Chapter One - Molly
Today is like any other day.
If every other day was filled with hopeless abandonment
And it is. Has been. Will continue to be. For as long as we both shall live.
The wannabe writer in me thinks like this. All poetic. Stringing words together just because they sound like music when you say them out loud.
“You’re crazy, Molls,” I whisper to the fogged-up windshield of my brother’s truck. That’s what he would say. And why not channel him? Today of all days? Why not?
I’m not a writer, not in the traditional sense. I don’t write sentences or paragraphs. Just lists. And today I have a long one brewing inside my head. When I get home, I’m going to write it down in my journal and then, no matter what happens after this day, I can look back and remember how it feels to save your soul by selling your past.
Hate. That’s the name of the list. Or if you want the full title, Things I Hate While Driving on a Mountain Road Pulling My Dead Brother’s Bike Trailer Home from the Racetrack After Successfully Ignoring Said Bikes for Six Months.
But Hate, for short.
- Mountain roads.
- Rain.
- Foggy windows.
- …
A pair of motorcycles whip past on either side of me, their engines roaring, the riders’ helmeted faces buried deep against the gas tanks. I slam on my brakes, my heart beating so fast it might jump out of my chest. Their red taillights disappear around a curve and I let out a long breath.
“What the fuck, you assholes?”
I scream it. And that makes me mad because there’s no one to hear it. So I get out of the truck and stand in the rain and scream it again. Only this time I scream it to God.
“What the fuck? You asshole!” I think I’m crying. Not for those jerks who will probably crash on the slick roads, but for me. Because I’m angry. I’m so, so, so fucking angry.
A horn honks behind me and snaps me out of my fit.
“Sorry,” I yell, a smile on my face. The good-public-servant smile I’ve practiced for the past six years. “Problem with my headlights. But it’s OK now,” I add quickly, as the older man makes to get out and help me. I wave at him. “I’m fine, all fixed.” I motion for him to pass and he goes around, shaking his head at me. Feeling sorry for me.
That’s what people tend to do. Generally. If they know me well enough, they feel sorry for me. That’s part of the reason I moved to Cathedral City.
Which is where I really need to be right now. Home, making my hate list, feeling sorry for myself so people don’t have to.
I jump back in the truck, soaking wet, and put it in gear. I move forward with the same lethargy I had before the bikers pissed me off and morph back into my normal self as I take the corner around the mountain.
The car that just passed me brakes and then swerves like it’s avoiding something on the side of the road. This road is narrow, so everyone drives right down the middle unless there’s another car coming. I strain my eyes through the blurry fogged-up window to see what the issue is, but before I can get a handle on it, the two bikers from before peel out from the side of the road, their red taillights flashing at me again.
“Assholes,” I whisper to myself, speeding up. “You’re a couple of assholes.”
The trailer I’m dragging fishtails as I pass over a deep puddle, and I force myself to slow down. But I keep my eyes trained on the twin taillights ahead. The road meets the mountain and splits at a fork, and one light goes right, another left.
When I get to the fork, I go left, away from Cathedral City and towards the bike shop that wants my brother’s last creations. It’s the only reason I came out here to pick them up.
- It’s a way forward.
- A way past the anger.
- And sadness.
- And pity.
I call that list A New Start.
I’m desperately in need of one. And the new job just doesn’t quite cut it.
I round another corner and the biker is only a few hundred yards ahead. I brake again out of habit. He’s looking down at his foot or something near his gear shift. He surges forward for a few seconds, looks up, then a sputter of smoke comes from the exhaust and he surges forward again. Only this time, the bike swerves, fishtails like my trailer did in the deep puddle, and then he’s on his side, scraping along the blacktop pavement.
It all happens in slow motion. Metal grinds sparks against the asphalt, his body swings sideways, his arms fly up in the air as he lets go of the handlebars, and then the bike slides away from him and comes to a stop in a ditch.
“I told you, asshole! I told you!” I pound on the steering wheel and slow the truck down as I get closer to the rider. He lies absolutely still and that pain in my heart is back. Something like a fist grips it, twists it, and all I see is the bloody mess that used to be my brother. “No, Molly,” I say, shaking my head, forcing the image from my mind. My stomach gets all queasy as I roll to a stop a few yards away.
He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
- Wrecked a bike.
- Lying in the middle of the road.
- Unmoving.
- Dead.
But then the rider raises his head a little, cranes his neck, and points his black-faced helmet right at me.
I step out of the truck and walk towards him as he sits up and begins unfastening his helmet. “Are you… are you OK?” I ask, shaking uncontrollably. He’s not dead, so that’s good, but my heart is beating so fast I have to put my hand over it.
He whips his helmet off, throws it on the ground, and gets to his feet. “Motherfucker,” he says, eyes blazing with anger. His dark hair is cropped short and he has a two-day beard that casts the perfect shadow across his hard-edged jawline. He looks down at his black leather jacket, ignoring my question, and studies the rips in the elbows. Then he holds out his black-gloved hands and studies his palms before moving on to the rips in his racing jeans. There’s a gash along the thigh that took the brunt of the slide on the asphalt and I catch a glimpse of tanned skin stained with blood beneath the thick cloth.
“Do you need help?”
He looks over at the bike, the back wheel still spinning as it lies there in the ditch. “Sheila?” he calls out. “Talk to me, baby.”
For a moment I think he had a passenger I didn’t notice. But when I follow him over to the bike, there’s no one else there.
“Sheila,” he says again. “Come on, don’t do this to me.”
“Who’s Sheila?”
His gaze darts over to me, and I catch a muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath. He leans a little to the side, trying to see my truck around me. “I’m not sure if this is luck or not,” he says, walking right past me, without a word or even a glance in my direction. “You got bikes in there,” he calls over his shoulder after he passes. “I guess I’m gonna need a ride.”