Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood(2)
Author: Abby McDonald

Perhaps it was better this way. He hadn’t taken Grace to a game in years, and at least here, she’d have a place to visit him.

“Come on, Hallie, let’s go back inside.”

“No! Leave me alone.” Hallie turned away from her. She was shivering now, so Grace shrugged off her coat and put it around Hallie’s shoulders. It draped, too big around her slight frame. People who didn’t know them often thought that Grace was older. She’d caught up with Hallie height-wise two years ago, and then kept right on growing. This year, Grace’s figure had filled out too, so at sixteen she was left feeling like a stranger in her own body: off balance from the inconvenient curves that made her already-poor gym class performance just plain embarrassing, and caused her pimply lab partners to stutter and stare.

“Mom will be worried,” Grace tried reasoning. “We don’t even have to sit through the rest of the service, we can just wait in the lobby until it’s over.”

“I don’t understand you!” Hallie pressed her palms against her face, wiping the lonely streak of mascara on each cheek. “How can you even look at her and not want to rip her prissy head off? And him! All this bullshit about what a great guy he was. I would kill him again if he weren’t already dead!” She collapsed into sobs again.

“You don’t mean that.” Grace patted her shoulder in what she hoped was a soothing fashion.

“I do! I hate him!” Hallie sniffled. “He ruined everything, and now he’s not even around to blame anymore.”

Grace stood, patiently waiting for the sobs to subside. Hallie’s outbursts came like a tempest — flaring up at the slightest provocation, whether glee of landing the lead in the spring play, or desolate sobs over the season finale of her favorite TV medical drama — but she always wore herself out soon enough.

At last, Hallie seemed to calm, and Grace steered her back toward the church, glad she’d worn her thickest black tights under her stiff formal dress. It was May, but in San Francisco that only meant the slight possibility of sunshine escaping the thick, gray clouds above.

“Let’s just get through today, OK?” she said, a pleading note in her voice. “Then Portia and everybody will be gone, and we can try to get back to normal.”

“Normal?” Hallie gave her a scathing look. “How can you even say that? It’s like you never loved him at all.”

Grace froze. Hallie grabbed her hands. “I’m sorry! That was awful. I take it back!”

Grace tried to pull away, but Hallie held on tight. “I didn’t mean it, Grace. I’m, like, the worst sister in the world! Forgive me. Please?”

“Hallie, it’s OK.” Grace was too tired for this. Only her sister could switch from wishing she’d killed their dad herself to blaming Grace for not loving him enough, all in a single breath.

“No, I mean it!” Hallie cried, wide-eyed. “I know you cared, of course you do. I just don’t understand how you can be like this. So, calm.”

Grace didn’t reply. Hallie said “calm” like it was a dirty word, but Grace didn’t see what choice she had. Anger wasn’t getting Hallie anything, besides headaches and dehydration, and denial may suit her mom just fine, but Grace preferred to function in the real world. The world hadn’t stopped when their father left them, and it wouldn’t cease spinning now that he was dead. There were distant relatives to console, a chem paper to write for school by Monday, the search for a summer job.

They’d managed well enough with a part-time father these last two years. Grace suspected they’d manage just fine without him around at all.

Portia’s penthouse was apparently besieged by renovations, so the reception was held back at their house. By the time Grace and Hallie arrived, the block was jammed with shiny cars parked inches apart on the perilous incline. The neighbors had all long since succumbed to big-money developers who put up luxury apartment complexes with wraparound decks; charging young professional types half a million dollars or more for a one-bedroom condo with a view all the way to the bay. But Grace’s parents had always held fast. The ramshackle, three-story Victorian sat squarely at the top of the hill, surrounded by an overgrown garden plot that was equal parts wild roses and weeds, and spelled death to any mower that tried to tame it.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Another well-wisher clasped Grace by the hand. “Is Valerie around?”

“In her studio, I think.” Her mom had disappeared up to the attic as soon as they got home, and Hallie too, leaving Grace alone on the front line to handle the torrent of platitudes. “Thank you for coming.”

“So brave.” The middle-aged woman cupped Grace’s cheek. Grace tried not to recoil from the touch. “Such a tragedy.”

“Thank you,” Grace repeated. “There’s food set up in the living room, and drinks, if you want.”

The woman finally moved off, and another mourner took her place. “What a terrible waste.”

Grace nodded numbly. Out of church, it was easy to see the divide, between her father’s old life, and his new one. Her stepmother’s crowd was straight backed, adorned with hats and designer black mourning attire. They carried tiny dogs, and wore family jewelry, and probably did things like play golf, and yacht. And they were white. A sea of pale faces; Jewish at best, Grace noticed wryly; they were barely even tan. Their group — their mother’s group — was a more motley crew: college professors, artists, activists. The people who had known and loved her father before. Before the long hours and corner office. Before the personal trainer and new suits. Before he’d made enough money to catch the eye of his East Coast event planner, and decided that he wanted an “after,” after all.

“Grace, dear.” She felt a tug on her sleeve, and turned to find Portia frowning at her. “Are those shrimp puffs on the buffet gluten-free?”

Grace blinked. “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “You’d have to ask the caterer.”

“I can’t find her anywhere,” Portia tutted. “And you know Dash has a wheat intolerance. I e-mailed you a list of his diet requirements.” She looked at Grace expectantly, her skin stretched tight and luminous over the sharp angles of her cheekbones.

“There are vegetables too,” Grace offered. “I think I saw crudités?”

“Yes, but Dash wants the shrimp puffs.” Portia looked impatient. Grace sighed.