The Speed of Light

by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  “Payton told me Santa isn’t real,” Ella blurts from the back.

  Connor frowns. “Who’s Payton?”

  “From school.” Ella says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Is that true, Uncle Connor?”

  I glance over and see his panicked grimace. “Uh . . .”

  Maybe it’s the snow trance, but I suddenly know just how to distract her. “Hey, Ella, have you ever stared out at the snow and pretended you’re flying at light speed?”

  She leans forward. “Huh?”

  “You know, like if you stare out the front of the vehicle, the snow hitting the windshield makes it look like you’re riding in the Millennium Falcon.” I look over, and Connor is staring at me. My voice trails off. “I mean, if you like Star Wars?”

  “My dad loves Star Wars,” Ella says quietly.

  My hand flies to my mouth. I keep making things worse.

  “And who were you for Halloween this year, El?” Connor’s voice is bright, forced, but it works.

  She grins. “Rey!”

  “Hey, I was, too!” It’s the truth and my enthusiasm is real, but I’m playing it up out of guilt over my misstep.

  Ella starts naming off ideas for next year’s Halloween costume, and Connor and I lapse into silence.

  “There it is,” I say at last. My parents’ house is aglow with light from inside as well as twinkling Christmas lights strung across the entire front—a festive sea of red and green popping through the storm of white.

  Connor pulls into the driveway. The snow isn’t as deep here because Dad has already been out with the snowblower once—he’s meticulous about his driveway and his yard all year-round.

  I turn to Ella first. “It was nice to meet you, Ella. I hope Santa leaves you a lot of presents.”

  She beams. “Me too!”

  I face Connor, and any trace of sadness from my Star Wars comment is gone. “Enjoy your party,” he says with a smile.

  “Thanks. And thank you so much for the ride.”

  “No problem. Ella’s house is only a few blocks over, actually.”

  I glance outside at the snowfall, which is dangerously close to blizzard status now. “So are you staying there tonight?”

  “Nah, I’m headed back up to my parents’ house in Fargo.” I frown and he winks. “This old truck has been through worse.”

  I step out, knees aching in the cold, eyes downward as I walk cautiously on the slippery ground—though I’m able to walk confidently again, my balance still isn’t what it used be.

  Behind me, a throat clears. I look up, blinking as fat snowflakes tickle my eyelashes, and Connor is walking toward me, my overnight bag slung over one shoulder. “Everything okay? Do you need any help with this?”

  I force a smile to hide my embarrassment. “No, that’s okay. But thanks again.”

  He hands me the bag and graces me with his wide smile one last time. “Merry Christmas, Simone.”

  “Merry Christmas, Connor.” I shiver at the chill in the air and the thrill of saying his name out loud.

  I wave as he drives away, this handsome stranger I’ll never see again. Just as well. I stand out for a long time in the snowfall, no more distractions, only the thickening snow falling on this wintry night and the sadness settling back in.

  Then I turn to face the house, absorbing all its warmth and holiday cheer, hoping they can give me the courage to face the questions, the comments, the prying about an illness I’m not even sure I have and don’t even know how to describe.

  Hoping they can give me the courage to face my future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stepping into my parents’ house is like traveling back in time. The rush of warm, heated air reminds me of those exquisite moments when I’d come in after playing in the cold—red cheeked, hair matted with sweat, peeling off the outer layer of snow-caked clothing, waiting to slide a toasty coating of cocoa down my throat.

  “You’re here!” Mom carries a mug toward me now as she rushes across the entryway. “Bob, she’s here!”

  Her hug is one armed but comforting, and I inhale a spicy-sweet scent. “Mint hot chocolate?”

  Mom beams. “Your favorite.”

  I shrug out of my jacket and drop it with my purse onto the pile of coats on the sturdy wooden bench next to the front door. My hands wrap around the warm red mug, and I smile as I survey the room. Mom has gone all out this year. White Christmas lights line the tops of the walls and continue their festive path down the hallways and around the rest of the first floor.

