L.A. Woman

by Cathy Yardley

  She watched as he casually sauntered up to the bar, ordering the drinks, and then striking up a conversation with the guy who was scoping him with an almost careless glance. She didn’t know how Tayler did it, but every time she was impressed by his acting skills—like he hadn’t been squeaking with excitement about that same guy, not two minutes ago.

  To her surprise, Kit sat down next to her. “You okay?”

  She suddenly hated that he could read her moods, especially when he only seemed to have one mood. A one-mood-fits-all sort of guy. Or maybe just an extra-large mood. She giggled at the thought. Yes, she was definitely getting her drink on good this Friday night.

  He frowned. “I said, you okay?”

  “Well, don’t I look okay?”

  There was a slight flicker in his sardonic eyes. “Is that you fishing for a compliment?”

  “Fuck off, Kit.”

  Taylor walked over with a drink in each hand and his new crush practically panting by his side. “Here you go, Sarah, my dear,” Tayler said expansively, putting her drink down. “Oh! I see Kit’s here. Well, you’re in good hands. I think we’re going off to another club now. You’ll be all right, right?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. Another club? Ha! Not from the gleam in Taylor’s eyes. “Sure, sure. I’ll be fine here.”

  “Great. See you!” He went off at a gallop, she noticed.

  She glanced over. Kit’s frown was even more pronounced. “What does he mean, you’re in good hands?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Where’s Tika?”

  Sarah scowled at him. “I don’t need a keeper, Kit.”

  “Obviously. What, did you get in a fight with the resident Glamazon, or is she off getting laid as well?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Probably. I don’t know.”

  “Sarah, why are you here by yourself?”

  She turned on him. “I don’t need you here taking care of me! I don’t need anyone here taking care of me! I am a grown woman. Granted, I’m a grown woman who is currently unemployed and relationshipless, but I take care of myself!”

  He nodded, like one placating an insane person. “I see. Unemployed and relationshipless.”

  She sighed. “Trust a man to put it in the worst light.”

  “Well, did you like the job you lost?”

  “It’s not about liking my job!” She noticed that she must have roared that last bit, because people were staring at her. She toned it down a bit, so that he was leaning toward her to listen. “I mean, it’s about enjoying my life the way it is. I have—had—a job that paid the bills, you know? I wasn’t leaping along a career path.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a career path.”

  She blinked at him. “I know that!”

  “Inside voice, please.”

  She could have bit him, she felt that riled. She turned her head to focus entirely on him—the buzz was kicking in but strong. “I thought I finally had it. I’d tried to have a career path, and five-year goals, and work on my circle of influence, and that went to shit. Now, I try to have fun and just be a slacker, and I fuck that up. How can you fuck up having no direction?”

  He grinned. “Some people have extraordinary talent.”

  “Well, I’m sick of it. I give up.”

  “You’re going back to goal setting?”

  To her embarrassment, she felt tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Kit. I just don’t know.”

  She looked down at her lap, then at her drink.

  He put an awkward arm around her shoulders, and she shrugged it off, clumsily.

  “Listen, Sarah, I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” she hissed. “I don’t want to fucking hear that anybody’s sorry. Everybody’s sorry. You don’t have to say it.”

  She sat there, silent, and he did the same. She felt a strange sensation…her heart beating a little faster. She glanced at Kit, like she’d seen him for the first time—and under a microscope. “You know, you’ve got these funny eyes,” she pointed out. She couldn’t seem to help pointing it out.

  He had that amused half smile on his face. She noticed that he also had a little scar on the left-hand side of his mouth. “Do I?” The words seemed to come out in slow motion.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, gripping her drink. She drank about half of it, then realized she was getting some on her shirt. She put it back down with a loud clank. “Your eyes are these sort of greeny-brown, with yellow. Like…like a cat. Or maybe a lizard.”

  “So nice of you to notice,” he said, and she felt him stroke the back of her hair. That was weird, she thought. “Sarah, baby, how much have you drank?”

