White Nights

By Christine Chase

Hard-partying Constance is busy running from real life in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Across the world, Nia’s life is seemingly falling apart at the seams after a car accident leaves her paralyzed.

Meanwhile, Anya finally has it all together, with a new husband, job, and flat in the city of her dreams.

Their lives become intertwined as the laws of physics begin to bend. Now it’s up to Constance, with the help of her long lost friend and flame, to find a way to set it right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329626393

Book preview

White Nights

White Nights

by Christine Chase

Copyright White Nights

Copyright © 2015 by author. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-304-85597-8

Special thanks to three very talented photographers  —  Tim Miller, Fa_que, and Stephanie Matti, who graciously allowed me to use clips of their photographs for the cover of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mom, who always encouraged me to begin, and then egged me on to finish, my first novel. Without her constant support, I would never have the courage and perseverance to pursue my dreams.

Special Thanks To

This book started as a National Novel Writing Month project. NaNoWriMo is such a fantastic, motivating, supportive group of people, without whom, this novel never would have came into being. If you’re interested in writing your own novel, visit www.nanowrimo.org and start the process in November!

Thanks go out to Ryan, whose enthusiasm for the 30- day challenge became the birth of this novel, and to Matt, who gave me the support and encouragement to finish the project.

Thanks to Jessie May for her can-do attitude and help setting the mini-goals that made writing a novel seem achievable.

A big thanks to the Starving Boulder Writers Group

for all their support and feedback!

Thank you to all of my friends who put up with my crazy antics and anti-social behavior, as my laptop came with me to the bars and I spent many nights in, writing and reading.

And, finally, a huge thank you to my sister and editor, Lizzie, without whom, this novel would be a huge chaotic mess of characters, worlds, and nonsensical musings.

"There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it     is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

There is another theory which states that this has already happened."

-Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Preface

A short excerpt from The Mysterious Notion of Parallel Lives, by bestselling author and renowned physicist, Dr. Trent Guth:

We rely heavily on our awareness, observations and physical reality of our worlds. I do not want to diminish these experiences. To the contrary, our senses are some  of the best honed  in the biological world (if rarely accessed). I will, however, in the course of this book, set out to prove that there is more to the world than meets the eye. In fact, there are more worlds to the world than meet the eye. We have been short-changed by evolution to only experience the world that is most relevant to our immediate survival. But, I will ask you to imagine what the knowledge and access to many worlds could do for the long-term survival of our species. A complicated notion, no doubt, but one filled with many possibilities...

1.              Constance

Constance never felt more alone than when she was in love. She had tried it. Once. And she was determined to never let it happen again.

Sweat began to form beads on her palms and forehead. She wiped her upper lip nervously. The beating of her heart had become so overbearing she felt a panic rising up her chest. She focused on her breath to try to slow her heart’s metal rhythm, but it only worsened the panic and perspiration.

She had found herself in the exact situation she was trying so hard to avoid. She was in the passenger seat of her best friend’s, car, and it seemed that he might be about to profess his love for her.

I love you, Ony. Trent said, looking at her, his big gray-blue eyes full of earnest intention.

Goddammit, Constance thought and let out the longest sigh of her life.

Do we really have to do this? she asked. Trent looked stricken.

Look, you know me. Have I ever hinted that I wanted to be more than friends? She tried to say it with kindness, but it came out cruel.

Her mind flashed back to several drunken parties where her tequila-fueled flirtation may have blurred the lines of friendship. Goddammit, she thought again.

I — I just... Trent trailed off, his voice shaky.

Constance immediately felt terrible. This is why she hated love. If Trent wasn’t in love with her, she could never make him feel this heartbroken.

She tried a different tact. "Trent, I’m sorry. I just don’t do love. You know that. You know my last relationship ended in a Xanax prescription and a restraining order. You know my mom cheated on my dad in high school and my parents had a messy divorce. You know I want to leave this town as soon as we graduate college."

She thought back to her high school sweetheart. He was the type of guy girls spend their high school years pining after. Cajoling jokes delivered from a handsome face. His dark eyes were usually laughing, never hinting at a tendency to erupt in violence. Until he had caught her flirting with another man.

Thinking of the moment filled her with dread. In one second, she went from laughing at a stranger’s silly jokes to watching her boyfriend march across the crowded room, his face set in anger, his eyes completely cold.

He didn’t waste a second. He didn’t speak. He just wrapped his thick hands around her neck and began to squeeze. Constance’s vision went black before four guys were able to pull him off of her.

