The Speed of Light: A Novel

The Speed of Light: A Novel

Elissa Grossell Dickey


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.”

Elissa Grossell Dick's Books