Chapter 18
July 2005 - Los Angeles, California
Feeling like a zombie, Hilary wandered down Mulholland Drive and got a cab to take her to a hotel in West Hollywood, one with very clean sheets and an extensive minibar. This was essential, as she couldn’t sleep a wink and needed some way to pass the time. She flicked through bad television all night long, bathing in the ghoulish glow of infomercials and sitcoms that had long since been canceled, sipping from whatever she wanted. Bags formed under her eyes, and she got ice from the ice maker upstairs, wrapped them in a washcloth, and put them on her face. It didn’t help.
When she was sure Stella was awake, Hilary called the East Coast. Stella answered on the first ring.
“Hilary.”
Hilary smiled into the phone. “How did you know it was me?”
“It’s six in the morning. Who else could it be?”
Hilary rolled over on the bed and rubbed her eyes. Makeup coated her fingers.
“How did it go?” Stella asked.
Hilary explained what she could: that Rodrick wouldn’t let her in; that she screamed to Ingrid’s window, but Ingrid wouldn’t see her. “I felt insane. And I knew that any minute, Rodrick would tell me I was crazier than my mother ever was.” She chewed her lip.
“You have to take legal action,” Stella urged her. “You’re her mother. You have to fight this.”
Hilary knew she was right.
Instead of returning to Nantucket to lick her wounds, Hilary met with a lawyer in Los Angeles right away. She explained the circumstances around her divorce, the reasons she hadn’t seen her daughter, and her decision that she wanted full custody, or at least half-time custody, whatever the court would allow her. “I want to take her out of that boarding school,” she explained, practically spitting across the desk. “I want her to have a normal childhood.”
The lawyer was a born-and-bred Angeleno. He clasped his hands over his mahogany desk and tried to form a look of pity. Hilary guessed he’d wanted to be an actor at one time but had failed and gone to law school. That was always the story in Los Angeles. Hers wasn’t fully different.
“Ingrid Salt is not just a child anymore,” he explained. “She’s a brand. A commodity. Your ex-husband is correct in saying that hundreds of people rely on her for jobs.”
“My daughter is not a commodity.”
“Excuse my words,” the lawyer said. “I don’t mean to belittle her, nor your relationship with her. I’m just saying that Ingrid is not an ordinary child caught in a marital dispute. This could get very messy. Are you prepared for that?”
“I’m not leaving Los Angeles until we get this worked out,” Hilary said.
Her backbone felt powerful. She could hear the Salt Sisters’ assurance echoing between her ears. “Even if you have to live in LA, we’ll visit you,” Stella had told her. “Your daughter comes first.”
Hilary rented a beautiful home on Mulholland Drive, a half mile away from the house. The interior was covered in Mexican tile and furnished with midcentury sofas and armoires. Had she not been out of her mind with grief and anger, she might have really appreciated this era. There was even a swimming pool in the backyard, in which she swam laps every morning. Her shoulders widened with her strength. Her mother wasn’t around to remind her that women didn’t have broad shoulders. She swam longer, harder.
The tabloids had picked up on the “struggle for Ingrid.” It was impossible to know who had tipped them off. Maybe it was the lawyer’s secretary. Perhaps it was Rodrick’s French actress girlfriend. Paparazzi began following Hilary around, taking photographs of her that they published with headings like: “Is Hilary as crazy as her mother?” and “Will Hilary get custody of Ingrid Salt?” and “Is Hilary broke and after Ingrid’s money?” Through late summer and into early fall, Hilary stayed the course. She outlined what she wanted, how often Ingrid was “required” to see her, and how it would work if Ingrid was on set and Rodrick was a producer for that film or television series. She was happy to keep a wide berth of Rodrick. More than that, she never wanted to see him again.
When Ingrid’s HBO series wrapped in early autumn, Hilary received a call from Ingrid’s agent, Janice. This was a rarity. Hilary was in the pool, swimming laps when she heard the jangling ringtone and leaped out of the water.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Salt. Ingrid is interested in a meeting this weekend.”
Hilary’s heart sputtered. “Of course! I’m free. Any time.”