If she could have been in love with a monster like that, love clearly was not for her. She looked up at Trent again. Despite his six foot, two inch frame, he looked small and vulnerable. His arms were wrapped around himself, his eyes searched her pleadingly. This was not a violent man, this was her big-hearted best friend. A science geek who loved old movies and long drives. This was Trent. But still.

I’m sorry, she said. She pushed the car door open and stepped out into the brisk March day. She squinted against the harsh Colorado sun.

Wait,  Ony.  Can we talk about this? Trent’s   eyes

looked at her in disbelief.

Talking was the last thing she wanted to do. She  felt defeated. Ignoring his words, she walked into her small apartment.

As she gazed around the dated apartment, with its wood panel walls and cream appliances, her roommate diligently studying at the kitchen table, the desire to run as far as she could from her life took hold of her once again. Over the course of the last year, she had managed to keep it at bay — probably thanks to Trent’s company — but, here it was, burning and screaming from inside her gut.

She hopped into the shower, hoping to wash away the last hour and reset to the time when she had a best friend she was actually able to laugh with.

The scalding water beat down on her as she rocked her naked body back and forth, her head cradled on her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around her.

This is all wrong! her mind seemed to shout, over and over again.

She pushed back against the thought. Making a mental list of everything that was going right. 1. I’m less than one semester away from graduating with an English degree; 2. I love books and I will become a writer; 3. I’m   in a beautiful town — pretty sure you’re not allowed to be unhappy in Boulder, Colorado; 4. I have a best friend, Trent. Correction: I had a best friend.

At the thought that she and Trent may no longer be friends, she went back to her rocking.

This is all wrong, the voice in her head told her again.  "English  is  just  a  bunch  of  pretentious professors

trying to find meaning in benign sentences — a rock analyzed to death as a metaphor for family. Boulder is picturesque to a fault —you’re trapped in a postcard. And Trent..." Trent.

She rocked back and forth. Her skin numb and red under the hot water. Since they met a little more than a year ago, she felt calmer, happier. But now he had to go and screw everything up by confessing his love to her.

This is all wrong, the voice told her. You’re not in the right town. You’re never going to be a writer. This is not supposed to be your life.

The voice inside her head turned into a weight inside her gut and a battle cry ringing through her ears. This is all wrong. You’re living someone else’s life. This is not you.

The water wasn’t doing anything to wash away the unsettling feeling that had taken hold. She wanted to scream, or run, or hide under the covers, but she knew none of those options would suffice. She knew she had to leave.

She got out of the shower and snuck into her bedroom, trying to avoid conversation with her roommate. Her room lacked much personality, she had never bothered decorating or hanging pictures. The yellow walls and dingy brown carpet made her feel queasy.

She looked at her phone. Ten missed calls from Trent. She turned it off. Without ritual, she packed her duffle bag to the brim. Then she went down to face her roommate. Laurie, a former sorority girl and psychology major, was as social as a puppy at a playground. She would find a subletter for Constance’s room without issue.

Constance stood at the doorway of the kitchen, watching Laurie’s blonde ponytail bob up and down as she took notes on her reading.

Constance cleared her throat. Oh, hey! Laurie said.

I’m leaving, Constance stated.

Whereto?Laurieasked,immersedinher

psychology text.

I mean, I’m leaving Colorado, Constance clarified. What?! Laurie asked, peeling her eyes up from her

book to face Constance.

I have to get out of this place. There’s nothing for me here. If I stay another second, I’m going to lose it, Constance explained.

Laurie paused, trying to process the bomb her roommate of the last eight months had just dropped. But... Don’t you want to graduate?

Constance gave Laurie a hard look, willing her to just stay out of it. I just know I can’t stay here another second. I can’t explain it, this just isn’t where I’m supposed to be.

But... What will you do? Laurie asked, her tone

motherly.

I don’t know. I’ll figure it out, Constance said, making it up on the spot. I’m going to get in my car and drive to Mexico. From there, I’ll drive all the way to the tip of South America. Then, who knows? Maybe I’ll go to New Zealand.

Constance felt lighter as the plan took form. Her roommate was eyeing her as though she had been replaced by an alien version of herself.

But what about Trent? Laurie asked, unable to hide her confusion at her roommate’s actions. Constance knew her roommate well enough to know what she was thinking: Constance was throwing her life away. At least the life that included a college degree, a good job, and a decent man who so clearly loved her.

What about him? Constance snapped.

Well, aren’t you at least gonna say goodbye? Why bother? Constance quipped, though a  wave

of regret passed over her at the thought of never seeing Trent again. She shook the feeling.

I’m no good for him anyway. And I’m no good     at goodbyes. With that, she hoisted her duffle bag to her shoulder and walked toward the door.