  Mom and I follow those lights into the kitchen, where a small Christmas tree sits atop the marble countertop, alongside a group of snowmen from her porcelain collection (cute or creepy—it’s hard to say). A low hum of holiday carols flows from the radio, and more tantalizing aromas waft toward me. Mom’s making her famous swedish meatballs, and I’m guessing some sort of cheesy potatoes, and—wait. “Did you bake cookies without me?” I can’t keep the pout out of my voice.

  Her smile turns apologetic. “Sorry, hon. But we can frost them together after supper.”

  My dad walks into the kitchen, and I grab an olive from the tray he’s holding. “Ah, Monie, you made it.” He gives me a quick hug with his free arm and glances over my shoulder. “Can we thank the family who gave you the ride?”

  “He had to get going.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “He?”

  “A man. And his niece,” I add quickly. “They had to get to their own Christmas celebration.”

  “Well, we are certainly grateful,” Mom says.

  Dad harrumphs. “Coulda walked you in.”

  I shudder at that picture of awkwardness—Dad would eye Connor with suspicion, and Mom would insist on giving him a tour of the house. “So, where’s everybody else?”

  Mom sighs, leaning back against the countertop. “Your brother is downstairs playing that video game of his.”

  Dad jerks his head toward her. “I told him absolutely no Fortnite. Not on Christmas Eve, for crying out loud.”

  She holds up her hands. “He helped with the cookies, Bob. I told him he could play until it’s time to eat.”

  “He’s always playing that goddamn thing,” Dad mutters.

  I chuckle. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come upstairs when Kaley gets here.”

  They exchange a look. “They . . . aren’t seeing each other anymore.” Mom glances toward the basement door, lowers her voice. “She broke up with him.”

  “Oh no.” Emmett is seventeen, and it’s been years since we’ve had anything in common—when he withdrew into his teenage shell and I into my bubble of adulthood. But he’s still my baby brother. “Poor Emmett. What happened?”

  Dad scoffs, shifting the tray to his other hand. “We have no idea. Doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

  A burst of laughter floats in from the living room, and Dad sighs. “Better get back in there—if Dave tries to talk politics with Kathleen, we’re gonna have to take away their steak knives.”

  I snort, then smile in a blaze of satisfaction. Last month I passive-aggressively unfollowed Dave on Facebook after one too many ranting political posts. “Tell Kathleen to give him hell.”

  Dad shakes his head and walks out, and Mom busies herself with silverware. Then she clears her throat. “The Johnsons brought Walter.”

  I freeze. “No.”

  She doesn’t look up as she begins gathering silverware to set the dining table. “What? I’m just saying. He’s visiting from California.” She says the word like it’s a fanciful, mythical island.

  Mom also has fanciful, mythical ideas about Walter and me ending up together—so she can tell her friends how we grew up next-door neighbors, how we used to play together, and how we even shared our first kiss. We were eight, for goodness’ sake, and it was a dare. A sloppy, gross dare.

  So what if we went on one date while I was home from college one summer, and only after Mom bugged me about it for weeks? So what if we shared way more than a kiss on that d
ate because I was tipsy and needy after a string of bad first dates and short-term relationships? That was ages ago, and Walter and I are thousands of miles apart, in every sense imaginable.

  “Mom,” I warn.

  “He’s very kind, Simone. Understanding.” She clears her throat. “He works in pharmaceuticals, you know.”

  Heat creeps into my neck and I clench my fists. “Mom, I don’t even know where to begin with that . . . and I will remind you that I haven’t actually been diagnosed yet.” A swelling in my throat, the reminder of our post-Christmas plans to trek to Minneapolis.

  “I know that.” Mom holds up her hands in defense again, now filled with spoons and forks. “I just worry about you. I’m your mother. It’s my job.”

  We share a look, and there’s so much sorrow in her eyes that for a moment I catch a glimpse of a parent’s fear, a mother’s love.

  But then she sighs. “He really is a good boy, Monie.”

  An absurd chuckle erupts before I can stop it. “It sounds like you’re describing a dog, Mom.”

