Hollywood, California, 1993. Wednesday [11/06 FT].

Astrid sat at her desk under the ridiculous pyramid, drawing a self-portrait, looking in a hand mirror. She was doing it in pen, not glancing down, trying not to lift the pen from the paper. One line. The squarish jaw, the fat unsmiling lips, the round reproachful eyes. Broad Danish nose, mane of pale hair. She drew herelf until she could make a good likeness even with her eyes closed, until she’d memorized the pattern of the movement in her hand, in her arm, the gesture of her face, until she could see her face on the wall.

I’m not you, Mother. I’m not.

Claire was supposed to go to an audition. She had told Ron she would, but she had Astrid call in and say she was sick. She was soaking in the bathtub with her lavender oil and a chunk of amethyst, trying to soothe her jagged edges. Ron was supposed to be home on Tuesday, but something came up. His trips home were handholds for her, so she could swing from one square on the calendar to the next. When he said he was going to come home and didn’t, she swung forward and grasped thin air, fell.

Astrid intercepted a letter from prison from Ingrid to Claire. In it, her mother advised a love potion to put in Ron's food, but everything in the formula she sent looked poisonous. Astrid drew a picture over her letter, a series of serpentine curves speared by an angle, put it in a new envelope and sent it back to her.

Now in the living room, Claire played her Leonard Cohen. Suzanne taking her down to the place by the river.

Astrid kept drawing her face.

[[ just a little one, a lot of little moments from here, finishing out Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, finally. NFB, but can be open! ]]