Garen’s heart started to pound. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got no choice.” Simon’s hand fell against Garen’s arm, trying to latch on. “Please,” he whispered. “I don’t know anyone else around here, not the way I know you. Just…help me keep Ma and Da calm.”
Garen looked down into Simon’s wide hazel eyes, sensing that what he really craved—but probably couldn’t ask for—was someone to keep him calm.
He put his hand over Simon’s. “Yeah, mate. Whatever you need.”
48 Days Until Christmas
His eyes still closed, Simon heard the same intermittent beeps he’d heard before falling asleep. The sound came in an unsteady rhythm, which had been driving him a bit round the bend, not knowing when to anticipate the next one.
The fog of fatigue filled his head, and he tried to return to sleep, knowing that waking could reveal he’d lost another part of himself.
Then he heard Garen speaking to the left of his bed. “What’s that contraption for?”
“We’re removing some of his blood,” replied a melodious female voice on the other side.
“Why?” Garen asked.
“So we can separate the plasma from the cells.”
“In that machine?”
“Yes, it’s got a centrifuge. That’s what that whirring noise was a minute ago.”
“Then what?”
“Then we combine the rest of his blood with donated plasma—that’s the bag of yellow liquid—and put it back in his body.” She touched the bed beside Simon’s right arm, where they’d placed one of the catheters. “Studies show it helps people with Guillain-Barré syndrome recover faster.”
“Why does it work?”
The woman hesitated. “It’s a bit technical.”
“That’s all right. I’m a zoologist.”
A distant part of Simon’s mind found this hilarious, a momentary port in the storm.
“Well,” the woman said, “his old plasma carries the particular protein fooling your friend’s immune system. With that removed, the body will stop attacking itself.”
“And by ‘itself’ you mean the myelin sheath of the spinal cord.”
“Yes.”
“Which helps send signals to his limbs and all.”
“That’s correct.”
“Got it.” Garen was silent for a personal-best ten seconds. “How did they figure that out? Was it by accident, like the discovery of penicillin, or did they deduce it because they knew that that protein was in the plasma?”
“Actually, I don’t know. They’ve been using this treatment since before I became a nurse.”
“And when was that?”
“Garen.” Simon opened his eyes. “Leave her be so she can do her job.”
The nurse laughed. “I had a feeling you were awake.”
“How long was I sleeping?”
“Nearly two hours.” She did a quick jazz-hands, flashing her neon-pink fingernails. “Which means wa-hey!—your first plasma exchange is nearly finished. I told you it’d be boring.”
It took Simon a moment to remember it was Monday. The last thirty-six hours had been a blur of pain and fear as all four limbs turned against him, inch by inch. Ascending paralysis, he’d heard one doctor say to another, a hallmark of Guillain-Barré syndrome.
Thus far, the paralysis had stopped at his hips and shoulders, but there was a chance it could envelop his entire body, so he’d been admitted to intensive care in case he needed a ventilator to breathe.
Simon checked the nurse’s name badge—adorned with a white “peace” poppy—to recall who she was amongst his ensemble cast of caretakers. “Natasha, this is Garen. He’s annoying.”
“We’ve met, and he’s fine,” Natasha said. “I prefer when loved ones ask questions rather than think they’re experts because they read Wikipedia for five minutes.”
“I always read Wikipedia for at least seven or eight minutes.” Garen beamed at her from the high-backed visitor’s chair, then leaned forward to speak to Simon in a conspiratorial tone. “She called me your ‘loved one.’ Seems quite the upgrade from flatmate.”
Natasha snorted. “You deserve an upgrade after all the time you’ve spent here.”
“Nae bother,” Garen said. “Hospitals are fascinating places.”
Simon disagreed. Perhaps it was buried memories of his childhood bout with this same illness, but the moment he’d been swept through the A&E doors Saturday afternoon, he’d felt like a caged animal. Garen’s presence had been the only thing stopping him making a run for it—or a crawl for it, back when his arms still worked.
Simon knew he was lucky, because he’d been told so several times:
Lucky he’d known what his symptoms meant.
Lucky a neurologist who specialized in rare demyelinating neuropathies happened to be on staff at the closest hospital to Shawlands Rink.
Lucky not to need a ventilator or feeding tube (yet, probably).
Lucky it happened in November during the slow season for his father’s landscaping business, so he could stay by Simon’s side for the next…however many weeks.
It could be worse, Simon kept telling himself, but that felt like a lie.
Natasha checked the plasma exchange machine again, then typed a few notes into the computer station across from his bed. “Before I leave you two to chat, Mr. Andreou, would you like me to roll you over or shift you in any way?”
Simon’s entire body ached to be moved, but he couldn’t bear to have Garen see him manipulated like a doll. “I’m sound just now, thanks.”
When she was gone, Garen slid his chair closer. “Your parents are having breakfast, so we finally get to chat alone. You want me to adjust the angle of your bed?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“You just want to play with the buttons, don’t you?”
“That’s a big part of it, yeah.” Garen took Simon’s hand. “Can you still feel that?”
