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Authors: Aimee Pitta,Melissa Peterman
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
By
Aimee
Pitta
Melissa Peterman
Published by Aimee
Pitta
and Melissa Peterman
© Copyright 2012 Aimee
Pitta
and Melissa Peterman
Layout by Cheryl Perez:
www.yourepublished.com
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ebook
is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
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For my amazing parents Rose and Tom who never stopped believing in me and for Lori, Andrea, Stephanie and Deanna my wonderful, crazy, supportive and always inspiring sisters who never let me give up. Without them I’m seriously nothing. ~
Aimee
For Pam and Dave Peterman who never flinched when I told them I wanted to be an actress and are my biggest fans.
To John Brady for still making me laugh and always doing the dishes.
To Riley Brady, you are the best thing your dad and I ever did and I'm sorry for telling you your Etch-A-Sketch was an I Pad. ~
Melissa
Introduction
What you’re about to read is the almost totally true story of two sisters. A modern day tale of love lost, love won, impatience, sacrifice, friendship, sex, loyalty, honesty, and at times, indecision, drunkenness, flatulence, and cookie dough. The names, places, and situations haven’t been changed to protect the innocent, because these gals are far from innocent, but some things have been embellished for creative license, which we are legally required to say to ensure that our creative license won’t be revoked.
Once Upon A Time, and not a random far-away fairytale time, but 1991 to be exact when hair was big and music was
loud,
there were two sisters, Grace and Clair. Sure there were other sisters living in
Chicago
, but these two, the Higgins sisters, are who we’re concerned with. One was a dark haired Goth chick, with a penchant for Boone's Apple wine and guys who didn't respect her, and the other was a naive bookworm with a daddy complex who had just been dumped for the first time in her life. Clair was the younger of the two; the fair-haired sister. Every fairytale has one, but at this moment, Grace’s light brown locks were dyed
black, giving Clair a role that wasn’t exactly hers for the taking--hair wise that is. Clair’s reaction to her father’s surprising death when she was fourteen made her realize that life was out of control. Their father died while shoveling snow early one morning. Unfortunately, for Daddy Higgins, the snowplow failed to see him as he shoveled off the driveway and ran him down. Then to add insult to injury, it covered him with four feet of snow as it cleared the street. Later that day, while Clair and Grace where building a snowman, they found a little something that wasn’t a corncob pipe or two eyes made out of coal. It was Daddy Higgins wearing a confused and, it goes without saying, frozen expression on his face. After that, he forever became their “Popsicle.”
Clair decided shortly after to control everything she could control, so that she would be better prepared for any other nasty surprises along the way. She also came to the conclusion that snow was evil, snowplows were murderers, and that ice, even on the hottest Chicago day, was nobody’s’ friend. Now, the trouble with planning, and what Clair will learn, is that even the things we plan can’t be controlled, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Right now it’s 1991 and Clair had planned the following: at twenty-seven years of age she was to marry Ralph
Macchio
, he of “Karate Kid” fame; become an Accountant; make Vice President at some important accounting firm that had five names, such as Friedlander, Smith, Wong, O’Brien, and Dakota; become Partner at said accounting firm; and have exactly two kids by the time she was thirty-five. Clair had done the math and she knew that if she was even one millisecond off her plan she would never be able to retire at sixty-five. And really isn’t that what life was all about?
Now, Grace, she with the
black hair, had nothing planned. Well, apart from being a librarian, a chosen career because she reasoned that if she was on tour with her band Death Parade and they inexplicably got into some horrible fight and vowed never to play together again, she could find a job in whatever city she was in because--duh--every city had libraries! Logically, it made sense. What didn’t make sense was whether or not Grace had given any thought to what it meant to be a librarian and if she’d even enjoy a career as one. As the first born, many would expect that because it has been psychologically proven, Grace would be the planner and Clair would be the wild child. To be honest and for a short period of time, a time we will refer to as
black hair, green eyes and pale complexion, was just as shocked as Clair when they found their Popsicle that random afternoon. At that moment, Grace also learned that life was uncontrollable and, therefore, decided she would never plan another thing for as long as she lived. Life, she learned, should be lived and planning every single second of your life meant that you weren’t actually living it. Because she was in school studying to be a librarian at the time of the incident, she wasn’t going to rock the boat. Her family, especially her mom, Diane, was in shock and so, for Grace, the routine of going to school was something of a relief. It meant she didn’t have to think. The problem that Grace will eventually come to learn with not making any life plans is that you inevitably wake up extremely confused from your self-prescribed coma and wonder what the hell happened to your life. Oh, and
Here is where an inevitable pact was made in the basement of the Higgins’ household on a bitterly cold Saturday night as they watched a Lifetime original movie marathon. “There” is the opening in the next chapter as the pact is set in motion nearly sixteen years later. But, because tales of what actually transpired will be told again, here is what you’ll need to know for now:
There was a blizzard, there was the sister’s aversion to snow, there was no parental supervision, but there was a case of Boone’s Farm wine that Grace had accepted as payment for the Death Parade’s gig at Jason Freidman’s Bar Mitzvah, and there was, as there always will be in some part of the world, a Lifetime original movie marathon. That night, after an excess of drinking and being moved beyond belief by the plights of McKeon,
Bertinelli
and Gilbert, the Holy Grail of Lifetime original movies, the sisters made a pact. The pact was simplicity at its best and in their drunken stupor they wrote it down and signed it for prosperity.
