Page 22 of Unspoken Tides

Hilary padded downstairs to make coffee and read the script again for the Shakespeare retelling set in San Francisco. As the coffee bubbled, she heard a dull thud at the doorstep. It had to be the paper. Stretching her arms over her head, she headed toward the light of the foyer. Although she didn’t always like to read the paper (it was always about the war in the Middle East, it seemed like), Rodrick enjoyed the sports section.

Hilary opened the door, dropped down, and unraveled the cylindrical paper. A smiling woman peered at her from the front page. At first, Hilary thought, that’s my face.

The headline read: ISABELLA HELIN, DEAD AT 60.

Hilary stood in stunned silence in the doorway of her home, holding the front page of the newspaper with both hands. It couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of hoax. The photograph they’d chosen of her mother was from the 1990 Oscars, immediately after she’d accepted her award. Although she couldn’t see herself, Hilary could feel herself in the photograph, somewhere behind her mother. She could feel Rodrick back there, too.

Dead at sixty. It couldn’t be true. Not Isabella Helin. She was the sort of woman who was too evil to die. She would carry her resentment deep into old age. She would make sure she beat her rival, Jane Flett, to age one hundred and beyond. She would win an Oscar at one hundred and ten and drink all the other actors under the table at the after-party.

Isabella Helin was immortal.

Hilary fainted in the foyer. The sound of her body across the tile woke up Rodrick, who burst down the stairs to find her sprawled out with the newspaper spread out around her. He got her a glass of water. He held her on the ground as she sobbed and sobbed.

It wasn’t till the initial shock wore off that Hilary remembered her mother had needed her last night. Her mother had called for her. And she hadn’t gone.

When she remembered that, she burst into the bathroom and threw up all the contents in her stomach, then dry-heaved.

Isabella Helin had needed Hilary in her final hours. And Hilary had stayed home, eating Chinese food and watching Good Will Hunting.

Hilary was a failure of a daughter. As far as she was concerned, she’d allowed her mother to die and was, therefore, responsible for her death.

“What kind of daughter doesn’t go to her mother?” she sobbed to Rodrick through the bathroom door, pounding her fist on the wood. “What kind of monster am I?”

When Hilary left the bathroom, Rodrick tried to take her in his arms again, but Hilary fought him off. She couldn’t take his tenderness nor his pity. She locked herself in the spare bedroom upstairs and called Quinn, who explained, “I was keeping watch, but I fell asleep. She took a load of pills and never woke up again. It was accidental. She was in so much pain.”

“I don’t understand,” Hilary said over and over because nothing would make sense to her again. She wanted to yell at Quinn for falling asleep. But really, she was yelling at herself.

The next few days were a blur. Paparazzi lingered outside the house, waiting for some sign of Hilary, Isabella’s “clone.” But Hilary refused to leave the house. She ate frozen pizza and watched Isabella’s old films, trying to make sense of a world without Isabella. She ignored the internet and didn’t take phone calls. When Rodrick came to the guest room door to ask how she was, she ignored him fifty percent of the time, if not more.

Because of her mother’s tremendous fame, they decided against an official funeral and instead buried her in a private ceremony with plenty of guards surrounding them. Hilary read one Bible verse and one monologue from one of her mother’s favorite roles. Larry was invited because he was the love of her mother’s life, but he didn’t come. He didn’t even send flowers.

During the funeral, Rodrick tried to take Hilary’s hand, but she shook it off.

It didn’t take long for Hilary to lay some of the blame for her mother’s death on Rodrick. He’d accused her of being weak, of always running to her mother’s side when she called for her, of being a victim to her narcissistic personality. Hilary had felt so helpless. She’d wanted to prove herself to the man she loved. She’d wanted him to respect her.

Was it possible that Rodrick was incapable of respecting her? Had they already gone through too much?

It seemed improbable that life would go on. But only two weeks after Isabella Helin left the world forever, Rodrick appeared at the door of the guest bedroom and asked if Hilary would like to go over the costume notes for the upcoming Shakespeare retelling set in San Francisco. Filming was set to begin in just under a month, and they needed to get the ball rolling. “Remember that big wig budget you wanted? I got you that and much more.” Rodrick reminded Hilary of herself when she’d attempted to please her mother during her moods. When she’d bought her favorite wine and chocolate and prayed, that would get her mother out of bed.

She thought, he can’t buy me off with wigs.

Hilary stood on shaking legs and opened the door to find Rodrick. He looked depleted, as though watching Hilary’s grief play out had made him lose weight and hair and color. This might have touched Hilary in some way had she been able to feel anything at all.

She said, “I’m not going to work on that stupid movie.”

Rodrick blinked at her. He looked as though he’d been smacked. “Honey, I think it would be good for you. You need to get out of that room and see people again.”

Hilary’s mind’s eye was filled with her mother spread out on the bed during her final hours, calling her daughter’s name. Guilt was the only thing she understood.

“I can’t, Rodrick. The film industry killed my mother. It’s ruined so many lives.” What she meant was, I’ve killed my mother. I’ve ruined so many lives.

Rodrick sucked in his cheeks. “I really think throwing yourself into a project is the ticket.”

“You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me.”

Rodrick tugged his hair. Hilary imagined she could hear it splitting apart in his hand.

“I don’t know how to help you, Hilary,” Rodrick said.

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