Tangled Up in Daydreams (3 page)

“Okay, okay.” Grabbing and holding on to her hand instead. Molly could swear she felt sparks.

As Molly and Liam drove all the way down Sunset Boulevard to the beach, they didn't really talk much more. Both of them settled into silence, nestled in their own little fantasies of what was beginning between them. Even when they stopped at 7-Eleven to get some beer, they barely uttered a sound, quietly picking, paying, and pocketing the change. Already they felt familiar, like they had done all these tasks a hundred times before. Already they were dancing. It wasn't until they had parked, ditched their shoes, and walked onto the cool sand that their tongues loosened.

“Beaches at night with a guy always make me laugh a little,” Molly shared as she kicked the sand at her feet.

“Why?” Lifting the beers under his arm.

“Something about the romantic potential they're supposed to have. You know, with the ‘moon on the water casting this lovey-dovey halo of light on the cute couple' and how for me, the reality never came close.”

“How so?”

“When I was sixteen, I went to Hawaii with a friend of mine and this one night we went to the beach with these two hot valet parkers. I thought, ‘This is my moment. The stars are all in line,'” Molly stated as she walked to the water. “It was supposed to be my romance-novel kiss.”

“Supposed to be?” Liam asked as he walked next to her. “What does that mean?”

“Well, this surfer guy, who I think said he was related to Keanu Reeves, and I pair off. We are sitting on the sand and he's nonstop talking to me about surfing, which I thought was so fascinating because every time he said the word ‘wave' his lips kind of curled and his right eye twinkled. He kept talking and talking, and I kept swooning and willing him to plant one on me.”

Molly swallowed and willed herself to shut up. Any guy could see right through her subtle song and dance around the whole kissing issue.

“Somehow hours pass and I hear my friend start calling my name, yelling that it's time to leave. So I look at him really hard and bat my eyes, all the while thinking this is going to be the best kiss of my young life if he would only just do it. He leans in and shoves what must be a tongue the size of a cow's in my mouth, poking it in and out like an iguana!”

Molly said another small prayer to her God that she could just close her yap.

“It felt like he was checking my molars for leftovers from dinner. And, to make it worse, he tasted like beer and cigarettes. Here I was on the most beautiful beach in Hawaii, with a gorgeous Hawaiian surfer, and instead of being in heaven, I was a bit player in a Roger Corman T and A movie.”

Molly took another deep breath and waited. Her face was flaming and her palms were coated with a slick layer of sweat. She could feel her tight black tank sticking to the underside of her breasts as perspiration dripped and pooled on her stomach. Why had she revealed such a silly and stupid anecdote!

“Poor girl, it's a shame that guy ruined your perfect moment. Usually that happens when you have one of those romance novel/romantic comedy scenarios staring you in the face.”

“Yeah.” Molly thanking God that he was going with it.

“I actually sneezed all over some girl once. Shelby Harrington, the hottest girl in the eighth grade finally liked me, and back then I was not the cool rock-star guy I am now.”

“Who said you were cool?” Winking at him as she walked to a spot and sat down.

“Nice.” Walking toward her and sitting down next to her. “We went to this dance together and we snuck outside. I'm just about to lay one on her when this volcanic sneeze erupted all over her rosy cheeks. I could see the snot glisten.”

“That is so gross! Yours is way worse.”

“She screamed and for a year no other girl would come within fifteen feet of me and my lips.”

“They must have gotten lonely.” Staring at him.

“Who?”

“Your lips.”

“Is that a subtle hint that I should swoop in and create a new beachfront memory?”

“I thought telling you my kissing story was a pretty blatant hint.”

“Nah.” Grinning.

“So?”

“So?”

“Are you going to swoop or not?” Molly asked.

“Definitely.” Liam leaned in and began to fake a sneeze. “I … I … I …”

“Don't even!” Molly giggled.

“Never.”

