The Speed of Light
Page 8
CHAPTER ELEVEN
January 1, eleven months before
I peer out my apartment window, eyes squinting into this new year as it dawns, a vast gray procession of clouds across the sky. A misty fog shrouds downtown Sioux Falls, and as I sip my french roast, I try to pretend this is somehow a good omen.
I exhale long and slow, fuss with the row of green houseplants on the window ledge, their colorful pots lined up in rainbow order. But the knot in my stomach is relentless—and it’s not an excited flutter from last night’s perfect date. It’s the burn of anxiety, the dread of what I’ve promised to do today.
The support group meeting.
As if on cue, my phone beeps. A text from Nikki.
Good luck today. Give it a chance—maybe they’ll have some good advice.
The knot eases its grip. Nikki and Claudia are driving to Minneapolis today to see a musical and pick up Claudia’s aunt, who’s flying in from China—it’ll be the first time Nikki meets her, and she’s super nervous, yet she’s still taking the time to send an encouraging text to her fragile best friend. Thanks, Nik. Good luck to you, too! I’ll let you know how it goes. I end with some sparkle and smiley faces because nothing conveys lighthearted confidence like a well-placed emoji.
I pad across the wooden living room floor and onto the plush gray hall carpeting, but when I reach for my purse on the wall hook, my eyes land on the same mirror from last night. There’s judgment in her eyes, and a pang of guilt strikes. The truth is, I probably would’ve had time to see a matinee with Connor today—the support group doesn’t meet until five o’clock. But who wants to spend their second date trying to hide extreme anxiety?
You could’ve told him, she seems to say.
He seems to want to know, at least if I interpreted his awkward question at the bar correctly. Hey, I was wondering, though, how everything, you know, was going. But it was so vague and not even a question, technically. Maybe he wasn’t even asking about it.
I stick out my chin. Maybe I’m not ready to answer, anyway. Maybe it’s too soon to share the reality of my illness.
“Just let me live with the fairy tale, okay?” I whisper my plea out loud, but the lady in the mirror is silent.
I spend the day as one does when attempting to comfort oneself: curled up on my plump, faded brown couch, eating cereal from the box, fully engrossed in cheesy romantic comedies on Netflix. I’m about two and a half films in—woman returns to her small town, you know the rest—when I glance at my phone. It’s almost four.
“Shit!” Frosted Flakes spray from my mouth, the box slipping to the floor. I jump up, throw the soft floral blanket off my shoulders, and race into the bathroom, stripping off my pajamas and hopping into the shower.
Dammit, I should’ve been writing down questions, picking a comfortable outfit, thinking of an appropriate excuse to leave early if necessary. Nikki’s voice booms in my mind: You can’t keep burying your head in the sand.
I sigh as I glob on some shampoo and lather up my hair. Well, too late now—and maybe it’s better not to overthink or overprepare. After my shower, I move about the apartment in a flurry, finally grabbing my purse, shrugging into my coat, and dashing out to my car.
Traffic is forgivingly sparse on this holiday, and soon the massive steeple of the downtown Lutheran church looms before me. I have exactly nine minutes to sit in the parking lot and stare at the building, dark and hulking in the dwindling daylight, a warm amber glow emanating from its vast stained-glass windows.
My plan is to use every last one of those nine minutes, so I scroll through my phone. But I can’t focus—I need to talk to somebody. I can’t bother Nikki right now. I won’t. So I do the next thing I think of.
Mom picks up after three rings, and I smile. “Happy New Year.”
“Monie! Happy New Year to you!” She pauses and her voice is muffled. “Bob, it’s Monie. I’m putting you on speaker, honey.”
“Happy New Year!” Dad calls from across the room, and I smile, picturing him in his old gray recliner, beer in hand, eyes glued to a football game.
Mom clucks. “We had such a nice big meal, hon—so much leftover food! I wish you could’ve been here.”
I roll my eyes out of habit, but the pang I feel surprises me. “I wish I could’ve been there, too, Mom,” I say softly. “But I have to work tomorrow, and I, uh . . . I have this . . . you know, this meeting.”
