The Speed of Light: A Novel(72)

I’m swigging a refreshingly hoppy IPA when someone steps in front of me. “I thought that was you.” The woman beams, winded from the run. “Simone, right?”

I nod, wipe the foam from my mouth as I squint at her familiar face. Tall, with long dark hair—ah, she was at the support group meeting. “Danielle?”

She nods. “Didn’t know you were a runner, too.”

Her smile is careful as she feels me out. The buzz from the run and the beer is coursing through my veins, so my laugh is easy. “It’s a newly acquired skill. Trying to stay as healthy as possible.”

“I understand. I was the same way.” Then she bites her lip. “Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry about the way that support group meeting went.”

My smile falters, my buzz killed. “No problem.” But my voice cracks, and I swig my beer in a feeble attempt to cover it up.

She swallows. “Well, I hope it hasn’t stopped you from coming back. I mean, some people don’t need a support group—I understand. I hesitated at first, but it’s been nice when I have questions. When I’m trying to decide what choice to make about something.”

“Do they jump on you if your choice isn’t what they agree with?” My biting words come too fast for me to stop them. I wince, and my hand tightens around the cup.

But when I look up, Danielle is smiling. “Sometimes. But almost five years in, I’ve learned to take anyone else’s opinion with a grain of salt. I’m the one living this life, you know?”

I blink, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Yeah.”

She sighs, her jaw set as if she’s decided something. “Look, Simone, I remember what it was like, newly diagnosed. Nothing makes sense. There’s all this advice and yet nobody is experiencing this illness in the same way you are.” My eyes are wide, my nod enthusiastic, and it seems to help her gain momentum. “You just have to learn to make the best, most informed decision you can. Trust your doctor, but trust yourself, too.”

Our eyes are locked, and relief courses through me, but questions do, too—so many questions swirling through my mind. I take a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?” She nods, so I press on. “Do you . . . have a good relationship with your neurologist? Do they answer your questions?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been seeing her for several years now, and she and her nurses are very helpful. Why do you ask?”

I let my anxieties and frustrations pour out. “Because when I called my neuro’s office, the nurse made me feel like a bother for calling. So I’m wondering if I should look into switching . . . do people do that?”

“Sure. It’s your life. You have every right to see a neuro you’re comfortable with.”

Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you need any help finding a new one?”

I picture my fridge at home, where a Mount Rushmore magnet holds up the note Walter gave me all those months ago. Dr. Bukhari is in Minneapolis, but so is Dr. Montgomery and his unhelpful nurse—and at this point I would drive to the ends of the earth if it meant I could see someone I could relate to. I shake my head. “No, thanks. I have a recommendation from a friend.”

It’s my life. My future. And I can at least control this one part of it.

“Mama!” The small voice cuts through our moment, and Danielle reaches down to scoop up the little boy who has thrust himself against her leg.

“Frankie, this is my friend Simone.” A man walks over, tall, bronze skinned with dark hair, and leans in to kiss Danielle. She turns to me. “Simone, this is my husband, Shane. I might be biased, but I think I had the best cheering section today.”

He smiles wryly. “The older kids are a little cheered out, so they headed to the van with their iPads.” He smiles at me. “Nice to meet you.”

I nod, the vision of Connor retreating far away in the parking lot seared into my mind.

“Is it time to go home?” Frankie asks.

There’s an unmistakable whine to his voice, and Danielle kisses his forehead, then turns to me. “We probably should get going. But it was great seeing you.”

I nod again, another question swelling within me that I can’t seem to get out. I watch as Shane, already carrying one backpack, deftly scoops Frankie out of Danielle’s arms and takes the backpack off her shoulder. “You doing okay?” he asks quietly, and she nods.

My breath stops as they turn away—the words finally burst forth. “Danielle, wait.” She turns back in surprise. “Could I . . . could I ask you something else?”

Her eyes flit to Shane, and he says, “I’ll see you at the van.”

When she turns back to me, my insides flip-flop, suddenly nervous. “So, um, how long have you two been married?”

She smiles. “Going on ten years.”

I can’t seem to find the words. The beer and the run combined have made me uninhibited, and suddenly I’m afraid I’ll cry if I even say his name.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks quietly.

“I . . . I was.”

Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”

“I was the one who ended it. Because I didn’t know how he truly felt.” I meet her eyes, try to keep the intensity and desperation out of mine. “How can you be sure that . . . they won’t think of you as a burden?” My voice trails off at the end; my eyes glance in the direction her husband walked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean—”