A Midnight Sun Read online

  A

  Midnight Sun

  A Novel by C.M. Hazel

  Cover Design

  by C.M. Hazel

  All rights reserved.

  C.M Hazel © 2021

  A Midnight Sun

  C.M. Hazel © 2021 (All rights reserved.)

  Published Digitally in the United States of America

  First Edition (Digital), 2021

  ISBN 978-1-00517-029-5

  A Product of

  CM. Hazel Publishing

  Through

  www.Smashwords.com

  For more information or contact, please send an email to

  [email protected]

  Or visit

  www.cmhazel.wordpress.com

  Thank you!

  COPYRIGHTS AND DISCLAIMERS

  The works contained herein (including the artwork and/or photographs) are the sole property of the author C.M. Hazel, and are copyrighted as per international copyright laws.

  Copying, transcribing, printing, republishing, using any characters, plots, or claiming this work as your own without the permission of the author, partially or as a whole in any way, is considered plagiarism and is punishable by law.

  Although some events are inspired through historical facts and well-known personalities, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental unless otherwise noted.

  Although the author has made every effort to ensure the information in this book was correct at publishing time, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

  C.M. Hazel © 2021

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Illustration made with Canva™

  Book design and production by Claire Hazel for C.M. Hazel Publishing

  Editing by Claire Hazel

  Author photograph by Claire Hazel

  Other text property of C.M. Hazel (unless otherwise noted or through Copyrights Fair Use Law) used with permission for C.M. Hazel Publishing

  OTHER WORKS by C.M. Hazel

  Lucid Dreams, Vivid Realities – First Edition © 2017

  The Tenth Cube – First Edition (Digital/Print) © 2020

  Pendulum – First Edition (eBook) © 2020

  “’If you feel that light in your life going out,

  it can be blown again into flame

  by an encounter with another human being.’

  Even if that human being exists only in the magical,

  mystical,

  magnificent world

  of motion pictures.”

  Kurt Russel, quoting Albert Schweitzer

  during his acceptance speech on the star walk of fame.

  SYNOPSIS

  The sun, which is shining high above all who wander outside enough to see it, is the brightest natural light we know. Humanity knows the light will brightly reveal our innermost secrets and stories, especially those of the people who chose the light of the stage as their beaming truth.

  Mirim Teasdale, a writer working in a large Publishing firm in Seattle, Washington, in her mid-twenties, grown in the warm breezes of Oahu, Hawaii, discovers in a heat-induced trauma, she is connected to an actress from the Golden Era of Hollywood. In the process of finding details of Parker McNamara´s story, Mirim follows her trail and shines her own light into the world of film stars and Hollywood’s practices of those who were under contract, their abuse, and sometimes death.

  Teasdale and McNamara have in common Hawaii, where Parker lived with her loving husband before and during the devasting bombing of Pearl Harbor. As Mirim realizes she can see into their past, she starts connecting their lives in order to discover she wants this story told, to tell their truth and life story in a way which is perhaps connected with her own, as well as understanding her life and the love she feels for a man who became her friend and childhood playmate, her colleagues, Hawaiian upbringing, and her life in a publishing firm in Seattle, Washington.

  INTRODUCTION

  I believed my entire life a shining light would be waiting for me at the most unexpected moment. I shaped my whole attitude on the notion that were I to be in the right place at the right time, I would be discovered. Many years have passed and I still feel the anticipation of finding myself on the verge of finally getting my great, big break. Aging but not old enough to give up on my career and my dreams, I still pursue acting without hesitation, inside my steps toward financial wellness and a freedom I couldn’t crave hard enough, acting has never been far from me in between the years of branching out toward other ventures.

  California was my goal, and I still find myself California Dreaming, largely thanks to The Mamas and The Papas, but more because it is said that stardom is found harder and more resounding inside those sound stages.

  With the devastating news of my Intraocular Melanoma, came the desperate months of lying awake and considering death, suicide, and desolation, loneliness, grief, and the pain of inconclusive years of wanting more. I clung to my dreams and mostly waited around doctors’ offices and back and forth from my apartment in Maracaibo and Caracas, Venezuela, not wanting anything but a pen and paper to write. Mostly angry but majorly irritated with the Venezuelan government, the insolent news of more unsolved crimes, and the pain of those suffering along with yours truly, I wrote away my frustrations and complained mostly because I felt lost. I was convinced I would never have my life back, my career, my family, or happiness, and love.

  My work became my refuge and I went back to writing inspired through pain but more through the escapism it presented. I felt dreamy inside the pages where I wrote this novel in longhand. The old pages from my job in Venezuela as an Education Coordinator served as the recycled backing for my manuscript. I cried thinking of actors who died too young and perhaps felt how I felt, weak and alone, wanting to hit the stage only once more or see those lights shine bright above them.

