The Speed of Light: A Novel(5)
“No problem, ma’am.” She takes my license plate number instead. “I’m looking at your area, and there are not a lot of services available tonight.”
I swallow. “Um, okay. So what should I do?”
There’s a pause, and I can hear her fingers tap quickly on a keyboard. “You just might need to wait a little longer than usual, ma’am. We’ll get someone there as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” I add a hasty “Merry Christmas,” but she’s already hung up.
I sit back and close my eyes, try to think about good things. Mom’s peppermint hot chocolate waiting for me at the house, Nikki opening the present I got her. She’ll be so excited about the tickets to our favorite musical, Rent, in Sioux Falls this spring. Maybe she’ll even think it’s better than our own “epic” production was, the one that solidified our friendship freshman year of college—or at least close, since she designed most of the set and costumes as well as playing one of the leads.
But even as the thought makes me smile, it’s there. The little flip in my chest, the knot of anxiety that never lets me forget: There’s something wrong with you. You could wake up tomorrow and not be able to walk or see, and you’ll never get to see another show or travel the world or do anything, really, because your future is over. And then the panic surges, roiling the acid in my stomach, threatening to send it up and out of me, along with tears and screams, and suddenly the fear has morphed into anger because it’s not fair.
It’s not fair.
Some people live long, healthy lives, and others face the possibility of an unpredictable, incurable illness.
Multiple sclerosis.
I didn’t even know what it was when my doctor first mentioned it. I still don’t, not entirely. Googling too much about this progressive neurological disease leaves me cursing WebMD for sleepless nights of spiraling anxiety.
God, my gut still clenches as I remember the fear and uncertainty when I’d feel it coming on—when the constant pins and needles in my legs would intensify to the point where my leg would lock up and I could barely walk. If it happened as I was leaving work, I’d stop and lean against a building—or a tree, bench, whatever was available—fighting back tears, wondering if this was the time it would never go away, if I would never walk again, but too embarrassed to call anyone for help.
Because if they asked me what was wrong, what would I tell them? I had no idea.
It’s taken months for the puzzle to come together—a gauntlet of tests and appointments aimed at ruling things out, an MRI that revealed a lesion on my spine. The final piece is an appointment with a neurologist two days from now in Minneapolis, since my parents insisted I not “mess around with small-town doctors” for something like this.
Happy holidays to me. Potentially life-altering diagnosis the day after Christmas. The day before Christmas, stranded on the side of the road with nothing but existential dread to keep me company.
My eyes drop to my phone. I’m tempted to call Dad, but instead I turn on the radio. A tow truck is already on its way, so I don’t worry about draining the battery.
I’ve just cranked up the Christmas tunes—and I’m steaming up the windows singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”—when a pair of headlights shines in the rearview mirror. A truck pulls to a stop behind me. A man gets out, a shadowy figure illuminated by the headlights. Wow, that was fast! But I’m also pretty sure there’s an urban legend about a serial killer posing as a tow truck driver.
He walks toward my door.
Wouldn’t that be a fitting end to this year—November, devastating medical issue, December, hacked to death on a dark highway. Just my freaking luck.
I shake my head, tap my fingers against the plush seat, think. Okay, maybe a serial killer is unlikely—but he’ll probably, definitely, still be creepy.
The man reaches my door, now looming on the other side of my fogged-up window. He raises his hand and raps on the glass. I take a deep breath—this is fine, stop freaking out, Simone—and press the button. A burst of snowflakes flutters into the car on a gust of wind as the window rolls down.
He leans his head in, smiles widely. “Hi there. Did your car break down?”
Oh God. My heart pounds even harder. He’s not scary at all. He’s young and surprisingly attractive.
Somehow, this is way worse than creepy.
“Uh, yeah . . . sure did,” I stammer, forcing a laugh. I squeeze my eyes shut. Come on, he’s not that good looking. But when I open them, his smile is even wider, disarming, and snowflakes are accumulating on his light-brown hair.
Oh crap, yes, he is.
“Do you need some help?”
My eyes widen. “Aren’t you the tow truck driver?”
He furrows his eyebrows, and his eyes flick back to his vehicle. I crane my neck—it’s definitely a truck, but beyond that I can’t make out more in the darkness. “No,” he says. “I just saw you here and thought you might need help.”
My heart can’t decide what to do—flutter at this sweet gesture or race as the serial killer possibility resurfaces.
“Um, thanks,” I squeak-say, even as I’m internally memorizing his appearance for any potential police questioning. White male, about six feet tall, obscenely handsome. I clear my throat. “I’m fine, just waiting for my tow truck.”