She gazed one last time around her dingy apartment and her gaping roommate. She felt lighter and lighter the closer she got to the door. By the time she walked out, she was positively glowing. She threw the duffle bag into the backseat of her car and headed south, aiming toward Mexico.

When she got to the New Mexico border, she even let herself smile. This was right. She would drive to the tip of South America if she had to, she was never going back.

2 Nia

The gray clouds were just beginning to sputter rain as Nia packed her groceries into her car. She zoned out to the radio. As NPR reporters gave an overview of how the failed talks between Russia and China reflected the rising animosity between America and the European Union, the rain began to pick up. She was only slightly interested in  the radio story. Politics was something she cared about just enough to not seem like a fool at parties. Nia reached for  the radio knob and scanned through the stations, trying to find something that better fit her mood. She passed through a stop light, barely looking at the traffic that was stopped in the other direction, only aware that her light was green. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a car: green, four-door, lights on, barreling toward her. She didn’t have time to do anything, only to notice and acknowledge that, just two and a half decades in, her time may be up.

The impact was hard, but she barely felt it. Time moved slowly. If only I could gain control of my body, time is moving slowly enough that maybe I can correct this. Maybe I can swerve out of the way. Why aren’t I pressing the brakes harder? But her body wasn’t moving according with her mind’s directions, and she just gripped the steering wheel, eyes wide.

Nia’s groceries flew forward, yogurt hitting the windshield, apples rolling to the floor. What a waste, those were organic, she thought. Then she felt a second impact, her car spun one-hundred and eighty degrees to be facing the other direction. Nia and her car skidded across the sidewalk, hitting a telephone pole. Her body hurled forward into the windshield, or maybe the windshield flew back into her. She watched branches, leaves, and particles of glass fly by her face in slow motion. She felt the airbag forcefully embrace her torso as it expanded. Her wrist snapped and she heard   a sickening, cracking sound, but she wasn’t able to place it as the sound of her ribs breaking. A warm sticky fluid ran over her forehead, clouding her vision in red. She raised her hand to stop the flow of blood, taking the time to pause in wonderment at how her arm wasn’t moving as it should. Her hand got caught in the sticky moistness of her blood-soaked auburn bangs, now redder than usual. And then, suddenly, blackness clouded her vision and the scene faded from her consciousness.

---

The next thing Nia knew, she was surrounded by men peering down at her, white lights, and strange sounds: buzzing and beeping. She was no longer a part of her body. Instead, she felt like she was watching a scene from an unbearably artsy independent film — the type where the film’s director, just a couple years out of art school, adds post- camera effects and doesn’t quite match up the images with the sounds. Where parts of the frame are left fuzzy, going in and out of focus, and the lights are allowed to blow out the rest of the scene. The type where you are purposefully  left

in the dark, expecting to be filled in to what exactly is going on at a later date, to come to some sort of soul-satisfying ‘ah ha’ moment when you finally understand that your time has not been wasted in vain. The only thing missing was a soundtrack. In her movie, she got the noises of the hospital, the buzzing and beeping of equipment, the murmurs of doctors and nurses, not the Shins.

Later, when she solidly returned to her body, a doctor filled her in on the details. Well, Nia, luckily there was a witness to your accident, the doctor said.

According to the police report, Max, a young college student, saw a green car run a red light and slam into your white Honda, the doctor explained. Max saw your car spin and eventually curl itself around a telephone pole. He called for an ambulance, which rushed both you and the other driver to the Swedish Medical Center in downtown Seattle.

The doctor paused briefly to give Nia a sympathetic look. The driver of the other car, a 45-year-old Seattle man with a wife and young daughter, unfortunately died en route to the hospital. You are incredibly lucky to be alive.

Nia didn’t respond to his sentiment, so the doctor went on. The emergency response team performed a tracheotomy at the scene of the accident. It saved your life, Nia.

The doctor paused, perhaps expecting her to thank him. Getting nothing, he continued. At the hospital, we treated severe trauma to your spinal cord, two ruptured spinal disks, a punctured lung, five broken ribs, a broken hip, broken arms, a broken wrist, and severe internal bleeding. You will need more surgery, and it’s likely that, at the present time, you may not be able to feel your legs, but, don’t worry, the next surgery will likely be a success.

Nia   received   all   this   information   with   a dull

awareness, not relating it to herself. The stream of bad news from the doctor’s mouth came like a slow bullet through Nia’s skull. She didn’t cry. She didn’t breathe. She refused to believe it. What an incredibly sad story, she thought. Thank God that’s not me. She felt sorry for the poor soul that the doctor was talking about.

