Page 42 of Unspoken Tides

“Thankfully, yes. I’ll be able to live at home.”

Hilary nearly leaped for joy. At least this time, she’d know where her daughter was. Although their phone call was brief, Hilary already hatched a plan. She was going to see Ingrid again. Nothing would stop her.

Chapter Seventeen

July 2005 - Los Angeles, California

It was hard to believe Isabella Helin had left the world more than a year ago. As Hilary waited for her luggage at LAX, overwhelming sunshine streaming through the skylight overhead, she could feel the ache of that morning in her bones. She could still see the words as clear as anything: ISABELLA HELIN, DEAD AT 60. Just when she thought she might collapse, her suitcase popped out of the darkness, and she shot toward it, heaved it off the conveyor belt, and stood, panting, blinking around her at all the Los Angeles types—their blond hair, their perfect bodies, their very white teeth. They were a different breed than Nantucketers. Was it possible she already felt more comfortable on Nantucket than here? Which place was home?

Hadn’t she given birth to her daughter in Los Angeles? Hadn’t her mother raised her here? What did it mean to belong anywhere? Or was it all an act that could be changed depending on the character arc and scene?

Hilary caught her breath in the cab, where she texted the Salt Sisters to say that she’d arrived safely. Stella wrote back first, of course: “We’re pulling for you, girl. Good luck! We love you!”

It was the Salt Sisters who’d helped her commit to her plan. Over and over again, they’d reminded her: Ingrid was her daughter. She had every right to see her whenever she wanted to. Just because Rodrick was a top-shot producer with better contact with Ingrid’s agent, and just because Ingrid was quickly becoming one of the most sought-after child stars in the industry, didn’t mean Hilary had to wait by the sidelines. She had flown to Los Angeles to make that understood.

“He’s made you feel so much smaller than you are,” Stella had said. “But you can’t listen to him. You can’t give him any credit. Remember who you are, Hilary.”

Because Rodrick still lived in Los Angeles full-time during the divorce proceedings, Hilary had agreed to give him their Los Angeles home. Jefferson had called her a fool for that, too. But she’d wanted Ingrid to be able to return home whenever she wanted to. She’d been raised there, sort of, at least until she’d begged to enter that boarding school at the age of nine. “She’s too young to leave home!” Hilary remembered saying. Why hadn’t she pushed that agenda? Why hadn’t she stood for what she knew was right?

It was no surprise that Ingrid had secured the role in the HBO production, which was currently filming in Los Angeles. It seemed clear that soon, Ingrid would be able to ask for the roles she wanted rather than the other way around. She was the perfect meal ticket for Rodrick. Back in the old days, Rodrick had hoped Hilary would be that meal ticket. He’d hoped to pair his projects with “the daughter of Isabella Helin.” But Hilary couldn’t act. So the task fell on Ingrid’s shoulders.

It disgusted Hilary. Did Rodrick see his daughter as anything but a cash cow? She was twelve years old, for goodness’ sake.

Due to the intensity of Ingrid’s filming schedule, Hilary knew she wouldn’t return home till late that night—presumably eight or nine. To kill time, Hilary wandered through neighborhoods she’d once adored, West Hollywood and Downtown, Echo Park and Silver Lake. She drank coffee and ate tacos from taco trucks. She bought a pair of enormous “movie star” sunglasses from a jewelry shop near Los Feliz, where the woman behind the counter asked her, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Isabella Helin?”

To this, Hilary said, “No. Who is that?”

“She’s this old actress,” the woman said as she placed the new sunglasses in a case and wrapped them in a brown paper bag. “I think she died. Not sure.”

Hilary went to a bookstore in the late afternoon. She purchased a Joan Didion memoir and read over a glass of wine at a bar nearby, trying to settle her nerves. She’d always adored Joan Didion for her apt descriptions of California, getting older, and the bizarreness of daily interactions. But today, she couldn’t wrap her mind around her sentences, couldn’t fathom how anyone had had the wherewithal and concentration to sit down and write an entire book. Instead, she walked to a drugstore and purchased a tabloid magazine—which she never did—and read an article about “twelve-year-old Ingrid Salt.” The article covered everything from Ingrid’s favorite lip gloss and nail polish to her feelings for her pet poodle (When did Rodrick let Ingrid get a poodle? Hilary wondered) to her fears about turning thirteen.

Hilary panged with fear. Had Ingrid gotten her period yet? She wrapped the magazine into a long stick. Mothers were supposed to be there for their daughters. Mothers were meant for questions and answers.

Isabella Helin, of course, had not been a valid source of information when it came to learning about motherhood. When Hilary had gotten her period, Isabella had cackled and said, “Welcome to the doghouse.” Hilary hadn’t fully understood what that meant; it was just awful. Maybe the worst thing that could ever happen to a woman.

Again, Hilary remembered the therapist she’d tried out a few years ago. Maybe she should have covered that, too.

When Hilary was sure that Ingrid was home safe and sound, she took a cab to her old house on Mulholland Drive. The smog was especially horrible, air sputtering in and out of her lungs. She wore her new sunglasses so that the driver wouldn’t see she was crying.

Hilary paid the driver and got out to punch the code into the gate. Miraculously, it was the same as it ever was. She’d been the one to create the code. Maybe Rodrick had just never figured out how to change it. He’d never been patient enough to sit down with something and fix it. Exhibit one: their marriage.

But when Hilary reached the front door, she stalled, her finger hovering an inch from the doorbell. Orange light came from the upstairs living room, and she could hear a clicking from the kitchen. She imagined Ingrid upstairs, relaxing after a long day on set, maybe with a bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap. Perhaps with a soda beside her. No, not a soda. She was too Hollywood to drink soda these days. And maybe Rodrick was in the kitchen, making dinner. Maybe his newest girlfriend was by his side. Another actress. Another woman Ingrid looked up to for her career.

There was life in that house. And it had nothing to do with her.

But she’d come all this way, hadn’t she? She couldn’t turn back.

Hilary took a staggered breath and pressed the bell. The sound rang through the house. The clacking in the kitchen stopped abruptly. Next came the sound of footsteps. They could only be Rodrick’s.

As he approached, Hilary was reminded of that morning when she’d retrieved the newspaper and discovered her mother had died. This had been the door she’d opened. This had been the portal through which she’d stepped—and changed everything. Back then, she’d been a part of the fabric of this house. She’d eaten fast food on the bed upstairs.

The door opened to reveal Rodrick. He wore a soft white cotton shirt and a pair of Levi jeans, and he was barefoot. He looked healthy. Tan. His eyes were like two black holes, threatening to suck her in. From the kitchen came the smell of fried onions and olive oil. Hilary hadn’t eaten anything all day, and her stomach was in knots. Eating was a privilege of the happy.

“What are you doing here?” Rodrick asked.

Hilary had practiced this scene numerous times with Stella. She’d told Rodrick exactly why she was there and why she deserved to be. But now, on the stoop of the house she’d purchased, she lost her nerve. Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Rodrick,” she began, her voice wavering, “I’m here to see Ingrid.”

---