Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights Series Book 1)

by Ina Zajac

  “What if I’m not?”

  “You are, and you’re pretty, too,” he said. “Especially when you’re mad.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “But you are.” He still didn’t get it. He was still flirty.

  “I’m serious. I’ve worried about you getting arrested, but it’s more, too,” she said. “It’s so stressful. Think about it; that’s got to aggravate your OCD.”

  Those three letters killed his easy expression. He looked at the steering wheel, pissed.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true. If you’re going to be honest with me, then let me be honest with you.”

  He turned up the radio. “We’d better head back. I know you have a ferry to catch.”

  CHAPTER 28

  VIA

  WAITING IN LINE at the dock was just part of living on Vashon Island, but today it seemed everyone on the north side of the island was trying to catch the three o’clock over town ferry. She could tell by how far back on the dock she sat idling that she wasn’t going to make it. She would be even later to the holiday party at SeaKidz. She could have driven with Beth, who’d caught an earlier ferry, but being around Beth was becoming next to impossible. There were always so many questions—about her supposed overnight shifts at the women’s shelter, about her weight loss, about the wedding.

  She turned her car off and thought about calling Matt, but he would be practicing with the guys. Then, he would be off to Portland for the night. She knew she wasn’t supposed to call or text him until he got back. They hadn’t talked at all since their chilly conversation at the boat launch. He hadn’t so much as texted.

  She felt her mother’s ring edging its way toward her knuckle again. Had she really lost that much weight? Her phone was buzzing from the passenger seat and she saw that it was Dan. She decided to answer this time.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Via, it’s Dan.”

  Duh.

  “I’m heading off to the faith center, wanted to call and check in first. How are you?”

  Her throat felt dry. She reached for her tea and took a sip.

  “How are you?” he asked again. “Mom says you are helping with the holiday party for the inner-city kids. That’s great. You’re staying busy—just three more weeks to go.”

  Day 21, of course; she had forgotten.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said. His voice irritated the hell out of her.

  It was odd. How could she be so annoyed with the man she had been betraying on a regular basis? She was the cheater, yet somehow he seemed like the bad guy. Distancing herself from him was the only way she could live with herself. There were so many lies and uncertainties weighing her down. They were draining the life right out of her.

  “We can talk about it when I get home,” he was saying. She had zoned out. “On January 12th. I already told you that, right?”

  “An extra two weeks?” she asked. “No, no you didn’t tell me that. What about the meeting in New York? I’m going to be alone for that?”

  “I left you a message. If you would bother to answer your phone—”

  “You told me to stay busy,” she said. “I’m staying busy.”

  “Via, you know we have to communicate. We have to work through this. Remember what Pastor King says, that love is a verb.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, unable to bear the conversation any longer.

  “Don’t be like this. I miss you, okay? You’ve just got to hang in there a little longer—be patient.”

  It was quiet. She knew it would always be like this. This would be her life.

  “Are you always going to want to be in Africa?”

  “What?”

  “Or Asia? Are you always going to want to be as far away from me as you can possibly be?”

  “Where is this all coming from? Are you putting in too many hours at that shelter? Mom says you had to work all day on Thanksgiving. She said she’s asked you to go with her to a women’s bible retreat in Montana, but you won’t go. I think you should. It sounds relaxing.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “You’ll travel with me when we’re married,” he promised. “There is so much good we can do here. The money will do so much good. Everything will be better when we’re married.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  “Honey, I know it’s hard, but you know that God will never give you more than you can handle. You’re stronger than you realize,” he assured her. “I know, let’s pray.”

  This would be her life, she realized. His life would be her life.

  “Our Father, please hold Via close in the days ahead—”

  “I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t marry you.”

  He just kept on praying. Hadn’t he heard her?

  “Help her as she struggles to follow your plan for her.”

  She had a call on the other line. Her heart fluttered; maybe it was Matt.

  “I’ve got to go,” she told Dan.

  “Wait, I love—”

  She clicked over. “Hello?”

  “We have to talk. Right now,” her uncle said. “No more blowing off my calls.”

  The Chelan was already on its way out, cutting through the grim, glossy waves. She sat and watched it go. “Okay,” she said. Another ferry was already approaching.

  “I need you to listen to me,” he said.

  She felt his words on the air, just before he spoke them.

  “They found another painting.”

  She gasped. “What?” She would drive her car off the end of the dock. Give herself over to the icy will of Puget Sound.

  “They found it in a police evidence locker in the Bronx,” he said. “It was wrapped.”

  Of course it was. White with a gold bow.

  The funerals. The funerals crashed down around her. The horror was shiny and new.

  Two separate funerals, both the day after Christmas. Her mother’s was small. Private. A choir sang “Bridge over Troubled Water.” Her uncle said she didn’t have to go to the reception afterward.

  Later her uncle escorted her to her father’s funeral. Some famous soprano sang “Ave Maria.” It was a long service, full of people she didn’t know who shook their heads and watched her cry. Photographers waited outside. “Violetta, Violetta,” they called out to her, but she didn’t have any tears left to share with them.

