“Da, we’ve discussed this,” Simon said. “A password manager is the only secure way to live.”
“It’s an inconvenient way to live.” Simon’s father peered through the bottom of his bifocals at Simon’s tablet, carefully writing down the eighteen-character password for the Sky Sports app.
Simon waited patiently, a skill he’d honed to perfection over the last two weeks of paralysis. Lecturing his dad on cybersecurity would only delay them watching Liverpool play Southampton.
After a week in the intensive-care and high-dependency units, Simon had been moved to a normal ward, his doctors confident he wouldn’t need a ventilator to survive. He still had the same painfully familiar medical bed, with its worn up-and-down buttons and the black biro pen ink stain on the left railing, but at least he had a window now. Though the view from his bed was just the sky and the tops of a few trees, it made him feel more like a human on Earth and less like a broken toy in a box.
Simon could now twitch his shoulders, signaling the Guillain-Barré had started to reverse itself. It was a relatively useless motion, yet controlling even a few inches of his body felt like liberation. Simon couldn’t quite see the light at the end of the tunnel, but he could finally believe that this tunnel had an end.
At last his father got the sports app working and started the broadcast. He set the tablet in its stand atop Simon’s tray, amidst several cards and flower arrangements from friends and family, and beside the small framed photo of Poppy.
The ebony-and-gold frame Garen had chosen was a perfect accent for the python’s markings. In the photo, she was looped round her favorite branch, looking as relaxed and happy as a snake could look. She’d even let Garen pick her up—a crucial development, as it was nearly time to take apart her vivarium for its regular cleaning and disinfection.
The match was already in the ninth minute. One of Liverpool’s forwards, Roberto Firmino, had just been called for a foul. He raised his arms in disbelief, then gave a wide grin.
“Those teeth can’t be real,” said Simon’s dad, continuing a debate they’d waged since the Reds had acquired the young Brazilian the previous season. “They’re too blindingly white.”
“They’re just chemically lightened. Loads of people do it.”
His father grunted, running a hand over the salt-and-pepper three o’clock shadow on his jaw. “It’s not natural.”
“Neither are the hair colors on half these lads, but for some reason it’s Firmino’s teeth you fixate on. I know why you don’t like him.”
“Sturridge,” they said in unison.
“It makes no sense.” His father flicked the calloused fingers of his left hand toward the screen. “Daniel Sturridge was our top scorer last year, yet Klopp is playing him as an understudy to Firmino. Our Daniel is made of talent.”
“He’s made of talent and glass, Da. How many times was he injured last season?”
“While still scoring more goals in all competitions than any of our other players.” His father glanced around at the otherwise empty hospital room, then spoke in a hushed tone. “A guy on one of me football podcasts said Sturridge might go to Arsenal. I hope he finds a club who’ll appreciate him.”
“That’s heresy,” Simon said. “Also, you don’t need to whisper. No one in Glasgow cares what you think of Jürgen Klopp’s lineup choices.”
“Klopp—now there’s another man whose teeth I don’t trust. He’s too cheery.”
Simon sighed, but more from contentment than exasperation. The normalcy of watching football with his father—and arguing about it—placed a soothing balm on his pain and helplessness. For the next ninety minutes, he would feel something approaching okay.
“Talking of cheery,” Simon said, “Garen will be visiting later. He said he’d wait until after the match so we could have our sacred father-son Liverpool time.”
Da beamed, as Simon knew he would do. “Garen seems proper boss.”
“He is. He’s a—oh!” Simon’s fear spiked, then faded as a Southampton shot went wide of the Liverpool goal. “He’s a good man.”
“Are you and he—”
“No. Just mates.” He fought to keep the regret out of his voice.
“Ah.” His father crossed his legs and waggled his foot a few times. “But he is, you know…”
“Yes. He’s gay.” Simon still had to fight not to stutter over that word, even though it had been nearly five years since he’d come out to his family. He shifted the subject a bit. “When you drove me and Poppy up to Glasgow last month, did you notice that snowman statue in the living room?”