If your husband cheats on you with the babysitter, that slut
Tori
Spelling, then tries to kill you, I slovenly promise to kill him.
If your son or daughter wants to be a cheerleader and if you kill the cheerleader who was better than your kid, I will appear as a character witness and tell them your hand slipped and I will help you bury the body because that’s what Aunts do, and if you can’t have a baby… I will steal you a Chinese baby or rent you my womb.
Grace Higgins
Clair Higgins
nd
, 1991
It goes without saying that the word slovenly was meant to read as solemnly and that Aunts buy you toys and
spoil
you rotten—not bury bodies for you, but when one is drunk, forming a cognitive sentence and being politically correct is a most difficult task. Now you’re officially ready for “There,” but before you go, there are a few things you should know. Over the years, Grace and Clair remained close. They loved and respected each other as most sisters who don’t appear on Dr. Phil or The Jerry Springer show do, but we would be lying if we didn’t say they weren’t just a tiny bit confused about their lives…
The offices of The City of Chicago’s 911 headquarters were, in a word, drab. They needed to be drab. They needed to be devoid of color, imagination, and inspiration, so that the 911 Operators could concentrate on the actual calls that came in. There was no downloading music, gossip, or web site surfing in this place. Saving lives was serious business and The City of Chicago respected that. Grace Higgins, who was now thirty-five years old, had survived a life thus far without planning. After a year of arduous training and test taking, she, ended up as a 911 Operator. If you’re wondering where she was prior to becoming a 911 Operator, you’re not the only one. Grace has been wondering that ever since she inexplicably awoke from her self-prescribed coma at the ripe old age of thirty-three. Upon waking, she discovered that she hated being a
librarian, that
she had no idea why Death Parade had broken up, that at thirty-three she was the same age as Jesus when he died, and that Jesus had accomplished way more than she had at the same age. He walked on water, fed thousands of people off of one loaf of bread and seven fishes, and, well, he came back from the dead. And so, because of Jesus, Grace’s letter of resignation still hangs in the break room at the Newberry Public Library. It simple states “Jesus Made Me Do It.” Grace quit her job and embarked on a personal quest that has lasted over two years. After she woke up like Sleeping Beauty from the cold wet kiss of reality and before she became a 911 Operator Grace had been many things to many people. She was a barber, massage therapist, barista, donut maker, bank teller, nanny, dog walker, cashier, postman, waitress, phone sex operator, house painter, cleaning lady, and a bike messenger--just to name a few. It goes without saying that Grace was searching for that missing piece in her life--a purpose. So, Grace became a 911 Operator when she discovered that it would take too long to become a doctor, a nurse, or a
reflexologist
, but her new chosen profession did give her a purpose--saving lives.
Tonight, the offices were slower than slow. It was only
and Grace was on ‘til
Just about anything could happen during the next eight hours, but she hoped it would stay slow. A slow night may be boring, but it meant, for the most part, that their district was safe. Grace leaned into the phone, feeling guilty about being on a personal call, and whispered, “George, don’t be such a whore! I know he’s a fireman. I told you we’ve only spoken on the phone. I know it’s been six months. I can’t ask him out. I’m a chicken shit I guess. What if he says no? George, please, enough!” Her switchboard rang. “I have a call--no--I can’t put them on hold! Do you even know where I work? No, that was a year ago. I have to go. Someone could have impaled themselves for God’ sakes! What? I’m a 911 Operator! Call me later.” She quickly hung up and used her professional operator voice--not to be confused with her phone sex operator voice. It had taken Grace three months to break herself of the habit of falling into her low-pitched horny and available voice, which people who were in the midst of having a heart attack, didn’t need to hear. “911, how can I help? Yes, yes, that’s right, heavy machinery means just that, heavy machinery. I think
it’s
okay for you to use your vacuum, but avoid driving your lawn mower, your car or, you know, anything else that you have to steer. You’re welcome.” Grace clicked off, leaned back in her chair and let the silence of the switchboard wash over her as she stared off into the empty space that is her life.
