Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-04-23 03:00 pm
white_oleander) wrote2019-04-23 03:00 pm
Entry tags:
Hollywood, California, 1993. Tuesday [04/23].
The case worker who had found Astrid's new placement was named Joan Peeler, and Astrid instantly liked her. She picked Astrid up from the center that morning, helped her carry her stuff out to her red dented Karmann Ghia with bumper stickers that said, Love your Mother, Move to the Light, Friends Don't Let Friends Vote Republican.
It was a perfect April day in L.A. when every photography in town was out scrambling for shots of the city with a bluebird sky and white-capped mountains and hundred-mile views. You coul dsee every palm tree on Wilshire Boulevard five miles away. Joan Peeler played a Talking Heads tape for the drive.
“You’ll like these people, Astrid,” she said as we drove west on Melrose, past body shops and pupuserias. “Ron and Claire Richards. She’s an actress and he does something with television.
“Do they have kids?” Astrid asked. Hoping they didn’t.
“No. In fact, they’re looking to adopt.”
That was a new one, something she'd never considered. Adoption. The word rattled in her head like rocks in an oatmeal box. She didn’t know what to think. They passed Paramount Studios, the big triple-arched gate, parking kiosk, people riding around on fat-tired bicycles. The longing in her eyes. “Next year, I’ll be in there,” Joan said.
Meanwhile, Astrid handled the word adoption in her mind like it was radioactive, saw her mother’s face, pulpy and blind in sunken-cheeked fury.
Joan drove through the strip of funky Melrose shops west of La Brea, with shops of used boots and toys for
grown-ups, turned south onto a quiet side street, into an old neighborhood of stucco bungalows and full-growth sycamores with chalky white trunks and leaves like hands. They parked in front of one, and Astrid followed Joan to the door. An enamel plaque under the doorbell read The Richards in script. Joan rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door reminded Astrid of Audrey Hepburn. Dark hair, long neck, wide radiant smile, about thirty. Her cheeks were flushed as she waved them in.
“I’m Claire. We’ve been waiting for you.” She had an old-fashioned kind of voice, velvety, her words completely enunciated, ing instead of in’, the f crisp, precise.
Joan carried the suitcase. Astrid had her mother’s books and a few Fandom things in a bag.
“Here, let me help you,” the woman said, taking the bag, setting it on the coffee table. “Put that down
anywhere.”
Astrid put her things next to the table, looked around the low-ceilinged living room painted a pinkish white, its floor stripped to reddish pine planks. She liked it already. There was a painting over the fireplace, a jellyfish on a dark blue background, penetrated with fine bright lines. Art, something painted by hand. She couldn’t believe it. Someone bought a piece of art. And a wall of books with worn spines, CDs, records, and tapes. The free-form couch along two walls looked comfortable, a blue, red, and purple woven design, reading lamp in the center. Astrid was afraid to breathe. This couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be for her. Claire was going to change her mind. It had to be a mistake.
“There are just a few things we need to go over,” Joan said, sitting down on the couch, opening her briefcase. “Astrid, could you excuse us?”
“Make yourself at home,” Claire Richards said, smiling, reaching out in a gesture of gift. “Please, look
around.”
She sat down with Joan, who opened the file, but she kept smiling at Astrid, too much, like she was worried what she'd think of her and her home. Astrid wished she could tell her she had nothing to worry about.
Astrid went into the kitchen. It was small, tiled red and white, with a pearly-topped table and chrome chairs. A real Leave It to Beaver kitchen, decorated with a salt and pepper shaker collection. Betty Boops and porcelain cows and sets of cacti. It was a kitchen to drink cocoa in, to play checkers. She was afraid of how much she wanted this, faintly remembering how she felt looking at apartments in Ms. Pryde-Barton's class.
She walked out into the small backyard, bright with wide flowerbeds and pots on a wooden deck, a weeping
Chinese elm. There was a flying goose windmill, and red poinsettia (poinsettia! Suddenly whisked back to Covent Garden, buried underneath the poinsettias at Christmastime) grew against the house’s white wall in the sun. Kitsch, she heard my mother’s voice in her ear. But it wasn’t, it was charming. Claire Richards was charming, with her wide love-me smile. Her bedroom, which backed up to the deck through open French doors, was charming. The quilt on the low pine double bed, the armoire, the hope chest, and the rag rug.
As Astrid moved back into the hall, she could see them, heads together over the coffee table, looking at the file. “She’s had some difficult times with some of it,” Joan Peeler was telling this new foster mother. “Though she seems to adapt, well enough..."