“The one with the countdown to Christmas?”
“That’s the one. Garen offered to bring it to have in my hospital room. It was dead sweet of him, but can you imagine me lying here with that thing staring at me night and day?”
His father joined his laughter. “You’d never sleep.”
“It’s funny how he forgets so many things,” Simon said, “but he updates that snowman like clockwork.”
“Why is he such a fanatic about the holiday?”
Simon explained about Garen’s grandmother passing and his parents living far away—and about his and Karen’s overseas adoption, though he wasn’t sure what that part had to do with Christmas.
“Hmm.” Da stroked his chin, where a faint scar remained from a long-ago mishap with a pruning hook. “They say that children raised in orphanages grow up to have, you know, issues.”
“Who’s ‘they’? Somebody on one of your podcasts, eh?” His father had grown addicted to the medium and was always going on about his latest audio obsession, whether it be football gossip, true crime, or serialized zombie fiction.
“Probably. They said something about those children not being able to love others properly because they were deprived of love at an early age.”
“Really?” Maybe Simon had dodged a bullet in not becoming Garen’s boyfriend.
“They say your brain develops so much in those first three years, everything that happened to you back then makes you what you are now, even if you don’t remember it.” His face softened as he laid a hand on Simon’s bed. “Like you being ill when you were three.”
Simon frowned. Over the last few years he’d wondered how his childhood sickness had affected him later in life. Had he gravitated to running, even as a boy, because it required less coordination? He’d certainly been rubbish at football.
But those musings had focused on his body, not his mind. Simon had never considered how that experience, lurking just beyond his memory’s reach, had shaped his fears and aspirations, maybe even his personality.
Still, what did it matter, now that he was literally reliving it? Simon couldn’t move, not a single finger to read, play a video game, or even change the TV channel. There was nothing to do but lie here and think. So he thought about his job, about his friends back in Liverpool—several of whom had visited this last week—and even about Garen. But mostly he thought about whether he wanted the future to look like the past.
Before landing in this hospital bed, Simon had never questioned his path in life. He’d been the first of his family to attend university, and after graduation, he’d taken the job offer with the highest salary. Living at home had let him save money and pay down his student loans. The promotion and transfer to his company’s operational headquarters in Glasgow had been a dream come true: living independently, supporting himself, controlling his own destiny.
This illness had shattered that dream. How could Simon control his destiny if he couldn’t even control his pinky finger?
“Our midfield’s got no organization today,” his father said. “We should be up two-nil by now.”
Simon focused on the game in front of him, leaving behind the foggy future—for now, at least.
When halftime arrived with the match still scoreless, Da got to his feet. “Need to stretch my legs. And yours.”
“Ta.”
His father shifted the covers to free Simon’s lower hal
f, then proceeded with the exercises the physiotherapists had shown them, maneuvering his limbs to preserve their range of motion and providing resistance to maintain his muscle mass.
The exercises felt good to Simon, for they got his blood flowing and eased the ache of lying in bed. But they made him feel like a puppet as he watched his body parts moved this way and that, unable to pull away.
He turned his gaze from his own limbs to the window. The trees outside bore fewer leaves each day, undermining his suspicion that time had stopped.
A Christmas ad for John Lewis department stores started playing on his tablet. “Bit early for that, eh?” Simon asked.
“It’s the nineteenth already,” his father said. “Might go to George Square tomorrow night for the tree lighting. There’ll be fireworks.” He held up a hand. “Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about fun things I’m doing without you.”
“I want you to enjoy yourself while you’re here.” Simon looked back at his tablet, where the advert showed a menagerie of flawlessly CGI’d animals bouncing on a child’s backyard trampoline. “Talking of Christmas, you should make plans to go to Greece without me.”
Simon’s dad halted mid-stretch. “Absolutely not. We’re staying home with you.”
