Tangled Up in Daydreams (14 page)

Helen always knew Molly had to fly. She knew those little five-year-old legs that would never cease moving would one day carry her daughter out and away. That was something Helen had to brace herself for. What does a mother do when her best friend is her daughter? The person who makes you laugh the hardest you ever have, the person who can make you weep in the garage with a simple sneer, the person who looks at the world in ways you could never conceive of. Molly never ceased to amaze her. Alex was always more earthbound, more like Henry. He was logical and focused and metered. She never worried about him, never worried where he would fall. His roots spread long before he could walk. As a baby, Henry and Helen would constantly compare him to a tree trunk. You could put him down and all of a sudden he was connected to some invisible magnet six feet underground. Helen knew he would not stray too far. On the other hand, Molly would never, could never, sit still. A hummingbird with beating wings, a school of fish. She saw colors in the stars and shapes in the clouds. The world was her theater, her stage, and at seventeen, she was gone. Helen could swear she smelled burned rubber when Molly steered her car out of the driveway. Molly couldn't wait to get back to LA, get to art school, get away. Helen knew Molly craved the “new,” craved independence and space, but Helen couldn't wait until she came back, and here she was. However, Helen wasn't as overjoyed as she had hoped because for the first time she saw a stillness in Molly. She had stopped beating. Helen caught her breath and a small tear ran down her face. She wiped her eyes and eased herself up from the ground.

At about one o'clock, Molly rubbed her eyes and coughed. Her head seemed like wet felt. She rolled off the couch and slowly crept to the kitchen. Helen was sitting at the table doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Molly walked to the fridge and reached for a Coke. She brushed her hair from her eyes and sat down next to her mom.

“Hi, sleepyhead.” Kissing Molly on the cheek. “Want a latté?”

“Yes, but in a minute. I think I need to go die in the shower first.” Getting back up.

“Eggs? Toast?”

“Check, check.” Walking out of the room.

Molly gingerly climbed the stairs and shoved open the door to her room. Bed, bathroom, bed, bathroom. A small chant. The dilemma of the century. The sudden urge to pee answered, and then Molly turned on the hot water. After a good scrubbing, Molly fell into a clean pair of cords and a red tank top. She combed and braided her long hair, twisting it in a clear rubber band. Clear. Clear could be the color for the day. Clear was clean, pure. Clear was also nothing, a noncolor, a cop-out. She grabbed her favorite velour hoodie and went back downstairs. The smell of coffee and bacon beckoned. In the kitchen, Alex was hunched over a steaming mug, his hair doing the punk rock toddler.

“Did we finish that bottle?” Sitting across from him.

“Yeah,” Alex mumbled.

“Did I puke or anything?” Picking up the latté her mother placed before her.

“Nope. But I think I did. I have this vague memory of staring at the blue bathroom tile.”

“And you two are supposed to be adults?” Helen asked as she flipped the bacon.

“Adult? I'm far from it.” Sipping her coffee. “Let's lay it out. Crisis + the need to flee – any desire to deal with it alone = a trek back to the nest. I'm ten all over again, except now I have a few unwanted wrinkles and a hangover.”

“I think I see a gray hair too.” Alex stared at her.

“Fuck off, Daddy.”

“Oh, shit!” Alex's face paled. “Renee must be freaking out.”

“Don't worry, I talked to her earlier. I told her that you, Molly, and Jack had a lovely evening together.”

Easy familial chitchat went on for the rest of the meal, after which Molly went back up to her room. She had been gone two days, only two. Somehow it felt longer. That happened when she came home. Time here moved at a different pace. Most days looked the same so they passed more quickly. Molly never really had a schedule at home, every day was like laundry: a big messy pile of events that unfolded and sorted itself out as the day progressed. She and Liam always had something to do, someplace to be, someplace to be seen. With his second album about to drop, there were parties, gigs, different people wanting different things from him, from her. They were the eye of the ever growing maelstrom of publicness. Maybe that's why he slipped? Maybe that's why he fell? Maybe that's why … never mind. Coming home was going to be a good thing for Molly. Give her some semblance of normal, routine living. In LA, Molly usually thrived on seat-of-the-pants living, but she always felt a little bit blurry. Liam and she used to joke about how Molly was this mysterious superhero because every photo she was in only had a piece of her or a smudge that vaguely resembled her shadow. A hand or half a cheekbone. Molly was there, but always moving, always thinking ahead to the next thing, the next moment. She forgot how to be still. She felt still now, but still was like feeling a little dead.

For their one-year anniversary, Liam had made Molly a collage of all these photos. He'd spent hours at Kinko's blowing things up, shrinking things down, turning everything inside out in order to perfect his little Picasso-esque masterpiece.

“Here you go, my dear.” Handing her a poster tube.

“What is this?” Opening one end.

“A gift.”

“For?”

“You.”

“Duh … what's the occasion?” Sliding the poster from its wrapping.

“One year together,” Liam stated.

“Really?”

“You don't remember? You are making me feel like such a girl.”

“I do, I just thought it was next week.” Leaning and kissing his cheek.

“When are you counting from?” Asking.

“Our first real date.” Unscrolling.

“See, that is where you are wrong.” Holding one side of the paper.

“Why?” Molly, wondering.

“Because, the count started the minute we met.”

“But, Liam, I didn't like you then.” Trying to keep a straight face.

“Okay, miss walk-into-walls and make-out-at-the-beach girl.”

“I mean, I was still deciding.” Molly, laughing. “Wow.”

Molly was looking at a picture of her and Liam holding hands, leaning against a wall, and laughing, but it was made up of a million little images of her and him. Small little pictures equaling a bigger whole.