“Oh, the support group! Dad and I are so proud of you for going. Are there a lot of people there? Anyone your age?” Then she gasps, as if struck by a thought. “Anyone you know?”
God, I hope not. “Mom, I haven’t even gone inside yet. I’ll have to let you know, okay?”
“Oh, okay, hon.”
We lull into silence, but the clock on the dash tells me I still have five minutes. “Hey, how’s Grandma doing?”
There’s a pause, then a catch in Mom’s voice. “Oh, the same. She’s fine, really. We’re all good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, dear. Nothing you need to worry yourself with.” I scrunch my nose, think about protesting, but she speaks again, her voice brighter. “Emmett has been talking to Kaley again.”
“Really? That’s great. Are they back together?”
“Oh, he won’t tell us anything. You know how your brother is.” Her chuckle is sad, but I join in anyway. The two of us are the same, talking without really saying anything. I don’t know how long we’ve been this way, scratching the surface, hiding the pain in an attempt to protect each other from it.
I bite my hand, and the lump in my throat quells. The show must go on. “I suppose I should get in there, Mom.” Then I glance at the clock again and gasp—two minutes. I need to move. But Mom drags out the goodbye in typical Midwestern fashion, reminding me I promised to come up for Memorial Day this year—not that they don’t want me home sooner, mind you.
I cradle my cell phone between my ear and shoulder, uttering the appropriate number of mm-hmms and sures as I turn off the engine, toss my keys in my purse, drop the damn thing, bite back a curse word as I grab it off the floor, then open my car door, hitting the lock button as I step out. Out in the chilly evening air, I finally have to cut her off. “Okay, Mom, I really need to get in there now.”
“Sure, hon. Let us know how it goes, okay? I love you.” Her words are muffled. Then, my dad’s voice in the distance: “Love you, Mone.”
“Love you guys, too.”
I end the call and stalk toward the church. A whirling flurry of snowflakes takes my breath away as I cross the parking lot, almost like a warning. I open the door anyway and step inside. The church is large, with a newer section added on to the original sanctuary that’s more of a community center. In a room to my right, a choir rehearses a song, bright and peppy, about Jesus and love and with a lot of hallelujahs. I smile at the familiar hymn, like a security blanket from childhood.
Down the hall I spot a makeshift sign in front of another doorway: MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS SUPPORT GROUP—WELCOME!
Five more cautious steps and one shaky breath, and I’m in the room. Four long brown tables are pushed together into a square with an open center, as if a big crowd is expected, but there are only three people, clustered together on the side opposite from me. One spots me and leaps up with a wide smile. I clutch my purse in front of me as she approaches, hoping to God I’m smiling back.
“Hi there.” She’s about my mom’s age and wears a similar flowery-musk perfume. I lower my purse slightly.
“Um, hi.”
“Welcome! I’m Dora.”
“Simone.”
“Do you have a caregiver here with you, dear?” She glances behind me.
My fingers tighten around my purse, and the knot in my stomach flares. Caregiver?
Dora’s smile doesn’t falter. “The caregiver support group meeting is across the hall.”
“Um, no, I don’t.” My eyes flick down. This was a mistake. “It’s just me.”
Dora puts an arm
I lower my purse again and cross the room with her. Dora addresses the other two—both women. “Ladies, we have a newcomer! This is Simone.” After a chorus of friendly hellos, she turns to me again. “Why don’t you get settled—coffee and cookies are over there—and then we’ll get started?”
Quiet conversation continues as I shrug out of my coat and set it down alongside my purse. I’m walking over to the refreshments just as another woman—a little older than me, with long dark hair—gets up from her chair and walks over as well. She smiles at me. “Hi. I’m Danielle.”
“Simone.” I smile back awkwardly, reaching for a cup to fill with coffee from the large silver carafe.
Danielle grabs a cookie, pauses, then grabs another one before turning to me, winking conspiratorially. “This is my only night out without the kids—usually we’re driving them to all of their activities—so I’m taking two cookies. And I might even go to Target after the meeting.”