“Look, Da, you said yourself that this could be your last chance to see Yaya and Papou. I don’t want to be the reason you lose that chance.”
“I’m sure there’ll be other—”
“And what about Nana? It’ll definitely be the last time she can make such a long trip.” His mother’s mum had joined them for their last three Greek holidays, ever since losing Simon’s granddad.
“Then we’ll all go in the spring when you’re well again. By then it’ll be warm enough to swim in the sea.”
“You’ll be too busy with landscaping work. Winter is the only time you can take off.” He also knew his parents couldn’t afford to change their nonrefundable flights.
His father gave a defeated sigh, then switched to the other leg. “Maybe you’ll be well enough by Christmas to go with us.”
Simon wanted to at least say maybe, but then he pictured himself trying to use a wheelchair or walking frame on the steep streets and alleyways of Lindos, his grandparents’ village. Also, the long journey to get there would be torture. Every step of the way, he’d be dependent on others. The mere thought sent a shock of panic through Simon’s chest.
“Anyway,” his father said, “there’s no need to worry about it now.” He grasped Simon’s foot and flexed his ankle back and forth. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”
Simon nodded, though right now, a day felt like too big a chunk. A day meant three meals spoonfed, eight cups of water drunk through a straw someone else had to hold, twelve repositionings to avoid bedsores, and approximately seventy-two hundred times he wanted to scream until his throat gave out.
One minute at a time, more like.
Chapter 9
30 Days Until Christmas
“What’ll you have?” asked Garen’s counterpart on Team Laing as they entered the warm room to the customary round of applause. Since Laing had just won, it was on them to buy drinks for the traditional post-game “broomstacking” hangout.
“Just an Irn Bru, thanks. Saving my liver for later.” Garen headed for their table with his head held high, hiding his dismay over his first day’s performance at Aberdeen Curl Fest.
He kept up the facade as Team Laing relived the game’s pivotal moments, clearly marveling at their rare defeat of Team Riley.
“You nearly had us in the sixth end,” skip Tommy Laing said to Luca. “You’d have scored five if we’d not got lucky with the frosty ice on the left side.”
“You lads were on fire the whole game.” Luca raised his glass to their opponents.
Garen added a few well-deserved compliments, then checked his phone for texts from Simon. His friend’s mobility had grown by leaps and bounds this week: He’d regained control of his arms and upper legs, could sit up on his own, and could even move between the bed and a wheelchair with assistance.
Best of all, they could now communicate directly instead of through Mr. Andreou. Simon’s fingers were still too clumsy for texting, but he could press the microphone button to dictate, which was usually good for a laugh.
Garen reread this afternoon’s message:
Happy Birthday exclamation mark explanation mark no just put an exclamation mark for fuck sake why is this so hard! There got it
Seeing no further messages since he’d answered that one, Garen texted, Lost again. Hope your day has been better than mine He hit send, then immediately felt like an insensitive prick. I mean apart from being in hospital with a serious illness. Sorry, he added, then put the phone down with a sigh.
Luca leaned over and murmured, “Don’t worry about today.”
“We can’t win this tournament after losing our first two games.”
“There’s still Challenger Tour points for finishing at least fifth, which we should do if we win all three games tomorrow.” Luca nudged him with his elbow. “Remember the key to our success. When people ask us why we win so much, what do we tell them?”
“Because we’re not afraid to lose.”
“Exactly.” Luca ruffled Garen’s hair. “Maybe we could try a meditation session in the morning to clear our heads.”
“I could use it.” In fact, he’d probably need one tonight before bed, else he’d be mentally replaying every missed shot.
“If you need a distraction…” Luca hesitated before finishing his sentence. “…I’m near to bursting with a secret. Shall I tell you?”
“Always and ever,” Garen said.