  With them in mind, I became aware the writer in me had a voice too, strong and willing to discover where this led me. Then, I found I was partly both these characters – the actor and the writer, fighting through another day without the notion I would live or die to work again. This duality and the reshaping turmoil of my life, which seem to be collapsing on itself, gave me Mirim and Parker.

  I devoted a full month to them, no interruptions, no internet, and wrote this novel with love and empathy in my heart. They saved me and hopefully, they will continue to save those who have found their ending too cruel or too soon. I am completely convinced their light can shine brightly for you, too.

  And, to the angel who found me lost and blessed me with his care while I had only fear and pain in my mind and heart, thank you for anticipating my weaknesses and holding me through. This one is largely dedicated to you and all the winged friends of my days and nights of loneliness. In retribution and gratitude for your presence in my life, I pray this novel finds your hands someday.

  With all my love,

  Claire

  Prologue

  Marquee

  The Heat Has Her Spinning & Her Memories Are Not Clear

  Oahu, December 7th, 1989

  Mirim throws the ball in the air again, her eyes squinting against the sunlight, the sting releasing a well of hot tears which roll from the corners of her eyelids when she forces them open to catch the airborne sphere.

  Pluck! Right into her glove. She is about to throw it again when a gust of wind rushes from her right. The air turns increasingly humid and sweet-smelling, lik
e honeysuckle.

  “Better get back.” She announces to Nappy, her Golden Terrier mix, who sits quizzically waiting with her paws stretched out into the earth.

  Mirim runs through the sunflower field and straight to her house. The field rushes past in a blur, and the aroma of flowers mixed with honeysuckle grows stronger when she strokes them with her hands - a familiar sight and scent. Mornings are her favorite part of being home.

  The blessing of having pear and apple trees in her backyard makes her feel lucky, so she smiles into the tree. A bird replies in song and she continues to pick fruit, remembering how when being a child her mother planted these trees and told her stories of her ancestors and how they had been hoping to migrate from the Westlands of California and found refuge in the fertile volcanic soil of Hawaii. They still tasted as good as they did then. The branches above her head have become overgrown and scratch her head and arms. She asks Nappy to remind her to pick more fruit and Nappy cough-barked twice, as if to respond she would, her old throaty bark a laughing matter in her family. Mirim wonders how many years Nappy has to live and then wonders why she’d think of such things.

  A ripe pear comes into view just after she wipes her forehead. It has suddenly gotten hot. The pear is green and spotted with golden dots that look delicious. She crawls under the branches a little further until she finds more pears and a couple of apples, then goes back to

  The last stretch to her house - about twenty feet - she walks slowly with Nappy by her side while biting into a juice pear before reaching for the screen door of the yellow bungalow her mother and father had made a home.

  The lavender galoshes she wears match her shirt. She places them just outside the door next to her brother’s. Her baseball glove and ball, which had been folded and tucked into the back of her pants, lay now just above her shoes.

  Nappy runs into the kitchen and yaps standing by her food bowl, waiting, as she always does for her afternoon nibbles.

  “Groof!” Her bark thunders and Mirim shushes her. “Quiet Nappy! Everybody is still sleeping and you’re making such a fuss. Momma is going to be angry.”

  After filling the food and water bowls, Mirim hikes the stairs two steps at a time and jumps into the shower.

  The steam rises over the shower curtain so abundantly and fast, it looks like a misty cloud has mysteriously rolled into the house. The daffodil wallpaper in the small room condensed almost instantly with hundreds of water droplets. Mirim looks at them mesmerized as she undresses and laughs but doesn’t know exactly why, then runs a dirty hand over the fogged-up mirror and looks at her naked body. Her hair looks like lava cascading on top of her shoulders in messy ringlets. The morning warmth has already made it damp, so she flips it back and away from her face. Mirim loves Hawaii’s weather and doesn’t miss the rainy winter of Seattle. Her friends always complimented her new freckles when she goes back after the holidays, although she doesn’t like them too much. Shielding them from the sunlight had become a nuisance.

  At only three months past her twentieth birthday, she still looks thirteen, fifteen at most, and like the added holiday freckles, she doesn’t exactly love looking younger either, although her mother always told her it was a good thing as you got older. She has been examining herself so long, the mirror fogs up again, but she decides to leave it. The towel, wrapping her round and perky breasts, falls to the floor and Mirim disappears into the steam.

  A jazzy tune drifts in as she starts her second round of shampooing. It meant her mother was already awake and making breakfast. The music always precedes the smell of strong coffee. Her mother and father usually argue over watching the news or listening to music, but she instead insists on listening to what he called ‘the shrill of the jazz-mares’.

