Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “Well, if that’s something you’re interested in, you should do it—but for you. Not for him.”

  She gasps and shudders.

  “But . . . but . . . I love him. He’s the only one for me.”

  I sneak a peek at my watch. Then I take a deep breath.

  “If it’s meant to be it will work out,” I say, giving her my best Hollywood smile. “But I think the most important thing you could do for yourself right now is to forget about Bryce. Think about the joy you will be bringing Gabby and her friends. How many people can do that for others? You have a gift. Does Bryce get that that is the true definition of an intellectual? Someone who can relate to children as brilliantly as you do?”

  This shit is just spewing out of my mouth. It’s almost like, well, dare I say it? It’s almost like Dr. Phil has invaded my brain. I have become what I mock. I brace myself, wondering if Celia will fall under Dr. Phil’s spell.

  Celia smiles at me and wipes away tears. I can practically hear the applause from the studio audience.

  “You’re right, Ally. Thanks for putting this in perspective for me.”

  Oh my God. The man is a genius. I will never mock him again.

  “Ally, that’s a slippery slope. Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Dr. Phil warns me.

  An hour later, the party is in full swing. And I am actually relaxed as I survey the lawn. Kids munch on pizza and jump in the bouncy castle. Celia wanders the property in full Cinderella regalia, blowing bubbles. The parents sit on teak chairs, sipping wine and eating the Chinese chicken salad I ordered. I feel proud of myself for pulling this off. I search for Gabby. She’s laughing as she chases after a few kids. She wears a sparkly tiara and the brand-new Ariel gown I gave her this morning.

  I am supermom!

  I head into the house. Trinity pushes a wheelchair out the door with my mom in it.

  “I am taking him shopping for pants, if that’s okay,” she tells me. “All this noise is very scary to him. And his pants are all too big now.”

  “Sure, Trinity,” I say, smiling. “But take my car. It’s too far of a walk to the mall.”

  I help get my mother into the car. Then they leave. I’m practically whistling as I head back outside with a tray of turkey, tuna, and chicken wraps.

  Little Amanda nearly knocks me over. She’s crying hysterically. “I saw Cinderella smoking a cigarette in the bushes and then she said a naughty word to me.”

  I bend down and touch the side of her face. “Shh, it’s okay, Mandy,” I say. “But are you sure? I can’t believe Cinderella would do such a thing.”

  “She did. I saw and heard her with my own two eyes.” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand.

  I scan the lawn for Celia. Where the hell is she?

  “She was smoking. Cinderella would never ever smoke. She’s not a real princess. I said no handsome prince could ever, ever love her.” Mandy sniffles some more. I grab a napkin from the tray and hand it to her. She blows her nose.

  “And then . . . and then,” she says, gasping. “She said fuck. I know that’s a bad word. I hear Mommy say it to Daddy when she’s very, very mad. Cinderella would never say that, right?”

  “Right,” I say, shaking my head. I’m ready to kill Celia. “It must be an evil imposter.”

  “Where’s the real Cinderella? I better tell my mommy.”

  Of course, this is the one time Amy decides not to have a migraine. Although I saw her clutching the sides of her head a little while ago.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  I put the wraps on a table and scour the yard for Celia. I find her huddled behind a bush by the guest house, smoking a cigarette and yelling into her cell phone. She’s got raccoon eyes. Mascara stains her cheeks again.

  “You know what, you’re wrong, Bryce. I am smart. You’re just too stupid to know it, so fuck you,” she screams. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole.”

  I grab the phone from her and shut it. “Celia, what the hell are you doing? You’re scaring the kids.”

  She bursts into tears again.

  “I’m sorry, Alice. I can’t do this. I can’t pretend to be Cinderella when my life is so far from a fairy tale.”

  I sigh. “Ceel, you’re an actor, so act for the afternoon. Please.” I strain to sound cheerful. This makes her cry even harder.