Luca glanced past Garen at their teammates, David and Ross, who had just started a drinking game with their counterparts on Team Laing. Then he looked across the room at Oliver, who was sitting at the bar with the other coaches. Because he coached two men’s teams from Shawlands Rink, Oliver kept his distance at tournaments in which both were playing. He and Luca even stayed in separate hotel rooms.
“It’s too loud for anyone to hear us,” Garen prompted, his curiosity ratcheting up to an unbearable level. “Now spill!”
“Okay.” Luca rubbed his reddening cheek. “I’m thinking of proposing to Oliver.”
Garen gaped at him, hoping his expression read as surprise, not amusement. “Wow, that’s great.” He grabbed his bottle and took another sip to keep from laughing. “When and how?”
“I’m thinking Christmas morning. But maybe that’s too predictable? I want him to be surprised.” Luca seized Garen’s knee in a viselike grip. “So you can’t tell anyone, not even Ross and David.”
“I’d never!”
“Not even Simon.”
Garen pressed his lips together and let out a whine.
“I mean it,” Luca said. “We’ll all be at your Christmas Eve–Eve party, and I might not have asked by then.”
“Can I tell my sister?”
Luca slapped the table. “What did I just say? She’ll be at the party too.”
“But this is too fu—erm, too fucking good not to share with anyone.” He’d almost said too funny. “I think you should propose at Shawlands.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Luca tapped his fingernails against his empty beer bottle, making a low plinking noise. “The rink’s not the most romantic place in the world, though, is it?”
“It’s where you first met.”
“True.” Luca pointed up at the wall clock. “You’d better head.”
“You’re right.” He gulped the rest of his Irn Bru and stood up. “Sorry,” he called out to his teammates and the Laing lads, “but I’ve got a date with a demanding blonde.”
Garen left the broomstacking table to the sound of vocal protests and calls of “Happy Birthday.”
It was freezing outside, but thankfully, the hotel was but a short walk from the rink. Garen stopped in the lobby to help the hotel staff put up a large Christmas tree—a three-person job they were trying to do
with two people. He held the bushy fir in place while one of the clerks screwed the trunk into the base and another judged whether it was standing straight.
Then he hurried up to his room and changed out of his curling kit into his favorite green-and-red-plaid pajamas. The transition to coziness made his skin sing with relief.
Finally he sat on the bed and laid out his supplies just as his computer blooped with an incoming video call.
He answered it promptly. “Happy Birthday, big sis!”
“Happy Birthday, wee bro!” Karen was also in her jim-jams, a purple pair with blue flowers and smiling yellow suns that matched her hair, which she’d pulled back into a messy ponytail. “I should note that it’s past midnight here and technically no longer our birthday for me.”
“Sorry, you know how curling is. I’m required to socialize for at least an hour after the game.”
“Nae bother,” she said. “I just got back from drinks with my mates too. And since I’m two hours older, it kinda fits I’d be that far ahead of you in time zones.” She put her palms to her cheeks. “Och, the state of your scruffy face. Is that your tournament good-luck beard?”
He ran a hand over his week’s worth of stubble. “It didn’t work this time. I’ve lost my draw weight.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Basically, I cannae throw the stone at the right speed to make it stop where my skip wants it.”
“That seems pretty fundamental,” she said.
“Aye, it’s like a tennis player’s serve or a golfer’s putt. Once you lose your touch, it gets in your head.” Garen twisted the cap of his vodka bottle, breaking the seal with a crisp snap. “And of course your opponents notice, so they start setting up draw shots for you instead of hits.”
“It’s a mentally orientated game, eh?”
“Totally,” Garen said. “I dunno where my mind is this week—Simon’s condition, the charity event, the state of the world—but it’s not on curling.” He realized he’d forgotten to fetch a glass. “Hang on.”
“Wait, what charity event?”
He raised his voice to be heard as he moved away from the computer. “We’re holding a Christmas curling bonspiel. It’s called Jingle Bell Rocks. Get it?”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 11