Simon chuckled as he used the towel to wipe sweat off the back of his neck, but said nothing. The moment of truth would arrive soon enough.
Catriona sat on a nearby rolling stool and shimmied herself closer to Simon using her feet. “First order of business.” She secured a new form onto her clipboard, then flipped her long sandy braid back over her shoulder out of the way. “Where will you be going once you leave here?”
Okay, so the moment of truth had arrived. “Well…”
“He’ll be coming home with us,” Ma said. “Back to Liverpool.”
“That’s fine,” Catriona said as she jotted a note. “England has a different NHS to Scotland, but he can transfer to a physiotherapist in your system. It’ll just involve a wee bit more paperwork. Now, does your home have stairs?”
“Yes,” his mum said. “But we’ll arrange the ground-floor bedroom for him so he’ll have the kitchen and a bathroom all on the same level.”
“Perfect.” Catriona made another note.
“That’s Nana’s room,” Simon said to his mother.
“She’ll take your room upstairs.”
“But Nana can’t—”
“It’s already settled, Simon. She’s agreed.” Ma leaned over to place a warm hand on his arm, her tiny garnet pendant swinging at the end of its gold chain. “The family would do anything for you.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. He turned to Catriona. “I’ll be going back to my flat here in Glasgow.”
His mother straightened up, hand flying to her chest. “What? Why?”
Catriona glanced between them. “Are you sure?”
“No, he’s not sure.” Ma’s voice pitched up. “He’s not thinking clearly.”
“I can speak for myself,” Simon said, “and I’ve never not been thinking clearly. Tell her, Catriona.”
Catriona looked loath to get involved, but she said, “It’s true, Mrs. Andreou. Simon’s illness has had no cognitive effects. He’s able to make decisions.”
His mother’s shoulders drooped. “Can we at least discuss it?” she asked him. “Please?”
Simon turned to Catriona. “When do you need to know?” He wasn’t going to change his mind, but he knew a blanket refusal without hearing his mother’s side would hurt her feelings.
“Tomorrow or Wednesday if possible,” Catriona said, “to give the occupational therapist time to do a home visit and recommend accommodations and adjustments. Things like taking up rugs and other trip hazards, installing grab rails in the bathroom—”
“We’ve already got those,” Simon said. “A wheelchair user was a former owner.”
“Brilliant.” She jotted another note. “You said, ‘we,’ so I assume you don’t live alone?”
“I live with my, erm, friend.”
“A close friend?”
“It’s Garen. You’ve met him.”
“Ah yes. Definitely a close friend,” Catriona said with a smile.
His mother sniffed. “You think that lad will do your share of housework for months? He can barely do his own share, from what I’ve seen.”
“Ma, Garen’s been outstanding.”
“But he’s so scatterbrained,” she said. “He’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached to his shoulders.”
“Mrs. Andreou,” Catriona said, “the plan is for Simon to be discharged to home only when he’s able to more or less care for himself. Theoretically he should be able to live safely alone. Of course,” she told Simon, “if you need assistance with bathing or meal prep or a bit of tidying up, we can offer a home health aide.”
A month ago, Simon would’ve been horrified at the thought of someone helping him bathe. But in losing his dignity, he’d discovered how efficient and respectful health care workers could be.
“See, these are things I could do myself,” Ma said, “rather than having some stranger care for you.”
Simon sighed. How could he explain he’d rather have a paid professional helping him than someone he was close to? Was that weird?
Catriona clicked her biro pen. “Shall I give you a few minutes to discuss it?” she asked Simon.
“Please.”
Once Catriona went to look after another patient two tables away, his mother turned to him. “Have you discussed this with your father?”
“Not exactly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course not. It’s always me who gets the bad news.”
“Why is it bad news I want to look after myself?”
“It’s broken me heart not being here every day while you were suffering.” She seemed to be fighting back tears. “Now I’ve got the chance to help you heal, and you don’t even want my help.”
He felt a pull in his chest at the sound of her pain. “Ma, this isn’t about you.”
That was only half true. Simon knew she was already overwhelmed caring for her own mum and working full-time. If he went home, she would spend her last ounce of energy looking after him. But if he told her that now, she’d simply protest that she could handle it, that everything was “proper sound.” She might even be insulted at the idea she wasn’t invincible.
“Simon, how will you get yourself to doctor’s appointments?”
“I’ll use my ride-hailing app,” he said. “They’ve got drivers who can help disabled people.”
“What about food?”
“Same—I can have anything I want delivered. And you’ve seen the lift in my building.”
She frowned. “I’ve also seen the stairs outside the front entrance.”
“Only three, and they’re low and wide. I’ll be able to navigate them in my chair.” He patted the wheelchair’s rims. “I’ll just pop a wheelie.”
His mother put a hand to her forehead like a headache had just struck her. “Pop a wheelie,” she muttered. “My God, what is happening here?”
“Ma, I need to prove to myself I can do this.” When she looked unconvinced, he added, “I’ll phone you every day with a status update.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth?”
“Of course,” he said.
“And if you change your mind and find it’s too much, you’ll call on us, no matter the hour?
“Okay.”
