Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-08 09:38 am
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-08 09:38 am
Hollywood, California, 1993. Tuesday [10/08 FT].
Astrid went to art class one evening, and they waited for Ms. Day, but she didn’t show up. One of the old lady students drove her home. She opened the door, expecting to find Claire in the living room, reading one of her magazines and listening to music, but she wasn’t there.
Astrid found her sitting on her bed, cross-legged, reading her mother’s papers. Letters from prison, poet’s journals, personal papers, all fanned out around her. She looked pale, absorbed, biting the nail of her ring finger. Astrid didn’t know what sje was supposed to do. She was outraged, she was scared. Claire shouldn’t have been reading those things. Astridneeded to keep them separate. She didn’t want Claire to have anything to do with her mother, anything she couldn’t control. And now she’d gone and opened the box. Like Pandora. Letting out all the evil. They were always so fascinated by Ingrid Magnussen. Astrid felt myself retreating again, into her shadow. These were her things. Not even hers. She'd trusted her.
“What are you doing?”
Claire jumped, throwing the notebook she was reading into the air. Her mouth opened to explain, then closed. Opened again. No sound came. When she was upset, she couldn’t say a thing. She tried gathering the offending materials with trembling hands, but they came in too many shapes, they scattered under her awkward clutchings. Defeated, she let them fall, closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands.
“Don’t hate me,” she said.
“Why, Claire? I would have shown you if you had asked.”
Astrid started to collect the notebooks, rice paper bound in string, Italian marbleized notebooks, Amsterdam school copybooks, smooth-bound, leather-bound, tied with shoelaces. Ingrid’s journals, Astrid's absence written in the margins. None of this was about Astrid. Even the letters. Only Ingrid. Always Ingrid.
“I was depressed. You were gone. She seemed so strong.”
She was looking for a role model? Astrid almost had to laugh. Claire admiring her mother made her want to slap her. Wake up! She wanted to scream. Ingrid Magnussen could damage you just passing by on the way to the bathroom.
And now she’d read the letters. She knew that Astrid refused to discuss her with Ingrid. She imagined how it must have hurt her. Now she wished she'd thrown them out, not lugged them around like a curse. Ingrid Magnussen. How could she explain? I didn’t want my mother to know about you, Claire. You’re the one good thing that ever happened to me. She didn’t want to take any chances. How her mother would hate Claire. She didn’t want her to be happy, Claire. She liked it best when Astrid hated Starr, she liked it when Astrid hated Fandom. It made her feel closer to her. An artist doesn’t need to be happy, she said. If Astrid was happy, she wouldn’t need her, she meant. Astrid might forget about her.
And she was right. She just might.
Ingrid had scoled Astrid in those letters. What do she care about a 98 on a spelling test? Your flower garden. You’re so boring, I don’t even recognize you. Who are these people you’re living with now? What are you really thinking?
But Astrid never told her a thing.
“You want to know about my mother?” Astrid took a gray ribboned notebook, opened it, and handed it to Claire. “Here. Read it.”
Claire took her hands down from her face, her eyes puffy and red, her nose running. She hiccupped and took the notebook from Astrid. Astrid didn’t have to look over her shoulder. She knew what it said.
Spread a malicious rumor.
Let a beloved old person’s dog out of the yard.
Suggest suicide to a severely depressed person.
“What is this?” she asked.
Tell a child it isn't very attractive or bright.
Put Drano in glassine folded papers and leave them on street-corners.
Throw handfuls of useless foreign coins into a beggar’s cup, and make sure they thank you profusely. “God bless you, miss.”
“It’s not real, though,” Claire said. “It’s not like she actually does these things.”
Astrid only shrugged. How could Claire understand a woman like her mother? She would write these lists for hours, laughing until tears flowed.
Claire looked at Astrid hungrily, pleading. How could she stay angry with her? Ingrid had no idea what her favorite food was, where she'd live if she could live anywhere in the world. Claire was the one who discovered Astrid, the real Astrid, underneath it all. She knew she’d want to live in Big Sur, in a cabin with a woodstove and a spring, that she liked green apple soap, that Boris Godunov was her favorite opera, that she was afraid of milk. She helped Astrid pack the papers back into the box, shut it, and put it under the bed.
