The Speed of Light

by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  I’m swigging a refreshingly hoppy IPA when someone steps in front of me. “I thought that was you.” The woman beams, winded from the run. “Simone, right?”

  I nod, wipe the foam from my mouth as I squint at her familiar face. Tall, with long dark hair—ah, she was at the support group meeting. “Danielle?”

  She nods. “Didn’t know you were a runner, too.”

  Her smile is careful as she feels me out. The buzz from the run and the beer is coursing through my veins, so my laugh is easy. “It’s a newly acquired skill. Trying to stay as healthy as possible.”

  “I understand. I was the same way.” Then she bites her lip. “Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry about the way that support group meeting went.”

  My smile falters, my buzz killed. “No problem.” But my voice cracks, and I swig my beer in a feeble attempt to cover it up.

  She swallows. “Well, I hope it hasn’t stopped you from coming back. I mean, some people don’t need a support group—I understand. I hesitated at first, but it’s been nice when I have questions. When I’m trying to decide what choice to make about something.”

  “Do they jump on you if your choice isn’t what they agree with?” My biting words come too fast for me to stop them. I wince, and my hand tightens around the cup.

  But when I look up, Danielle is smiling. “Sometimes. But almost five years in, I’ve learned to take anyone else’s opinion with a grain of salt. I’m the one living this life, you know?”

  I blink, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Yeah.”

  She sighs, her jaw set as if she’s decided something. “Look, Simone, I remember what it was like, newly diagnosed. Nothing makes sense. There’s all this advice and yet nobody is experiencing this illness in the same way you are.” My eyes are wide, my nod enthusiastic, and it seems to help her gain momentum. “You just have to learn to make the best, most informed decision you can. Trust your doctor, but trust yourself, too.”

  Our eyes are locked, and relief courses through me, but questions do, too—so many questions swirling through my mind. I take a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?” She nods, so I press on. “Do you . . . have a good relationship with your neurologist? Do they answer your questions?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been seeing her for several years now, and she and her nurses are very helpful. Why do you ask?”

  I let my anxieties and frustrations pour out. “Because when I called my neuro’s office, the nurse made me feel like a bother for calling. So I’m wondering if I should look into switching . . . do people do that?”

  “Sure. It’s your life. You have every right to see a neuro you’re comfortable with.”

  Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Do you need any help finding a new one?”

  I picture my fridge at home, where a Mount Rushmore magnet holds up the note Walter gave me all those months ago. Dr. Bukhari is in Minneapolis, but so is Dr. Montgomery and his unhelpful nurse—and at this point I would drive to the ends of the earth if it meant I could see someone I could relate to. I shake my head. “No, thanks. I have a recommendation from a friend.”

  It’s my life. My future. And I can at least control this one part of it.

  “Mama!” The small voice cuts through our moment, and Danielle reaches down to scoop up the little boy who has thrust himself against her leg.

  “Frankie, this is my friend Simone.” A man walks over, tall, bronze skinned with dark hair, and leans in to kiss Danielle. She turns to me. “Simone, this is my husband, Shane. I might be biased, but I think I had the best cheering section today.”

  He smiles wryly. “The older kids are a little cheered out, so they headed to the van with their iPads.” He smiles at me. “Nice to meet you.”

  I nod, the vision of Connor retreating far away in the parking lot seared into my mind.

  “Is it time to go home?” Frankie asks.

  There’s an unmistakable whine to his voice, and Danielle kisses his forehead, then turns to me. “We probably should get going. But it was great seeing you.”

  I nod again, another question swelling within me that I can’t seem to get out. I watch as Shane, already carrying one backpack, deftly scoops Frankie out of Danielle’s arms and takes the backpack off her shoulder. “You doing okay?” he asks quietly, and she nods.

  My breath stops as they turn away—the words finally burst forth. “Danielle, wait.” She turns back in surprise. “Could I . . . could I ask you something else?”

  Her eyes flit to Shane, and he says, “I’ll see you at the van.”