  “That’s the thing,” she said, thinking about it. Very hard. “This is only my second…I think.”

  She turned her head to study the glass, and abruptly stopped.

  The dance floor seemed to be going in slow motion, too. That is, the lights, the dancers, all were in this reel of suspended animation—a few frames a second, as it were. She stared in rapt fascination, studying it as if under investigation.

  The women, in the semidarkness, were wearing microminis and halter tops and all looked to be about twenty or so—and then she noticed those who obviously weren’t. The men were staring at the halter tops or the minihems and all but salivating—but there was an edge of desperation, of vulnerability…no. Of fear in their eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed that before, she thought? The women hid it better, she noticed, but there it was—that hungry searching to connect, physically, emotionally, however they possibly could. The desperation hung in the air like a fog of pheromones. She felt like holding her breath.

  “Ssssss….”

  She barely noticed the sound. She was too busy staring at the room in front of her. It was as if she could see between the lights, all of a sudden. In one flash of a strobe, she seemed to see the club, as if in daylight.

  There were exposed beams, a high ceiling. It was a warehouse. It was like finding out that Kubla Khan’s Pleasuredome was actually a Costco. And the floor…between the naked legs and stiletto heels, she could make out the sticky black surface, covered forever in a thin layer of Permaslime from the spilled drinks and dripping sweat. She fought back a retching sound. The “stage” was a series of cratelike boxes, spray painted black.

  The images were hitting her harder now, faster. The bartenders, with their looks of studied indifference. The bouncers, with their molded masks of menace. The dancers, with their calculated sex appeal.

  It was a horror zone. A nightmare.

  She finally turned to see Kit. No longer sardonic—his face was worried, she noticed, and for a moment, she could see more of a soul in his eyes, rather than his practiced disdain. It’s something about this city, she realized. The need to seek, the need to protect, all in one bizarre capsule…

  Capsule…

  “Kit,” she said, and the words were thick like loam. “I think…somebody put something….”

  “I know, baby, I know,” he said, and the words sounded distant and hollow, like he was using a paper towel tube as a megaphone. “I’m taking you home.”

  Chapter 16

  Love Her Madly

  Martika stood in front of the beige stucco building, her stomach dancing, whether from the joys of pregnant nausea or the stress of being back at her parents’ house for the first time in… God, was it twelve years already?

  Her stomach heaved again. Okay, it was both pregnancy and stress, but stress was definitely at the forefront.

  The house hadn’t changed all that much—there’d been a new paint job, but her mother’s rosebushes still stood sentinel at the edge of the sod-green lawn. She wondered inanely if they’d bought a new car, or if her father still drove the off-white Volvo station wagon in which she’d lost her virginity. Not that her dad knew—at least, she hoped not.

  God, she was nervous.

  She hadn’t been here since she’d left home. She’d gone to community college by
herself and gotten a job, had earned her own money and made her own way, and she didn’t need their shit anymore. She’d changed her name, first for friends, then legally. She’d deliberately left this place, and all the ugliness she had connected with it. Now she was back…back, and pregnant.

  Why? Did she want to throw it in their faces? What was she doing?

  She walked up the concrete pathway that led to the front door, and stared, and pushed the doorbell, hearing the muted chimes inside. Her stomach muscles were clenched like a fist—she was suddenly glad she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Her heart was beating in fight-or-flight response, just like she’d seen in caged animals on the Discovery Channel. To be honest, flight seemed like the wiser fucking idea at this….

  The door swung open. The woman in front of her seemed impossibly short at five-two or so. Had her mother always been this short?

  Her mother started to greet her, something innocuous that held a tinge of “What-do-you-want-from-me?”, but the words never came. She studied Martika’s face. “Eleanor? Is that you?”

  Martika winced. “Hi, Mom.”

  Her mother went pale and silent.

