Chapter 8
June 2004 - Los Angeles, California
The night Quinn called Hilary about her mother, Rodrick convinced her to stay home. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of you. She’s using you. Again.” This did little to calm Hilary’s nerves. Throughout the rest of Good Will Hunting, she stared into space and chewed her thumbnail, imagining her mother in the throes of her mental illness, drinking herself to death, wondering where her daughter was. “I need my baby! Where is she!” The nightmares made her toss and turn all night.
The following morning, Hilary woke before Rodrick, pulled herself up, and watched him sleep. He looked peaceful and handsome, his hair tousled across the pillow and a crinkle across his cheek. A swell of love came over her.
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.
Hilary raised her shoulders, feeling obstinate. “Why would you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want to help you. I love you.”
Hilary flared her nostrils. She felt like a teenage girl. “I can’t be in Los Angeles anymore. I have to go.”
Rodrick remained quiet.
“I’ll fly back to Boston in the morning,” Hilary stated, her tone taking on a formal, businesslike tone.
Rodrick sighed. “You don’t know anyone in Nantucket. You’ll be all alone out there.”
He didn’t seem to understand that that was the very reason Hilary wanted to go. Was it possible that Rodrick had never understood her at all? That she’d thought they were speaking the same language when, in reality, he was speaking English, and she was speaking Russian?
Hilary set her jaw. After another moment of silence, Rodrick stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. Hilary thought he was trying to manipulate her into staying. He was trying to make her hard heart melt. And for a split second, she thought it was working. She placed her chin on his shoulder as tears sprang to her eyes. She remembered the morning of her wedding when she’d awoken to an island filled with light and thought, today is the day I marry my greatest love.
“I have to go, Rodrick.”
Rodrick unwrapped his arms, and she was immediately shivery and cold. She wanted to ask him to hug her again. She felt like a walking contradiction. Love me! Please don’t love me! She didn’t know which one would stick.
“I’ll visit you soon,” Rodrick said. “I promise.”
“I hope you do.” There was a bubble in Hilary’s throat. “You’re welcome any time. I’ll buy that fish you like from the market. We can rent a sailboat and go out on the sound.”
Rodrick’s eyes were heavy. Clearly, he couldn’t see the daydreams that played out in Hilary’s mind.
“It’ll be a gorgeous summer,” Rodrick said, his voice filled with doubt. He tucked a curl behind her ear, and Hilary remembered she hadn’t washed her hair in many days. She probably reeked. “It’ll be good for you. Take care of yourself, Hil. Remember that I love you.”
Even as he said it, Hilary felt his love receding, like the tide escaping the rocky shore.
It was just as her mother had always said, “A man’s love for you is always conditional. If you stop being the person he believed you to be, he’ll go off and find someone else who fits the bill.”
Hilary wasn’t sure who she hated more at this moment: her mother, for giving her that advice as a young girl; Rodrick, for being a man; or herself, for being unlovable and not the sort of woman who can keep a man in love with her for good.