  When she turns back to me, my insides flip-flop, suddenly nervous. “So, um, how long have you two been married?”

  She smiles. “Going on ten years.”

  I can’t seem to find the words. The beer and the run combined have made me uninhibited, and suddenly I’m afraid I’ll cry if I even say his name.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she asks quietly.

  “I . . . I was.”

  Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”

  “I was the one who ended it. Because I didn’t know how he truly felt.” I meet her eyes, try to keep the intensity and desperation out of mine. “How can you be sure that . . . they won’t think of you as a burden?” My voice trails off at the end; my eyes glance in the direction her husband walked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean—”

  “It’s okay, Simone,” she says, cutting me off. “We all have those feelings sometimes.”

  “How do you get past them?”

  Danielle doesn’t hesitate. “If you love someone, they’re never a burden. You take care of them no matter what. That’s what loving someone means.” She glances over her shoulder toward her family. “We take care of each other. It might be in different ways, but it’s all important.”

  I nod slowly and she smiles. “I should get going.” She cocks her head, then reaches into her pocket for her phone. My own phone buzzes. “There. I just friended you on Facebook. If you want to accept my friend request, you can contact me anytime with questions, okay?”

  I nod, grateful, and as she walks away I stare after her, relieved, but questions still burn—and underneath it all, pushing its way up, a deep exhaustion settles in from the physical challenge I’ve conquered and the emotional hurdles still before me.

  When Nikki walks up and puts her arm around me, I sag into her. I’m so tired; fatigue is sapping my strength now, but so are the visions swirling in my head of Connor walking away from me. And the doubts—so many doubts—but also accusations. It’s my fault. It’s too late. It’s better this way.

  Is it?

  Nikki squeezes my shoulder a little tighter. “You did great today.”

  I take a breath and it catches. “Should I . . . I mean, do you think . . .”

  She reads the storm in my weary eyes. “Right now you need to rest and celebrate,” she says softly. “One challenge at a time, okay?”

  My eyes are fixed on the horizon, the way Danielle left. The way Connor left. But finally, I swallow back the fears, the doubts. “Okay.”

  My MRI is next Monday—when I called Dr. Reynolds, my primary doctor, to schedule it, she set it up for right around the one-year mark of my diagnosis. I know now that I want to switch neurologists, so I’ll definitely ask for the MRI results to be sent to Dr. Bukhari.

  One challenge at a time. Right now I’ll just focus on getting through MRI day. A lot can change in one day, in one moment.

  Everything can change.

  PART THIRTEEN

  COURAGE

  Monday, December 6, 10:27 a.m.

  All I can focus on right now is remaining still—our only chance of surviving is if Chet thinks we’re already dead. Behind me I hear him fiddle with the weapon, cuss in frustration. Then, the sound of the rifle opening—he’s reloading.

  Terror pulses in my gut. I have seconds.

  I can’t give up, not when Nikki still needs me. I have to try, but everyone who has rushed Chet has failed; wh
y would it be any different for me?

  A wave of dizziness hits—then a bolt of lightning, a random scrap of memory. Weakness doesn’t give you a pass.

  We’re lying here—injured, weak women—and it just might be enough for me to catch him off guard.

  It just might be enough to save us.

  My heartbeat rams against my chest, legs tingle—but now it’s like a message. We did not make it through all of this to go down without a fight.

  And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fight.

  I hear him now, peering over us, and a brief flash of fear and doubt floods through me. But then I feel Chet’s foot jab into my side, like he’s a hunter checking his kill. The pain makes me wince—and sets me in motion.

  I lurch up and shove Chet back, raising my knee up swiftly into his groin. He cries out and doubles over, and I latch my hands on to his wrist, thrusting the gun away from us as it goes off. I scream and scream and keep screaming, muscles aching with the effort of holding him back.

  Suddenly my office door bursts open—and as I turn I realize this is it; I can’t fight off anyone else. It’s either the end or a new beginning, and I can’t control it either way.

  I cannot control a single thing.

