The Speed of Light

by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  “No, no, no, this can’t be happening.”

  I lean back against the door and zip up my jacket against the cold, biting back a sob, fighting off the feeling that the world is caving in on me—but no, I can’t break down now.

  Think, Simone, think.

  I glance at the church, but I can’t bring myself to go back in. I can’t face them again; I can’t take their judgment.

  Nikki is out of town. My parents are more than three hours away and would freak out if they knew I was stranded.

  A locksmith? Can AAA help with that? I cringe. Then I stand up straight. Connor?

  Oh God. As much as I would love to see him, I’ll have to explain what I’m doing here—I’ll have to talk to him more deeply about my illness, my fears, and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. But it’s freezing, and I rub my hands together—my damn gloves are on the passenger seat—and rack my brain for a better solution.

  I stare at my phone. My eyes flick back to the church again; my mind floats back to the meeting, the argument, my uncertain future. My shoulders sag.

  My fingers fumble as I text—it’s cold, and I don’t know what to say without sounding incredibly stupid.

  Hi! Are you busy?

  He texts back within seconds, and I can’t help but feel a thrill.

  Hey, just working out. What’s up?

  I take a deep breath, go for it.

  I’m kind of in trouble and need some help. I hit “Send” quickly—I don’t want to lose my nerve. But then regret washes over me. I should’ve explained more. My phone rings before I can type any more. “Hey,” I say sheepishly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  There’s worry in his voice, and I can’t help it, dammit—my voice breaks. “I need a ride.”

  “Simone, are you okay?” Worry has leaped into alarm.

  Deep breath—I force down the lump in my throat, force my voice to sound even. “Yes, I’m sorry—I’m fine, really. I just . . . I locked myself out of my car.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the big Lutheran church downtown—Dakota Avenue, near Twelfth Street?”

  “Got it. My gym isn’t too far away—I can be there in ten minutes. Just stay by your car, okay?”

  “Okay.” I end the call, stand in silence except for the rush of traffic in the distance. A bitter gust of winter wind whips by, and I shiver, hugging my arms around myself and leaning back against the car to steady my aching legs. A sob at the back of my throat is dangerously close to pushing its way out. But I close my eyes, steady my breathing. Connor’s on his way. Gratitude spreads its warmth over me. Maybe he isn’t so easy to scare off.

  Exactly eight minutes later, Connor’s old Ford truck pulls up next to my car. He steps out and rushes over, eyes scanning the parking lot. I want to make a joke to hide my embarrassment, but his arms wrap around me, warm and solid, and I sag into him. Connor pulls back, touches my face. “Are you okay?”

  I nod and he takes my hand as he leads me to his truck. We drive away in silence until I find my voice. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem. Sorry I freaked out on the phone. Just kinda gave me a scare.” He glances over, his eyes pained. “It was . . . sort of like when my sister-in-law texted me that night. I didn’t think I’d react that way.”

  I gasp. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  “Hey, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips, kisses it softly, then doesn’t let it go. We drive on, and as my body warms, fatigue seeps its insidious grip into my muscles. I lean back against the plush passenger seat and close my eyes, my hand still in his. Soon the car slows to a stop and the engine cuts out. I open my eyes and see the outline of my apartment building materialize into a solid structure as my vision focuses on the light flooding out from the glass doors of the main entryway. Connor speaks softly. “I’ll take you back to your car tomorrow.” I offer a weak smile in thanks, and he clears his throat. “So . . . why were you at the church? Do you want to talk about it?”

  Not really. But I glance over, the ordeal of the meeting, the doubts and uncertainty swirling about in my mind. He dropped everything to pick me up—the least I can do is tell him the truth, for God’s sake. I pull my hand from his to rub my face, then fix my stare out into the darkness of the parking lot. “I went to an MS support group meeting today for the first time. It didn’t go well.”

  There’s a beat of silence before he responds. “It’s no longer a maybe, huh?”

  I wince but meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It just . . . hasn’t come up.”

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s okay. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” He smiles, and I smile back. “So it didn’t go well tonight?”

  I sigh. “I didn’t really expect it to, but I promised Nikki I’d try it. She thinks it’d be good for me to talk to other people going through the same thing as me.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “It’s just . . . with MS, no one is going through the exact same thing as me, you know?” I shake my head. “I don’t expect you to know.”

  “You mean nobody’s symptoms are exactly the same.” I glance over in surprise, and he smiles. “I did try to read up on it. Just googled it, I mean, after we first met.”

  I smile back. He was thinking about me, too, after Christmas Eve. “That’s right. And tonight I found out nobody’s choices are the same, either. I told them I decided against starting treatment right away, and they told me I made a bad decision.”

  His eyes widen. “Wait, what do you mean you decided against treatment?”

  I shake my head, shake away more words from the neurologist: MS isn’t fatal. Except when it is. Damn internet and its unlimited information about progressive MS, about rare complications—severe infections, pneumonia. “MS is a chronic disease you live with. There are treatments available to lessen the likelihood of a relapse.”

  “You mean, to stop it from getting worse?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  He nods slowly. “So why did you decide against treatment?”