Simon nodded. “It’s weird how me hands and feet feel numb from the inside, like they’re full of novocaine, but I can still tell when something touches me.” He focused with all his will on closing his fingers. “Am I squeezing your hand?”
Garen’s brows dipped in sadness. “No. Sorry.”
Simon’s eyes heated. Just four days ago I was running in the park.
“All this feels so familiar,” he said, “even though when I had it before, I was too young to remember.”
“Your body remembers.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Simon said, “because lying here right now, I feel, like, three years old.”
“Well, what if I told you I’ve got proof you’re one hundred percent grown man?”
Simon couldn’t believe Garen was flirting at a time like this, but he played along. “What proof? You’ve got pics I’m not aware of?”
“Just my memories, and they’re the sort I never forget.” He gave a saucy grin, his mouth half open, enough to show his tongue.
For a moment, Simon felt his blood surge with thoughts of their first night together, how adeptly his hands had caressed Garen’s body. But then he crashed back into the present, finding himself a helpless husk harnessed to a host of machines. It might be weeks before he could manage even the clumsiest of touches.
“About that upgrade from flatmate,” Garen said.
Simon tensed. Was Garen implying they might be boyfriends? It seemed odd timing, but then again, inappropriate was Garen’s middle name. “What about it?”
“Are we real mates now? Not just flatmates?”
Simon smiled for what felt like the first time in three days. It made his cheeks feel strange. “I think you’ve earned the title.”
Yet despite this change in status, Simon knew it was time to set Garen free. On Saturday, when he’d begged for his friend’s help, he’d been in a state of near-panic, overwhelmed by his own fear and that of his parents. But it was too much to ask Garen to join him on this long road to recovery.
“You don’t need to keep coming,” Simon said. “Ma has to go home Wednesday for her job, but me da’ll be staying in Glasgow until I recover.”
“He told me.” Garen shrugged. “I want to be here.”
“Because you feel sorry for me.”
“Hah, nae chance. I’m way too selfish to come all the way down to Southside out of pure kindness.” Garen’s eyes widened. “Not that it’s a bother—it’s just one wee direct bus trip.”
“You are kind. Ma told me you offered to let them stay at the flat, even though you knew it could be for weeks.”
Garen looked away. “I was only being polite. I knew they’d say no, that they’d want to stay in a hotel near the hospital. Also, I really like them, so it would’ve been no hardship.” He straightened up suddenly. “Do you want me to leave? Do I make you feel worse?”
Just the opposite. “I like your company. But it won’t be easy. If you need to stop coming, I promise I’ll understand.”
“Deal. So what shall I bring you from home to cheer you?”
Simon marveled at Garen’s ability to pivot from a difficult subject. “Will you bring me a picture of Poppy?” His heart ached at the thought of not seeing his snake for weeks.
“Absolutely. Hang on, let me make a note.” Garen pulled out his phone and made a few thumb taps. The phone beeped. “Picture of Poppy,” he enunciated into the microphone, then frowned at the screen. “Och, not ‘Hectare of Poppies.’ This thing does not understand Scottish accents. Talking of your wee lassie, I found the jotter you keep beside her vivarium with her feeding and cleaning schedule.”
“And you’ll change her water every day?”
“Already doing it,” Garen said.
“And you know about monitoring the temperature and humidity?”
“It’s literally part of my job, remember? Aren’t you glad you moved in with a zoologist?”
“That was lucky.” Simon wondered what would’ve happened if he’d turned down Garen’s offer to live with him. Would they be in a relationship right now, or would they have drifted apart? In any case, Simon would probably still be lying in intensive care, having caught the flu from the same coworker and thereby triggering the same autoimmune response as when he was three years old.
In a fit of rebellion, he tried to wiggle his toes. But no matter how hard he concentrated, the sheet over his feet remained as still as the dirt over a grave.
Simon closed his eyes, fighting the shadowy surge of annihilation. You’re still real, he told himself. Garen proves it.
But in the end, Garen was like everyone else—Simon’s parents, the hospital workers, any other random visitor. They could walk out whenever they wanted, and there was nothing Simon could do to stop them. His entire existence was at their mercy.
There was still a small chance he could die, and a medium-size chance his body would never be the same. He knew his parents would never discuss those possibilities with him—they couldn’t handle it, and frankly, he couldn’t handle their inability to handle it.
“I don’t want to make it worse for Ma and Da,” Simon said. “So I can’t tell them what this is like, how much it-it hurts.” His voice dropped to a whisper as his breath hitched. “And how scared I am.”
Garen nodded, his eyes glistening. Then he brought Simon’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “So tell me.”
Chapter 8
46 Days Until Christmas
As usual, Garen was the last to arrive at Wednesday night curling practice. He found his teammates and coach gathered with several other Shawlands Rink members in front of the warm room’s wall-mounted TV, which for once wasn’t tuned to a sporting event. The evening news was focused on the thing everyone at the museum had been talking about—and in some cases, crying about: the United States Presidential election.
Garen stepped up next to them and spoke in a hushed tone, as though they were attending a funeral. “How are you?”
“Still in shock,” Ross said. “Been having Brexit-vote flashbacks.”
David turned to them. “I keep thinking 2016 is just one long nightmare, but I cannae seem to wake up.” He punched his own biceps. “Ow. See? It’s real.”
