Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights #1)
Page 1
PLEASE, PRETTY LIGHTS
BY INA ZAJAC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 by Ina Zajac
Originally published by Booktrope
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503909281
Editor: Julie Molinari
Cover Designer: Loretta Matson
This title was previously published by Booktrope; this version has been reproduced from Booktrope archive files.
This book is dedicated to my late father, James Graham Smith, who dreamed of writing a gritty novel. For my precious family: Craig, Austin, and Alexa. And for anyone who has forgotten their power. It’s never too late to remember who you are.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1 VIA
CHAPTER 2 VIA
CHAPTER 3 MATT
CHAPTER 4 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 5 MATT
NICK
VIA
CHAPTER 6 VIA
NICK
CHAPTER 7 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 8 CARLOS
CHAPTER 9 MATT
VIA
CHAPTER 10 MATT
VIA
CHAPTER 11 VIA
CHAPTER 12 MATT
CHAPTER 13 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 14 VIA
CHAPTER 15 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 16 NICK
CHAPTER 17 VIA
CHAPTER 18 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 19 VIA
NICK
CHAPTER 20 VIA
CHAPTER 21 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 22 VIA
CHAPTER 23 VIA
VIA
MATT
CHAPTER 24 NICK
MATT
MATT
VIA
CHAPTER 25 VIA
CARLOS
CHAPTER 26 NICK
MATT
CHAPTER 27 VIA
CHAPTER 28 VIA
CHAPTER 29 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 30 VIA
NICK
CHAPTER 31 MATT
CHAPTER 32 CARLOS
CHAPTER 33 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 34 CARLOS
VIA
CHAPTER 35 VIA
CHAPTER 36 VIA
CHAPTER 37 VIA
CHAPTER 38 MATT
CHAPTER 39 NICK
CHAPTER 40 NICK
CHAPTER 41 VIA
MATT
CHAPTER 42 MATT
CHAPTER 43 VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 44 MATT
NICK
MATT
CHAPTER 45 CARLOS
VIA
MATT
CHAPTER 46 MATT
CHAPTER 47 VIA
VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 48 MATT
VIA
VIA
CHAPTER 49 VIA
EPILOGUE VIA
PLEASE, PRETTY LIGHTS SETLIST (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE):
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank the entire Booktrope staff for their dedication and support and for honoring my creative process. To my editorial team: Steven Luna, who served in the all-important role of proofreader; Loretta Matson, who designed the book cover of my dreams; Samantha March, brilliant book manager and supportive source of wisdom and encouragement; and my exceptionally talented, insightful editor, Julie Molinari.
Thanks to Robert Sindelar and the staff at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park, Washington. I believe neighborhood bookstores are as relevant as ever. They foster community: face-to-face encounters with other human beings. For me, Third Place Books has been a hub full of meaningful real-time conversations, discussions over a cup of coffee where emoticons are never needed because a nod is a nod, a laugh is a laugh, and a smile is a smile.
A million thanks to the musicians who shared their expertise and experience with me—from pet peeves to green room stories: Matt Jorgeson, Zeke Trosper, Jamaica Russo, Kris Kierfulff aka Kris Kobra, Briggs Akers, and Austin Ball. Thanks to the Seattle School of Rock community and Molly Starr Nelson photography.
Thanks to my first writing coach, Caroline Allen of Art of Story Telling, who supported my organic (quirky) process. When I questioned my provocative subject matter, she encouraged me to own my artistic vulnerability. Much love and appreciation goes out to my friend and dedicated editor Corbin Lewars, whose calm confidence and wise counsel steadied me during days of doubt and frustration. I am also thankful for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association and fellow authors who served as early readers: Marni Mann, Conrad Wesselhoeft, Arleen Williams, Ruth Mancini, Dave O’Leary, and especially early, early reader Carla Mead Barokas. I am also grateful for the editorial expertise of fellow author and friend A.C. Fuller. Thanks to my friend Kirsten Bachant, my Vashon Island tour guide. I had no idea research could be so much fun.
Thanks to my best girlfriends, Amy Baisch Campbell and Alexis Puma Keijer. Since our good-old West Seattle days, we’ve walked a thousand miles together and enjoyed ten thousand cups of coffee. I adore you both.
Love and appreciation goes out to my family in Arizona. I may not see you every day, but I think about you every day. And to my mother, Ingrid Ivy Johnson. Jag alskar dig. Most of all, I want to thank those most affected by my writing whirlwind: my husband, Craig Zajac, and my children, Austin and Alexa. I love you forever.