  Because the longer I stay off treatment, the longer I can ignore the fact that I have this disease. The words come fast and furious in my head, and I have to look away. My diagnosis was a terrible relief after months of the unknown. I couldn’t take any more information; I couldn’t take any more long conversations about it.

  I draw a shaky breath, refuse to release those truths. “My neurologist said since I’m doing well right now and my earlier symptoms have resolved, we can wait and monitor my condition. That means I’ll get an MRI every year, and if it shows any changes, or if I have any relapses before then, I’ll need to start treatment.” I swallow. “He said it’s my choice.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as the doubts over my decision pulse even stronger. Because it’s all too clear now that I could have made the wrong choice. My brain could be betraying me right now, forming lesions without me even knowing it, succumbing to the progression of this relentless disease.

  But treatment means injecting myself with expensive drugs three times a week—medicine that may or may not be covered by insurance, that may or may not make me feel nauseated, weaker than I’m already feeling. It might reduce relapses, may even delay disease progression in the long run. But with MS, there are no guarantees.

  And dammit, I just want to feel normal for as long as I possibly can.

  We sit in silence again, the distant blare of a train whistle the only sound, as if signaling a crossroads. I open my eyes and force myself to meet Connor’s gaze, because this might be it, this might be too much, an ending before we’ve really begun.

  But there’s no judgment in his eyes, just a thoughtful intensity. “That makes sense to me. All you can do is keep making the choices that are right for you.”

  I let out a puff of breath, relief spreading its warmth through my body. “Yeah.”

  He gives my hand one more squeeze,
flashes me his wide grin, then cocks his head toward my apartment building. “Come on. Let’s head inside and take your mind off things, huh?”

  My eyes are saucers now, and he laughs. “Whoa, I just meant maybe we could watch a movie or something.”

  “Right,” I say quickly. “That sounds great.”

  I say a prayer of thanks as I peel off the spare key taped to the back of the HOME SWEET HOME sign hanging from my apartment door. Soon I’m curled up on my couch, tucked into a fluffy blanket and eyeing Connor, who has found the emergency supply of mint chocolate chip ice cream and stands in the kitchen in his gray hoodie and sweat pants. He looks up. “One scoop or two?” I grin slyly and he shakes his head. “What am I even saying?”

  He walks over and hands me a bowl with two scoops and sits down next to me.

  I smile as I take the first minty-sweet bite. “Do you want a drink or something? I think there’s some beer in the fridge.”

  His jaw tenses. “Yeah, about that . . . I, uh, I don’t drink.”

  “But you . . .” I stop, frown, think back . . . I never actually saw him drink from his glass on Christmas Eve. On New Year’s Eve, he said he was driving. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t had a drink since my brother, Cam, died.” He rubs his neck, eyes on the floor. “It’s something I decided that night, but I guess I haven’t really told anyone yet. I’m sorry.”

  I reach for his hand. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  He looks up and smiles. I give his hand a squeeze, then lean over for the remote and press play. The iconic Star Wars theme blares through my apartment.

  “So which one are we starting with?” he asks.

  “Episode IV,” I say, snuggling up next to him.

  Connor smiles as he wraps his arm around me. “A New Hope.”

  PART FOUR

  HOPE

  Monday, December 6, 9:51 a.m.

  “Hayley?” I sputter. For a moment, hope surges within me—there could be other people in Stan’s office—but when I scan the room behind her, I find it’s empty.

  Hayley shrugs, grimacing. “Surprise.”

  I almost fly into a rage—it’s just like her to be so goddamned flippant in a terrifying situation—but then I notice her trembling hands. “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “Yes.” She squeezes her eyes shut before opening them again. “I mean no, not really, but physically, I am. What the hell is going on?”

  My eyes implore hers. I whisper, “Do you have your phone?”

  “No, I left it on my desk, and Stan’s phone isn’t working.” She shakes her head, looking confused. “I just came over to ask for extra fact sheets for a high school visit next week—the door was unlocked, so I came in to wait, and then I heard gunshots and somebody ran past . . . he was . . . he had . . .”

  I raise a finger to my lips—she’s spiraling, and if I’m not careful, her panic will spread to me. “Did you see him? Did he see you?”

  “I just saw a guy in a ski mask, but he ran by so fast, and the door was half-closed—I don’t think he even noticed me.” Her eyes grow wider. “I heard another gunshot after he ran by. And . . . a scream.”

  I wince. “Yeah. I’m going to get Nikki.”

  Her eyes widen. “You aren’t getting out of here? You didn’t . . . I thought you came here to . . . you know, rescue me.”

  A flare of anger again, but there’s no time for that. “Consider yourself rescued, Hayley.” I wrench my thumb toward the stairway exit across the hall. “It should be clear to go out this way. Go down those stairs and out the door—it’ll take you past the food service loading zone and into the parking lot.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  I glare at her. “Find a phone and call 911 when you get out there.”

  Hayley stares back at me, and I can’t read her face. But when she opens her mouth, something has changed, like the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes. “Dammit, Simone. I can’t just leave you here.”

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  She sighs. “I think I do.”

  All my judgment of her privilege, her ignorance, sweeps away, pushing me toward her for a quick hug. “Okay.” I nod, grim. “Follow me.”