“This is so cool.” Looking closer. “I remember that shot from Mexico. You got so sunburned.”

“Someone forgot to wake me up.”

“Sorry, again.” Kissing his nose. “This really is amazing.”

“Well, with your photographic problems, I had to get a little creative.”

“I love it. You should tell my mom how you did this because she is constantly looking for ways to get me into the family albums. I think she's used to only seeing my elbow or the side of my head. She would absolutely love this.”

“I will make her one of you for the holidays.”

“She would like that.” Kissing him again. “Thank you, but you seriously suck.”

“What? Why?” Staring at her.

“You have raised the gift-giving bar far, far over my head. I only have a week to top you.”

“But today is our anniversary. You're late.”

“I'm telling you, next week is our anniversary.”

“Nope. Sorry, sister.”

“Can't we have two then?”

“We can have as many as you want, but let's just remember who really remembered.”

“Fine, fine. You win.” Eyeing him. “I think this will look great in the bedroom.”

“I'll get some tape.” Jumping up.

They raced, and, in a flurry of arms and legs, they fell into each other and into bed.

Molly sat down on the bed and picked up a framed photo next to her. It was of her family in front of Helen's when it first opened. Renee, Henry, Liam, Helen, Alex, and Molly, with her head turned the wrong way. They had been together for about ten months when that was snapped. He had just gotten back from his first tour, their first major separation, and they were reintroducing themselves to each other. Feeling out if they had become disconnected. They took a road trip, hitting all the canyons and trying to remember how each liked to be touched. He had been gone for most of the summer, and except for a few stolen weekends, it had been a period of phone calls and emails. It had been hard. Probably harder for Molly. She felt nervous with him being gone. It had taken such a short time for them to become so attached that she often felt someone else could easily come along and sneak in just as quickly. Learning to trust in love and intimacy was hard enough for a regular guy and a regular girl, and here Molly was madly in love with a musician. All of those cliché paranoias of groupies and girls waiting around after shows were all of a sudden feeling very real and very possible. But that was her issue though, not his. It was her own fault that she dove headfirst into that obsession, her own inability to be confident that he was still hers, that she still had his heart even though he was far from her.

Maybe part of this out-of-sight-out-of-mind insecurity stemmed from growing up and constantly looking for Henry's acceptance, his attention. Things hadn't always been so jovial and cozy in the Stern house. Not that her father had been unloving or cold, he just hadn't been around. Seeing him now was like getting to know a whole other man. He was lighter, freer, more centered, and more available. The restaurant had changed him, made him more of who he was always maybe supposed to be, and Molly was grateful, but it didn't change the past. When she was younger she tried and tried to catch his eye, with her art or her schoolwork, whatever she could do to shine a light above her head, and she knew her dad had been proud. However, all the missed recitals and shows, the paintings only glanced at and put away, or the short conversations from art school that always ended after a few minutes with a “Need money?” added up and made Molly wary. All of it left this residue of doubt in her that even if she jumped through hoops and did a triple flip in the air, no one would be there watching. Henry would probably be devastated if he knew his daughter's need, and Molly would keep it somewhere inside when around her father, yet it just became compounded with Liam, the other man in her life. After all, everyone is a product of their family and emotional transference has to be a common human flaw.

Molly never really counted on falling for a public guy. A guy with people: band mates and agents and managers and publicists. Every other man she had dated had been an almost-this, almost-that kind of fellow. Struggling artists or filmmakers, writers or actors, like John the aspiring documentarian. She loved the thrill of their creativity, loved that they could understand her passion for art and culture, but she never really had to face what it meant to be with someone talented who was actually getting noticed for said talent. Being with wannabe this-or-thaters was safer, easier. When there was just a studio with canvases or a desk filled with notebooks, their world was smaller, more manageable. It was her and them and a bucket of dreams. Molly was comfortable with that world even though sometimes it felt claustrophobic and depressing. Molly had a string of affairs that came on strong and dwindled when the dreams began to dry up. Then came Liam.

He was actually living it, the all-encompassing it that children fantasize about when they are four and banging on kitchen pots or singing with a hairbrush in the mirror. He had a deal in place, a first full-length album in the works, and enough buzz to maybe get him noticed because he had a loyal following of celebrity friends. Initially, it intimidated Molly. Sure, she still fell fast and hard, but she herself felt a little unpolished, unrealized when standing beside him. She had always enjoyed being the one more centered, more driven. Even though her dreams of painting and doing some kind of art full-time were far from happening, she did enough to feel superior to the other guys she had been with. She organized a small show of her work at a bar in Hollywood and it sold out, she did a mural at some school—baby steps to a bigger goal. Liam's success and being with him made Molly see that she was languishing, unable to truly commit to herself. She was half-assing her life. When she was first with him, it crystallized how lazy Molly had become—participating just enough to keep herself afloat but never living as large as she wanted. She was being a coward, too fearful of failing or falling to really get up and go for it. The girl whom her parents had watched rush out into the world, eager to eat it for lunch, had changed. Or, really, she had gotten good at giving good face, showing everyone just enough to let them believe in her fearlessness without putting herself out there at all and, thus, no one really noticed how Molly had shrunk and instead of her still climbing and swinging, she could barely muster a leg up. She had become stagnant, growing mossy roots in a moldy pond. Molly knew she was not built to sit still in pools of water so cloudy and filled with algae that she couldn't see her feet, but until Liam, the water felt nice, the water felt safe. Liam's belief in himself, and subsequently his belief in her, lit a fire under her ass and she began to really live her life. She wanted to be proud of herself, and she wanted him to be proud of her.