The Speed of Light: A Novel(15)

God, a lifetime ago—a bad reaction following a severe sinus infection, but I’d relied on my parents to deal with the scary, confusing words like autoimmune and neurological. Kind of like now.

“They did mention MS back then,” Mom says. She continues to pepper Dr. Montgomery with questions, but it all fades to background noise as my eyes float to the door. I close them and picture myself walking out of here—a quiet coffee shop, a dimly lit bar—somewhere I don’t have to think about this anymore, because it’s all just too much.

“But it’s your call, Simone.”

My eyes fly open, and when I turn, everyone is watching me. I clear my throat. “Uh, what?”

Dr. Montgomery smiles, patient but detached. “I was saying that because you’ve been doing well since the initial onset and your mobility has returned, I feel comfortable recommending we monitor your condition with MRIs once a year, as long as no new attacks occur.” He leans toward me. “But it’s your call. There’s no crystal ball, so I can’t say with certainty how your disease will progress long term.”

I barely register the disclaimer on this contract I didn’t sign. I glance at my parents, both watching me expectantly, then look longingly at the doorway again. I just want this over. I want to go back to normal, as long as I can.

I meet Dr. Montgomery’s gaze. “No treatment.”



We’re quiet as our car rolls back across the highway, city traffic thinning when we reach the open road of the wide prairie. Dad’s old country music hums softly from the radio as he drives. From the passenger seat, Mom darts nervous eyes back at me every so often.

My phone buzzes. Nikki again—How did it go?—but I set my phone down. I’ll call her once we’re home. I lean my head against the cool window as snow-covered grass and trees rush by. For a moment, I catch my own reflection in the window, like a pale, sad ghost staring back at me, and it’s like I’m roused awake, my shock giving way at last.

This is it for me. This is my path now.

I can’t say with certainty how your disease will progress long term.

It hits me in a wave, a future I can no longer picture, a fear I can no longer contain. My face crumples, and Mom reaches a hand back, patting my leg.

“I’m scared,” I say.

“I know, honey. But we’re here, okay? Everything will be okay.”

I’m not sure about that—not sure of anything anymore—but I nod, latching on to her calm reassurance as if it’s my life raft through this storm.

Out the window, a truck rumbles past us. It looks vaguely like Connor’s, and it disappears as quickly as he did. I lean back and let myself mourn one more loss, even though I know now that it was nothing more than a fairy tale. And there’s no room in my life for fairy tales anymore.





PART TWO

FEAR





Monday, December 6, 9:37 a.m.

I hold my breath, cramped inside the cabinet like a caged animal, afraid to make a sound. But the footsteps recede, and I no longer hear the stranger’s breathing. Relief washes over me like a wave of nausea.

The door clicks shut. My body shudders as I release my breath in one long rush. I push the cabinet door open a crack and scan the bathroom, but I can’t make out any shapes in the inky blackness.

The shooter’s gone. I’m sure of it.

And yet I’m trembling as I step out of the cabinet, blinking until my eyes adjust. Sink. Toilet. Mirror.

I am alone.

Still, my body remains tensed, ready to fight or flee. I stare at the door—he could be right outside, waiting. And I’m sure it is a he; it’s almost always a man when you hear about terrifying stories like this—stories I never thought I’d be a part of. But now, one step out and he might shoot me—like in horror movies, when everyone knows the character should not go where the killer is, but they do anyway.

Not me—I will stand here as long as it takes. I shake my head in defiance, but the fear lingers, its oppressive tentacles tightly coiled within me.

Minutes roll by on a river of molasses, an eternity passing as I stand silently in the dark, calm enough to recite real prayers in my mind: Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done . . .

Thy will be done.

I ball my fists, the prayers in my head replaced with the sounds of violence I heard moments ago, on the other side of the thick wooden bathroom door. The terrifying crack of the first gunshot. Then the second. A woman’s scream in the distance.

My hands fly to my mouth.

Nikki.

The prayers vanish now, and I fall back on my desperate plea.

Please God no please God no please God no.

That scream had to have been hers. That means she is out there now, alone. Injured. Or worse.

Panic consumes me—I can’t do it. I can’t handle this—and I curl down onto the cool tiled floor, hands wrapped around my legs.

My legs. I stare at them, at these limbs that have defied me, shaky and unreliable. I scratch my nails, listen to them rasp against my jeans. These legs work now—they can do this.

Nikki needs me. And I can get to her.





CHAPTER SEVEN

New Year’s Eve, one year before

I need more sleep—or at least more coffee, since half of my first cup already splattered on my pants as I scrambled to make it to work on time. I open my office door, ready to cry or scream—I’m not sure. But when I step into the room, Nikki rushes toward me, wrapping me in a hug, and I sag into her.