  But I see Officer Jackson in the doorway, gun raised and pointed at Chet. He yells and whips his arm away from me, but it doesn’t matter now. She fires three times, and he goes down; then it’s silent, so deafeningly silent, and I fall.

  My guardian angel hovers over me when I open my eyes in the ambulance, struggling to push through the thick, velvety veil of fatigue. I whimper, but Officer Jackson shushes me, pushes back my hair. “Shh, you did good, Archer. Time to rest now.”

  “Nikki,” I say.

  She smiles. “She’s in the other ambulance. She’s still fighting, don’t you worry. Try to relax—you’ve been through a lot, and you fell pretty hard when you passed out in there.”

  I close my eyes, a tear escaping, and immense relief blends with grief over the loss, the betrayal, the sheer exhaustion. I’m in and out, restless, visions of blood and guns and races and the randomness of it all.

  The scream of the ambulance jolts me awake, and even though fatigue clings to me, threatening to pull me back into the darkness, my focus is suddenly razor sharp.

  I almost died today. I almost died from something I never could have foreseen.

  One moment can change everything. A shooter. A devastating diagnosis. A handsome stranger. The terrifying truth about life is that you never know which one you’re going to get.

  What a terrifying, beautiful truth.

  We are all living on the edge of a cliff without even knowing it, and one fragile movement can push us over the edge or pull us to safety.

  I won’t ever be free of this disease, of what it might do to my body, my mind. I won’t be free of fear, or worry about the future. I can’t control what cards fate deals me, but I can choose how I play them.

  Today, I chose to keep living.

  Somehow from deep within, the words Danielle said to me after the race that day come back to me: If you love someone, they’re never a burden. You take care of them no matter what.

  Maybe Connor and I can take care of each other.

  Maybe it’s not too late for us.

  At the hospital, I’m rushed into a room, and fatigue rears forward as a flurry of nurses descend on me with blood-pressure cuffs, monitors, and questions, so many questions.

  “The woman brought in with me,” I finally manage to say, grimacing as a nurse with gray hair and kind eyes inserts the IV needle into my arm. “How is she?”

  Her smile is sympathetic. “We can’t release information on other patients, dear.”

  I huff, then try my next pressing concern. “Well, can I at least have my phone?”

  “We’ve already contacted your family. They’re on their way.”

  My family. For a moment everything is overshadowed as I picture my terrified parents flying down the interstate at a hundred miles per hour. “Oh God.”

  “Shh, dear, just rest, okay? We’re going to take good care of you.”

  And I finally listen, at last succumbing to the fatigue.

  When I wake, my parents and Emmett are standing around my hospital bed. “Mom.” My voice is thick with sleep and emotion, and she leans forward, red faced and puffy eyed, showering me with kisses. She doesn’t let me go, and I half expect her to crawl in with me.

  Dad places a hand on my arm, clenching his jaw in that way he does when he’s trying to hold in any show of emotion, but his eyes well up. Even Emmett takes my hand. He looks gaunt. “Love ya, sis,” he whispers.

  “I love you guys.” My eyes blur. I’m overwhelmed, and for a moment I just let them hold me, surround me in the protective, loving cocoon of family. Then I pull myself up so I’m sitting. “Nikki?”

  “She’s okay, sweetie,” Mom murmurs. “Claudia texted to say she’s out of surgery and stable. She’s recovering in the ICU.”

  Oh thank God. My shoulders sag in relief, but still my eyes plead, and finally Emmett nods. “I’ll take you up there.”

  I get up, grateful, and take his arm. “We’ll let your nurses know,” Mom says. “I want to talk to your doctor anyway.”

  I nod, relieved, as we walk out into the hallway, then dart another glance at my brother. “Did you . . . did you hear anything about the shooting?”

  He winces, doesn’t look over. “Yeah.”

  I take a deep breath. “How many . . . ?”

  Emmett pauses, glances over as if deliberating, then stares ahead again. “Five confirmed,” he mumbles. “So far.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, my stomach heaving. Chet. Stan. Charlene. The poor man upstairs. And Hayley. Oh, Hayley.

