The Speed of Light: A Novel(33)

I blink. “Do I need to get a doctor’s note or something?”

She shakes her head, meeting my eyes now. “We just . . . we aren’t sure, honestly. My coworker hasn’t had anyone come in with MS before, and our supervisor is out today.” She holds the pamphlet out a little closer to me. “But this has an 800 number you can call, and they can tell you whether it’s a permanent deferral.”

My throat catches. “A what?”

“That’s what it’s called when you can’t donate anymore.”

I blink. “Like . . . ever?”

Lucy nods, and it occurs to me that I should say something, acknowledge that I understand, but all I can do is stand in bewildered silence until her eyes finally flit to the seats behind me. “So.” She clears her throat. “Uh, thanks for coming in, though.”

I nod at last, plaster a smile on my face, then stand and stumble back through the curtain. My eyes are on the floor as I walk toward the door, because now it feels like everyone is looking at me, wondering what’s wrong with me, with my blood.

Permanent deferral?

The words, so confusing and so final, make my stomach hurt. I rush out the door and bump straight into our campus police officer. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No worries, Archer.” I look up into Officer Gemma Jackson’s kind brown eyes. “Hey, thanks again for sending out that notice about the active shooter training.”

I force a smile. “Of course. The session is coming up soon, right?” I’ve completed the online portion—at Stan’s urging—learning about the devastatingly morbid scenarios of what other colleges have done wrong in the past. But to complete the training, I need to attend the live session, as terrifying as the whole topic is.

“No, unfortunately we had to reschedule.” Officer Jackson smooths her crisp uniform, eyes darting to the side before resting on me again. “Between you and me, I had some trouble coordinating with the Admissions Office. I get the feeling it isn’t exactly Chet’s top priority.”

I smile sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

“Anyway, we’ll reschedule it during the summer—people aren’t as busy with students gone.”

I exhale, nodding. “I’ll be there.”

She looks past me, then into the blood-donation area, and sighs. “Guess I’d better get in there and get this over with.”

I wince at the reminder, but she’s already walking away, her confident walk the opposite of my own weak steps. As I push through the exit doors and walk back across campus to the Administration building, the frosty winter wonderland looks somehow garish now, and I’m chilled by the time I reach my office door.

From her desk, Nikki calls, “How’d it go?” and I slump across the office. She takes one look at me and leans back in her chair, hands folded behind her head. “Wow, did they take all your blood?”

“They didn’t take any.” I plop into a cushy brown chair next to her desk. “MS might be cause for a permanent deferral.”

Her brow furrows. “Might be?”

“They didn’t even know. Just gave me an 800 number to call.”

“Well, then, let’s call it.” I scowl at her dogged positivity, but she snatches the pamphlet from my hand and is dialing the number before I can stop her. “Hi there, I’m Simone Archer and I have MS. Can I donate blood?”

She winks at me, and I let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, just forget it, okay? Hang up.”

“Shh,” she scolds. “I’m on hold.”

I growl as I push up from the chair. I pace in front of her desk for what seems like forever before Nikki sits up straight. “Yes. Mm-hmm. Ah, that’s great. No—” She glances up at me, and I stop in front of her desk. “I’ll, uh, I’ll call you back. Thanks.”

She ends the call and sets the phone down, then folds her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Well, it took a while before they found someone who knew the answer, but you can totally donate.”

I blink. “I can?”

She lifts her chin triumphantly. “Yep. So . . . do you want to go back over there?” I frown, and she chuckles. “I figured. But, good news, right?”

I say nothing as I sink back down in the chair in front of her desk.

Nikki sighs. “So, this isn’t good news?”

I grasp for the right words to describe the shock of it, the embarrassment at being turned away—and underneath it all, an unexpected shame, as if it’s all my fault. I take a shuddering breath. “I just wasn’t expecting it. And now I’m wondering how many more areas of my life MS is going to unexpectedly pop up in. Between the support group and now this, it’s like . . . like I just don’t feel like me anymore.” Nikki says nothing, waits, and I scowl with frustration. “God, I’m sorry, I know I’m being dramatic, but I just want to feel like I’m in control of my life again. I want to decide to do something and just do it, you know?”

Nikki’s brow furrows in thought. “So do it. Think of something you can do—some goal that’s in your control and you can set for yourself—and accomplish it.”

“Yeah.” I nod thoughtfully, but the truth is, my mind is absolutely blank. Anything in my control seems so small and insignificant—like eating healthier, one of the generic recommendations from the neurologist’s office. Big deal. And yet picking something too grand and unattainable would be setting myself up for failure.