The Speed of Light Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542022675

  ISBN-10: 1542022673

  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Tim Green

  To Ted, who will always be the hero of my story

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  Monday, December 6, 8:08 a.m.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  PART TWO

  Monday, December 6, 9:37 a.m.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART THREE

  Monday, December 6, 9:42 a.m.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PART FOUR

  Monday, December 6, 9:51 a.m.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PART FIVE

  Monday, December 6, 9:56 a.m.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART SIX

  Monday, December 6, 10:03 a.m.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PART SEVEN

  Monday, December 6, 10:06 a.m.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  PART EIGHT

  Monday, December 6, 10:11 a.m.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  PART NINE

  Monday, December 6, 10:14 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  PART TEN

  Monday, December 6, 10:17 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  PART ELEVEN

  Monday, December 6, 10:20 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  PART TWELVE

  Monday, December 6, 10:24 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  PART THIRTEEN

  Monday, December 6, 10:27 a.m.

  PART FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART ONE

  TRAGEDY

  Monday, December 6, 8:08 a.m.

  In the darkness the snowfall is hypnotic, each flake sparkling as it winds down in slow motion, like the inside of a snow globe, safe and serene. I, too, am shiny and new in this imaginary place—I am me again, normal and healthy and his, a spellbound princess who gets her happily ever after. Who deserves it.

  “How’s it going in there, Simone?”

  My eyelids fly open. How easily spells are broken.

  I blink against the brightness as I’m wedged within a cylindrical prison.

  “Can you keep your head still, please?”

  Screw you. Probably not the best response, but the radiology technician’s voice in my ear is extra whiny today. Plus, imagining the delight of telling Nikki about my outburst later almost makes me say it out loud. My best friend would be so proud.

  “Doing my best,” I say instead, with all the fake cheeriness of a passive-aggressive text ending with a smiley-face emoji.

  The music starts again: familiar pop tunes. Even though it’s the holiday season, I didn’t request Christmas music during my MRI—I don’t want beloved holiday tunes ruined by being forever linked to this experience.

  I close my eyes again, trying to return to my inner sanctuary—the dark, cozy snow globe—and yet now I can’t drown out the throbbing, pounding buzzes and screams of this goddamned mechanical tomb in which I am entrapped. Jesus, now I know how poor Han Solo felt when he was encased in carbonite.

  Okay, that’s a little dramatic—and what is it about the MRI machine that makes me want to swear so damn much?

  It has to be the drilling sounds—relentless and constantly changing, so you can never quite get used to it. At first, a series of slow, pulsing buzzes; then they start shooting out at rapid fire, like a machine gun, only to go back to the intermittent, grating bursts.

  Today they’re like accusatory jabs: He’s gone. It’s your fault. It’s better this way.

  Deep breath, in and out. Don’t think about it, Simone. Any of it. Not him. Not what the MRI results might show—new lesions, a sign the multiple sclerosis has progressed. Not my uncertain future with this disease.

  And definitely do not fixate on the small throb of pain in the back of my head, a nagging ache that worsens the longer I’m stuck in the same position.

  Great, now my head is hurting more. Who designed these uncomfortable death traps?

  I would never do well in a torture situation, that’s for sure. I’d sing like a canary. What book was that where they ripped out the lady’s fingernails, and she finally gave up the location of her family?

  Would I do that? Could I endure that kind of torture if I had to protect someone—my parents, Nikki, my little brother? Oh God, what if I couldn’t do it?

  I open my eyes, focusing on the top of the white tube. It is time to shut down my spiraling thoughts—I would shake my head at myself, but that would earn another shrill warning from the technician. If I move now, we’d have to do the whole thing over. What would Nikki say about my irrational fears? She’d shake her head (because in the real world, nobody cares if you move your damn head) and say, Simone, nobody’s going to be tortured.

  And she’d remind me that the reward for MRI day is all the wine and chocolate I want after work tonight while watching Bridget Jones in my pajamas.

  I just have to get through today.

  With sheer power of will—and the promise of pinot noir, Hershey’s Kisses, and Bridget’s Mark Darcy—I’m finally able to let my thoughts drift to mundane, cheerful things like what to buy my mom for Christmas, or which cheesy sweater to wear to the office holiday party.

  At last, the voice of the tech rings in my ears: “Okay, Simone, we’re all done. You’re free now.”

  Free.

  The word stings, lingering within me as the machine slowly releases me from its grip, the tech waiting to help me to my feet.

  In the changing room I hurry to switch back into my clothes before the chill penetrates my skin through the thin hospital gown. I work hard to avoid the reflection of the weary woman in the mirror. From my purse, a low buzzing—I reach for my phone, and Nikki’s slyly smiling face glows on the screen. I answer the call, but she speaks before I can.

  “Morning, sunshine. How was the tanning bed of doom?”

  I snort, pressing the speaker button so I can set my phone down and
hike up my jeans. “Lovely as always.”

  “When will you get results?”

  I sigh. “Could be tomorrow; could be next week.”

  “Well, happy fucking holidays to you.”

  I laugh bitterly and Nikki clears her throat.

  “So, no need to hurry into the office because—spoiler alert—Stan is MIA.”

