Page 40 of Must Love Christmas

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 UntilChristmas

“Dunno why you can’t just have the same password for everything.”

“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.”

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