Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-06-22 06:38 am
white_oleander) wrote2019-06-22 06:38 am
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Hollywood, California, 1993. Saturday [06/22 FT].
While her fellow former students 26 years and the whole length of a country away were turning into horrific monsters that the brain could barely conceive of (and that she surely would have driven herself mad trying to capture in graphite on paper), Astrid Magnussen was finishing the ninth grade for the second time. She did incredibly well, considering. C in algebra, it was a mercy grade, they never give out D’s as final grades in honors classes. But with Claire’s nightly help, she got A’s in English and history, world art and biology, even Spanish. If she had asked her to go out for football, she would have done that too. To celebrate, Ron took them to Musso and Frank, a restaurant right on Hollywood Boulevard. She’d never noticed it before. Just down from the last apartment she lived in with her mother.
They parked in back and walked down the stairs with their polished brass railings, past the old-fashioned kitchen. They could see the chefs cooking. It smelled like stew, or meat loaf, the way time should smell, solid and nourishing. They walked single file past the scarred wooden counter, people eating steaks and chops and reading Variety, warmed by the grill fires, served by old men waiters in green-and-red jackets. It was a time warp, flash frozen in 1927. Astrid liked it, it made her feel safe.
They were seated in the back room. Ron knew people. He introduced them--“my wife, Claire,” and for a moment Astrid thought he was going to introduce her as their daughter. But it was “and our friend Astrid.” She beat back the sharpness of her disappointment with the thought that she should feel lucky to have been introduced at all.
She drank her Shirley Temple and Claire pointed out movie stars in excited whispers. They didn’t look very glamorous in real life. Smaller than you’d think, dressed plainly, just eating dinner. Jason Robards and another man sat across from them with two bored kids, the men talking business, the kids making bread balls and throwing them at each other.
Claire and Ron split a bottle of wine, and Claire gave Astrid sips from her glass. She touched Ron constantly, his hair, arm, shoulder. Astrid felt jealous, too. She wanted her all to herself.
She was aware it wasn’t normal, normal daughters didn’t get jealous of their fathers. They wished both their parents would disappear.
Ron took something from his pocket, concealed in his smooth hand. “For a job well done,” he said.
He put it on Astrid's plate. It was a red velvet box, shaped like a heart. She opened it, and inside was a faceted lavender jewel on a gold chain. “Every girl needs a little jewelry,” he said.
Claire clipped it around Astrid's neck. “Amethyst is a great healer,” she whispered as she put it on, kissing her on the cheek. “Only good times now.”
Ron leaned forward and Astrid let him kiss her too.
And she felt tears coming, surprised by them.
The food arrived and she watched them while they ate, Claire’s dark glossy hair falling against her cheek, her large soft eyes. Ron’s smooth man’s face. Astrid pretended that they were really her parents. The steak and the wine went to her head, and she imagined being the child of Claire and Ron Richards. Who was she, the real Astrid Richards? (Should she start signing her postcards to Fandom that way, a little swoop to the letters, hearts over the Is, Astrid Richards!) Doing well in school, of course she was going to college. She listened as they laughed, something about their days at Yale together, though Astrid knew Ron was married to somebody else then, that he dumped his wife for Claire. She imagined herself at Yale, knee-deep in crisp fall leaves, in a thick camel’s hair coat. She sat in dark paneled lecture halls looking at slides of Da Vinci. She was going to study in Tuscany her junior year. On Parents’ Day, Claire and Ron came to visit, Claire wearing her pearls, showing Astrid where her old dorm was.
She touched the amethyst around her neck. Only good times now.
[[ It's the end of June! I can post this now! And lots more to come! Cribbed from Chapter 17 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Mostly establishy, but should anyone want to take the chance to get in touch via calls or letters, please do! I've missed this girl. Stupid time-specific narrative gap! ]]
They parked in back and walked down the stairs with their polished brass railings, past the old-fashioned kitchen. They could see the chefs cooking. It smelled like stew, or meat loaf, the way time should smell, solid and nourishing. They walked single file past the scarred wooden counter, people eating steaks and chops and reading Variety, warmed by the grill fires, served by old men waiters in green-and-red jackets. It was a time warp, flash frozen in 1927. Astrid liked it, it made her feel safe.
They were seated in the back room. Ron knew people. He introduced them--“my wife, Claire,” and for a moment Astrid thought he was going to introduce her as their daughter. But it was “and our friend Astrid.” She beat back the sharpness of her disappointment with the thought that she should feel lucky to have been introduced at all.
She drank her Shirley Temple and Claire pointed out movie stars in excited whispers. They didn’t look very glamorous in real life. Smaller than you’d think, dressed plainly, just eating dinner. Jason Robards and another man sat across from them with two bored kids, the men talking business, the kids making bread balls and throwing them at each other.
Claire and Ron split a bottle of wine, and Claire gave Astrid sips from her glass. She touched Ron constantly, his hair, arm, shoulder. Astrid felt jealous, too. She wanted her all to herself.
She was aware it wasn’t normal, normal daughters didn’t get jealous of their fathers. They wished both their parents would disappear.
Ron took something from his pocket, concealed in his smooth hand. “For a job well done,” he said.
He put it on Astrid's plate. It was a red velvet box, shaped like a heart. She opened it, and inside was a faceted lavender jewel on a gold chain. “Every girl needs a little jewelry,” he said.
Claire clipped it around Astrid's neck. “Amethyst is a great healer,” she whispered as she put it on, kissing her on the cheek. “Only good times now.”
Ron leaned forward and Astrid let him kiss her too.
And she felt tears coming, surprised by them.
The food arrived and she watched them while they ate, Claire’s dark glossy hair falling against her cheek, her large soft eyes. Ron’s smooth man’s face. Astrid pretended that they were really her parents. The steak and the wine went to her head, and she imagined being the child of Claire and Ron Richards. Who was she, the real Astrid Richards? (Should she start signing her postcards to Fandom that way, a little swoop to the letters, hearts over the Is, Astrid Richards!) Doing well in school, of course she was going to college. She listened as they laughed, something about their days at Yale together, though Astrid knew Ron was married to somebody else then, that he dumped his wife for Claire. She imagined herself at Yale, knee-deep in crisp fall leaves, in a thick camel’s hair coat. She sat in dark paneled lecture halls looking at slides of Da Vinci. She was going to study in Tuscany her junior year. On Parents’ Day, Claire and Ron came to visit, Claire wearing her pearls, showing Astrid where her old dorm was.
She touched the amethyst around her neck. Only good times now.
[[ It's the end of June! I can post this now! And lots more to come! Cribbed from Chapter 17 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Mostly establishy, but should anyone want to take the chance to get in touch via calls or letters, please do! I've missed this girl. Stupid time-specific narrative gap! ]]
no subject
Hey, Astrid,
Glad you've been doing well- I hope California is great to you! I've never really met anybody who works in TV before, but your foster dad's job sounds pretty cool. I'm sure I could find a VCR if I really put my mind to it. The island's been... you know, the island? So it's been hard to find time edgewise to write. Looks like you headed off just in time to avoid a hectic summer. I'm actually writing this from Baltimore right now. I needed a break from it all. I'll be back on the island by the time you get this, though, I'm sure.
I hope things are still going good! I don't write people often, but I'll try to be more on top of replies if you write again.
- Norman