It’s been much too long since Lana last visited the Scribbler. Since her previous posting in 2016, a lot of exciting moments have taken place. She’s writing terrific stories, to much acclaim. Positive reviews keep piling up.
If you want to
take a peek at her last visit, please go HERE and read an Excerpt from an earlier
work – Savaged Lands.
I recently
finished her earlier novel – Sisters of War and it was a fantastic read. Find
out more about it HERE.
This week she is
sharing an Excerpt from her newest novel – Her Perfect Lies. Make sure you pick up a copy. I know I am.
Lana Newton
grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union – the snow-white Siberian
town of Tomsk and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital, Kyiv. At the age of
sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her family live on
the Central Coast of NSW, where it never snows and is always summer-warm.
Lana studied
IT at university and, as a student, wrote poetry in Russian that she hid from
everyone. For over a decade after graduating, she worked as a computer
programmer. When she returned to university to complete her history degree, her
favourite lecturer encouraged her to write fiction. She hasn’t looked back, and
never goes anywhere without her favourite pen because you never know when the
inspiration might strike.
Lana’s short
stories appeared in many magazines and anthologies, and she was the winner of
the Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition. Her novels
are published by HQ Digital, an imprint of Harper Collins UK.
Lana also
writes historical fiction under the pen name of Lana Kortchik. Her first novel,
Sisters of War, is the USA Today bestseller published by Harper Collins.
To find out more, please visit
http://www.lanakortchik.com.
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/lanakortchik
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/lanak
Excerpt
Her Perfect Lies
Lana Newton
A stranger watched her from
the mirror. Grey eyes, pale lips, blonde – almost white – hair, as if bleached
by the sun, a face she felt she had never seen before. The only thing she knew
about this stranger was her name.
Claire. They said her name
was Claire.
They told her other things,
of course – things she found hard to believe. She was famous, touring around
the world with the largest ballet company in the country. The nurses talked
about her as if they knew her. One had even seen her perform, in faraway
Australia of all places.
Through mindless hours in
her hospital bed, she imagined herself on stage in front of thousands. Impossible,
she would whisper, the stranger in the mirror nodding in agreement. Yet, there
were pictures and videos to prove it. She peered at herself in the photographs,
as Odette, Sugar Plum Fairy, Cinderella. Dazzling costumes, elegant posture,
long limbs. Was it really her? She looked at the twirling doll on the screen of
her phone until her eyes hurt. Impossible, impossible, impossible.
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake,
like a clap of thunder, filled the room. Unfamiliar, and yet, she felt she
ought to know it, as if she had heard it a thousand times before. Every time
she willed her body to move, her feet would slide into a ballet position like
it was the most natural thing in the world. What her mind had forgotten, her
body remembered. Pirouettes, jetés, and pliés came to her in time to
Tchaikovsky’s eternal creation, each as perfect as a summer rain.
Today was a special day.
The nurses seemed excited for her. She felt she should be excited, too. Staring
in the mirror, right into the stranger’s eyes, she forced her face into a smile
and widened her eyes, but instead of happy she looked scared. She was
exhausted, as if she had lived a thousand lifetimes, none of which she could
remember. Splashing her face with cold water, she brushed her hair and tied it
in a high ponytail. Reaching for her bag, she applied some makeup. Black for
her eyelashes, pink for her cheeks, red for her lips. The last thing she wanted
was to look like she was part of this grey hospital room.
The London sky outside
wasn’t grey but a vivid purple. She watched the last traces of sunlight
disappear, and then, out of nowhere, the rain came. It battered the lone oak
tree outside, and the leaves thrashed in the wind. Over the music she could
hear their rustle. This sky, this oak tree, the room she was in, the cafeteria
down the hall – these were the boundaries of her world. Beyond them, she knew
nothing.
The music stopped and she
turned sharply away from the window. She could sense his gaze. The man standing
in the doorway was tall, and she felt dwarfed by him. They stared at each other
in silence for a few seconds too long – Claire, her cheeks flush with rouge,
eyes filled with fear, and her husband, impeccably dressed, unsmiling,
unfamiliar.
‘Hi, Claire.’ The man took
a few steps in her direction.
‘Hi, Paul.’ In two weeks
she had seen him twice. Now he had finally come to take her home.
‘Feeling better today?’
She didn’t know how to
answer his question. Better than two weeks ago? Yes. But better in general? She
couldn’t remember what that felt like. ‘I still get headaches. But my back is
almost healed.’ She peered into his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes
and dark stubble on his chin. She didn’t have it in her heart to tell him he
was a stranger to her. But he was looking at her as if she was a stranger, too.
