Page 2 of Unspoken Tides

“Mine, too.” She tried on a smile. “I’m Hilary.”

“I know.”

Hilary laughed. She loved when people didn’t pretend not to know who she was. She was absolutely everywhere, alongside her mother. She was the topic of hundreds, if not thousands, of newspaper articles. On top of it, her face was nearly her mother’s face. There was no escape.

“I’m Rodrick,” he said. “Rodrick Salt.”

Hilary’s heart hummed. “Nice to meet you.”

Another server passed by, and they both reached out to nab a tiny salmon puff with an olive stabbed to the top with a toothpick. They smiled at one another over the top of the server’s tray. Hilary, who’d never had a real boyfriend before and felt ill-equipped to talk to handsome men (something her mother had presumably been born to do well), hunted around her mind for something good to say to him. Something that would intrigue him. But before she could, she heard her name from the red carpet.

“Hilary? We’re going to sit down.”

“I have to run.” Hilary swallowed her salmon puff. “Are you going to any of the parties?”

“Yeah. I am.” Rodrick smiled like a puppy dog. “See you, maybe.”

Hilary breezed back toward her mother and Larry. It was sometimes surreal to approach them like this when they looked their very best and brightest, their “most famous,” surrounded by others who were at least as famous—or wanted to be. It was hard for Hilary to remind herself that Larry and Isabella were the people she also lived with. They ate popcorn, went on walks, and talked about the weather so that they weren’t perpetually glossy, fashionable, and utterly famous.

An usher led Isabella, Larry, and Hilary to their seats. Because both Larry and Isabella were nominated, they were situated toward the front and side of the middle so that the cameras could find them easily for reaction shots. Hilary sat on the other side of Isabella, who smoothed down her dress as she sat. Immediately, a server arrived with another three champagne glasses, which Hilary reached for happily. At nineteen, it wasn’t exactly legal that she drank. But as Isabella’s daughter, she could do no wrong. Well, almost no wrong.

“Who were you talking to back there?” Isabella asked through the side of her mouth, careful to maintain a smile as still more people took their photograph.

“Who?”

“The young man,” Isabella went on. “With the badly cut tuxedo.”

Hilary’s heart pumped. “I don’t know. Some guy.”

Isabella turned her eyes toward Hilary to size her up as though she didn’t believe Rodrick was just “some guy.” That was another thing about Isabella. She was brilliant at reading people and could always perceive a lie. That was probably one of the reasons she was such a brilliant actress.

The awards ceremony began not long after that. The MC for the evening was the comedian and actor Billy Crystal, whom Isabella adored. He’d been at their home several times over the years, playing the piano and serenading Isabella whenever she asked. Once, during Hilary’s tenth birthday party, Billy Crystal performed “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel (the other Billy, he called him) in front of all of Hilary’s friends, and Hilary didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed.

Throughout most of the award ceremony, Hilary tuned in and out. She watched as beautiful actresses approached the stage, their gowns like fire swishing around their legs. She watched as dashing men made speeches and waved their golden statues in the air. She watched as hundreds and hundreds of people celebrated the sixty-second Academy Awards, an awards show for film, a medium as formidable and gorgeous as any other art form. And then, after the third glass of champagne she’d drunk, tears welled in her eyes as she imagined herself on stage one day, perhaps accepting an award for Best Actress. She would thank her mother first. Of course. People would be expecting that. But after that—she would thank Rodrick. Her husband. She grinned inwardly as her stomach bubbled.

Just like that, it was time for the Best Actress award. Knowing the camera was upon her, Isabella sat up straight as a pin and held Larry’s and Hilary’s hands. Her nails were so tight on Hilary’s skin that she thought she would draw blood.

One after another, the Best Actress winner from last year read off the list of actresses up for this year’s award. Hilary knew that her mother detested almost all of those women, especially Jane Flett. Jane Flett had stolen a gig Isabella had previously thought was in the bag for her. That had been ten years ago—during a particularly harrowing bout of acne for Hilary. When Isabella had crashed with sorrow over the role going to Jane Flett instead of her, she’d looked at Hilary and said, “I can’t believe it. And now, look at your face! Won’t God give me a break?”

“And the winner is,” the actress on stage announced, “Isabella Helin!”

Hilary swept to her feet after that. She pounded her feet on the floor, smacked her palms together, and called out for her mother, the iconic actress, the dream of a woman who’d “escaped” Sweden and come to the promised land of Hollywood, California, to seek her fortune and fame. All the world loved her. All the world said her name. And right now, as she glowed up on the stage with a little golden statue in her hand, she smiled upon all of them. Hilary imagined that she hadn’t eyes for anyone else but Hilary. That, up there, all she knew was her love for her daughter.

But Hilary knew that was far from the truth.

The fact that Isabella Helin won the Oscar for Best Actress—and her husband, Larry, did not win his Oscar for Best Actor—was the talk of the party. Larry laughed it off as sweat dripped from his brow. His hands looked especially empty without the golden statue, especially with Isabella beside him, besotted with hers.

Hilary buzzed from the champagne. She hovered to the right of her mother, three journalists, and Larry, scouting the inner party for signs of food, more alcohol, and anyone she might know. It was nearly midnight, but she knew these sorts of parties went for hours, deep into the morning. She wanted to soak it up.

Just as soon as the journalists faded back through the crowd to assault someone else, Isabella’s smile melted just a touch. “Can you keep it together, Larry? Please?”

Larry’s face stiffened. “I don’t know why you have to rub it in so much.” He then strode away from Isabella, raising his hand in greeting to Martin Scorsese, with whom he’d worked on a project a few years ago. That year, he’d won Best Supporting Actor—and Isabella hadn’t been up for anything. Their house had been in a civil war.

It had never occurred to Hilary that that level of competition was strange. She was accustomed to that in the world of Hollywood. You had to fight for what you wanted, how you wanted to be perceived—even if it meant belittling the people in your life. The people you were meant to love.

“Don’t just stand there, love,” Isabella breathed down Hilary’s neck. “Let’s actually enter the party, shall we?”

Hilary followed Isabella through the teeming sea of fashionable actors, production designers, costume designers, directors, producers, and makeup artists. Isabella’s facial features were as recognizable as a slice of apple pie or the Eiffel Tower, and the crowd stirred around her, making space. They found their way to Stellen Skarsgard, another Swedish actor, and Isabella clutched his elbow as though he were a lifeboat and burst into Swedish, a language Hilary only half understood. Although Isabella had never bothered to teach her, she often spoke Swedish here and there to her, expecting her to understand. Hilary had made a few sorry efforts to study the language—but her tongue felt inefficient and lazy. On top of that, she had no one to practice with. Her mother didn’t have the patience. She wouldn’t even run lines with Hilary before auditions.

---