And Liam kissed her. She did not notice the broken beer bottles around them, nor the trash washed up onshore. She didn't hear the yells from a bonfire down the way, nor the hum of the Pacific Coast Highway behind her. It was priceless. All the sweeter because of how off-kilter the night had been. They kissed and kissed until the sun rose, and when they were done, they drove all the way back to Hollywood and grabbed breakfast at Swinger's. Molly's hair was free and disheveled and Liam's lips were puffy, but they were still in their lovely, perfect moment. It wasn't until he dropped her off at home and kissed her one last time that the moment ended, and for them, it would be the first of many.

T
he cab driver must have thought she was a hooker. Black eyes bruised with make­up and a jagged tear running down the length of her ­fishnet-clad thigh. A maroon ribbon ­hand-knit scarf hung limp and sweaty around her neck, its threads sticking to the underside of her chin. The thin white tank and rumpled patchwork denim skirt draped over her body like ­hand-me-downs. Chipped metallic-blue ­nails clutched a shredded tissue in one fist and a small leopard-print purse in the other. Lying in her lap was a dark red suede coat smudged and stained with God knows what. Blood or sweat or maybe tears. The air around her smelled sour, like the sheets of an eight-year-old just waking from a monster-in-the-closet nightmare. She was a walking zombie,
Night of the Living Dead
part twelve—the postmodern version. Her face was swollen like a prizefighter after a third-round knockout, her long reddish hair twisted, tumbling down her back like dirty rope, and her lips puckered like a bad collagen injection. A giant kewpie doll minus the gleeful grin and coy demeanor.

The fact that Molly was exiting Cedar Sinai hospital probably didn't help in defending her honor. Looking so ragged and torn, she could easily be walking away from being salved and bandaged from wounds left by an oversexed john. It wasn't the case of course, but since there was nothing sweet or innocent about her ragged appearance, people could jump to the wrong conclusion. And, that doesn't leave much wiggle room when the stares present themselves at exactly the wrong time. She wanted to crawl into a dank, moldy hole and die.

“Where to?” asks the cab driver.

“Beverly and Sycamore.”

“Rough night?”

She couldn't bring herself to respond. Putting words together to make a sentence seemed like an alien concept. She couldn't think straight. All she could do was just stare in front of her with a gaze a hypnotist would love. A cold, vacant gaze trained on the back of the doily-covered headrest. Slowly, she swiveled her head toward the window and sighed. It was the first time in hours that she was aware that she was actually still breathing. As her breath fogged the passenger window, she began drawing on the glass, tracing shapes and patterns in the damp frost. Mindlessly, Molly played tic-tac-toe and doodled as the cab inched along Beverly toward her house. Her home. What is home now?

As she swallowed and shifted her weight, the springs along the cab seat creaked and whined. Suddenly bored with her picture game, her eyes settled back in front of her and tears slowly fell onto her freckled cheeks. At first, she let them fall and hang on her face like the crystals of a chandelier gracing the White House foyer. They seemed to cool her hot skin and she almost liked how they streamed down, tickled her neck, and pooled into her lap. As they began falling faster, she vainly attempted to wipe them away with the distressed Kleenex. The futile gesture left her worse for wear as huge rings of black mascara smeared into her blotchy complexion. The tears were relentless and pounded her into submission. Her body convulsed. She frantically wiped and wiped her face, trying to free it from grief. She only succeeded in rubbing it in.

She could tell the cab driver was checking her out the whole time from his rearview mirror. She could feel his eyes wandering over her. She could hear the echoes, the questions rattling in his brain. He was front row, privileged with a prime ticket for watching a girl crumble into the pleather interior of his taxi. How fragile and fucked up she seemed.

“Are you okay?” Asking as he handed her a new tissue.

“Thank you.” Accepting his gesture and then blowing her nose.

“Here.” Handing her the entire box. “Just keep them back there.”

“I don't think I'm going to be okay.” Startling herself with the admission.