The bathroom would be Astrid's favorite room, she could tell that already. Tiled aqua and rose, the original twenties ceramic, a frosted glass enclosure on the tub, a swan swimming between cattails. There was something deeply familiar about the swan. Had she lived somewhere with swan-etched glass like this?Bottles and soaps and candles nestled on the bath tray that stretched between the two sides of the tub. She opened containers and smelled and rubbed things on her arms.
They were still discussing her case as she moved to the front bedroom. “She’s very bright, as I’ve said, but she’s missed a lot of school—-all the moving, you understand—-and the last school was a bit...unconventional.”
“Maybe some tutoring,” Claire Richards said.
The front bedroom would be Astrid's room. Soft pine twin beds, in case of sleepovers (invite Sabine out to see the pure wonder of corded telephones herself; maybe cat-faced Mae, jumping on the bed, disturbing all the porcelien cat-faced knicknacks, or maybe not, considering she never did get around to even telling Mae she was leaving). Thin, old-fashioned patchwork quilts, real handmade quilts edged in eyelet lace. Calico half curtains, more eyelet. Pine desk, bookcase. A Durer etching of a rabbit in a neat pinewood frame. It looked scared, every hair plain. Waiting to see what would happen. She sat down on the bed and couldn’t picture herself filling this room, inhabiting it, imposing her personality here. No requently changing, experiemental art smeared on ever surface, no contant smell of paint fumes and brush cleaner.
“Well,” Claire Richards said brightly after Joan Peeler had gone. Astrid was sitting next to her on the free-form couch. She clutched her hands around her knees, smiled. “Here you are.” Her teeth were the blue-white of skim milk, translucent. Astrid wished she could just put her at ease. Although it was
her house, she seemed more nervous than Astrid was. “Did you see your room? I left it plain so you could put your own things up. Make it yours.”
Astrid wanted to tell her she wasn’t what Claire expected. She was different, she might not want her. “I like the Durer.”
She laughed, a short burst, clapped her hands together. “Oh, I think we’re going to get along fine. I’m only sorry Ron couldn’t be here. My husband. He’s in Nova Scotia shooting this week, he won’t be back until next Wednesday. But what can you do. Would you like some tea? Or a Coke? I bought Coke, I didn’t know what you’d drink. We also have juice, or I could make you a smoothie."
“Tea is fine,” Astrid said.
[[ establishy! Taken and Fandomized a bit from Chapter 16 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, which y'all are gonna be seeing a lot of soon ]]
It was a perfect April day in L.A. when every photography in town was out scrambling for shots of the city with a bluebird sky and white-capped mountains and hundred-mile views. You coul dsee every palm tree on Wilshire Boulevard five miles away. Joan Peeler played a Talking Heads tape for the drive.
“You’ll like these people, Astrid,” she said as we drove west on Melrose, past body shops and pupuserias. “Ron and Claire Richards. She’s an actress and he does something with television.
“Do they have kids?” Astrid asked. Hoping they didn’t.
“No. In fact, they’re looking to adopt.”
That was a new one, something she'd never considered. Adoption. The word rattled in her head like rocks in an oatmeal box. She didn’t know what to think. They passed Paramount Studios, the big triple-arched gate, parking kiosk, people riding around on fat-tired bicycles. The longing in her eyes. “Next year, I’ll be in there,” Joan said.
Meanwhile, Astrid handled the word adoption in her mind like it was radioactive, saw her mother’s face, pulpy and blind in sunken-cheeked fury.
Joan drove through the strip of funky Melrose shops west of La Brea, with shops of used boots and toys for
grown-ups, turned south onto a quiet side street, into an old neighborhood of stucco bungalows and full-growth sycamores with chalky white trunks and leaves like hands. They parked in front of one, and Astrid followed Joan to the door. An enamel plaque under the doorbell read The Richards in script. Joan rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door reminded Astrid of Audrey Hepburn. Dark hair, long neck, wide radiant smile, about thirty. Her cheeks were flushed as she waved them in.
“I’m Claire. We’ve been waiting for you.” She had an old-fashioned kind of voice, velvety, her words completely enunciated, ing instead of in’, the f crisp, precise.
Joan carried the suitcase. Astrid had her mother’s books and a few Fandom things in a bag.
“Here, let me help you,” the woman said, taking the bag, setting it on the coffee table. “Put that down
anywhere.”
