The Speed of Light: A Novel(26)

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.”