His eyes remained cold.
‘Do you have everything?’
he asked.
‘I just need to say
goodbye. Wait here for me? I won’t be long.’
She made her way down a
busy corridor, navigating gurneys, trolleys and people. She had made this trip
many times before, could probably do it with her eyes closed – a left turn,
twenty uncertain paces, another left, down two flights of stairs and a right.
The door she wanted was hidden behind a pillar, tucked away from prying eyes.
You could easily walk past and not even know it was there. Today it was wide
open, as if inviting her in.
It was quiet in the room,
no music playing, no television murmuring in the background, no eager visitors
with their chatter and flowers. Only the heartbeat of the machines, like clocks
counting down the seconds, and the ventilator puffing, struggling, breathing in
and out. If nurses or doctors spoke in here, they did so in hushed voices, as
if they were afraid of disturbing the man on the bed. Which was ironic because
all they wanted was for him to wake up.
Outside the window was the
hospital car park, a noisy anthill of activity, with ambulances screeching and cars
vying for spaces. The rumble of engines was a muffled soundtrack to the man’s
artificial existence. She felt grateful for the oak tree outside her room, for
the peace and quiet. She would have hated having nothing but cars to look at.
But the man didn’t care. He was asleep.
Sitting on the edge of the
bed, Claire took his hand. After two weeks, this gesture had become a habit.
Day after miserable day she would do it on autopilot, looking into the man’s
face, studying his lifeless features. Today she could swear his eyelids were
moving. She wanted to ask the doctor if it meant anything. Fluttering eyelids –
was it a sign? Was he about to wake up? Or was it her imagination showing her
what she wanted to see?
‘Your father, is it?’ A
nurse crept up behind her silently, like a cat. She looked a little like a cat too,
scruffy and ginger, her eyes cagey. She paused next to the man’s bed, removed
the chart from its folder and checked the monitors. ‘You look just like him.’
The man’s skin was grey
today, more so than usual. His face was gaunt, his body a skeleton on the white
sheet.
‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘I’m
waiting for him to wake up, so he can tell me about my life.’
If the nurse was surprised,
she didn’t show it. ‘Are you a patient here?’
Claire didn’t answer but
turned away from the nurse and towards her father. The woman’s mouth opened as
if to repeat her question, but at the last moment she seemed to change her
mind. Her eyes darted over Claire’s face as she made a few notes on the chart
and placed it back. ‘I hope he pulls through,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll pray for
him. And for you.’
She was already out the
door when Claire called out, ‘Can he hear me? If I talk to him, can he hear?’
The ginger head reappeared
in the doorway. ‘They do believe so. I mean, after all the research they’ve
done. Speak to him, tell him you love him. It will help.’ The nurse nodded as
she spoke, as if for emphasis. Her eyes filled with compassion.
Claire squeezed the man’s
fingers. Ever so slightly she shook him, pushed his shoulder with her tiny
fist, willing him to open his eyes. His hand felt cold in hers, a dead weight
pulling down. She brought it to her face and saw her tears fall on the calluses
of his palm. These hands held me when I
was a child, she thought. These lips,
now motionless, read bedtime stories and kissed me goodnight. How could she
have forgotten all that? It didn’t seem possible. Memories like that were part
of one’s DNA, only gone when life itself was gone. She leant over, pressing her
lips to his forehead. ‘Wake up, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I need you.’
She had spent the last two
weeks feeling guilty. Guilty that she was awake, while her dad was unconscious.
That she could walk, look out the window, enjoy the pale sunlight and the
meagre hospital food. And now she felt guilty she was leaving this place,
returning to what once had been her normal existence, while he was stuck in
this bed, not yet dead, but not quite alive either.
On the way back she walked
slowly, delaying the inevitable, not ready to leave the familiar for the
unknown.
Paul was waiting in her
room. ‘Time to go,’ he said and his lips stretched into a smile. Even to her
confused, drug-addled mind, it looked forced. Glancing away, she nodded quickly
and reached for her bag. Her whole life, all two weeks of it, packed into a
small travel case. Paul walked out without touching her. As she waited for him
to talk to the doctors and sign the paperwork, she felt sweat drops on her
forehead. Her throat was dry.
Thank you for being our guest this week, Lana. Thank you for your stories. Wishing you continued success with your writing.
Don't be shy, leave us a comment.