  “The truth is I’m not an actress. This is the best I can do. This is the best I’ll ever do—dress up as fucking Cinderella for a bunch of bratty kids. This sucks, but it’s my life. Maybe if I get really good at it, they’ll promote me to Goofy at Disneyland or I could wander around Graumann’s in a Darth Vadar costume or I could wear a chicken costume and twirl a sign by El Pollo Loco. I’ll never be a real actress. It’s hopeless.”

  “You don’t know that yet.”

  “Yes, I do. I haven’t gotten a callback in months. When I audition, I can see it in their eyes. They bite their cheeks to try not to laugh. I’m a joke. Even Bryce knows it. Stupid Celia. She thinks she can act. Hahaha.”

  “Oh, Ceel, that’s not true. You’re being way too hard on yourself.”

  “Look at my life, Ally, please. I’m sneaking cigarettes at a kiddie party in a fucking Cinderella costume. If I weren’t me, I’d make fun of me.”

  I laugh and put my arm around her. “Ceel, one day when you’re an old lady like me, you’ll look back on this time and say, I wish I had those problems. It’s nothing, trust me. You’re only twenty-two. You have everything in front of you. You’re beautiful and fun and great with kids, when you’re not cursing at them. Anyway, you’ve got tons of boyfriends in front of you and tons of adventures. Trust me. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have everything so figured out.”

  I burst into laughter. “You have no idea.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh, ohhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  “Not today,” I say.

  I watch parents’ heads turn skyward, their ears pricked, their mouths hanging. Celia rubs an index finger around her eyes and takes a deep breath. “What the hell is that?”

  “Porn house,” I tell her, pointing at the manse directly above mine. “They shoot them right in the backyard. They haven’t made one in a few weeks. I was hoping they’d moved.”

  “Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhhhhhhhhh! Fuck me harder!”

  I hear a collective parental gasp.

  “Apparently they haven’t,” I say. “I can’t believe this is happening today.”

  I watch as some parents collect their kids. It’s only been an hour. We haven’t even sung happy birthday to Gabby yet.

  Ruth rushes over to me. “This is horrible,” she says. “But don’t worry. We can fix it.”

  “Harder! Harder! Harder!”

  More gasps from the parents. The kids don’t seem to notice. They’re in their own world of bouncy castles and pizza.

  “How,” I say.

  “Let’s drown them out. If we’re loud enough, we’ll ruin their audio and they’ll have to redo the whole thing. Let’s just hope we mess up the money shot.” She surveys the lawn and takes a deep breath. “We’ll set your speakers up outside and blast your stereo.”

  I give Ruth a panicked look. “I don’t have a stereo. It broke,” I confess, embarrassed. In happier days, we had a cheap, old stereo that worked intermittently. Alex and I had planned to buy a new, improved sound system, but he became obsessed with finding The Best. He researched systems for months. But we never got around to purchasing anything. Then he left and music just didn’t seem important to me. And after the holidays, the stereo just died.

  “All I have is a boom box and it’s not very loud,” I say.

  “Ohhhhhhh, ohhhhhh, ohhhhhhhh!”

  There is going to be a mass exodus. Parents shake their heads and cover their kids’ ears. A few start getting out of their seats.

  “What’s that sound, Mommy?” I hear a child ask.

  “That’s another princess stuck in a tower,” Gabby informs everyone. “It happens a
ll the time.”

  “I know!” Celia says. She tosses her butt, stomps on it, and bolts across the lawn. I have a feeling she’s going to try to distract the group with bubbles or balloons. I don’t think it will work.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  Dana, a mom I just met, smiles nervously at me as she clutches her daughter Sadie’s hand. “Thanks so much, Alice, but we have to get going,” she says, smiling so hard it looks like she’s screaming inside.

  “But . . . the cake . . . Gabby,” I stumble out.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “Bye-bye,” she says as she gallops toward the driveway.

  Gabby runs to me. Her eyes are wide. “Why are people leaving my party? Don’t they like me?”

  Suddenly, the loud, piercing sound of feedback fills the yard, drowning out the neighbors. Celia has set up my boom box, and attached her speakers and a microphone to it.

  “Testing, testing,” she says. There’s more feedback, so she adjusts dials.

