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It was a gray morning so overcast you couldn’t see the Hollywood Hills from the yard. November First. Astrid's birthday. Claire had talked about doing something for her, a birthday party, something like that, but Astrid didn't have any friends at Fairfax she could invite, and the logistic of inviting her friends from Fandom were too much, how could she really explain to Claire a girl who looked like a cat but didn't see it herself? So instead, Claire, in all her misguided wisdom, thought the best gift she could give Astrid that day, the day she turned sixteen, was her mother.
Claire and Astrid were going to visit Ingrid. Claire had set it all up. She put on a miniskirt, turtleneck, and tights, all in mahogany brown, frowned in the mirror. “Maybe jeans would be better.”
“No denim,” Astrid said.
The idea of this meeting was almost too much to bear.
Happy birthday to me...
( Astrid could only lose. CW: Ingrid Magnussen in all her full gaslighting, abusive, narcissitic glory )
Claire stared out at the road. A tear slipped from her overfilled eyes. Twenty-seven names for tears. But no, that wasn’t Astrid's thought. She refused to be brainwashed. This was Claire. Astrid put her hand on her shoulder as she made the turn onto the rural highway. She smiled and patted it with her small, cold one. “I think I did well with your mom, don’t you?”
“You did,” Astrid told her, gazing out the window so she wouldn’t have to lie to her face. “She really liked you.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and Astrid brushed it away with the back of her hand. “What did she say to you?”
Claire shook her head, sighed. She started the windshield wipers, though it was only a mist, turned them off when they started squeaking on the dry glass. “She said I was right about Ron. That he was having an affair. I knew it anyway. She just confirmed it.”
“How would she know,” Astrid said angrily. “For God’s sake, Claire, she just met you.”
“All the signs are there.” She sniffled, wiped her nose on her hand. “I just didn’t want to see them.” But then she smiled. “Don’t concern yourself. We’ll work it out. It's your birthday, anyway. Let's go get you something nice.”
It was too late for that now, and Astrid realized, staring out the window at the scenery flying by, that Ingrid hadn't even mentioned her birthday once.
[[ and, lo, one of my favorite scenes from White Oleander by Janet Fitch, and a pivotal moment for the rest of this arc. Modified slightly for Fandomness and quirking the timeline, NFB, but open for contact! ]]
Claire and Astrid were going to visit Ingrid. Claire had set it all up. She put on a miniskirt, turtleneck, and tights, all in mahogany brown, frowned in the mirror. “Maybe jeans would be better.”
“No denim,” Astrid said.
The idea of this meeting was almost too much to bear.
Happy birthday to me...
( Astrid could only lose. CW: Ingrid Magnussen in all her full gaslighting, abusive, narcissitic glory )
Claire stared out at the road. A tear slipped from her overfilled eyes. Twenty-seven names for tears. But no, that wasn’t Astrid's thought. She refused to be brainwashed. This was Claire. Astrid put her hand on her shoulder as she made the turn onto the rural highway. She smiled and patted it with her small, cold one. “I think I did well with your mom, don’t you?”
“You did,” Astrid told her, gazing out the window so she wouldn’t have to lie to her face. “She really liked you.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and Astrid brushed it away with the back of her hand. “What did she say to you?”
Claire shook her head, sighed. She started the windshield wipers, though it was only a mist, turned them off when they started squeaking on the dry glass. “She said I was right about Ron. That he was having an affair. I knew it anyway. She just confirmed it.”
“How would she know,” Astrid said angrily. “For God’s sake, Claire, she just met you.”
“All the signs are there.” She sniffled, wiped her nose on her hand. “I just didn’t want to see them.” But then she smiled. “Don’t concern yourself. We’ll work it out. It's your birthday, anyway. Let's go get you something nice.”
It was too late for that now, and Astrid realized, staring out the window at the scenery flying by, that Ingrid hadn't even mentioned her birthday once.
[[ and, lo, one of my favorite scenes from White Oleander by Janet Fitch, and a pivotal moment for the rest of this arc. Modified slightly for Fandomness and quirking the timeline, NFB, but open for contact! ]]