“Promise me, Simon Aleksander. I’ll not have you dying of stubbornness.”
He knew she was dead serious when she used his middle name. “I promise,” he said.
His mother gave a long sigh as she rubbed the side of her neck. Simon could just about glimpse the deep weariness beneath her steely mask of strength.
“I’m proud of you for wanting to be independent. I really am.” She reached out and cupped his jaw. “But a mum can’t help worrying. It’s me job.”
“And you’re an expert at it.” He touched her hand, trying to keep his own from trembling. “But my job is to get back to work as soon as possible. I’ll be telecommuting, but the sooner I can go into the office for meetings, the better. I need to put in face time so they don’t forget me.”
“Aww, love, you know you’re unforgettable.”
Simon returned her warm smile, hoping that deep down she was secretly relieved not to add another burden to her life.
His desire to stay in Glasgow wasn’t completely unselfish, and wanting to stay close to Garen wasn’t even the biggest part.
For his entire life, Simon’s family had coddled him like a precious artifact. And now, just as he’d achieved independence by moving to Glasgow, this illness had struck him down, threatening to turn him back into a child. Returning to his boyhood home would have been a giant leap backward.
Simon had a long journey ahead of him, and he needed to complete it on his own.
24 Days Until Christmas
“I come bearing gifts!” Garen declared as he swept into Simon’s room Thursday evening, even more eager than usual to see him. “And also moussaka.”
“Ah, you’re a star.” Simon moved his wheelchair forward and took the takeaway container. “I’ve been craving it all week.” He opened the conta
iner and took a long whiff of the still-steaming meal.
Garen couldn’t believe how much better Simon looked every day since he’d transferred into the rehab unit. Every movement, no matter how awkward, seemed full of hope and energy. Even his face, which had never been paralyzed, seemed more animated. And his hair, of course, was perfect.
Altogether, Simon’s condition gave Garen the impression it might not be dangerous to jump into his lap and smother him with kisses. The impulse was getting harder to resist, especially after their close encounter Sunday night.
To keep them focused elsewhere, Garen whipped a three-foot-tall cloth advent calendar from his bag and unfurled it with a flourish. “Happy first of December.”
“Oh my God, that’s my grandmother’s—my mum’s mum, not the one in Greece.” Simon set the food on his bed tray and reached out to touch one of the calendar’s twenty-four felt pockets, each of which contained a tiny homemade toy—or so Garen assumed, since it was bad luck to peek ahead.
“Your mother gave it to me to keep at the flat. But I didn’t want you to miss the first few days.”
Simon’s eyes crinkled as he reached into the calendar’s top left pocket. “Ooh, the teddy bear. You know, Nana made this whole thing herself in, like, 1980.”
“She’s made an updated one, your mum says, with wee felt iPhones and Super Mario characters.”
“My little cousins must love that.” He replaced the bear in the pocket, slanted so that its head poked out. “Nice of Ma to let us have this.”
Garen laid the advent calendar on Simon’s bed. “I think giving it to me to hang in the flat was a gesture of good will, to prove she doesn’t resent me for winning the privilege of overseeing your recovery.” He gave Simon a wee smirk to show he was sort of kidding.
Simon scowled anyway. “No one’s overseeing my recovery but myself.”
“I know, you’re Solo Man, the world’s most independent superhero.” Garen sank onto the love seat and crossed his legs.
“Wanna see my new superpower?” Simon pushed himself over to a gray walking frame propped against the wall. With some effort, he unfolded it until it snapped into place, then set it directly in front of himself.
Garen pulled his feet up onto the love seat and hugged his knees. It had been nearly four weeks since he’d seen his friend stand up on his own power. Every instinct told Garen to leap forward and help, or at least position himself nearby in case of a fall. But he didn’t want to hurt Simon’s pride.
Simon locked the chair’s wheels, folded back the footplates, and grasped the arm rests. Then he pushed himself to his feet—not all at once, but slowly, steadily, until he was standing straight.
Garen put his hands over his mouth, his eyes heating. “Wow,” he breathed.
“Not done.” Simon grasped the wheeled walking frame and took one short step forward. He paused for a moment, breath whistling through his pursed lips, then did it again with the other leg. “Voilà.”
“Mate, you’re walking.” Garen applauded—softly, in case the patient in the next room was sleeping.
Simon blushed, which Garen found adorable. “Just one problem: I can’t go backwards yet. So if you could shift the wheelchair up a tiny bit…”
“Of course.” Garen went over and did as he asked. “Do you need help sitting down?”
“No.” With a slow, controlled movement, Simon eased himself back into the wheelchair. “It’s not exactly running a marathon, but it’s a start.”
“And without starts, we can never finish.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie.” Simon backed up his chair a few feet, turning it to face the door. “Let’s have a stroll.”
They left his room and went down the rehab unit’s hallway, which was quiet this time of day. Near the nursing station, several of the staff were sorting Christmas decorations.
They passed a pair of nursing assistants unfolding a long string of artificial pine garland. “I’m surprised you’re not volunteering to help decorate,” Simon said.
“They already turned down my offer on the way in.”