  She shoots me a look, then walks toward me and stuffs a pile of silverware into my hand. “It’s Christmas, dear. Let’s at least be nice.”

  Soon the only sounds are the murmur of voices in the other room and the gentle croon of Bing Crosby’s “Silent Night.” I let myself relax as I focus on my task, but only after I say a quick prayer that tonight will be as smooth and uneventful as possible, that maybe I’ll even have a good time.

  I scrutinize a spoon in my hand. Maybe I’ll get a Christmas miracle.

  But my reflection, upside down and distorted, seems to mock me for thinking something so unlikely. I drop the spoon into the drawer and slam it shut.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The table is crowded with food and people—with the heavy red tablecloth, we look like a group of dignitaries ready for a meeting, the chairs so close together you can barely squeeze in.

  I scan my options. Grandma is seated at the end, with Mom and Dad on either side. Damn—the Johnsons have already lined up next to Mom and our other neighbors, the Colts, next to Dad, so I can’t sit by either of my parents. That means small talk is inevitable, but I need to decide who is less annoying to sit by.

  I push my hair back from my face—there’s a snowstorm outside, but it’s blazing hot in here. Around me, the group continues friendly chatter at the table, and I make my decision: Walter will surely sit next to his parents, so I have to sit by the Colts to avoid any awkwardness and not send my mother any unintended signals of hope. I’m confident in this choice, but as I round the table, Walter emerges from the kitchen with a drink in his hand, and it’s like a warning bell goes off in my mind.

  He’s on the wrong side. Why is he walking toward the Colts? As he sits next to Mr. Colt, I’m a deer in the headlights, a statue frozen at the edge of the table. But I’ve committed. Now I have to sit next to him, or I’ll look like a complete jerk.

  The basement door opens then and Emmett walks out, his shoulders hunched over his lanky frame. We make eye contact, but if he registers my discomfort, it doesn’t show—there’s no sympathetic glance, not even a smirk as he slides into the seat next to Mrs. Johnson.

  I face forward again, plastering what I hope is a convincing smile on my face, and Walter smiles back, pulls out the chair next to him.

  Across the table, Emmett clears his throat. “Hey, sit by me, sis.”

  I turn in surprise, blink, then offer a shrug and a quick apologetic smile toward Walter before scurrying around the table. I don’t have time to thank my brother as I sit down—Dad is standing up and leading grace, and soon we’re passing plates and filling our bellies amid contented chatter. And now seated next to my brother, who has absolutely no desire to hold a conversation, I’m completely at ease.

  The minutes tick by, and I fill up my plate a number of times because it’s the holidays—no judgment. I’m deliberating whether I can lick my plate after my third helping of meatballs when Mrs. Johnson leans around my brother. “So, Simone.” Something about the way she says my name, the slow drawing out of the syllables, makes my shoulders tense. “How are you feeling?”

  It’s dripping with sympathy, and yet there’s something fake in her voice that makes my skin prickle. I take a long sip of the champagne Mom passed around the table—so long it can’t technically be considered a sip, really. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She beams at me, her smile garish amid fuchsia lipstick and face pinked from the heat of the room or the bubbly in her own glass. “Oh, that’s so good to hear, dear. You know, I had an older brother with MS.”

  I stiffen. “Uh, well, I’m not even sure that’s what I have.”

  Curse this long, twisting road of medical uncertainty. With all my appointments, every test to rule something out, someone else has inevitably found out what is going on—that the big, bad thing we’ve feared I have is multiple sclerosis. Sometimes it’s been my own fault—like my awkward conversation with my boss, Stan, because I needed so much time off work for medical appointments. Other times, it was totally my mom oversharing with nosy neighbors—like Mrs. Johnson.

  Her smile is too patronizing now, and as she opens her mouth to speak again, I cut her off, blurting, “So, uh, how’s he doing?”

  Mrs. Johnson’s brows furrow. “My brother? Oh, he died years ago.”

  I wince, then reach for my glass, raising it to my lips as Emmett leans forward with a snort. “Gee, that’s comforting.”

