Chapter 5
June 2004 - Los Angeles, California
The plane from Boston touched down at LAX at six in the evening. Hilary peered out at the sterling-blue sky above the runway, listening as two of the airline stewardesses squabbled about another passenger onboard who required wheelchair assistance. One of them wanted to get off the plane early to meet her boyfriend; she was begging for the other to take over her responsibilities. “Forget about it, Shonda. I’m tired of picking up your slack,” the other said.
Gone were the days when Hilary flew on private planes with her mother, but she always flew first class. She was hard-pressed to give up her fancy champagne and extra legroom; she was just too used to the finer things in life, she supposed. It allowed for some wonderful people watching; it allowed her to fade into the background and see how other people lived. Shonda was sobbing now, telling the other airline stewardess, “I thought we were friends. Like, I thought we looked out for each other.”
Had Isabella been there, she would have scoffed and called her weak. Isabella had very little patience for men. She had even less for women.
Isabella had refused to go to Nantucket with Hilary that spring, adding yet another nail in the coffin of their mother-daughter relationship. The past four times Hilary had tried to call her mother, the maid at her Los Angeles home had answered and said Isabella was “out.” But Hilary knew that Isabella very rarely went anywhere. She was too embarrassed to show her face, which was scarred from a recent botched treatment, and she had enough money to send drivers and other workers around Los Angeles and beyond to get whatever she wanted. Understandably, she hated that paparazzi cameras chased her everywhere she went, wanting to mock the woman she’d become. The public eye refused to let her fade gently into obscurity. She was Isabella Helin, for goodness’ sake. Not so very long ago, she’d been everything to the world.
Hilary disembarked the aircraft and headed for baggage claim, where she picked up her two rolling suitcases and headed into the fragrant Los Angeles air. It was a balmy eighty degrees, and Hilary stood in a sunbeam for a full thirty seconds with her eyes closed as gratefulness flowed through her veins. Like it or not, Nantucket wasn’t fully her home, not really. Los Angeles was.
Hilary hailed a cab to take her back to the home she shared with Rodrick, located on Mulholland Drive. Rodrick had spent the majority of the spring in Nantucket with her before returning to Los Angeles early to prep for a film. Hilary planned to do costumes. It would be a busy summer and autumn, but after a restful few months on the opposite coast, her heart felt light and ready for the swiftness of set life.
The cab pulled into the long driveway on Mulholland and took her all the way up to the garage door. It was open, revealing their home gym and one of Rodrick’s sports cars. Rodrick was on the bench with his shirt off, glistening with sweat. As she stepped out of the cab, he sprinted through the sunshine and picked her up, spinning her around in a circle. She squealed.
“Thank you for bringing her home safely,” Rodrick said to the driver, whom he overtipped by one hundred percent. “Have a great day.”
The driver beamed as he drove back down the driveway. When he was out of sight, Hilary rose on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on her handsome husband’s lips.
“I smell like an airplane,” she said when she reared back, wrinkling her nose.
“You don’t. You smell like a dream,” Rodrick said, picking her up again to carry her inside.
In the safety of those strong arms, Hilary felt as though all the pieces of her life clicked back into place. Nantucket had been a wonderful reprieve, a time of creativity and relaxation and long walks on a far different beach. But here in Los Angeles, she and Rodrick would get back to work. They would meet their potential.
Upstairs in their shower, Rodrick and Hilary stood together beneath the stream and kissed as the water drizzled down their torsos and long, tanned legs. Giggling, they retreated to the shadows of their bedroom and made love as they always did when they hadn’t seen one another for a while. Passionately. Playfully. Hilary felt twenty again.
This was their marriage bed. Oh, how she’d missed it. The glistening white sheets. The California light spilled through the windows like a benediction.
In the hazy hours afterward, Rodrick and Hilary wrapped up in sheets and chatted happily about the weeks they’d spent apart. Rodrick talked about their next film, which was a retelling of Shakespeare’s All’s Well, set in the hippie era of San Francisco. It was outlandish, but that was what intrigued Hilary about it. Hilary spoke poetically about her vision for the costumes, the bell bottoms and crop tops and long, long hair. “We’ll have to spend plenty on wigs,” she warned him teasingly. “I hope you’ve included that in the budget.”
Rodrick begged Hilary to tell him more about her time in Nantucket.