  “Wait!” She runs to Stan’s desk and returns with an advertising award, a glass monstrosity from the days of old white men sitting around a table spouting their alleged brilliance. “This could be a weapon, right?”

  I nod again, then sweep my eyes down the corridor. The office I share with Nikki is several more yards down the hall, but before I can take a step toward it, there’s a crash from above—not a gunshot, but something heavy falling.

  I whip around to face Hayley. “The shooter?” she breathes.

  My mind races. It could be. Or it could be more survivors—or someone else hurt. My eyes flit down to my and Nikki’s office, then back to the gray steel door to my right that leads to the staircase.

  Strength in numbers. I have to check it out.

  With a trembling hand I lean toward the door, push gently against the cool silver bar. The door eases open soundlessly, and I take a cautious step forward, my feet silent on the faded brown carpeting.

  We listen, our heartbeats the only sound, until—there, a murmur, muffled but quick. Hayley gasps; she hears it, too.

  Voices.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  January 11, eleven months before

  Nikki and I traipse out into the crisp morning air. A dazzling white frost blankets the trees on campus, a sparkling reminder that beauty exists even in the dead of winter. You can’t ask for better winter marketing photos for a Midwest university—the perfect chance to paint the season as something to enjoy, not endure.

  “So he stayed overnight.” Nikki arches an eyebrow, then turns her attention to a frosty pillar in the middle of the campus green. “You guys getting serious?” Her voice is pinched, but it’s her first day back from the trip to Minneapolis, so maybe she’s just crabby.

  I shrug. “We slept together, but we didn’t sleep together. And I don’t think it’s been long enough to call it serious.” But a smile tugs at my lips at the memory of his steamy kisses, the fact that he texts me good morning every day, calls me every night, and we’ve already had two coffee dates and have made plans for an official dinner-and-a-movie date this weekend.

  Nikki frowns at an icy branch overhead. “Yeah, but serious enough that you called him before me.” Her voice is hurt. “After the support group meeting last week, I mean. You know you can always call me, right? No matter what.”

  “I know.” Her loyalty spreads its warmth all the way down to my toes. “But I don’t want to always be such a drag of a friend . . . such a burden.”

  “You are not a burden. Okay?” I nod, and she drops her eyes. “I mean, you could cut the rest of us some slack once in a while.” My brow furrows, but she scoffs, shaking her head. “I’m sorry the meeting sucked. What a bunch of assholes.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Eh, I tried it, right? It’s done. Now, do we have enough photos? It’s cold out here, and it is Thursday morning.”

  Nikki grins. “Of course.”

  Arm in arm, we make our way across the twinkling campus into the Student Union, past a group of students playing pool in the gaming alcove, beyond rows of tables lined up with eager club representatives, and downstairs into the bustling student café.

  I inhale deeply as the heady scent of brewed beans envelops us, welcoming us like an old friend. The line of backpacked students moves quickly, and soon, with coffees in hand, we sit down in our usual spot, a comfortable distance from the chatter of students and the grating sound of the milk steamer.

  I sink down onto a plush mauve cushioned chair with a contented smile. When we first started working at Southeastern State University, this little gem gave us a way to keep part of our college lives going after graduation. Since sophomore year, Nikki and I have had Thursday-morning coffee dates—no matter ho
w much homework we’ve had or how busy we’ve been juggling work-study jobs.

  Now, it’s grown into an even bigger occasion, with more of our work friends often joining us—like Raj and Hayley, or Charlene, the nice older lady who works on the floor above us in Administration. “Anybody else coming today?” I ask.

  Nikki shakes her head. “Don’t think so, which is a shame because I just overheard a couple of students waiting in line say something about two professors having an affair. Figured Charlene would have the scoop on that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Probably just a rumor. But anyway, I want to hear about the show!”

  Nikki sighs and her face changes, her wistful smile reminding me of past Nikki, college Nikki, loud and proud and safe in the affirming environment of liberal arts college theater, free to be fully and completely herself. “Mone, it was so great. I mean, Wicked was fabulous, of course. But just . . . being there, you know? I didn’t realize how much I missed the theater scene.”

  “Ugh, I don’t miss opening-night jitters.” My stomach twists at the memory. I tried out for that first production at Nikki’s insistence, but despite my nerves, I had fun—and we banded together with the group of thespians into a tight-knit, boisterous troupe. But thinking of that terrifying moment before going onstage—standing in the darkness, waiting to step through the thick, velvety curtain and into the light—still sends shivers rippling through my core.

  Nikki laughs. “Yeah, I loved the rush.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Remember the plans we had? Living in the big city, working our way up?”

  I snort. “I think it involved auditioning for Second City in Chicago, right?”

  “Yeah, that would be epic. But I mean even working behind the scenes, in Minneapolis.” She takes a breath, heavy and expectant. “We could still do it, you know.”

  I pause, coffee cup frozen midair. “What are you talking about?”

  Her words come out in a rush, like she doesn’t want to lose her nerve. “Claudia’s clinic is opening a satellite in a suburb of Minneapolis. Burnsville. She’s thinking about applying for a transfer.”