Clair, still fair-haired with a little help from her hairdresser, sat with her husband of two years, Henry, in their OBGYN’S office. Her plans were slightly off schedule. She was now thirty and she should have had her first child by the time she was twenty-eight. Even though she and Henry had gotten married six months after bumping into each other in Starbucks, it seemed getting knocked up took time. Clair had made V.P. at twenty-seven and she worked at a big accounting firm with five names: Cleary, Decker, Trees, Brady, and
Verbouwens
, but somehow meeting the one had proven to be a little more difficult to accomplish. Now, a more cynical person would say that Clair impulsively married Henry because that part of her life was off schedule in a big way. However, that wasn’t the case at all. It was just plain and simple love at first sight. On the eve of her twenty-seventh birthday, after giving up on ever meeting and marrying Ralph
Macchio
, Clair mapped out a dating plan that would have ensured Napoleon’s success at
Waterloo
. She was fastidious in her search. For an entire year, every weekend of her life--with the exception of birthdays and holidays-- was filled with speed dating, Internet dating, and good old fashioned blind dating. She was relentless in her pursuit of her Prince Charming and like all good fairy-tales she had to kiss a lot of wet, sloppy, soul sucking frogs along the way.
On one particularly hot
Chicago
day while leaving the museum after a truly horrendous blind date, Clair ran into the nearest Starbucks for an iced coffee, sans ice, to gather the strength she needed to recover. It was while standing in line in the Starbucks on the corner of 5
th
and 7
th
Ave. with all of the other heat challenged natives, trying to explain to the barista, who thankfully wasn’t her sister, why she wanted an ice coffee with no ice, that Henry, who was standing in line behind Clair, stepped up to the counter. Within minutes, he expertly communicated her needs. Clair was immediately smitten with the crew cut and clean-shaven man before her. He had the most pleasant Irish face, sparkling grey eyes, and a winning smile. The fact that he was dressed in athletic shorts, a t-shirt that had more holes in it than a colander, and was wearing cleats did nothing to deter her. Needless to say, Henry scored that day in more ways than one! Well, actually, that’s a lie. Clair was a cautious girl. Henry didn’t score until at least four months later. Shortly after meeting him, Clair gave up Operation Soul Mate, and Henry gave up his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Sabrina, and they married two months after they consummated their relationship.
Right now, Clair was sitting in her
OBGYN’s
office trying not to be nervous. She and Henry had tried for over a year to get pregnant the natural way and now after taking every test known to man to figure out why that wasn’t happening they were forced to wait an excruciating long time for those answers. Clair pulled her eyes from the receptionist and nervously smiled at her husband.
Henry squeezed her hand. “Listen sweetie, when we got married…”
Clair sighed. “When we got married we promised your parents that we’d produce grandchildren. And to quote your mother ‘Never let Grace near them or alcohol while they still had the good sense God gave them.’”
Henry laughed. “Well, yes, we did promise that, but we also promised that we’d talk about whatever was bothering us.”
Clair wasn’t up for another round of baby fate chitchat. “We’re all talked out.”
Henry pressed forward. “No, we’re not. We can adopt.”
“Henry sweetie, you’re working my last nerve. We’ve gone over this a million times. You did not marry Angelina
Jolie
. You married a selfish bitch. I know there are tons of babies who need good homes, but let her do it. I want my first child to be a part of us.”
“And, if we can’t do that, then what?”
Before Clair could answer him the receptionist called their name and quickly ushered them into the Doctor’s office. Clair took that as a bad sign. As they sat down Clair grabbed Henry’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could. Beth Peterman was one of the best
OBGYN’s
in
Chicago
. She had gone to both Harvard and
Yale
Medical
Schools
and was a specialist in infertility. Beth smiled at Clair, but before she could even say hello…
“Just tell us the bad news and get it over with,” Clair blurted.
Beth studied her patients. This was absolutely the worst part of her job. “You have an inhospitable womb. It’s rare, but it does happen. Basically, your fluid is septic and attacks the sperm, which is essentially what birth control does.”
Clair felt her stomach drop. “Are you kidding me? What do you mean inhospitable? I’ve done everything, but put in wall-to-wall carpet to welcome a child into my womb!”
