The Speed of Light: A Novel(25)

“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 around my shoulder. “That’s just fine. We’re so happy to have you.”

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.”