Page 34 of Must Love Christmas

Chapter 7

Garen piledthe array of packaged snacks—crisps, biscuits, trail mix—atop the cardboard coffee-cup tray, then made his way out of the hospital café. Through a combination of good fortune and fierce concentration, he returned to the Accident & Emergency unit without getting lost or dropping any of his purchases.

Arriving at Room 8, he found Simon’s parents sitting on the edges of the same chairs, in the same tense postures, as when he’d left them fifteen minutes before. Their eyes sparked with hope as he entered, only to cloud over with disappointment when they realized it was only him.

“I know you said you weren’t hungry now, so I got stuff you could eat later.” Garen set the tray on the small table in the corner, then held out one of the cups. “Coffee with cream and two sugars for you, Mrs. Andreou.”

“Ta for that.” She flashed a tight, pale-lipped smile as she took the coffee. “And please, call me Eleanor.” With a shaky hand, she tugged on the ends of her long, brassy curls.

“Will do.” Garen handed the second cup to Simon’s father. “Darjeeling tea, three sugars.”

“Ta,” Mr. Andreou said in a faint voice, glancing up before returning his gaze to the room’s curtained entrance. He looked ten years older than the day he’d helped Simon bring Poppy to their flat. His olive-complexioned face—a shade darker than Simon’s—now had pale undertones. Even his coarse black hair and mustache seemed to contain more gray hairs than a few weeks before, though Garen knew that was impossible.

Garen left his own coffee in the tray, his stomach too sour from nerves to drink it. “Any word yet?” he asked, knowing they must be desperate to see their son, as they’d arrived after Simon had already gone upstairs.

“Nothing,” Eleanor said.

Garen looked at the clock, where the stark black hands formed a straight vertical line against the white face. “They said he’d be back no sooner than half six. Mind, it’s a really long MRI. They’ve got to do the brain and the entire spinal cord.”

“There’s no point,” Eleanor said. “We know what this is. Simon told them, eh?”

“Aye, when we got here, he said it was probably Guillain-Barré syndrome.” It was the first time Garen had said the illness’s name without stumbling over it. “All his symptoms and exams so far point to it. But they still need an MRI to rule out a spinal-cord injury and multiple sclerosis.”

He knew this because Luca had come to the hospital with Garen and Simon—and not just for moral support. As a former med student and current editor of medical textbooks, Luca could explain the terms the doctors and nurses were using, and he’d known all the right questions to ask.

Eleanor clutched her coffee cup in both hands. “I just hate the idea of him lying alone in that machine for two hours while his limbs go numb. And soon there’ll be the spinal tap—” Her voice broke off. “He must be so frightened.”

Garen’s chest grew heavy with sympathy, and he searched for words that would be comforting but also true. “He was scared to death when we got here. But Simon can handle this.” He turned to Mr. Andreou. “I guarantee when he comes back, the first thing he’ll ask is whether Liverpool held on to beat Watford.”

Simon’s dad gave a wan smile, his first since arriving today. “6–1. We’re top of the league now.”

“Well done. Who scored?” Garen didn’t give a toss about football, but he knew a match recap would be a much-needed diversion for at least one of the people in the room.

Simon’s mum gave Garen an approving nod and sank back into her chair with a tight sigh that reminded him of Simon’s. Like her son, she was tall and lean, whereas Simon’s father was broad-shouldered and stocky, no taller than Garen himself.

After Simon’s dad had finished describing the game, Garen managed to distract the Andreous with more inane small talk until the blue curtain finally swept aside to reveal Simon in his rolling hospital bed. He was now wearing a pale green gown and holding his street clothes in a clear plastic bag on his lap.

“Hey Ma. Hey Da.” Simon waved to his parents as the brawny patient care technician returned his bed to the center of the small square room. “How’s it going?”

Garen stepped back to let Simon’s parents flank his bed.

“Simon, we’re worried sick.” Eleanor took her son’s hand in both of her own. “Are you sure it’s the Guillain-Barré again?”

“I dunno.” With some effort, Simon pulled up one knee, then stretched his leg out again. “I don’t remember what it was like the first time, but I’ve read about it online.” He looked at his dad. “Remember when Markus Babbel had it?”

“Of course.” Simon’s father took his other hand. “I also remember he was back playing football the next season. You’ll be on your feet again in no time.”

“You don’t know that,” Eleanor snapped. Then she winced. “I’m sorry, Stavros. We just can’t assume anything yet.”

“It’s okay,” her husband said in a soothing tone. “We’ll know more soon.”

“I’m in safe hands here,” Simon told them. His voice was steady and his expression much more serene than when it had been just he and Garen in the room. Either his parents were a calming influence on him, or he was putting on a brave face for their sake.

The curtain pulled aside, revealing the A&E doctor who’d been treating Simon all afternoon, a middle-aged woman with French-twisted hair nearly as red as the silk poppy she wore on her lapel. “Hello, I’m Dr. McAlpine,” she said to his parents with a warm smile. “I just spoke with our on-call neurologist, and he’ll be in shortly.”

“Define ‘shortly,’” Eleanor said, her tone suggesting she wouldn’t believe the answer.

“Seven, maybe eight o’clock?” the doctor replied.

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