  “You okay?” Emmett asks, tightening his hold on my arm, and I nod, force a sad smile as we continue our slow procession through the hospital.

  When we reach Nikki’s room, I take a deep breath, brace myself, but my knees still buckle when I see her lying there, all tubes and beeping monitor, so frail. Claudia turns when we walk in, and her face crumples. She rushes over and we’re hugging tight, crying. We stand like that for a long time before she pulls back, wiping her eyes.

  “How is she?” I ask quietly.

  “She’s going to be okay. Surgery went well. The doctor says she needs to rest now.”

  From behind us, a small voice calls out: “I need a fucking drink is what I need.”

  We chuckle, and I walk over to her bedside, take her hand. “Hey, Nik.”

  Her eyes are slits, but she smiles. “Hey.”

  Emmett clears his throat from the doorway. “Uh, I’m gonna go down and get something out of the vending machine in the waiting room.”

  Claudia takes a shuddering breath. “And I think I’ll go grab a coffee. You two okay?”

  I nod, and after the door whooshes shut behind them, I turn to my best friend. We stare at each other, eyes brimming, until she speaks. “Hayley?”

  I shake my head. “She saved us.”

  Nikki’s face crumples. I grab a tissue from the box sitting by her bed, then dab at her eyes carefully. We sit in silence for a long time, mourning this life cut unbelievably short, this incredible gift we’ve been given. Finally Nikki slides her hand into mine and squeezes. “Thanks for coming back for me.”

  “You would’ve done the same. You’ve stayed with me through this entire past year.” I take a deep breath. “And I actually think it’s about time you left. You and Claudia.”

  Her brow furrows. “What?”

  I will myself to have the strength to say this. “You need to go to Minneapolis.” My voice breaks. “Life is short. No day but today.”

  Her lip quivers. Then she opens her eyes wider, as if she’s trying hard to peer into mine, make sure she sees me clearly. “Will you be okay?”

  I sit up straighter. For the first time in a long time, I am sure of the answer. “Yes.”

  The door opens behind us, a
nd when I turn, it’s not Emmett who returns with Claudia, but Mom. They’re talking in hushed, tense voices, but when they look up, they both smile. “Rest time,” Claudia says.

  I lean in and hug Nikki gently and awkwardly around her IV and tubes. “See you tomorrow.”

  As Mom and I walk back, I am still full of grief about the horror of the day, but I am also hopeful, grateful.

  We survived. We’re still here.

  Life is short. I don’t want to let another moment pass without taking my shot at the life I deserve. When I get back to my room, I’m calling Connor.

  But when we walk through the door of my room, the tension is thick; something is off. Dad’s standing in the corner, head down; Emmett’s sitting, staring at the floor intensely, his hands balled into fists.

  “What’s going on?” I glance at Mom, who’s giving my dad a look. She catches me looking and smiles sadly, almost guiltily. “Mom?”

  Her eyes dart from me to Emmett, who finally throws his hands in the air. “Shit, just tell her, okay? She deserves to know.”

  “Emmett.” Mom frowns at him. “Language.”

  An alarm in my head, soft but rising. “Know what?”

  When I look at Mom, she breaks. “Oh, Simone. Connor was here.”

  I gasp. “He was?” I turn back to look through the door and out into the hallway, but there are only doctors, nurses, the normal hustle and bustle of an emergency room. “Why didn’t you come get me?”

  “Well, because, he, uh . . . he left.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I told him to get the hell out of here,” Emmett blurts out.

  I whip my face toward my brother, the sting of betrayal equal to my confusion. “Emmett, why would you do that?”

  Silence again as they all look at each other, and a cold ache seeps through my body, as if it’s bracing for the blow.

  Mom looks down as she whispers, “Honey, he wasn’t alone.”

  I blink, unable to process these words, put my hand to my face. Dad is quick, rushing to me and steering me toward the bed. Sitting now, I stare at my hands as if they hold the secrets of how to deal with this news. “Who was with him?”