He was surprised too. He wasn't counting on a response. It was more just a rhetorical question to ease his discomfort of having someone so lost and distressed in his cab. Molly looked so awful that silence seemed worse then polite chitchat. He cleared his throat and looked at her again in the rearview mirror.

“Nothing can be that terrible. A little time always sets things right.”

“How cliché. Thanks for that brilliant bit of Hallmark wisdom.” Sneering, sniping at him.

The driver paused, surprised again. “No need to be so hostile.”

“Sorry,” she softly apologized as she continued to cry. “I didn't mean to be rude. It isn't like me to do that.”

“It's okay. But sometimes Hallmark makes a strong showing. Even cliché affirmations can be comforting.”

“Whatever.” Halfheartedly. “I just don't look to Shoebox greeting cards for wisdom. And besides, there is no card anywhere to make me feel better.”

“Things can't be so terrible now that they can't get easier later.”

“Everything is terrible and nothing's ever easy.”

“I can't imagine a girl like you has it that bad.” Eyeing her through the mirror. “You look like a pretty together person.”

“Yeah, right.” She almost laughed, pushing a lock of hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ears. “I'm not as together as you think.” Mumbling.

Molly took a deep breath and turned back to the window. He sighed and flipped on the radio. He'd done what he could, and they were almost at her stop. Tina Turner's “Private Dancer” filled the cab and easily buffered the uncomfortable silence.

Finally he arrived on her block and pulled the cab to a slow stop. She handed him back his Kleenex box and a twenty she found in her purse.

“Thanks for the ride.” Collecting her stuff and opening the door.

“Your change …” Trying to hand her back the money

“Keep it. Payment for your words of wisdom,” she said, quietly.

And with that she was gone, leaving the idling cab on the corner. The cab driver wondered if she was going to make it inside safely or if she was safe to herself. He waited a little while, feeling some sort of paternal protection. Eventually, he slowly drove away.

Molly trudged toward the building, her feet clad in lead-soled boots. Every step was heavy and labored. She tried to shrink smaller and smaller, crawling into herself as she approached the door. Maybe the tinier she was, the less this was going to hurt. Less surface area equaled less volume of pain. She stood in front of the door frame for a minute trying to catch what was left of her breath. God, how was she going to walk in there? Walk back into their home? It was just an ordinary building with a few units, a couple of cats, and a testy landlord. After a long minute, she adjusted her strap, threw the dark coat over her shoulder, and picked her underwear from out of her butt; she was readying herself for battle like all those action stars do in all those action movies. Trying to commune with Rambo, he would be her strength.

The building was just as worn as she was. The eggshell paint cracked and peeled along tiny earthquake fissures. The lawn was balding and brown, dying in the summer heat. Mismatched green and blue tiles lined the pathway to the door and bougainvillea vines twisted all around the wrought-iron balcony on the second floor. This gingerbread house was somewhat moldy and stale. No Hansel nor Gretel for whom to spiff up the place. Dew ran down the windows like tears. They were both crying.

She began to wonder where was worse: out in the cool brisk morning freezing her tits off or inside where mourning had literally settled in. After another long hesitation, she stuck her key into the door and pushed it open. Walking into a dark hallway scattered with beer bottles and plastic cups, cigarette butts and used matches, she tread timidly. Everything smelled like mildew and fermented alcohol. The stench pinched her nose and she let out a little yelp. Wiping her face and covering her nose with her palm, she began to wind her way upstairs. Maybe it was the overwhelming odor, or the hallway's intense darkness despite the new day's light that made her hallucinate, but in an instant, bodies began to shift into focus. Molly's eyes played tricks. Last night's memories came flooding back, and without warning the staircase filled with people pushing and jostling for position. Molly's own limbs became coated as a slick layer of sweat attached to her torso. She was walking through her own box of Cosby-endorsed Jell-O pudding. A Chemical Brothers tune filtered into the hallway and arms flailed into high intensity techno dancing.