she says. “I feel like in some ways it was just yesterday, and in other ways it was a million lifetimes ago.”

  “I just still can’t believe how old we are,” I say. “How did all this time go by between then and now? God, life was so easy and we made it so complicated. I thought it was so important to get straight As. And what did it matter? No one has ever asked to see my report card.”

  “That’s why I was so much smarter,” Lauren says. “I never tried to get straight As. I just drank too much.”

  They start arriving. Sarah, the quiet, bookish one; Beth, the boisterous, athletic one; Dawn, the effortlessly smart, party girl one; and Liz, the sexy, slightly slutty one. We tell each other how great we look. We say we look the same, but we’re lying. At the very best, we are tired versions of our younger selves. Our eyes are puffy and lined. The whites have a pinkish
cast now. Our hair isn’t as shiny as it was. Our waists are thicker—except for Liz, who is as thin as she was in college and is flaunting the hell out of it, strutting around in a skintight racerback and mini shorts.

  We planned it so our rooms are all right next to each other’s. We are in and out, checking out wardrobes, applying makeup, chatting.

  “I have a rule I’d like to announce,” Beth growls. She’s the lesbian of the group. Despite the fact that she had declared her love for Matty Reynolds all through college, we all secretly knew the truth, although she officially came out tonight when she showed photos of her partner, Jeannine, and their adopted Cambodian baby.

  “Once we leave this room, we can’t talk about spouses or children. Whoever does will have to drink a shot.”

  I smile so wide it hurts my cheeks. Kids? Who has kids? I feel like I’m twenty again where every night held a surprise. We’d spend the night at a bar, scanning the crowd and watching the door. Would tonight be the night when I’d fall in love? Make out with a stranger? Flirt with a crush? The possibilities were endless back then. And it doesn’t seem much different right now.

  Someone has burned a CD filled with late eighties hits. Milli Vanilli seques into Madonna who segues into Phil Collins. I sip my margarita slowly—I want to be slightly tipsy but not drunk and slurring when I see George. I don’t want him to think I’m the same old Ally. No, I’m older and better and soberer!

  That night, no George. We attend every party the reunion committee holds. I even drag my friends to the crew party, because George rowed in college. But he’s a no-show. I casually ask his friends about his whereabouts, but no one’s seen him. No one even seems to know for sure if he is definitely coming. Maybe he got stuck on a deadline. Maybe he chickened out.

  It isn’t until the next night, at a party on the quad, that I see him. I am filling my Styrofoam cup with beer, when he walks out on the quad. I’d been secretly searching for him for the last twenty-four hours, and had begun to think he had a last-minute change of heart. I watch as he hugs some people and my heart throttles my ribs. I didn’t expect this nervousness to overwhelm me. My Styrofoam cup is vibrating, my hands are shaking so hard.