Simon laughed, a sound that flipped Garen’s heart. “Are you still waiting for me to get back to the flat next week to put up decorations?”
“Mostly,” Garen said, hoping his smile didn’t reveal he was hiding a surprise.
“So what will you do at the weekend if not decking the halls?”
“Friday night is league night, then there’s another try-curling event at the rink Saturday I’m volunteering for. Sunday evening after work I need to catch up on Hallmark Christmas films.”
“Seriously?”
“Aye, my mum and I watch the same ones, then compare notes.”
“Oh,” Simon said softly, no doubt having been on the verge of teasing. “That’s cool.”
“We started the tradition after she moved to Germany. It’s a wee thing to keep us connected.”
“How many of these films have you seen?”
“Twenty-seven,” Garen said.
“Twenty-seven? Aren’t they all the same?”
“No, though there are common elements.”
“Like what?”
“There’s always snow, even if the film takes place in the American South.” Garen waved to Mrs. Kilpatrick, who was standing in the doorway of room 507 using the frame to perform a set of pectoral stretches. “There’s rarely any kissing until just before closing credits, when lips are required to lock, without tongue, preferably under mistletoe. And there’s a suspicious preponderance of Folgers Coffee.”
“I see.”
“Oh, and buying a gift voucher is a sign of moral bankruptcy.”
Simon stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Let’s go back to my room.”
“You all right?”
“Fine, but I can tell I’ve reached my energy level’s half-life.” He reversed his chair using a three-point turn. “If I went any farther, you’d have to push me the rest of the way.”
“I don’t mind pushing you.”
“I mind it.”
Garen flinched at Simon’s harsh tone. “Because it’s me?”
“God, no.” Simon stopped his chair, then touched Garen’s arm with a hand that didn’t tremble. “It’s nothing personal, I swear.”
Garen wanted to believe it was true. Simon was coming home, so he must have had at least a wee bit of trust in Garen.
They said nothing more until they reached the room, where Simon maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and back onto his bed.
Then he handed Garen a dark-blue file folder. “To prepare for tomorrow’s home inspection by the OT.”
“The what?”
“Occupational therapist,” Simon said. “Sorry, my time in hospital has infected me with acronym-itis.”
Garen opened the folder and found several sheets of information, most of which he’d already gathered online, suggestions on how to make the flat a safer place for Simon to live and move about in.
The second part introduced a whole other level of preparation, including proper body mechanics for helping Simon in and out of bed and the wheelchair, as well as signs of pain and fatigue Garen should watch for as his carer.
Wait—I’m to be his carer? Garen felt a twinge of uncertainty. What exactly would that role involve? He couldn’t ask Simon, who would surely brush aside such worries and say he’d need no help. Garen decided to ask the occupational therapist at tomorrow’s visit. Whatever it took to keep Simon with him, he’d do it.
Flipping back to the first page, Garen noticed the header. Beside Simon’s name was the date 26/12/90.
“Your birthday is Boxing Day?” he asked. “So you’re a Capric—” Garen cut himself off as a once seemingly meaningless incident popped up like a gopher from the landscape of his memory.
“Yes, I’m a Capricorn,” Simon said. “I don’t believe in astrology, which you’re probably going to tell me is a very Capricorn thing.”
Garen said nothing, recalling that October afternoon whe
n the wind had picked up a tossed penny and deposited it in the fountain, right in front of a bronze plaque of a smiling goat.
Simon squinted at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Garen bit his lip to stifle a laugh. “Like what?” Like you’re a wish come true?
“Like you’ve got some dastardly plan up your sleeve.”
“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” Garen got to his feet, deciding to head out lest he be tempted to explain. Though he found the Capricorn thing an amusing coincidence, he knew Simon might think him weird for making the connection. “I need to tidy up our flat so the OT doesn’t think you’re off to live with wolves.”
“Be honest: What sort of mess has our place become?”
“Nothing that can’t be remedied by a good fumigation.”
“What?!”
“I’m kidding on. So I’ll be seeing you Monday, then.” As he slipped on his jacket, Garen wondered how exactly to take his leave. It felt like kissing Simon goodbye would be the most natural thing in the world.
But where? A kiss on the lips might start a whole snogging session, or at least a conversation, both of which needed more time than Garen had at the moment. A forehead kiss would be patronizing, as though Simon were an aging auntie.
The cheek, then. Affectionate but not sexual. A kiss on the cheek said, I like you, but let’s keep things ambiguous until we figure shit out.
Garen went for it, leaning in and puckering up.
Simon moved his head at the last millisecond, so that Garen’s lips landed on that in-between place between the lips and the cheek—the same spot, ironically, where Simon had first kissed him.
Garen straightened up. “Monday, then?” he repeated.
“Monday.” Simon’s face was turned away as he reached for his bed tray holding the container of moussaka, but he seemed to be holding back a smile. “Might be my homecoming day.”
“I hope so.” Garen reached out and squeezed Simon’s free hand. “I promise you won’t regret staying in Glasgow. I won’t let you down.”
Simon looked up at him and squeezed back, strong and sure. “I know.”
Chapter 11
20 Days Until Christmas
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 13