  “Via,” her uncle asked now. “Listen, it’s a beautiful work. Real life—such a departure from anything he’d ever done. They’re authenticating it now. You have to see it.”

  His words were nonsense. It was real life and not a portrait? She knew it must be a portrait. That day from the summer before it all came back to her. Such a small thing, but it had made her so happy.

  Daddy took her out onto the balcony and took dozens of pictures of her in her white sundress. She smiled for him. She knew what he was doing. He spent much of the autumn locked inside his studio, working. She couldn’t wait to see it. She was so good, so patient. Until that last day.

  “You have to see it,” her uncle insisted.

  “No!” She hadn’t intended to scream at him. “No. Never.”

  “Please come to New York. Spend Christmas with me. I’ll book your flight. When can you come?”

  She began to hear musical chatter, the Verdi aria her father used to play as he toiled away in his studio—the one declaring love as the heartbeat of the universe. The sick smell of her father’s turpentine tumbled into her awareness.

  “I can’t,” she told him.

  Cars were starting up all around her. She looked up to see the Klahowya easing itself against the Vashon dock. In a couple of minutes, it would be time to board, but where would she go? Going to the kids party would be brutal. Impossible. She just couldn’t deal with Beth and the church crowd right now. Their goodness would burn. Matt would be off on his Portland run soon. He was too good for her, anyway. She needed some time with someone who understood her. She needed to be hig
h.

  CHAPTER 29

  VIA

  CARLOS’S GAZE WAS SOFT, his voice smooth. “I’m so happy you came.”

  “Nobody else could ever understand,” she said. He was damaged. She craved his company.

  “I want to be here for you,” he said as he stood at his desk and cut new straws. “Look, I have a vodka tonic waiting for you.”

  She hadn’t noticed. There it was, right there. This time with a piece of lime. Nervous, she found it hard to hold herself down on the couch. He came and sat down beside her, so close.

  “Maybe I should call Whitney first,” she said. “Let her know where I am.”

  “Relax.”

  He lined up a nice, fat rail and offered it to her with a gentlemanly, m’lady gesture.

  She leaned over, inhaled deeply, and welcomed the bitter buzz into her head.

  “My custody case is next week in Portland,” he said. “You should come with.”

  “Me?” She was beyond confused. “Why?”

  “I would like for you to meet her,” he said. “My ex, and if you want, Sam and Maya.”

  He moved in close and leaned in. “I’m going to get my revenge soon,” he said. “I’ll clear my name. Everyone will see what a little liar she’s been. She’s not going to get away with defaming me like that. Making me out to be some pervert.”

  Uneasy, she focused on another line.

  Part of her wanted to get up and leave without another word. But, there was still so much coke.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Forget about Portland for now. I can’t wait any longer.” He opened his box and pulled out another baggie. It was off-white and didn’t look as fine as coke. He poured out a small pile and started chopping it into a chunky powder.

  “I have a special treat, Ketamine—Special K.”

  Special K sounded fun, but she’d never heard of it. Must be a pure kind of cocaine.

  “Maybe I should call Matt,” she said. “To see how the trip’s going.”

  Without stopping his prep work, he frowned. “We never contact him while he’s on the road,” he said, his tone sharp. “Never. No need to worry. He’s the ideal driver. Never speeds. Always signals—always.” His tone was rich in condescension. “In fact, I’d like you to avoid him. You can get your coke from me, you know. I’ll take good care of you. Mattais has got his shit fucked up.”

  “What?”

  He looked up at her. “You know he’s bat-shit crazy, right?”

  She just stared and waited for him to laugh. But he didn’t.

  “You don’t want to get too close to him,” he said. “He goes into some very dark places. Sick bastard. Word is, he loves mind games. It’s cruel what he did to Kaytlyn, what he’s still doing to Kaytlyn.”

  No, she thought. No. That couldn’t be true.

  “I should go,” she said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you,” she told him. She kept her gaze lower than his. “I can’t do what you want me to. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think I’m a monster?” His voice held a duality she had never noticed before. Warm and sure, yet harboring a twisted undertone. Had it been there all along? He reached for her chin and lifted it toward him. His deep eyes held a glint of something sinister. It had been a mistake, coming here.

  He gave her a soft smile and sat back. “Sure, sure, go if you want. I understand. The truth is hard to hear,” he said. “Just have this one drink with me before you go. He handed over her vodka tonic. “Look, I even cut up a lime for you, so be a good girl and drink up. I know you don’t want to hurt my feelings.”

  She looked to the doorway. It seemed a mile away. While she tried to think, she did as she was told. She took a sip, but the glass began to slip from her sweaty grip, so she put it down on the table next to the new powder he was lining up for her.

  “Just try this before you go,” he said as he handed over the straw. “Your first trip down the K hole.”

  She hesitated for a moment, overcome with dread. “But—”

  Guilt rose to mingle with her fear. He had done so much for her, she told herself. She was the one who had called him. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Ladies first.” He seemed so determined.

  How could she say no? She told herself it would be fine. Just one line. He was excited for her to try this Special K, so she would try it. She would make him happy and then she would leave. And never come back.