Astrid put her things next to the table, looked around the low-ceilinged living room painted a pinkish white, its floor stripped to reddish pine planks. She liked it already. There was a painting over the fireplace, a jellyfish on a dark blue background, penetrated with fine bright lines. Art, something painted by hand. She couldn’t believe it. Someone bought a piece of art. And a wall of books with worn spines, CDs, records, and tapes. The free-form couch along two walls looked comfortable, a blue, red, and purple woven design, reading lamp in the center. Astrid was afraid to breathe. This couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be for her. Claire was going to change her mind. It had to be a mistake.
“There are just a few things we need to go over,” Joan said, sitting down on the couch, opening her briefcase. “Astrid, could you excuse us?”
“Make yourself at home,” Claire Richards said, smiling, reaching out in a gesture of gift. “Please, look
around.”
She sat down with Joan, who opened the file, but she kept smiling at Astrid, too much, like she was worried what she'd think of her and her home. Astrid wished she could tell her she had nothing to worry about.
Astrid went into the kitchen. It was small, tiled red and white, with a pearly-topped table and chrome chairs. A real Leave It to Beaver kitchen, decorated with a salt and pepper shaker collection. Betty Boops and porcelain cows and sets of cacti. It was a kitchen to drink cocoa in, to play checkers. She was afraid of how much she wanted this, faintly remembering how she felt looking at apartments in Ms. Pryde-Barton's class.
She walked out into the small backyard, bright with wide flowerbeds and pots on a wooden deck, a weeping
Chinese elm. There was a flying goose windmill, and red poinsettia (poinsettia! Suddenly whisked back to Covent Garden, buried underneath the poinsettias at Christmastime) grew against the house’s white wall in the sun. Kitsch, she heard my mother’s voice in her ear. But it wasn’t, it was charming. Claire Richards was charming, with her wide love-me smile. Her bedroom, which backed up to the deck through open French doors, was charming. The quilt on the low pine double bed, the armoire, the hope chest, and the rag rug.
As Astrid moved back into the hall, she could see them, heads together over the coffee table, looking at the file. “She’s had some difficult times with some of it,” Joan Peeler was telling this new foster mother. “Though she seems to adapt, well enough..."
The bathroom would be Astrid's favorite room, she could tell that already. Tiled aqua and rose, the original twenties ceramic, a frosted glass enclosure on the tub, a swan swimming between cattails. There was something deeply familiar about the swan. Had she lived somewhere with swan-etched glass like this?Bottles and soaps and candles nestled on the bath tray that stretched between the two sides of the tub. She opened containers and smelled and rubbed things on her arms.
They were still discussing her case as she moved to the front bedroom. “She’s very bright, as I’ve said, but she’s missed a lot of school—-all the moving, you understand—-and the last school was a bit...unconventional.”
“Maybe some tutoring,” Claire Richards said.
The front bedroom would be Astrid's room. Soft pine twin beds, in case of sleepovers (invite Sabine out to see the pure wonder of corded telephones herself; maybe cat-faced Mae, jumping on the bed, disturbing all the porcelien cat-faced knicknacks, or maybe not, considering she never did get around to even telling Mae she was leaving). Thin, old-fashioned patchwork quilts, real handmade quilts edged in eyelet lace. Calico half curtains, more eyelet. Pine desk, bookcase. A Durer etching of a rabbit in a neat pinewood frame. It looked scared, every hair plain. Waiting to see what would happen. She sat down on the bed and couldn’t picture herself filling this room, inhabiting it, imposing her personality here. No requently changing, experiemental art smeared on ever surface, no contant smell of paint fumes and brush cleaner.
“Well,” Claire Richards said brightly after Joan Peeler had gone. Astrid was sitting next to her on the free-form couch. She clutched her hands around her knees, smiled. “Here you are.” Her teeth were the blue-white of skim milk, translucent. Astrid wished she could just put her at ease. Although it was
her house, she seemed more nervous than Astrid was. “Did you see your room? I left it plain so you could put your own things up. Make it yours.”
Astrid wanted to tell her she wasn’t what Claire expected. She was different, she might not want her. “I like the Durer.”
She laughed, a short burst, clapped her hands together. “Oh, I think we’re going to get along fine. I’m only sorry Ron couldn’t be here. My husband. He’s in Nova Scotia shooting this week, he won’t be back until next Wednesday. But what can you do. Would you like some tea? Or a Coke? I bought Coke, I didn’t know what you’d drink. We also have juice, or I could make you a smoothie."
“Tea is fine,” Astrid said.
[[ establishy! Taken and Fandomized a bit from Chapter 16 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, which y'all are gonna be seeing a lot of soon ]]