“I hate to disappoint you, but there’s not much to say,” she said dreamily. “I went for walks. I read and wrote in my journal. I tried and failed to reach out to Mom.”
Rodrick bristled. “Why on earth did you do that?”
Hilary raised her shoulders. “I was staying in her house, Rod. She’s everywhere. It still smells like her, for crying out loud.”
“That’s just because she wears too much perfume.”
Hilary swatted him playfully, trying to keep the mood light.
“When was the last time she was there?” Rodrick asked.
“A few years ago, I guess. You know she doesn’t like to leave LA.”
Rodrick bit his lower lip. “I just hate to see you disappointed. And she always disappoints you.”
Hilary kissed his cheek. “She’s my mother. I have to keep trying. You know that.”
Three years ago, Rodrick had convinced Hilary to go to therapy. She’d been very resistant at first, terrified that her therapist would tell everyone what she learned about Isabella Helin. She could probably sell information like that to tabloids for hundreds of thousands of dollars. But Rodrick was right; Hilary was awash with mommy issues. “If therapy is good enough for Tony Soprano, it should be good enough for you,” he’d said.
Hilary didn’t stick with therapy for long. She liked going back and forth between Nantucket and Los Angeles too much to create any sort of realistic schedule with her therapist. But she still remembered something the therapist had told her early on. “Your mother may be a narcissistic personality type. The damage to children of narcissists can be startling. I suggest we start from the beginning and go through every stage of your relationship with her. This way, we can chart things that might activate your trauma response.”
Trauma response? Hilary had been too frightened to continue. She didn’t want to stare too hard at her own darkness for fear it would kill her.
The therapist also told her, “You need to end your relationship with your mother immediately so she doesn’t do any more damage.”
But how could Hilary abandon Isabella Helin? It was impossible.
Now, Rodrick said, “We should get our own place in Nantucket so you don’t feel indebted to her. I know how much you love it there, but we need to separate ourselves. Maybe that’s the only way to really repair your relationship with her.”
“But Rodrick, we were married there,” Hilary said, adjusting her pillow beneath her head and kneading his shoulder. “I don’t want to give that place up.” She sighed, then switched the subject to the upcoming film. Rodrick’s eyes brightened. He never grew tired of his work.
Hilary breathed a sigh of relief. She was off the hook—for now.
That evening, Rodrick suggested they order delivery and eat in bed while watching films.
“I made dinner reservations,” Rodrick said, “but I don’t feel like sharing you with anyone.”
Hilary laughed as he retreated downstairs to find the menus of the local restaurants. Pizza, Chinese, Thai, Mexican—they ordered a little bit of everything for a massive feast and sent one of their drivers out to pick everything up. Hilary considered the thousand-count sheets beneath them, knowing that her mother would never have allowed such a smorgasbord on her luxurious bed. But Hilary wasn’t her mother. She opened her life to fun. To love.
When the food arrived, Hilary donned one of Rodrick’s old T-shirts from his metal band days and sat cross-legged in front of a very spicy Chinese dish with broccoli and chicken, clacking her chopsticks together. Rodrick put Good Will Hunting, one of Hilary’s favorites,in the DVD player. He then leaped onto the mattress beside her, nearly toppling the pizza box to the floor.
Hilary allowed herself a moment of genuine joy. This gorgeous life was everything she’d dreamed of.
“I did miss you in Nantucket, you know,” she said, kissing his ear.
Rodrick’s eyes glowed. He picked up a big piece of garlic chicken with his chopsticks, said, “I missed you, too,” then brought the chicken to her lips. Just before she had a chance to eat it, he took it back and ate it for himself, cackling.
“Hey! Not fair!” Hilary cried, shaking with laughter.
“You snooze, you lose,” he said.
Just then, the house phone rang, echoing metallically from the kitchen to the living room to the bedroom. Hilary watched the pale blue landline on the bedside table quiver in its cradle.
“Don’t answer it,” Rodrick said. “We’re busy.”
“Right.” Hilary watched the phone longingly until it quieted. Two seconds after it quit, it rang again. “But what if something is wrong, Rodrick?”
Rodrick grimaced.
“What if it’s something to do with the movie?” Hilary suggested.
Rodrick reached for the remote and paused the film. “Go on.”
Hilary dropped her chopsticks, wiped her hands on her napkin, and answered the phone. “Hello? Salt residence.”