I chuckle as she walks away, feeling lighter somehow, both from the perfectly normal exchange and the quaint family life she’s described.
Nikki’s words float into my mind—Give it a chance—and as I walk back to my seat, I finally feel ready to.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At my seat, I clutch the compact Styrofoam cup and dunk the soft sugar cookie into my coffee—so bland it’s almost hot water and yet comforting, a reminder of the weak brew served at every church function, everywhere.
Dora stands. “Welcome, everyone.” She laughs. “Well, all four of us. But that’s okay—we always have a lighter turnout in the winter.” She turns to me. “Some people travel, and for some it’s harder to get around this time of year.”
I nod, already more at ease with a smaller crowd.
“But since you’re new, Simone, why don’t we start with introductions.” For confirmation Dora turns to the other women, who nod, then back to me, smoothing her light-blonde bob. “I’m Dora Baker. Diagnosed twelve years ago. I used to teach, but it got hard with fatigue—keeping up with little ones is no easy task! So now I work part-time at the library.”
I smile, then turn to the woman sitting next to Dora—Danielle, whom I just met, and who I’m guessing is in her late thirties. “Hi again, I’m Danielle Sherman. And let’s see . . . the first time I was diagnosed was almost fifteen years ago.” She laughs at my raised eyebrows, flipping her long dark ponytail. “MS isn’t the easiest disease to diagnose, as I’m sure you know.”
Dora nods. “I think, looking back, most of us can think of symptoms we’ve had without even realizing it—we just dealt with them.”
Everyone nods and I join in, remembering how Dr. Montgomery pointed out that my headaches and blurred vision were early clues.
Danielle continues. “Anyway, my definitive diagnosis came four years ago, after my youngest was born. I stay home with my kids, and they’re a big help—my oldest always reminds me to rest.” Her smile fades slightly. “It’s not always easy, but we’re making it.”
Dora places a comforting hand on her arm. I turn my focus to the woman across from me, who offers a soft smile and a nod. “I’m Greta Nielsen.” She’s older than Dora, with thick glasses and short salt-and-pepper hair. “Diagnosed twenty-three years ago. I worked as an accountant, but you could say MS forced me into early retirement.” Her smile widens, so I smile back.
They all face me now, expectant, and sticky sweat pools underneath my shirt as I shift in my seat. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you all. I’m Simone Archer. My diagnosis . . . well, my doctor has suspected MS for a while, but the neurologist just confirmed it last week. I’m feeling pretty good, but the thing is . . . I don’t really know what I’m doing. Or what I’m supposed to be doing—like on a daily basis, I mean—so I guess I wanted to come and try this out and meet you all, to understand it all, a little better.”
My eyes are on the floor after the flurry of words, and when I look up, all three are leaning forward. “We’re so glad you came, Simone,” Dora says softly.
Danielle nods. “Yeah, it’s great that you’re educating yourself so soon. I think I was in a haze for the first few months.”
A haze. I’d never thought to describe it that way. Maybe it’s natural that I’ve been burying my head in the sand, as Nikki says—maybe it’s part of the process.
“It’s an overwhelming time,” Dora adds, “but you’ve absolutely come to the right place.”
My shoulders sag in relief, a glimmer of hope sparking somewhere deep within. Dora gestures to a table near the refreshments, where books, sheets of paper, and DVDs are stacked. “We have a lending library with about any topic you’d need—information on mobility aids and cooling packs, tips to beat fatigue, treatment comparisons. What treatment are you taking, by the way?”
“Um, I’m not taking anything.”
Dora blinks but says nothing. For a moment, the room is silent. I grip my hands together under the table.
“What do you mean you’re not taking anything?”
I turn toward the sharp voice—Greta stares at me, incredulous, and I deflate like a slit balloon. “I mean, I’m not on any medication for MS right now.”
“But, why not, dear?” Dora’s eyebrows are furrowed. Danielle’s eyes drop to the floor.
