White Oleander - Janet Fitch [100]
“Of course they stopped calling. Gloria said she called and called and you never picked up. Of course they gave up.”
Now all I could hear was her crying. She cried the way children do, sobbing, hiccupping, nose running. And the soothing tones of his voice.
I could picture him, taking her in his arms, rocking her against his chest, stroking her hair, and she ’d let him, that was the worst part of it. And they’d make love, and she’d fall asleep, thinking he was so kind, after all, he must love her. It would be all better. That was how he did it. Hurt her, and then made it all better. I hated him. He came home, upset her, when he was just going to leave her again.
A LETTER CAME in the mail, from my mother. I started to open it when I realized it wasn’t for me. It was addressed to Claire. What was my mother doing writing to Claire? I never told her about Claire. Should I give it to her? I decided I couldn’t take the chance. My mother might say anything. Might threaten her, might lie, or frighten her. I could always say I opened it by accident. I took it into my 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 don’t 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 me with a sickening dread. Your friend, Ingrid. She must have written after I’d caught her reading in my room at Christmastime. I felt betrayed, helpless, anxious. I would have confronted her with it, but I’d have had to admit I’d opened her mail. So I tore up the letter and burned it in my wastebasket. Hopefully she would just be depressed that my mother never wrote back, and give up.
IT WAS FEBRUARY, a gray morning so overcast we couldn’t see the Hollywood Hills from our yard. We were going to visit my mother. Claire had set it up. She put on a miniskirt, turtleneck, and tights, all in mahogany brown, frowned in the mirror. “Maybe jeans would be better.”
“No denim,” I said.
The idea of this meeting was almost too much to bear. I could only lose. My mother could hurt her. Or she could win her over. I didn’t know which was worse. Claire was mine, someone who loved me. Why did my mother have to get in the middle? But that was my mother, she always had to be the center of attention, everything had to be about her.
I hadn’t seen her since Starr. Marvel refused to let the van people take me, she thought the less I saw her the better. I looked in the mirror, imagining what my mother would think of me now. The scars on my face were just the start. I’d been through a few things since then. I wouldn’t know how to be with her now, I was too big to hide in her silences. And now I had Claire to worry about.
I touched my hand to my forehead and told Claire, “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Stage fright,” she said, smoothing the skirt with the palms of her hands. “I’m having a bit myself.”
I had second thoughts about my clothes too, a long skirt and Doc Martens, thick socks, a crocheted sweater with a lace collar from Fred Segal, where all trendy young Hollywood shopped. My mother was going to hate it. But I had nothing to change into, all my clothes were like that now.
We drove east for an hour. Claire chatted nervously. She never could stand a silence. I looked out the windows, sucked a peppermint for carsickness, nestled into my thick Irish sweater. Gradually, the suburbs thinned out, replaced by lumberyards and fields, the smell of manure, and long, fog-clad views framed by lines of windbreak eucalyptus. CYA, the men’s prison. It had been more than two years since I’d last come this way, a very different girl in pink shoes. I even recognized the little market. Coke, 12 pack, $2.49. “Turn here.”
We drove back along the same blacktop road to the CIW, the steam stack and the water