  Martika felt tired. This was a stupid idea. She’d been right the first time. She shouldn’t have come back to this house. What was she expecting? What did she think was going to happen?

  She made as if to turn, sighing a little, and her mother’s voice stopped her. “My, you’re tall.”

  It was the perfect statement. Martika gestured to the heels she was wearing. “Steve Madden,” she said, turning her ankle and watching the light reflect off the rhinestones on the straps. “They take a little getting used to, but…”

  She let the sentence peter off as she realized her mother couldn’t make sense of any of that sentence. Or, for that matter, her daughter. She just continued to stare. Then she said, “Well. They’re lovely. Why don’t you come inside, sit down for a while?” The question was extremely tentative…like someone trying to persuade a gunman to turn himself in, but not wanting to be pushy about it.

  Martika followed her in anyway, her heels clicking on the Spanish tile. That was new. When she’d lived there, it was carpeting. She glanced around. The house had been redecorated in a Southwestern style. It was…. Well, boring, to be honest. But it was different. Right now, that was something she appreciated.

  She stopped as they passed the living room.

  There were pictures, she remembered that much, but she saw pictures of herself, back when she was a teenager, back before she’d run away. She had no pictures of them, no pictures of the house in her apartment. Didn’t even think she really owned any.

  Her with braces. Her, dressed for the Little Miss Pasadena contest, looking scared. Her in a spelling bee.

  One last photo. Her, with her parents and brother. Dressed all in black with enough kohl around her eyes to rival Robert Smith of the Cure. Sulking at the camera, at the people she was forced to pose with. She’d left shortly after that she recalled.

  Her mother saw the photo, as well, and looked at Martika with a sense of apprehension, but then ushered her into the dining nook off the kitchen, to a new glass-topped table that hadn’t been there before she’d left.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Martika thought about it. “Tea?”

  Her mother’s eyes widened at that. Her mother loved tea. Martika had hated it for that very reason. As she’d hated so many things. This was ridiculous, she thought, as her mother showed her an assortment of herbal teas and black teas. She chose Raspberry Zinger, and wondered if it would be giving too much away to ask for dry crackers. She’d see how she fared with the tea.

  Her mother set the kettle boiling, and they stared at each other, waiting.

  “So. How have you been?” Her mother’s voice was polite, as if she’d just come upon a neighbor she hadn’t seen in years.

  “I’ve been…” She stopped. “You know I’m not okay, Mom.”

  Her mother’s eyes showed concern. It was hard not to instinctively hate her for it—and Martika realized that was why she was here, suddenly. “You wouldn’t be here if you were okay, Eleanor.”

  “Martika. I go by Martika now.” Just as reflexively, she felt a stab of pleasure at the hurt in her mother’s eyes. No, I don’t answer to the name you gave me. Still, the hurt vanished and only the helpful concern remained. That much had not changed, no matter what cosmetic changes had occurred to the house.

  “Unusual name.” The kettle whistled, and her mother turned from her, pouring the two cups of tea. “Martika. So why are you here…Martika?”

  Martika took a sip of the tea, pausing, so she wouldn’t have to answer right away. How to plunge into it? “It’s been…what, ten years?”

  Her mother’s face turned unexpectedly shrewd. “Twelve. To be precise.”

  “Twelve years.”

  “And now you’re back. It’s a pity you didn’t come later, your father would have loved…loved to have seen you.” Her mother’s voice cracked, and she pressed at her lips, as if to stop a cry. When she got it together, she didn’t look at Martika, just looked at her cup. “Maybe you could stay for supper. If you wanted.” Again, that pleading-not-pushing.

  Martika sighed. “Mom, I wanted to talk to you about why I ran away.”

  Her mother’s eyes shot to her now, flashing. “I worried. Do you know how long I worried? Even after you called me and said you wanted nothing more to do with me, with us. I never understood that, Martika. What did I do to make you hate me like that?”

  Martika sighed again. God, this sucked. “It wasn’t…I just couldn’t live here anymore, Mom. I couldn’t deal with the expectations of being here.”