  “It’s pretty long,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just do a little.”

  “No, baby, you’ve gotta do the whole line. Just snort super hard and get through it fast.”

  He gave her the straw and nodded as she leaned over the table. She couldn’t seem to still her shaky hand. He gently reached out for her wrist, steadied it, and guided her down the length of the line. All she had to do was inhale, so she did. Hard.

  She knew immediately this was not blow. It burned her nostrils like hell. She powered through the pain and made the long line disappear into her head. She succumbed to it—a new kind of terrible, torturous magic. She threw back her head, fell back on the couch, and pinched her nose as hard as she could. Acid burned from the inside out. Instant and overwhelming euphoria fell upon her, soaking through her bones and into her highest being. She felt no pain. When she released her hand from her nose, her arm just floated away. She couldn’t feel her face. She didn’t even feel human anymore. Instead, she felt apart from who she had been before, like an all-knowing version of herself. She was her own God.

  Mama’s voice was melodic, “Remember who you are.” Yes, she realized. I am God, and this is just a life I’m having. She heard a new voice. She knew it must be Jesus, “The kingdom of God is within you.” She wanted to scream it loud and strong, but there were no words. Everything became clear. Death was just the remembering of what we knew before we were born. Every single person walking the earth was just God, weighed down by a human body. But just for a short time.

  This is how her mother must’ve felt when she died. Was she even dead? No, because energy doesn’t die. God doesn’t die. Via’s focus evolved into a broad, diffused sense of knowing. She hoped she would be able to remember this feeling, but felt it slipping away and morphing again. How would you describe a rainbow to someone who can only see black and white? All of this time, she had been living in black and white.

  And then she started hearing waves of music—whom, whom, whom. She could hear even more music between the beats. Had that music been there all along? It was thrilling. There were ten or twelve songs playing within one song—maybe more—and she could hear them all. She was the heartbeat of the universe. All music played for her.

  Unable to move, her arms and legs might as well have belonged to someone else. She didn’t want or need them anymore. She was floating and tingling and vibrating at the highest frequency. And Carlos was there, so happy, sitting next to her, telling her how special she was. That she was different. He called her an angel, and she agreed. His lips were kissing hers. She couldn’t feel him over the tingling.

  She closed her eyes and saw pretty lights in the newest colors. Never-seen-before hues, yet she recognized them all. They wanted her to reminisce in their meaning. They surrounded her with those outer-worldly colors. No white though. No white tunnel. No angels. Then she started laughing. Oh, that’s right, she realized. She was the angel.

  He was having some trouble taking off her boots, but she was content just floating along. The pretty lights wanted her to laugh and dance with them. Carlos was kissing her and she realized she must love him. He was her, but from a different point of view. Everybody, everywhere was the same being, experiencing life from a different perspective.

  He was telling her the most amazing things, but she could barely hear him over the sounds of her pretty colors. It’s not real they hummed. Come and play. Let’s pretend. Some were fuzzy and others were smooth, and they all beamed unconditional love. They tasted like cotton candy.

  Now he couldn’t get her bra off. He pus
hed it up around her neck somehow. How did he even do that? She just laughed at him. Something was sliding down her thighs and calves, like a silk scarf. His hands were everywhere. He was whispering in her ear, telling her to be safe. He was talking nonsense.

  She was called back into the colors. Time seemed to revel in its own power. It jumped and landed where it pleased without limits.

  He was kissing her again. She could feel how much he needed her to love him. She felt a new sensation from within. Their skin blended and she couldn’t tell where he left off and she began. He needed love. Everybody needed love. The couch was going to break. Then they would fall, fall far away.

  Everything changed. Pain. She had forgotten there was pain in the world. Something was tight around her neck. It was hard to breathe. She realized he was taking something from her. He was saying something or moaning something, but she couldn’t hear him over the sounds of the pretty lights. They were beginning to pull away now, leaving her alone, again. She had already forgotten what they had told her.

  “Please, pretty lights,” she said, startled by the sound of her own voice. Sounds were real again. Her inner being was gone and she was naked without it. She had given it away.

  Carlos was moaning, “Oh God, oh God.” But God was not there. There were no angels. But then suddenly there were, they came to her. Disappointed crystal angels who hung from silver strings, tied to branches. Holding her hands above her head, he kept hurting her, again and again. She tried to scream, but it sounded to her like a whisper.

  He was the devil, groaning into her ear, more and more. She felt his weight now. “Yes, baby, yes,” he told her as he grunted. No, please, no, she tried to say, but then she realized it was over. He let go of her wrists and settled down on top of her, heavy and wet. His sweat seeped into her.

  Oh dear God, get him off of me, she prayed, but God was brutally absent. Carlos leaned his face into hers and gave her a tender kiss and then another, but she couldn’t kiss back. She prayed to Jesus, and to Mohammed, and to the Buddha, and to the winged fairies of the universe. Her lungs were stuck. But she couldn’t tell him. There was still something hiked up around her neck, her bra. She tried to alarm him with her eyes, but he just smiled.