  “What happened to the staff meeting?” I’d planned to take the whole day off for some post-MRI self-care—it’s the first week after winter commencement, so the campus is dead anyway—but our boss had insisted we needed to meet this morning.

  “Oh, we’re still having it, unfortunately. His email said he’s running late. Apparently, he’s in some big meeting upstairs in Administration right now, but we are still meeting at nine thirty sharp—he even said some cryptic shit just to make sure we don’t skip the meeting.”

  I freeze. “What cryptic shit?”

  Nikki pauses, her hesitation flowing through the phone. “Simone, you know he’s just being dramatic. He likes to feel important.”

  “What did he say, Nik?”

  She sighs. “He said it’s time for us to finally discuss budget cuts, because every department needs to. But he did not say layoffs, so don’t even worry about that, okay?”

  Nikki and I have been best friends for a dozen years—it’s the reason we took jobs in the same department at the same university—so she knows damn well that telling me not to worry is like telling me not to breathe, but I pretend for her sake, or for mine. “Yeah, sure, sounds good. I’ll be in soon.”

  We end the call, and I sag against the wall. I’ve lost so much already this year; now I could lose my job—and along with it, my health insurance. I rake my hands through my hair and consider screaming, or crumpling into the corner of this tiny radiology changing room.

  The woman in the mirror beckons me to meet her gaze, but I fight to resist.

  I’m saved when my phone buzzes again. Nikki, a text: Just a reminder that we got this. Get your ass in here.

  The tiniest smile tugs at my lips, at my heart. Silently, I pick up my purse, pick up myself, shuffle out the door, back on my unsteady path.

  As I sit at my office desk in Herald Hall, snowflakes float down through the air outside my window, almost exactly like I visualized during my MRI this morning: a falling sea of white, pure and serene. The snow-covered campus is exquisite, the towering elms of the quad veiled in white as the stately brick academic buildings stand watch. The scene should fill me with peace, even hope. But it’s sad somehow, like a reminder of holidays past, something you’re not sure you can ever get back.

  This has been my view for almost eight years now, ever since Nikki and I took jobs right out of college in the Office of Marketing and Communications of this small university in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We even got adjoining cubicles—in the “mega office,” as we affectionately call it, a shared space with an open floor plan—so we can look up from our desks across the room at each other for a covert eye roll when our boss says something cringeworthy. I look around at this place where we sit day after day, me cranking out press releases while Nikki designs brochures.

  So much of the fabric of my identity is woven into what I do for a living, and maybe that’s wrong, but dammit, I’m clinging to any part of myself I can—any part my disease can’t take away.

  My eyes flick down to my desk, and I tap my phone, sitting on top of a pile of file folders. Shit. It’s 9:24 already.

  I take a greedy slug of coffee, trying to calm my nerves before our staff meeting, but my bladder twinges.

  Ugh, my body’s timing is terrible. As always.

  I stand, craning my neck to spot Nikki across the room, hunched behind her computer monitor. “Bathroom break—I’ll be quick.”

  “You’re not jumping ship, are you?”

  “Are you kidding? I am so excited for this meeting,” I scoff.

  She meets my gaze, eyes intense. “Listen, we don’t know what Stan’s going to propose until we get there, okay?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Ripples of anxiety have been spreading like wildfire across campus this fall. Tough enrollment year, freezing positions . . . I’ve been ignoring the rumors for a long time because of everything going on in my personal life, but now Stan’s email, and this morning’s meeting, both confirm that we need to slash our budget. “I just keep thinking how Hayley heard Chet say some people would lose their jobs.”

  Nikki narrows her eyes. “Chet’s a dick—he shouldn’t be saying that. And even if it’s true for a big department like Admissions, there are only three of us over here in Marketing, okay?”

  My lip quivers, but she holds my gaze. “Okay. Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Damn right I am. Other departments are having meetings, too—I’m sure Stan just wants to be able to show he’s making an effort with his own team. You know, like ordering cheaper phones instead of the mega-expensive ones when we replace the system.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, I don’t know why those haven’t arrived yet.”

  “Like he cares—once his new phone comes in, he’ll have no more excuses for ignoring his wife’s phone calls.” She rolls her eyes as I grimace, then turns back to her computer screen. “Now go pee already.”

  I turn away from her desk to step out into the hallway, but my left knee buckles and I shoot my hand against the wall for support, a familiar thump of worry in my chest. I proceed slowly, one foot in front of the other on the faded brown industrial carpeting. No numbness, no muscles locking up.

  False alarm. Must’ve turned too quickly. Damn knee.

  I sigh. I’ve come so far this past year, but I’ll probably always jump to that conclusion. Probably always be waiting for the next relapse. The curse of chronic illness.

  The floor creaks beneath me as I walk down the otherwise-silent hallway. This corridor is a strange beast in itself—it connects the Administration building, where our office is, to the Student Union through a door at one end and, on the other end, a doorway to an academic building teeming with classrooms. When you’re waiting to pass someone walking through, the corridor seems to stretch on forever as you deliberate on when to make eye contact and extend an awkward greeting. Too soon means you have several seconds of agonizing silence before you pass each other; too late and you might miss your chance, risking rudeness, which in the Midwest is practically a crime.

  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 pr
esident’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.