CHAPTER 1
SoHo, New York City, December 21, 2004
VIA
BACK TO THE WALL, Via shuffled through the candy cane wilderness, careful not to displace piles of presents or disturb crystal angels. It was so close. Branches prickled against her chin and neck as she stretched into the corner. Needles latched onto her green St. Anne Elementary School sweater. After months of waiting and wondering, there it was—white with a gold bow. She reached out. Her fingertips grazed the paper, the tag. It would have her name on it.
“No peeking,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Cookies are almost ready. Come and help.”
Guilt settled in and crowded out her naughty curiosity. Mama’s feathery voice lingered in the air and mingled with the smell of gingersnaps.
The front door slammed shut. Her body tensed against the wall as it recognized the rumble of her father’s approach. Her arm retreated to the safety of her side. The hardwood floor vibrated his location in the foyer. He wasn’t supposed to be home from the country yet. He needed his rest.
“Ingrid!” he yelled. “Violetta!”
He called her Violetta when he was angry. When he was happy, he said she was the heartbeat of the universe. Now that she was eleven, she wasn’t a little kid anymore, but she still called him Daddy. He made her promise she would always call him Daddy.
His voice was muffled. The floor was still. He must have stopped to check the front bedrooms, but for how long? That tummy pain was back, the one that burned from the inside out; the one Dr. Peyton said fifth graders shouldn’t have. Being the daughter of Joseph Antonio Rabbotino wasn’t easy. Kids at school called her Rabbit and were never allowed to come o
ver and play.
The floor trembled more and more. He must be standing nearby, maybe next to the piano, she thought. She couldn’t see past the tree’s festive colors and prayed he couldn’t either. She had promised to be a good girl.
Her mother’s voice rushed over from the kitchen. It was shrill. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Put that down. You’re not yourself right now.”
Put what down? Via wondered. Sometimes he brought home presents or pets.
“You think I’m crazy?” He let out a harsh laugh she had never heard before. “You think you can drug me and leave me in Connecticut to rot?”
A bell near her elbow began to jingle. Don’t be a spaz, she told herself. She had to stop shaking; she just had to. Being invisible meant being silent, so she leaned to the right and smothered it. Her other arm met up with something pointy.
“But, you wanted to go, remember?” Her mother was talking really fast. “Dr. Goldman said you should rest, give the new meds some time.”
Daddy had a lot of doctors. Daddy took a lot of pills.
“I know what you think of me,” he said. “That the critics are right. That I’ll never paint again.”
“It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay,” her mother insisted. “But you’ve been drinking. We’ve gotten through this before. Remember?”
“Why do you do this to me?” he asked. “Evil little actress. Acting like you love me.”
“I do. You know I do.”
“Liar.”
“Please, put that down. We’ll call Dr. Goldman.”
“You sent me away. Do you know what it was like there? Knowing you betrayed me? All you had to do was love me, but you’ve ruined me!”
“No, you wanted to go. You needed to rest. Please remember. Please.”
“Where’s my Violetta?”
“Still at school.”
“She should be home by now—home with us. We should be together now. She hiding under her bed again?” His words turned and trailed back toward the front bedrooms. “Violetta! Come when I call you!”
“Mama?” She called through the branches.
Her mother didn’t seem surprised at all to hear her. “Shh,” she said, faint but firm. It was not her normal ‘shh.’ Something was wrong.
Her father’s voice was already growing louder again. “Violetta!”
“I’m right here,” she tried to say. She decided that she would come out; then he would be angry with her, not her mother. But a strange sound surrounded her, like baby birds and chimes. It seemed to come through the Christmas tree lights. She blinked. They were such pretty lights—colors she had never seen before. Buzzing into a haze around her, they were mesmerizing.
Shh, it’s all okay, the lights told her, but not in words.
She felt their meaning in her teeth and bones.
Come and play with us, they urged. Come play pretend.
They flurried about. She tried to speak, but they settled against her tongue like candy-coated snow. They loved her. She watched them spin and shine and gleam and glow. They were everything she needed in that moment, and so she relaxed into the soft aura of Christmas.
Her mother was screaming, “She’s not here! She’s not here!”
The purest colors were born and danced within reflections of those who had come before. You’re not here, they echoed. You’re with us. They snuggled in and tucked themselves around her. Be still, they insisted. This isn’t real. She knew they were right. Nothing was real. She was everywhere and nowhere at all, safe between worlds. Her mother’s golden wall clock started to ding its hourly announcement—once, twice.
“You did this,” her father said.
A third ding.
“You made me do this.”
Four.
Mama’s voice fluttered. “Remember who you are.”
A loud noise exploded throughout the apartment. Ornaments rattled and slipped from their homes, and Via with them. Her hands came up to cover her ears, but his voice soon rode the wave of ringing and broke on through.