“She suggests brunch at your place. Sunday at noon.”
Hilary was dripping wet, wearing a two-piece red bikini that she now remembered looked ridiculous on her. “I’ll be ready. Do you need my address?”
“We have it on file.”
Hilary spent the next few days in a wide-eyed frenzy. She cleaned the entire house herself, getting on her hands and knees to scrub the Mexican tiles, purchased flowers from the farmers’ market, practiced making all of Ingrid’s favorite breakfast foods, and demanded that her friends stop by to eat them. She’d forgotten that she had a few friends left in Los Angeles. When they came over, they treated her as though she were a feral animal. The tabloids had gotten to them. As she buzzed around happily, explaining that Ingrid was coming over on Sunday, one friend loosened up and said, “Oh, good. I knew you were nothing like her.”
“Who?”
“Your mother,” she said. “I knew you were a better mother than she was.”
Hilary’s mouth went dry. Still, she smiled and said, “Do you want milk in your coffee?”
This was the thing about fame, she knew. Everyone had ownership over your story. Everyone felt they understood.
Janice drove Ingrid to Hilary’s house Sunday at noon sharp. The pre-teen who stepped into the light of the morning wore a short jean skirt and a tank top with a bra under it. Hilary panged. Who had taken her bra shopping for the first time? Janice? The French actress? She forced a smile and hurried down the porch steps to take her daughter in her arms. But Ingrid was stiff and bony. Was she eating enough?
Hilary made up her mind to feed Ingrid as much breakfast as she could. Maybe she could win her back with food.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.”
The past few times Hilary spoke to Ingrid, Ingrid told her how tired she was. A girl her age shouldn’t be so tired all the time. She should be sleeping in on Saturdays. She should be painting her nails with her girlfriends. Hilary had to bite her tongue from telling her she needed her “beauty sleep.” That had been a constant refrain from Isabella Helin.
Hilary had decorated the breakfast table with flowers and covered it with platters of eggs, bacon, blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes, croissants, and mini donuts filled with cream. Ingrid gaped at it.
“Are you expecting more people?” Ingrid asked.
“It’s just us!”
Ingrid blinked. “This is a lot of food. Like, a lot.”
“Whatever we don’t eat, we can eat later.”
“Later?” Ingrid had all the snark of a teenager much older than twelve. She sat down across from Hilary and folded her hands on her lap. “Do you have coffee?”
Hilary hadn’t made coffee because Ingrid was twelve and too young for coffee. But the glint in Ingrid’s eyes told her that coffee was essential. When Hilary went into the kitchen to brew a pot, she noticed that the agent’s car remained in the driveway. The agent was in the front seat, texting furiously.
“You can tell Janice to go, honey,” Hilary said from the kitchen. “We don’t need her.”
All she wanted in the world was for that woman to drive away and never come back.
“She likes to wait for me,” Ingrid explained. “I’m her only client these days.”
Hilary returned to the table. “Only client? That’s impressive.” She tried to keep her voice bright. “I’m not surprised, though. You’ve done so well for yourself, honey. Your grandmother would be so proud.” She placed her hand on her heart. “I’m so proud.”
Ingrid shifted on her chair and put her hands under her thighs. She couldn’t make eye contact.
“Why don’t you eat up? It’ll get cold.”
When Ingrid didn’t move, Hilary jumped forward and filled a plate with a pancake, some bacon, and an egg. She put the plate in front of Ingrid and then poured syrup over the pancake. Every second that passed, she thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t yet burst into tears.
And then, Ingrid said, “Mom, I can’t eat all this.”
“You’re almost a teenager, Ingrid. You can eat whatever you want. You’re still growing!”
Ingrid snorted.
“What?” Hilary asked.
“I’m just wondering what Janice would say if she heard you,” Ingrid said. “If I grow at all, I won’t be able to fit in the costumes they just fitted me for.”
Hilary’s heart sank. “You’re already starting another project?”
“Sure. I’m going to Greece next week.”
Hilary’s heart seized. She sat down across from Ingrid and squeezed her thighs. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Ingrid picked up a fork, slid the tongs through the syrup, and licked it.