“Hilary, hey. It’s Quinn.” Quinn was Isabella’s longtime agent.
“Oh. Hi, Quinn.”
Rodrick gave Hilary a harsh look, which meant get off the phone now.
“What’s up?”
“I have some bad news. Are you okay to talk?” Quinn asked.
Hilary’s heartbeat quickened. She got out of bed, wanting to take the news standing up. There was a Chinese food stain on her left breast.
“Your mother had an incident at home last night,” Quinn said.
“What kind of incident?”
“We took her to the hospital, and she seems stable,” Quinn said. “We were able to hide everything from the press.”
“What kind of incident?” Hilary demanded, her tone sharp.
Quinn heaved a sigh. “I think it’s about time we talk about taking her to another rehab facility. Lotus Vine didn’t cut it last time. Athens Peak was a disaster. But I’ve been looking at the website for Greenaway Valley, and I think it could do the trick.”
Hilary closed her eyes. Now, she understood that her mother had probably overdosed again. Alcohol. Drugs. Whatever she’d gotten her hands on. She’d tried to escape herself, her wild thoughts, her pain. And someone had discovered her and made sure she couldn’t run away that easily. Probably Quinn or another housemaid or an assistant.
It was not the first time this had happened. The first time was after Larry left Isabella for another woman, just a few weeks after Isabella had won the Oscar. Hilary had found her face down on the carpet with a bluish pallor. She’d thought she was dead. In hindsight, that might have been a good thing to discuss with the therapist. The image still haunted Hilary’s dreams.
“She’s home now. Resting,” Quinn said. “I’d like to check her into a facility as early as tomorrow. We have to be wary of the tabloids and do it safely. But in the meantime, I really think you should come over. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
Tears filled Hilary’s eyes. Her hand in a fist, she smashed it against her thigh. How many times had she reached out to her mother while in Nantucket? How often had she tried to repair their relationship?
“Hilary? Are you there?” Quinn asked.
Hilary’s voice was weak. “I’ll be there soon.”
Hilary hung up and closed her eyes. In a moment, Rodrick’s arms were around her, keeping her upright, even as her legs were jelly. “What happened?” Rodrick breathed. “Tell me.”
“She overdosed,” Hilary said, weeping into his shirt. “Quinn wants to check her into a facility. And she wants me to come over.”
Rodrick stiffened. Slowly, he moved away from her and placed his hands on her cheeks, cradling her face. For a long time, they stood like that, gazing at one another. Hilary felt on the brink of a scream.
“Honey, don’t you see?” Rodrick said finally. “She’s doing this to get a rise out of you and get your attention.”
Hilary took a staggered breath. “She overdosed, Rodrick.” But as soon as she said it, she realized Quinn hadn’t told her that. All he’d said was that there had been an incident. Hilary didn’t know the details.
Was it possible that Quinn was making it up?
“Baby, don’t do this to yourself,” Rodrick said softly. “Pay attention to the signs. Remember what she’s capable of.”
Hilary sniffed and fell to the edge of the bed. Rodrick was still talking, recounting all the times since he’d met her that Isabella had run circles around Hilary, making a mockery of how much she loved her. “Remember that time in Rome? You had a panic attack because you thought she’d died in her hotel room. But she wasn’t answering the phone on purpose, Hilary! Her boyfriend confirmed it.”
Hilary’s throat was so tight that she struggled to breathe. Rodrick disappeared into their bathroom and filled a glass with warm water, which she coughed down. The Chinese, pizza, and Mexican smorgasbord across the bed looked heinous now—
like someone had already eaten it and thrown it back up again. Hilary stopped breathing through her nose for fear she would throw up.
Rodrick was on his knees in front of her with both of her hands in his. He was pleading with her to stay and not to give Isabella so much of her heart and mind.
“The therapist told you to cut ties with her,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s finally time? We have another movie coming up. We have so much to do. Tonight was supposed to be our night. And she sensed that. She wanted to ruin it.”
Hilary took a staggered breath. More tears spilled from her eyes and coated her tongue with salt. Rodrick looked so handsome like this, begging her to think of herself and her health before her mother’s. He kissed her hand from the wrist to the tip of her fourth finger.
“It’s not going to be easy,” he said after a few minutes of dead quiet. “But she’s a narcissist, Hilary. You can’t let her be in charge anymore. You have to get away.”