The Best of Us by Sarah Pekkanen

Author:Sarah Pekkanen [Pekkanen, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

* * *

Wednesday

ALLIE WOKE UP AND slowly stretched her arms toward the ceiling. She took a moment to orient herself: It was Wednesday morning, almost halfway through the vacation. She could tell by the faint light in the room that it was dawn, but she wasn’t the slightest bit tired. Everyone had gone to bed relatively early last night, around midnight.

She slipped out of bed and pulled on a sports bra and nylon shorts, then laced up her red Nikes. She opened the bedroom door quietly so she wouldn’t wake Ryan, then went into the gym and reached for one of the colorful resistance bands heaped by the free weights. She sat down, hooked the end of the band around one foot, and leaned back, relishing the gentle stretch in her hamstring. She finished warming up, then stepped outside. The sun was the color of fire as it hovered over the water, and the surrounding clouds looked like tufts of cotton candy.

It was the kind of morning that cried out for a run.

She set off for the beach, finding the perfect length of sand a few feet away from where the waves were breaking—firm enough that she didn’t slip, but soft enough so that her muscles felt the effort. She logged a slow, easy half mile, then picked up speed, feeling sweat dot her brow. She knew exactly how far she could push herself; her steps were as steady and reliable as a metronome. Though she wasn’t wearing a watch, she knew she was running a nine-minute-mile pace—she’d logged so many of them through the years that her rhythm was instinctual.

She took steady inhalations through her nose and breathed out through her mouth, feeling her arms churn up and down in perfect synchrony with her legs. Her body felt strong and clean, like a beautifully maintained machine.

What if it suddenly failed her? she wondered as her feet beat against the sand. What if her strong legs refuse to move? How could her arms—which used to carry both of her children at once when she crossed a busy road—suddenly turn limp and useless at her sides? It seemed incomprehensible.

Allie turned back toward the house, tasting salt in her mouth. She reached up with her forearm to wipe away her tears and sweat. When she’d first learned about familial ALS, she’d wondered, fleetingly, if her girls could have copies of the damaged gene. But she’d immediately stricken the impossible thought from her mind. They’d find a cure for ALS long before it ever had a chance to hurt her daughters. There was no other option.

When she finally unfurled that strip of paper in her cosmetics bag and called the genetic counselor, she might be reassured. Maybe she’d learn that she could be tested to see if she carried a gene with a kind of typo in it. That’s what an ALS website had called it—a typo. Allie had almost laughed, it was so ridiculous. A typo was a misplaced apostrophe; it was scream in your coffee instead of cream.

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