Hilary wanted to scream, take a bite! But she held her tongue.
“Um, I came here to tell you,” Ingrid went on, dropping her fork, “that you need to stop this whole custody battle thing. It isn’t good for my image. Janice says that image is everything. Pretty soon, we’re going to go after high school roles and stuff, and it’s bad if people still think of me as a kid. Like a kid who can be fought over. Does that make sense?”
A dull ache formed behind Hilary’s eye. A migraine was approaching.
Meekly, she said, “I just want to spend more time with you.” She felt just as she had as a young girl, yearning for more affection from Isabella. Time was a flat circle.
Ingrid raised her shoulders.
“Maybe I could come to Greece with you,” Hilary suggested.
Ingrid groaned. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Ingrid. I’ve spent my life on film sets. I know the game. I’ll stay out of your way. Maybe sometimes we can hit the beach or eat together. I can teach you to sail. Finally.”
“I’ve already been taking lessons. My character in the next film knows how to sail.”
Hilary felt this like a final blow. This was perhaps the last skill she could pass on to her daughter, and her daughter had decided to pay someone else to teach her instead.
“Besides,” Ingrid went on, speaking through the silence, “Dad and his girlfriend will be there. We’re all staying together in a big villa on Crete. It would be awkward if you were there.”
Hilary felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She put an egg on her plate and stabbed it with a fork so that the yolk spilled across the porcelain. She panged with guilt, thinking about a documentary she and Rose had watched recently about starvation across America. Why had she wanted to give so much to her daughter when her daughter wanted nothing from her? Was she a fool?
Hilary wrapped her hands over her forehead so that Ingrid couldn’t see the tears spilling from her eyes. After a long moment of silence, she whispered to her egg yolk, “What do you want me to do?”
Ingrid reached across the table to touch her mother’s arm. Electricity went up her arm and directly to her heart.
“Just stop, okay?” Ingrid begged. “I don’t want all this bad press. I just want to work. I want to be truly great. Like Grandma was.”
Hilary’s heart cracked. “When will I see you?”
Ingrid let her hand drop onto the table, between platters of sausages and croissants. “We can text each other sometimes if you want. And maybe after the film is finished, I can visit you in Nantucket.”
Hilary bristled. “I live in Los Angeles now.” She’d moved here to make this work.
But Ingrid shook her head. “You love Nantucket, Mom. Don’t give up on your life there. I think it’s good for you.”
Hilary sat in stunned silence. She wondered how many twelve-year-old girls told their mothers what to do and got away with it. But what could she do? Ingrid Salt made more money than Hilary ever had. She had the backing of a production studio, her famous father, and Janice. She looked at Hilary as though she were used up, wrinkled, and half dead. Once, she’d begged Hilary to read her bedtime stories deep into the night. And now, she was trying to escape brunch after only fifteen minutes of sitting down together.
On cue, Janice knocked on the door and called, “Ingrid? We have to go.”
Hilary snapped to her feet. She wanted to tell Janice to disappear. She wanted to lock the doors and kidnap her own daughter. What insanity was this?
But Ingrid got to her feet and tapped her napkin across her lips. She hadn’t even waited long enough for her coffee.
Helplessly, Hilary said, “I love you, Ingrid.”
Ingrid held her gaze for a long time. “I love you, too.”
And then, she swept toward the foyer, her legs flashing beneath her jean skirt. There was the scream of the front door hinges, followed by the fast prattle of Janice, probably talking about where they were off to next. What appointments awaited them? There was the sound of Ingrid’s laugh, which sounded so much like Hilary’s, which sounded so much like Isabella’s. Hilary collapsed on the kitchen chair and wept.
When she remembered to, she called one of the maids she’d hired to clean the large house and invited her and her entire family over to feast on the brunch. She heated everything up that she could, then disappeared upstairs to pack up her things and call the airlines. When she told Stella over the phone what had happened, Stella said, “This won’t be the last time you see her. She’s only twelve. She doesn’t know what she wants.”
But Hilary had a bad feeling. “She belongs to Hollywood now. She’s just like my mother. She wants to give them everything. She doesn’t care what it takes.”