  Mirim smiles while she hears their bickering. She puts on a dollop of Madam Bonnet’s Miracle Skin Lightening Mask on her forehead, nose, and cheeks. “Leave on for at least ten minutes,” the bottle says, so Mirim looks at the clock she had on top of the sink. It read exactly 7:54. She gazes at the razor and the new razor cream for ladies. The pink can was ridiculous and delightfully cheery at the same time. She couldn’t understand why they recently started making everything for women pink, but finds it cute and really enjoys the soft, feminine scent as well.

  Mirim sits in the half-filled tub and applies a thick layer of cream. She is careful not to nick herself at her ankles as she did most times she shaved in a misty bathroom, mostly because of running and rushing between classes and work, but more likely because of a newfound distraction. “No need to rush here. I have plenty of time.”

  Relaxed by the swirling drawls of Ella Fitzgerald, she goes to work. But, her vision turns suddenly blurry. She feels like she’ll sink into the tub because it is melting under her weight. She is sure of it. Perhaps it is too hot.

  The next thing she remembers is waking up in a pool of damped towels and sheets, her mother screaming over her while her father keeps throwing dry towels over her face and chest and legs.

  Chapter 1

  Marquee

  Mirim Looks for Flawed Reasonings

  Oahu, December 7th, 1989

  A terrible commotion had enveloped me. The sounds of alarms blaring in the distance mingled with screams and calls for help. There had been airplanes. Had there not? Why is there a sudden taste of dust on my tongue?

  “Wait!” I rasp, “I need your help. He’s hurt!”

  I hear my voice and not. That is, I feel myself speaking, but the sound is not entirely of my lips. I also feel a sense of despair that isn’t entirely my own. Warmth runs down my cheeks and I flinch from my own sobs. They’re absolutely cringing, a death scream in my ears. My eyes can only see clouds of dust…and people, scared and running. I have legs, or so I think. Willing myself to get up and go back, I fight restraining hands. Where would I go? Where have I been? All I really understand at this point is I need to help him.

  But help who?

  The voice there, on the back of my head, chiming in like an unwanted visitor who is trampling on the newly planted grass. Somehow, I know this like the knowledge I need to walk to my left. There is water there, lapping incoherently. Are those…waves? The sound is mingled with voices and cries for help. It had been morning. A fleeting memory brought up the smell of coffee and pancakes, buttery and sticky with maple syrup. But it had been morning. She remembered a table in a lovely yard. Hers maybe. Who is ‘her’? The sunshine filtering through a lattice covered almost completely with morning glory, an ivy with tiny pink buds. And the coffee, and the food, and laughter. Lots of laughter…before the…I remember that, too.

  “Goddammit get up and walk. HE NEEDS HELP!”

  Who needs help?

  Then, I remember sitting, my hands pasted to a khaki skirt surrounding my thighs and earlier, buttoning a blouse with tiny flowers that resembled those on the ivy. Then, a mirror, a tiny compact appeared on the reflection in the glass with a hand, white and young, red nail polish matching the lipstick on the nails.

  Panic rises from the back of my throat and threatens to burst into a million words without explanation, the words have a taste eerily like pancakes and syrup. After the content of her stomach comes pouring out onto the floor, she looks in the mirror.

  I look ashen and…and…. scared. Was that my hand with the lipstick?

  A flood of memories rush back into my mind. They hurt. It’s like the syrup from the pancakes has seeped into my brain. I feel like I might vomit again…the sound of laughter, my own and hers then his…his? His hand on her thigh and feeling love. Then immediately after, a sound exploded overhead, some type of engine that reminds me of the large wind machines in films, the large fans which make actresses look ethereal and somehow wispy and in love. They had been perhaps too close to my ears. After that, there had been a loud explosion, louder than plane engines. They had been plane engines! A loud bang, and a lattice overhead shaking the ivy loose from the planks. Leaves falling and his syrupy laughter cut off abruptly. Syrup…tears roll from
my eyes. The hand on her leg that had been softly caressing the inside of her thigh was suddenly gripping her thigh, digging into her skin painfully.

  Who is he?

  Standing to a trepidatious wobble, I try wiping my mouth, but cough against the taste of bitterness and dust. I look around myself with mounting desperation because…the house fell, he had been under the lattice with ivy covering the hand that just minutes before had been touching her (my) thigh.

  That had happened somewhere before. I had been standing elsewhere, facing an unknown road and standing on the edge of a familiar street I didn’t entirely recognize, a street that only minutes before had been lined with identical shingled roof homes that looked trampled on and been replaced with flattened houses. Like pancakes. But, only hers had had the lattice with the morning glory that had taken months to take shape under her care. Her house was the last in the row of Wimple Street and Liberty Avenue to her left.

  Where am I?

  Water splashed everywhere, or so she heard, or I heard. People ran past her. She needed help but nobody would stop. He was hurt. I screamed and she cried.