[[NFB, obvs, but open for poking! Cribbed from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, as our plot steadily moves along...]]
Astrid found her sitting on her bed, cross-legged, reading her mother’s papers. Letters from prison, poet’s journals, personal papers, all fanned out around her. She looked pale, absorbed, biting the nail of her ring finger. Astrid didn’t know what sje was supposed to do. She was outraged, she was scared. Claire shouldn’t have been reading those things. Astridneeded to keep them separate. She didn’t want Claire to have anything to do with her mother, anything she couldn’t control. And now she’d gone and opened the box. Like Pandora. Letting out all the evil. They were always so fascinated by Ingrid Magnussen. Astrid felt myself retreating again, into her shadow. These were her things. Not even hers. She'd trusted her.
“What are you doing?”
Claire jumped, throwing the notebook she was reading into the air. Her mouth opened to explain, then closed. Opened again. No sound came. When she was upset, she couldn’t say a thing. She tried gathering the offending materials with trembling hands, but they came in too many shapes, they scattered under her awkward clutchings. Defeated, she let them fall, closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands.
“Don’t hate me,” she said.
“Why, Claire? I would have shown you if you had asked.”
Astrid started to collect the notebooks, rice paper bound in string, Italian marbleized notebooks, Amsterdam school copybooks, smooth-bound, leather-bound, tied with shoelaces. Ingrid’s journals, Astrid's absence written in the margins. None of this was about Astrid. Even the letters. Only Ingrid. Always Ingrid.
“I was depressed. You were gone. She seemed so strong.”
She was looking for a role model? Astrid almost had to laugh. Claire admiring her mother made her want to slap her. Wake up! She wanted to scream. Ingrid Magnussen could damage you just passing by on the way to the bathroom.
And now she’d read the letters. She knew that Astrid refused to discuss her with Ingrid. She imagined how it must have hurt her. Now she wished she'd thrown them out, not lugged them around like a curse. Ingrid Magnussen. How could she explain? I didn’t want my mother to know about you, Claire. You’re the one good thing that ever happened to me. She didn’t want to take any chances. How her mother would hate Claire. She didn’t want her to be happy, Claire. She liked it best when Astrid hated Starr, she liked it when Astrid hated Fandom. It made her feel closer to her. An artist doesn’t need to be happy, she said. If Astrid was happy, she wouldn’t need her, she meant. Astrid might forget about her.
And she was right. She just might.
Ingrid had scoled Astrid in those letters. What do she care about a 98 on a spelling test? Your flower garden. You’re so boring, I don’t even recognize you. Who are these people you’re living with now? What are you really thinking?
But Astrid never told her a thing.
“You want to know about my mother?” Astrid took a gray ribboned notebook, opened it, and handed it to Claire. “Here. Read it.”
Claire took her hands down from her face, her eyes puffy and red, her nose running. She hiccupped and took the notebook from Astrid. Astrid didn’t have to look over her shoulder. She knew what it said.
Spread a malicious rumor.
Let a beloved old person’s dog out of the yard.
Suggest suicide to a severely depressed person.
“What is this?” she asked.
Tell a child it isn't very attractive or bright.
Put Drano in glassine folded papers and leave them on street-corners.
Throw handfuls of useless foreign coins into a beggar’s cup, and make sure they thank you profusely. “God bless you, miss.”
“It’s not real, though,” Claire said. “It’s not like she actually does these things.”
Astrid only shrugged. How could Claire understand a woman like her mother? She would write these lists for hours, laughing until tears flowed.
Claire looked at Astrid hungrily, pleading. How could she stay angry with her? Ingrid had no idea what her favorite food was, where she'd live if she could live anywhere in the world. Claire was the one who discovered Astrid, the real Astrid, underneath it all. She knew she’d want to live in Big Sur, in a cabin with a woodstove and a spring, that she liked green apple soap, that Boris Godunov was her favorite opera, that she was afraid of milk. She helped Astrid pack the papers back into the box, shut it, and put it under the bed.
[[NFB, obvs, but open for poking! Cribbed from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, as our plot steadily moves along...]]