  “Turn that thing off!” a voice from above yells.

  Celia smiles. She speaks in a sing-songy voice.

  “Come here, boys and girls, it’s time for a Cinderella sing-along.”

  The mass exodus halts. Kids squirm away from their moms’ tight grips and race towards Cinderella. Some mothers protest. Others shrug and smile. Some—like my new friends, Nancy, Renee, even Amy—never thought of leaving. They’re still sitting and eating Chinese chicken salad. It’s like they know it will all work out.

  Nearly two dozen kids are huddled around Celia, who has somehow cleaned herself up a bit, although she still has traces of mascara on her cheeks and her eyes are puffy, red little slits. But she manages to smile big as she stands in front of a microphone.

  “Hello, boys and girls. As you all know, I’m Cinderella and—”

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  Celia looks around nervously and talks faster and louder. “Well, let me start by singing the song my fairy godmother once sang to me when I needed some help. I’m sure you all know it. If you do, sing along. If you don’t, fake it.”

  Celia closes her eyes and inhales. Then she sings at the top of her lungs.

  Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

  Put ’em together and what have you got?

  Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo . . .

  While she sings, Celia holds the microphone out towards the crowd and the kids scream the lyrics. Then the parents join in, shouting, clapping, and stomping their feet.

  When the song ends, there’s wild applause, followed by silence as the moms listen for sex sounds. Celia looks over at me. I smile at her and give her a thumbs up. She shoots me an enormous grin.

  Ruth rushes over and whispers in my ear, “It worked. I took a little walk up the hill and heard them cursing at us. Then they gave up and started packing their equipment. Maybe you’ll get them to move. What could kill the mood more than a bunch of kiddie voices?”

  I am reminded of my night with George: “Pick up, daddy. Pick up, daddy.”

  Celia pulls Gabby out of the crowd.

  “Here’s the birthday girl. How about you tell Cinderella what your favorite song of all time is.”

  “Well,” Gabby says, thinking. “Are you going to be angry if it’s not a Cinderella song?”

  Celia laughs. I laugh.

  “No, of course not. Just don’t let my little mice friends know. They might get mad.”

  “Okay,” Gabby says. “ ‘Wish Upon A Star.’ ”

  “Great, that’s my favorite, too. Let’s sing it together.”

  They turn to each other and Celia motions for Gabby to begin. Gabby scrunches her face and stands there, her eyes wide. I don’t think she’s going to go through with it. She looked panicked and paralyzed.

  I’m reminded of a conversation we had this morning.

  “Mommy, I really want to be an actress. Can I?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “No. I mean like now. I want to be in the TV set. I want to sing in front of people, too. Daddy said to ask you. I said you’d say no.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  Gabby stomped her foot. “Thinking about it always means no.”

  Gabby stands there and I think, See, Gabby, I was right, you’re not ready. You’re still a baby. I don’t want to be some crazy stage mother anyway. Sure, it looks easy, but it isn’t. It’s hard to be in front of a group of people and perform. I couldn’t have done it, especially at your age.

  She looks so scared and so tiny as she stands there, frozen in front of the microphone. And I wonder if I should go up and grab her and tell everyone it’s time for cake. But I don’t. I watch her, my heart pounding away. I try to send her my thoughts.

  You can do it, Gabby. Don’t be scared. Mommy’s always holding your hand, even if she’s not right next to you. And if you can’t do it, that’s okay, too.

  She closes her eyes and exhales into the microphone. Her breath is so loud it sounds like a hurricane. The crowd titters. Celia gives her a nod of encouragement. Gabby smiles and opens her mouth.

  “ ‘When you wish upon a star,’ ” she trills.

  It’s a beautiful voice. Until this moment, I’d never really listened to it. Sure, she sings all the time. In the car, in the yard, in her bedroom, at the table, on the toilet. But I’d never really heard her. I’d smile and tell her that her voice was beautiful, but I wasn’t really, truly paying attention. I was thinking about Alex or Mom or my divorce or my career or the list of what I needed to do that day.