My defenses shoot up, and I scramble to answer. “Well, my neurologist talked about options, and one option was to wait and monitor with annual MRIs. I mean, since I’m doing well right now.” I catch myself rambling, and my voice finally trails off.
“Well, you got bad advice.” Greta’s bluntness is a punch to the gut, snuffing my spark of hope.
Dora forces a smile, eyes wide and earnest, and it’s almost worse, like she’s struggling to argue an obvious point with an irrational person. “The national standard is for everyone to start treatment immediately—that’s how you get the best outcome, long term.”
I want to run. I want to hide. I’ve been blindsided, and I don’t have the knowledge or confidence to defend myself. “He said it was up to me. I guess . . . I guess I’m still thinking about it.”
The room is silent, Greta’s judging gaze boring into me. Finally, Dora clears her throat, politeness taking over. “Well, uh, Danielle, you wanted to start talking about this spring’s Walk MS event, right?”
I can’t force any more smiles, can’t manage any more stiff nods. As Danielle begins talking, my legs lurch up as if on their own, and I’m upright, turning toward the door—but my foot catches the chair leg and I stumble, staggering a few steps forward. “Simone, is everything okay?” Dora calls.
I freeze, heat flushing my face. It’s not even MS throwing me off balance—it’s the unexpected attack of unwanted opinions, the rush to leave this judgment behind. My eyes dart around the room as if looking for an excuse—but careful to avoid the pale-blue pamphlets that whisper about depression; the bright-yellow flyer with taunting bold letters discussing intimacy issues and incontinence; the walker and wheelchair standing sentinel by the table.
Finally, I glance down at my phone, push the side button so the screen lights up, and give an exaggerated nod. “Oh, I’m fine, just got a text from my mom. I, uh . . . I forgot to pick her up.” My smile is wide but forced. “So sorry, but I need to go. Thank you all very much.”
Oldest trick in the book, and I have no idea if they actually fall for it or if they are just better at polite smiles than I am. I press forward, one foot in front of the other, feeling their eyes bore into my back as I cross the now-silent room. I’m almost out the door—clinging to my purse as if it were a life raft—when Danielle calls softly behind me. “Hope to see you again, Simone.”
I wave without turning around. I don’t want her to see me cry.
I burst through the church’s double doors and then gulp at the cold air as if I’d been underwater. I tried this stupid support group, and it was not as bad as I expected it to be.
It was much, much worse.
I’m never going back. I’m going to bury my head in the sand, and no one can judge me ever again.
I trudge back across the parking lot, sucking in rapid breaths in a futile attempt to keep the fear at bay. But it’s chasing me, nipping at my heels with fangs of doubt that are sharper than ever, now that I’ve been accused of not taking the right steps to manage my illness.
You got bad advice. The biting words echo in my brain.
Dr. Montgomery made so much sense—he said I didn’t have to start treatment, and of course I jumped at the chance to put off feeling like a patient.
An ache in my gut now, sharp and accusing. He also said there’s no crystal ball.
That means this might be the wrong choice. How will I ever know?
Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. But I just wanted it over. And once I’d decided, he shipped me off for a final meeting with the nurse—the last step of the appointment, a rushed visit where she piled me up with tips and brochures and ushered me out the door.
And now I am adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
I shiver at the bitter wind whipping across the parking lot and the brutal despair threatening to seep into my bones. But I have to get home. I can’t stay here, and it’s the thought of ice cream and Netflix—the perfect self-care to stave off the darkness—that gets me to take one shaky step, and then another. It’s enough to get me to my car, but as I reach into my handbag, a flare of panic shoots through me.
My keys.
Where are they?
I dropped them into my purse before I went in—I’m sure of it—and yet my anxiety begins to crawl up out of my throat as I root through the purse and turn up nothing.
Frantic, I press my face against the driver’s-side window and squint. An anguished cry escapes my mouth.
My keys, silver and shiny and attached to the key fob, are lying on the floor under the steering wheel.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The keys lie there, worthless, taunting me. You think this day can’t get worse—guess again!
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