“How’s Simon doing?” Luca asked, placing a comforting hand on Garen’s shoulder.
“Latest text from his dad says he’s in a lot of pain.”
“Is he getting worse, then?” Ross asked.
“No, but he’s feeling worse. ‘Trapped in my own body’ were the words he used yesterday.” Garen touched his side. “I keep thinking about that time I cracked a rib mountain climbing, how for weeks it hurt like hell to roll over in bed. But that’s nothing compared to not being able to turn over, to have to ask someone to move your body for you. I’d go mad.”
“Do they think he’ll have lasting effects?” Oliver asked.
“Too soon to know,” Garen told him. “They said eighty percent of Guillain-Barré patients have a complete recovery. Fifteen percent have issues for the rest of their lives, and five percent…” He rubbed his throat, where a lump was forming. “Five percent don’t make it.”
“Aw, mate.” Luca put his arm around Garen’s shoulders. “He won’t be in that five percent. He got treatment right away, which makes all the difference. And you said he’s breathing on his own, right?”
Garen nodded.
“So this won’t be the end of him,” Luca said. “It’ll be hard for now, but he’s got better days ahead.”
“I know. Thanks.” Garen attempted a smile, but he couldn’t shake the image of Simon lying in that intensive care bed, his disheveled hair forming a black corona against the stark white pillowcase. He made a mental note to bring Simon’s favorite comb and styling products to the hospital tomorrow. It might make him feel more human if he had every hair in place the way he liked it.
Garen spied Gillian at one of the tables, staring at her phone and looking as glum as everyone else. “Your sister seems in need of cheering up,” he told Luca.
“I’ve tried and failed, but have a go, anyway.”
Garen went over and sat beside Gillian. “Here for practice?”
“Events-committee meeting.” She jutted her lower lip and exhaled hard, fluttering her dark-brown fringe. “How’s Simon?”
Garen summarized his friend’s current condition, then said, “I should start sending updates to the Shawlands email newsletter. Everyone’s been asking after him.” Gossip traveled fast in a curling rink, but so did kindness and concern.
“I’ll send him flowers from all of us here. Let me set a reminder.” Gillian pulled up a notes app on her phone. “Willow will probably want to make him a card. It’ll be a good distraction for her.”
“Distraction from what?”
Gillian gestured toward the TV. “She came home from school today asking how we’re going to save the world without America’s help.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth: I don’t know how we’ll do it, but no one is giving up. And that she can make a difference too.”
“Sounds like the right thing to say.”
“Maybe.” She rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. “Of course, she immediately got the brilliant idea to have a Christmas charity event here at the rink. I told her it was too late, but maybe in the spring.”
For the first time all day, Garen felt a spark of hope. “Christmas is forty-six days away,” he said, recalling the number on his snowman’s chalkboard that morning. “That’s bags of time.”
Gillian scoffed. “Only someone who’s never planned an event would say forty-six days is bags of time. Besides, the midyear melt is the twenty-third, so any functions using the ice would have to be the weekend before.”
“Thirty-nine days, then. ’Mon, let’s see if the rink’s free.” He hopped to his feet and hurried to the noticeboard outside the office, checking to make sure Gillian was following him across the warm room.
Between a flyer for a “fun-spiel” in Inverness and a warning about tracking in road salt
on one’s street shoes was the rink’s calendar of events for December. “Look,” Garen told Gillian, tapping his finger on the seventeenth. “That Saturday is open, apart from practice ice. There’s not even a try-curling event.”
“Because there weren’t enough volunteers to staff it,” she said. “Everyone’s too busy doing Christmas things.”
“This event would literally be a Christmas thing.”
“You know what I mean. Family things.” She blanched, perhaps remembering Garen’s circumstances. “Sorry. You’re coming to our place for Christmas dinner, right? With your sister? She’s coming home from Bulgaria for the holidays?” Gillian’s voice rose with each question, as though she could make it happen through sheer will.
“That’s the current plan. Mum and Dad will be with their new families, as usual. They’ve each got young stepkids, so you know how it is.”
She nodded. “Children should be at home on Christmas morning.”
“And those homes, unfortunately, are not here.”
“It’s the same with our dad,” Gillian said. “Luca and I’ve seen him exactly once since he moved to Boston, and that was when we went there to visit him.”
“Families are so complicated.” He poked the calendar hard. “Which is another reason we all need something fun and meaningful to fill our Christmas season.” When she hesitated, he added, “Think how happy Willow will be that we took her idea and ran with it.”
“I see what you’re doing, pushing my Mum buttons.” Gillian lifted her chin as she massaged the back of her neck with both hands. “Fine, I’ll pitch it at the events-committee meeting.”
“Yaaaas.” He did a wee dance, because it was either that or wrap her up in a bear hug, which could get him walloped. “How cool would it be if something really good was born tonight of all nights, just when we’re at our lowest?”
“Ooft,” Gillian said with a cringe. “If I don’t stop palling about with you, I’m gonnae lose my cynicism.”
36 Days Until Christmas
“Dunno why you can’t just have the same password for everything.”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 10