  “I never pressured you!” Her mother’s voice raised a little bit. It wasn’t a full-blown yell, but definitely something more than her normal cultured tone. “Not when I knew you were having sex way too young with those awful young men—oh, yes, I knew,” she said, when Martika’s jaw dropped at her words. “Not when you were smoking in the house, cigarettes and God knows what else. Not ever! I just loved you, like the little girl I’d always…”

  “I was never the little girl you always thought I was!” Martika roared. “Dammit, that’s why I left. You always had all these good ideas of things for me to do, and you made such a show of accepting me, accepting all my lousy, slutty ways. You didn’t ever tell me to stop doing something, you never hated me as much as I…hated…you…” She stopped.

  That sounded so fucking Oprah. Girls who hate mothers who love them too much. Jesus, that was so unforgivably trite. Taylor would be laughing at her.

  Her mother was biting her lip now, hard. “Why did you hate me?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know. It seems stupid, now. I just—you never understood me. You never loved me. You either loved this girl in your head, or you made a big show of loving this evil little changeling that replaced the perfect girl you thought you had. You either loved Eleanor or were being some good forgiving type for hating Martika, get it?”

  Her mother pursed her lips tightly, then spoke. “What brought all this on? What, it’s taken you twelve years to come to this conclusion? To see that I was some big hypocrite? And that’s what’s brought you here…”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Her mother stared at her. Then she started to laugh, a mirthless, low laugh. “I see,” she said. “Strangely, I think I was expecting this conversation about eleven years ago or so. I was so angry with you—so convinced that you were going to screw up your life, become an addict or homeless or pregnant.” She shot Martika a sly glance. “I can’t help but notice—no wedding ring?”

  “I’ve got a fairly good idea who the father is,” Martika said brazenly, “and I don’t really give a shit.”

  Her mother sighed. “I definitely expected this conversation earlier. Are you planning on—” as if she couldn’t even really bring herself to say it “—keeping the baby?”

  Why do people keep assuming I won’t?

&nbs
p; Martika gritted her teeth. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.” And was pleased to see the look of surprise on her mother’s face. “At least, I think I am.”

  “Well, you can’t be coming here for my blessing—that much is obvious. What is it? Do you need a place to stay? Frankly, I don’t know that you’d like living here.” But something of that appealed to her mother, she could tell. “You could stay in the guest house, over the garage, but don’t expect me to watch the baby while you go gallivanting off with God knows who…”

  “Mom,” she said, interrupting her plans and tirades, “I’ve just got one question.”

  Her mother looked at her expectantly.

  Martika pushed the cup of cold tea around the tabletop for a second.

  “Mom…what if it hates me?”

  Her mother blinked.

  “I don’t think I could do it,” Martika said, despising the quaver in her voice. “Don’t think I could deal with that.”

  Not if she hates me like I hated you.

  Her mother got up and sat next to her. “You’re right, in a way,” she said, and to Martika’s surprise, she took her hand. “I wanted to be perfect. I wanted you to be the perfect daughter. And when you weren’t, I tried to make up for it—tried to show that by loving you I was still doing the right thing, even if you weren’t. It was all about me. With your kids, it can’t be all about you.” She sighed. “And for that, I’m sorry. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever realize. Took me years to figure it out.”

  Martika saw the sincerity in her eyes, along with the stubborn tilt of her chin that she, herself, possessed. She knew how hard the words were.

  Reluctantly, she leaned in. Her mother hugged her at the halfway point. Suddenly, things seemed better, if only for a moment.

  Sarah woke up slowly, hearing a deep, rough, growling sort of panting. She felt warm…too warm. And uncomfortable. She was lying on something hard and lumpy.

  She turned, and a pair of brown eyes surveyed her with an implacable calm.

  “Woof.”

  Sarah yelped, and promptly fell off the couch and onto the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the nearby coffee table. She glanced around, wildly.