Beth had to smile at that. “I know this isn’t easy to hear.”
Clair held back tears. “What do you know? You have pictures of kids everywhere. Some of them, I’m sure, you gave birth too with your comfy welcoming womb.”
Beth tried to find words of comfort. “You’re right. I don’t know how you feel. I just know how a lot of my patients feel when I have to speak to them about this.”
A devastated Henry was at a loss. “How do we fix it?”
Beth hesitated. “We don’t, we can’t.”
Clair could no longer hold back her tears. “There’s no drug or operation or anything at all?”
“Physically, there’s nothing we can do. But, there’s always adoption, or you could try a surrogate. There are agencies that specialize in finding surrogates for couples. However, statistics show that they have a higher success rate if a family member, say a sister or a cousin was your surrogate.”
Because Clair has an overly organized mind, while she sat stunned trying to process that her womb was inhospitable, her brain was searching for a solution. Then, tucked between memories of her senior prom and her
ding
! A Lifetime movie marathon, heavy drinking, Valerie
Bertinelli
, she would kill my husband-- the pact. “Nancy McKeon!”
A confused Henry looked to his wife. “I didn’t know we were related.”
The whole ride home Clair kept mumbling incoherently, “She promised. Nancy McKeon would do it. We have a pact. You can’t go back on a pact. It’s way easier than killing
Tori
Spelling.” If Henry hadn’t been with her every moment since they left the doctor’s he would have thought she had snuck off to the bar and was now drunk as a skunk! Once they pulled into their driveway Clair jumped out of the car and raced into the house. A bewildered Henry followed his wife past the country French living room furniture and up the stairs to their bedroom. It was there that Clair pulled out a long polished oak box from under their king sized bed. Clair stared at the box, her breath racing, then opened it to reveal mementos of her life that were carefully placed in hermetically sealed Ziploc bags. The bags were both color and numerically coded. Clair, an Accountant and the sister of a Librarian, always felt that the Dewey Decimal system was underrated. She carefully handpicked her way through her marriage license, senior prom corsage, and a variety of other items from her youth when she finally reached the red color-coded bag dated 1991. She slowly eased open the Ziploc top and pulled out a wine stained, badly written piece of notebook paper. Clair stared at it in wonder.
Henry peered over his wife’s shoulder, “Clair, honey, you can’t ask her to do that.”
Clair who was coping with everything she’s just heard about her womb answered, “why not? I have it writing, we made a pact.”
“I don’t think a pact stained with wine is legally binding. I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure, so let’s just sit down, talk about this, and take it one day at time.” Henry pulled his wife into his arms.
It was after
now. The night had proven to be a slow one. Two of the other operators Karen and Matt got up to take a cigarette break when the phone rang. Grace waved them out the door. “911, how can I help you? Oh, hi Jack--how are you?” Grace immediately fixed her hair and put on lipstick using the back of a metal nameplate as a mirror. Fireman Jack was, well, a fireman. He belonged to Firehouse 93. He and Grace had never actually met. They first started speaking on the phone six months ago when he called to check in on a sweet little boy he had rescued from a submerged car. Once the kid was taken to the hospital, the firehouse couldn’t get any follow-up information, so Jack took it upon himself to call the 911 operators to see if they had any new information. It turns out they did. And, so after that night, he and Grace spoke at least once a week, but usually more and always under the guise of checking up on the week’s emergency calls.
Grace leaned in close to the switchboard and blushed, “well, I wouldn’t know about that. Stop it Jack! You’re making me blush. So, the kid with the rod in his head is going to be fine? You saved his life. No, you did! Oh, now you’re blushing? Well, why don’t you meet me for breakfast tomorrow and I’ll make you blush again?” Grace panicked. “OH, MY GOD! I didn’t mean that. I don’t even eat breakfast. Breakfast is stupid. People say it’s the most important meal of the day, but how can it be? You can’t even have wine with it. What? Okay, I’ll be quiet.” Grace let out a giggle that she immediately regretted because she sounded like a mildly retarded dolphin, “Wednesday, two-fifteen at The Palace Grill. Sounds like fun. Um, sure, have a nice night.” Grace hung up and did a little victory dance.
Karen walked in just as Grace was adding arm moves to her dance. Matt was close behind her. He had never seen
her this
excited about anything. “Did you win the lottery?”
Out of breath from dancing, Grace huffed, “I did it!”
Karen pushed past Matt. “You did not!” as she and a giddy Grace squealed and danced around excitedly.
Matt shook his head, “well, whatever it was, was it legal?”