The Speed of Light: A Novel(2)
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.