“Why?” he cried. “Why did you make me do this?”
Another explosion ripped away the space around her. She sank down overcome by the bells ringing around her. Why? Why were the bells so loud? It was a gun, she realized. The sound vibrating through her was gunfire. Her shoulder came to rest against the edge of the big box—white with a gold bow. Air came into her lungs in notches, each tighter than the last. She didn’t know what to do. Her trembling hand grasped a branch with a candy cane hanging from it. She began to pull it back.
“Mama?”
Don’t look, the pretty lights warned her. It’s not real. It’s not her.
But it was too late. She had already peered past the angels—and through to the other side.
“Ma—”
Mouth open, heart lost, she released the branch and it sprang back into place. Its candy cane held strong. The pretty lights spoke no more, but hummed and tingled. The murmur of their adoration grew faint and she began to panic. She curled up into herself, tight and small, desperate to disappear back into their protection.
“Please, pretty lights. Please don’t go.”
She blinked and the lights were just lights. The floors roared. New voices overtook the fading bells. People were yelling. People were coming. An alarm shrieked overhead. The taste of gingersnap dust burnt through the air.
“Please, pretty lights,” she called out again, even though she knew they were gone.
CHAPTER 2
Seattle, September 12, 2014
VIA
VIA TRIED not to stare at his forehead. So sad, it now occupied another three inches of what used to be blond-hair territory. His once-flat stomach now competed with the table’s edge. But his eyes were the same Nordic blue. Just like Mama’s. Via zoned out on the Seattle skyline and tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else. She had worried the Space Needle’s rotating restaurant would make her sick, but its movement was so subtle, she kept forgetting it was happening.
Uncle Erik’s East-Coast urgency snipped and snapped all over the waiter. So not cool. It made her want to slink out to the observation deck and jump, but she knew the 605-foot-high needle wore a crown of safety wires.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, more to the waiter than her uncle. “Missed the ferry in from Vashon Island, just moved there. I’m kind of a spaz.” She settled back against her chair and took in her uncle’s annoyance, as obvious as his recent weight gain.
“Where’s the fiancé?” he asked. “Still in Africa building churches?”
“And digging wells,” she said.
“A heads-up on the proposal from him would have been nice.”
It hadn’t even occurred to her that Dan should have gotten his blessing first. Her uncle had been little more than her trust fund executor. Now, all of a sudden, he expected father-figure treatment?
“I’m sure he’s a good guy,” he said. “But you’re way too young. Just because you got your degree early doesn’t mean you have to get married. It’s ridiculous. You should wait until you’re twenty-five, at least. Thirty would be better.”
She returned her attention out the window and admired the evolving evening light. “You’d like Vashon,” she said. “It’s just like Manhattan.” She craned her neck and pointed behind him. “See, you can kind of see it over there, just past West Seattle.” In truth, Vashon was nothing like Manhattan. There were no bridges, and only 14,000 residents, unless you counted deer, raccoons, and the occasional passing pod of orca whales. It’s where Dan grew up, where his church was, and so now it would be her home, too.
Her uncle didn’t bother to turn and look. She faked a no-worries smile and focused on Mount Rainier to the southeast. The hostess had said it took the restaurant forty-seven minutes to make one 360-degree rotation. Her uncle would probably bail for the airport before Lake Union to the northeast even came into view. She sighed.
The waiter returned with an elaborate cocktail. “Happy twenty-first birthday,
miss,” he said. “The SkyCity Millionaire Martini, with Remy Martin Louis XIII, Grand Marnier, sweet & sour, and fresh lime. Topped with Nicolas Feuillatte champagne.” Gold shavings glinted and awed. Another server set down a fresh drink for her uncle. Clear with an olive, no gold or sparkles.
“Yours was actually just under two hundred dollars,” he reassured her. “It wasn’t a full million, of course, but happy birthday.”
She wrapped her fingers around the fragile stem, but hesitated. She knew it wouldn’t actually taste like blood, but still. Money was a paradoxical bitch. While it brought her loads of guilt and little pleasure, the idea of living without it terrified her. Her uncle handled the details for her; he had paid cash for her Honda. She had a couple credit cards, but hated shopping. She never checked her accounts. There would be enough to last twenty lifetimes, so what else was there to know? Dan said the money could work miracles for the poor in Africa. She watched the thin top layer of bubbles burst through the surface, fun and free. She took a sip. She imagined it was what sugar-laced lighter fluid would taste like. The next sip was so much better—borderline magical going down.
The waiter hovered. “How are they tasting?” he asked her uncle.
“I think the birthday girl is happy,” he said. “But I’ve got a flight to catch, so let’s order another round now. Something fast. Two gin and tonics.”