The Speed of Light: A Novel(3)

But there’s little chance of meeting someone in the hall today, with campus slow to wake up, now that the semester is over and the students and professors have left for winter break. It’s so barren that I’m afraid when I look down the dimly lit corridor I might see something creepy, like the twins from The Shining.

As I near the end of the hallway, though, a soft, peppy holiday tune wafts toward me out of the break room: “Feliz Navidad.” A quick wave of sadness pulses through me, a memory pricked, though it’s fuzzy, and I push it aside as my bladder twinges again—sheesh, thirty years on this earth, and how many of those have been spent in the bathroom? I shake my head as I flick on the break-room light, ignoring the ancient compact radio that sits on the countertop and the scent of burned popcorn wafting from the microwave. The women’s restroom is on the far side of the room—vacant, thank God—and I hurry toward it.

The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind me, and I lock it, shuffle across the black-and-white tiles to the toilet, sigh in relief when I’m done, then walk to the sink. The cruel glare of the fluorescent light is like a spotlight onstage back in our college theater days, exposing me to the judgment of a roomful of strangers. Now it’s just me, and as I wash my hands, I fight again to avoid the haggard woman in the mirror.

From outside the bathroom, the muted clamp of the microwave door swinging shut jolts me—Charlene is heating up her cinnamon roll, her daily breakfast. It’s her morning ritual; her afternoon ritual is stopping by our office to see if Nikki or I have any gossip to share. I smile. She’s usually the one who has juicy info for us. She’s the president’s secretary, super friendly, and has worked here so long that she knows everybody’s business.

My smile fades when I realize she’s probably down here using our break room because the upstairs Administration conference room is occupied. My stomach flips as I picture the group of bigwigs gathered around the table, determining our fates. But I force myself to take a deep breath, determined not to be late for our meeting.

I shuffle over to the door and reach for the handle, but I pause, turning back at last to face the woman in the mirror. I owe her that much, at least. Long dark hair twisted up carelessly, tired green eyes hiding the pain, the fear. I wish I could tell her she’s made the right choices about her health, about her relationship. That no matter what happens, no matter what any test results say or what any staff meeting reveals, everything will be okay.

That she could still get her happily ever after, somehow.

“You’ll be fine,” I whisper, but I arch my own eyebrows skeptically in reply.

Worth a try.

I flick the light off with one hand as the other presses down on the door handle. There’s a soft click as the door unlocks.

But before I push it open, a jarring crack pierces the silence outside the bathroom, freezing me in place as my mind tries to identify the sound—surely it was somebody dropping a heavy object. Or maybe it was Charlene’s breakfast splattering all over the inside of the food-crusted microwave.

Still, I stay immobile on the inside of the bathroom, with my hand on the handle.

A few seconds of intense quiet before a man shouts in the distance. A woman screams. Then, that popping sound again, farther away, an eerie echo of something foreign but familiar. My mind races, desperate to normalize the sound—but a sick feeling slams my gut when I realize I don’t recognize it from real life, only action movies and TV dramas.

Gunshots.

I can’t move—my mind is reeling, but I’m locked in indecision as I stare at the door, my hand trembling as it slowly releases the handle.

Then footsteps return, hard and fast, into the break room. Maybe somebody got away—maybe they came to help Charlene, to save us all. Maybe I should open the door. But something stops me. I wait in the heavy silence, lean forward, press my ear to the door to listen.

Another blast rings out close and loud, and my hands fly to my mouth in time to clamp back my scream.

Terror courses through me, but the feet on the other side of the door are moving again, stepping closer to the bathroom—closer to me—and it’s like I’m in slow motion and fast-forward all at once. Beneath the surface, right under my skin, a scream is brewing, a version of me who wants to crumple to the floor in the corner, helpless. But deeper within is something harder, the version of me strong enough to walk out of the neurologist’s office last year without sobbing, strong enough to walk away from him last summer without breaking down. This version gets me to the wooden bathroom cabinet, tall and wide, where the custodian stores the extra toilet paper and disinfectant spray.

There’s only one shelf, toward the top. I’m short. I can fit. I will fit.

Within seconds I’m wedged inside, hunched underneath the shelf, huffing in shallow breaths of the potpourri-scented cleaner. It’s too stuffy, too cramped; it’s so hot in here, and I can’t do this. I can’t. But I suck in a longer breath, squeeze my eyes shut—and I pretend I’m back in the goddamned MRI machine. Pretend in a few minutes I’ll hear the irritatingly cheerful voice of the technician reminding me to hold still.

Pretend that this will all be over soon.

The bathroom door handle jiggles, and my heart stops. A sliver of light appears through the edge of the cabinet as the door opens. I bite down on my lip to hold in any sound threatening to escape.

Please God please God please God please. It’s the only prayer I can think of right now, the words playing on a loop in my mind.