Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-22 11:25 am
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-22 11:25 am
Hollywood, California, 1993. Tuesday [10/22 FT].
A letter came in the mail, from Ingrid. Astrid started to open it when she realized it wasn’t for her. It was addressed to Claire. What was her mother doing writing to Claire? Astrid never told her about Claire. Should she give it to her? She decided she couldn’t take the chance. Her mother might say anything. Might threaten her, mightlie, or frighten her. Astrid could always say she opened it by accident. She took it into her room, slitted it open.
Dear Claire,
Yes, I think it would be marvelous if you’d visit. It’s been so long since I've seen Astrid, I dont know if I’d recognize her—and I’m always delighted to meet my loyal readers. I will put you on my visitors list—you’ve never been convicted of a felony, have you? Just teasing.
Your friend, ingrid.
The idea that they corresponded filled Astrid with a sickening dread. Your friend, Ingrid. She must have written after she’d caught her reading in her room. Astrid felt betrayed, helpless, anxious. She would have confronted her with it, but then she’d have had to admit she’d opened Claire's mail. So she just tore up the letter and burned it in her wastebasket. Hopefully Claire would just be depressed that Ingrid never wrote back, and give up.
Not even the discussion that came up over dinner that evening, after Astrid got home from her art class, was enough to distract her, pushing peas around a piece of meatloaf, unable to look at Claire as she chattered away, oblivious, between sips of wine. It was only until Claire mentioned one word that seemed to rise above the static noise that Astrid looked up, blinking with surprise, unsure if she heard.
"What?"
"It's your birthday soon, isn't it?" Claire repeated dutifully with a soft smile. "And it's a big one. Sweet sixteen. We'll have to do something special."
"No," Astrid shook her head. "We don't have to. It's okay."
She wouldn't even know what special thing to do.
"You only turn sixteen once," Claire said with a wistfulness that almost seemed painful, one Astrid was sure she didn't even realize she possessed. "Think about it. Anything you'd like. We'll figure something out."
Astrid wanted to object, but she knew that she wouldn't. She would do anything for Claire and if doing something special for her birthday was what Claire wanted, so be it. She felt a little tug in her chest, thinking about how this wasn't about Astrid at all, but rather Claire, trying to live vicariously through this odd girl she'd welcomed into her home. It was about wish fulfilment, her dreams of having a child one day, and, in the meantime, she'd bestow all her naive dreams of how the world should be on Astrid.
Astrid also wanted to tell her to stop. Stop writing to her mother. Forget about Ingrid. Nothing good could come of it. If Claire loved her, then Claire would do that one thing for her. That was all she wanted, far more than birthday presents or parties or anything else Claire might think of. Just forget about Ingrid, just walk away...
But she knew that would be too much to ask for, so she didn't dare.
[[ first part from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch; second part is all me, baby! NFB, obvs, but open as always for getting in touch and what have you ]]
Dear Claire,
Yes, I think it would be marvelous if you’d visit. It’s been so long since I've seen Astrid, I dont know if I’d recognize her—and I’m always delighted to meet my loyal readers. I will put you on my visitors list—you’ve never been convicted of a felony, have you? Just teasing.
Your friend, ingrid.
The idea that they corresponded filled Astrid with a sickening dread. Your friend, Ingrid. She must have written after she’d caught her reading in her room. Astrid felt betrayed, helpless, anxious. She would have confronted her with it, but then she’d have had to admit she’d opened Claire's mail. So she just tore up the letter and burned it in her wastebasket. Hopefully Claire would just be depressed that Ingrid never wrote back, and give up.
Not even the discussion that came up over dinner that evening, after Astrid got home from her art class, was enough to distract her, pushing peas around a piece of meatloaf, unable to look at Claire as she chattered away, oblivious, between sips of wine. It was only until Claire mentioned one word that seemed to rise above the static noise that Astrid looked up, blinking with surprise, unsure if she heard.
"What?"
"It's your birthday soon, isn't it?" Claire repeated dutifully with a soft smile. "And it's a big one. Sweet sixteen. We'll have to do something special."
"No," Astrid shook her head. "We don't have to. It's okay."
She wouldn't even know what special thing to do.
"You only turn sixteen once," Claire said with a wistfulness that almost seemed painful, one Astrid was sure she didn't even realize she possessed. "Think about it. Anything you'd like. We'll figure something out."
Astrid wanted to object, but she knew that she wouldn't. She would do anything for Claire and if doing something special for her birthday was what Claire wanted, so be it. She felt a little tug in her chest, thinking about how this wasn't about Astrid at all, but rather Claire, trying to live vicariously through this odd girl she'd welcomed into her home. It was about wish fulfilment, her dreams of having a child one day, and, in the meantime, she'd bestow all her naive dreams of how the world should be on Astrid.
Astrid also wanted to tell her to stop. Stop writing to her mother. Forget about Ingrid. Nothing good could come of it. If Claire loved her, then Claire would do that one thing for her. That was all she wanted, far more than birthday presents or parties or anything else Claire might think of. Just forget about Ingrid, just walk away...
But she knew that would be too much to ask for, so she didn't dare.
[[ first part from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch; second part is all me, baby! NFB, obvs, but open as always for getting in touch and what have you ]]