Nia quietly thanked the doctor and closed her eyes, her entire face aching, her body throbbing through the dull numbness of morphine trickling through her veins. Later, alone that night in her hospital bed, she felt every inch of her sore body as the morphine wore off and insomnia set in. Every atom in her body ached with pain except for the void where she expected to feel her legs. She struggled with all her will to unsuccessfully wiggle a toe. She felt tears flow down her cheeks. She wasn’t aware of herself thinking or processing her situation, but her tears told her that it may   in fact be real and not a dream. It was then that it hit her: everything the doctor had said was not only about her, but it was true.

This is really happening, Nia thought in desperate panic. She stayed up all night crying. How is it possible to produce so many tears? Will I die from loss of fluids? Will I walk again? Will my relationship survive this? Will I be able to walk down the aisle? Will I still be able to have a family someday? Will my job hold a place for me during recovery? Will I ever recover? Nia cried and grieved the passing of life as she had formerly known it.

Finally,  her body washed in fatigue, Nia allowed  her eyes to fall shut, the tears finding their way through the cracks. The white walls of the ICU permeated her eyelids. She begged for darkness, but it never came. Her battered body wouldn’t allow her to move in order to bury her head into her pillow. Will this white night ever end? she asked herself, her thoughts echoing in her skull, a lonely lullaby.

---

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Nearly two weeks after her accident, she watched the liquid pass through the IV and followed it into her thin wrist, her blue veins popping out to carry the nutrients to her bloodstream, her skeletal fingers gripping the side of her hospital bed. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t stop. Her hands were more telling than anything else she could see given that she didn’t have a mirror in her small, barren room. And her hands told her that, in the course of two weeks, she had aged from 25 to 90.

It wasn’t that Nia had ever thought she was invincible. In fact, far from it. She had always felt closer to death than she imagined anyone could ever understand. She had often imagined how death might come to her. Standing at a bus stop, maybe a biker would get too close and accidentally push her into the street. Maybe that piece of lettuce she had eaten at lunch in a vain attempt at calorie counting would be tainted with E. coli. Maybe cancer was already present in her left breast. But she hadn’t imagined this, a slow death being wheelchair bound for the rest of her life. Not in a million years.

Since the accident, Nia had been experiencing life through a gray filter, a thick, impenetrable fog. Everyone and everything seemed a little more uncaring, a little more dismal, a little more distant. Everything seemed blurry, unaffected, and far away. She was utterly alone, the gray filter preventing anyone from getting too close. Even the doctors that poked at her seemed miles away. When she spoke, it seemed as though the words hit the gray like a force

field and only a distant echo of her voice reached its intended

audience.

Nia sighed and averted her eyes, forcing herself to stare at the bare white wall three feet in the distance of the complicated highway of tubing coming and going from her shrinking body. Each time her eyes wandered their focus back to the medical highway coming out of her arm, she would cringe and force the focus of her eyes those few, but critical feet further away. Those few feet were the difference between medical hell and some sort of semblance of the  real world. In her peripheral vision was a small side table which housed a couple of well-wishing cards, propped up for display, and a bouquet of wilting white daisies. She cast her eyes up slightly to a rectangular window, white blinds squeezed shut, a protective barrier between her and the outside world.

Hello, Nia. How are you today? the nurse sing- songed, bustling into the room with enthusiasm.

The voice grated in Nia’s ears and she cursed herself for having not pretended to be asleep. She gazed into the blinds as though they had a soul.

You know, the nurse sang, yanking away the blinds’ soul with the sweep of her arm, allowing the sun to burst through. One of these day you’ll wake up, see the sun, and realize you’re lucky to be alive.

Nia rolled her body around and stared up at the ceiling with a ferocious intensity, willing the nurse to leave her be. Her dark brown eyes narrowed, her nearly black eyebrows, which had once been perfectly plucked, but were now thick and shapeless, furrowed with anger.

Nia wanted to vomit. Her pale, full lips pursed into  a thin firm line, a declaration of her determined silence.  The nurse went on. To survive an accident like yours… Someone really must be looking out for you.

Inwardly, Nia shrieked. Looking out for me, ha! How would you know! I’ve died! I’m in hell! If anyone is looking out for me it’s no guardian angel, it’s a devil. Outwardly, her lips formed what some, the nurse included, might interpret as a smile. She allowed a bit of the fullness to come back   to them, curling the corners up ever so slightly, causing her smile lines and slight dimples to appear against her sallow face and sunken cheekbones. Unlike a smile, however, there was no change in her eyes — no shine, no crow’s feet, no flicker of happiness.

The nurse wasn’t looking closely enough to see the harshness in Nia’s eyes, and so she smiled back, taking  note of Nia’s improved demeanor on her medical chart. The nurse busied