  Gabby’s voice is so pure and clear. It reminds me of the brisk air of a chilly autumn day back East, when the leaves are piling in drifts under trees and the sky is tinged with silver.

  Gabby is lost in the words and the music. Celia watches, transfixed, and doesn’t join in. This is Gabby’s moment. Her face registers bliss. The crowd watches in awe as she makes notes dance and twirl through the cloudless sky.

  My daughter is right. She is a pebble star.

  The song ends. The crowd bursts into applause. I look at Gabby and she’s all blurry. That’s when I realize I’m crying.

  “Unbelievable,” Ruth whispers to me, squeezing my arm. “Should I get the cake?”

  My voice chokes, so I nod my head.

  My daughter takes a long, deep bow and then motions for Celia to bow, too. They laugh and keep bowing. This is perfect, I think.

  Until I hear the sirens. They seem to be coming right here.

  And I hear the voice: But wait, there’s more!

  4

  Lipstick, Blush, Mascara

  As I head to the front door, I assume this will have something to do with the party being too loud. I figure I’ll politely explain to the officer about the porn house above and we’ll all have a big laugh.

  He’ll say, “Well, you did what you had to do. I have a little girl myself, so I completely understand.” I’ll invite him to stay for a piece of birthday cake. He’ll stay for a few minutes, have a piece. Then he’ll leave. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Hirsh.”

  But Officer Jay Tibbits stands at the front door and doesn’t mention anything about disturbing the peace. He doesn’t say a word. He just glares with his arms akimbo. I feel like he’s waiting for some kind of confession. So I bring up the noise.

  “I’m sorry. Were we too loud?”

  He squints his eyes at me, confused. Then he looks past me at the bunch of women behind me, eavesdropping. He runs his fingers over his gray-flecked moustache.

  “Are you Alice Hirsh?”

  I nod, smiling. He frowns and slightly shakes his head. I decide that porn maker Bob Stone must give a big donation to the Police Benevolent League.

  “It’s my daughter’s birthday,” I gulp out. “We’re just having a little party here. I’m sorry if we were loud.”

  His face doesn’t change expression. “Would you mind stepping outside? I’d like to have a word with you”—he looks past me at the women clustered behind me�
�“in private.”

  He sounds too serious. What have I done? My heart races as I quickly inventory my brain for some crime I could have committed. Nothing comes to mind. I am pretty much a law-abiding citizen. Sure, I make illegal U-turns and I still don’t really understand the difference between solid and dotted yellow lines. But nothing that would warrant a cop coming to my door.

  He marches towards his squad car and I follow. The red siren light is still whirring. L.A. cops are the least subtle human beings on the planet.

  “Do you know a Mary Fitzgerald and a Trinity Mendoza?” He frowns as he speaks.

  I feel like I’m going to faint. “What? Are they okay? Did something happen to them?”

  He flashes a patronizing grin. “So you are acquainted with these individuals?”

  “That’s . . . that’s my mother. Trinity takes care of her. What happened to them?”

  My heart palpitates. They were in a car accident and died, I think. It’s my fault for so readily handing over my keys to Trinity. She’s run errands alone in my car before, but I’ve never actually seen her drive. Maybe she doesn’t have a license. I was busy obsessing over jumpy castles, face painting, and turkey wraps. I allowed my mother to be driven by an unlicensed terror behind the wheel.

  The ordeal! This is the ordeal.

  Officer Jay manages to curl his lips into a snarl. “Nothing happened to them.” He speaks evenly, his mouth barely opens.

  “Oh my God, thank God,” I say, closing my eyes and sighing. My body relaxes. “I thought they were in some horrible car accident or something. Was it just a fender bender?”

  Officer Jay shuffles his feet and coughs. He’s getting bored and annoyed with me.

  “No, Mrs. Hirsh. It wasn’t a fender bender,” he says, slowly and deliberately. He pauses. Then he removes his aviator sunglasses and narrows his eyes at me. He pauses and licks his lips. “Your mother and her friend were apprehended for shoplifting.”