  “Emmett,” Mom warns, glaring from her seat down the table as I nearly choke on the final drops of my champagne.

  He shrugs and goes back to eating. I lean in, whisper, “Thanks.”

  “I just feel sorry for you.” His eyes cut to mine, a twinkle in them. “You know, since Mom and Dad love me best and all.”

  I elbow him with an affectionate “Jerk.” There’s truth to it—he’s their miracle, born years after they thought they couldn’t have any more kids—but I was old enough then that he was like my baby, too. We’re opposites in many ways—he’s all logic and I’m all emotion; he’s drawn to sports; me, the arts. We don’t even look that much alike, since I’m short like Mom, my pale skin prone to sunburn, and Emmett is tall like Dad, always tan in the summer. But my brother and I are still close enough to have each other’s backs like true siblings.

  Despite my gratitude and sisterly pride, my appetite has vanished. I glance over at Mrs. Johnson, who’s dabbing her red face with her napkin and sneaking indignant daggers at Emmett. The entire table is silent now except for the clinking of silverware and the clearing of throats, the tension so thick we could be cutting that with our knives instead of Mom’s holiday meal.

  I wipe my sweaty brow, press a hand to my cheek, but it does nothing to quell the flush on my face. I can feel everyone at the table’s eyes glancing up at me every few seconds from their plates. The ungracious sick girl. Finally, I can’t take it any longer. My chair scrapes against the laminate flooring as I push myself back, stand up.

  “Simone?” Mom’s eyes dart around the table—everyone else is now looking directly at me—before her nervous gaze lands on me. “Everything okay?”

  I shove a hand through my hair, scrambling for an excuse to get the hell out of here, then narrow my eyes at the center of the table. “I forgot the buns.”

  My brother snorts again, and my face blazes even hotter somehow. Mom sighs, “Ah yes, the dinner rolls. Thanks, dear.”

  But before I can make my escape, Dad clears his throat. “The kitchen garbage needs to be taken out. I mean, since you’re up and all.”

  I wrinkle my nose, but I’m grateful for the excuse to prolong my absence. “No problem.”

  Outside, I’m blasted with the cold as I clutch my jacket closed with one hand, the other firmly grasping the white plastic bag stuffed to the brim with Christmas party refuse. The snow is thick and heavy as it falls on my head, weighing down my hair, and my feet push through the ankle-deep snow already on the ground. I make my way around the
side of the garage, brush off the top of the large trash bin, and pull it open to hike the bag inside.

  Then I make a beeline back to the side door. Inside, it’s cool but comfortable—and blissfully quiet. I sag down onto the back bumper of my mom’s sedan and let my head drop into my hands.

  But I don’t cry. Instead, I fish inside my pocket, pull out my phone—cold but dry—then tap out a text: SOS.

  It vibrates within seconds—Nikki is probably watching Christmas movies with her girlfriend, Claudia, and her family. Family drama?

  More like neighbor drama.

  Ooh, is Walter there? Are you going to give him a Christmas present?

  A chuckle rips out of me before I can stop it—I clamp my mouth shut even though nobody can hear me out here. Very funny. He’s here, and so is his nosy mother. This is pretty much the most awkward situation imaginable.

  A holiday season already ruined by medical anxiety made even worse thanks to people and their insensitive comments.

  Across the garage, the interior door whooshes open, laughter and light pouring in, along with a slow shuffle of feet. There’s a pause—I’m hidden here behind Mom’s car, I’m sure of it—then the feet scuff across the concrete floor again. The door of the old garage fridge creaks open, bottles clink, then the door pads shut again.

  The door to the house opens again, and I let out a breath, home free—then my dad clears his throat. “If anybody happens to be in here, she’s probably got about five more minutes before her mother notices and comes looking for her.”

  Then he whistles a merry tune as he retreats inside, shutting the door behind him.

  I shake my head at my dad’s nonwarning, then sigh and push myself to standing. You can do this, Simone. But even my internal pep talk is weak, and I stand there staring out the window of the garage door into the blizzard, stalling as I watch swirls of frenzied white snow against the black sky.