Page 95 of Must Love Christmas

Simon’s only regret was that Garen hadn’t been able to join them for dinner, as he’d been needed at the rink to set up for tomorrow’s charity event. Perhaps the two of them could come downtown next weekend and enjoy the nighttime festivities together.

As they turned down another street, Simon’s mother gasped. “Look at that!”

Royal Exchange Square had been covered in a ceiling of light, a web of white bulbs draped from one building to another, extending out over the street they were driving down. In front of the Glasgow Museum of Art, the Duke of Wellington statue wore a traffic cone on its head—as usual—but was also flanked by cone-shaped Christmas trees made out of blue lights.

They finally arrived at the Italian restaurant where Simon had made reservations.

“Ah, good,” his father said as he unloaded Simon’s wheelchair from the taxi’s boot. “This place has got a ramp out front.”

“I know,” Simon told him. “I phoned ahead to be sure it was accessible.”

He felt a bit guilty about bringing the wheelchair. Since he wouldn’t be traveling many steps tonight, he technically should have used his walking frame. It would’ve been less unwieldy. But unlike the wheelchair—an aid he’d seen plenty of other young people use—the frame made him feel like an old man.

To his relief, the maître d’ showed them to a table on one side of the main dining room. In his online GBS support group, Simon had heard stories of people in wheelchairs being either hidden in restaurants’ dark corners “out of the way” or planted bang in the middle of traffic, forever at risk of being stumbled over.

“Would you like to sit in your chair or use one of ours?” the maître d’ asked Simon.

Pleased at the offer, Simon eyed the restaurant chair. Its seat seemed high enough, but it lacked arms with which to steady himself while sitting down or standing up. He imagined losing his balance, grabbing the tablecloth, and pulling the plates, glasses, and candle onto the floor like in a failed magic trick.

In spite of this nightmare fantasy, he said, “I’d love to use yours, thanks.”

Conscious he was being watched by the large group at the next table, Simon stood on his own, then leaned on his father while his mother moved the wheelchair aside. After a few shuffling steps and a slow, controlled descent, he got himself into the dining chair without wreaking havoc.

“Well done, mate.” A bushy-haired ginger lad at the next table gave a fist-pump in his direction. “Gaun yersel!”

Cringing on the inside, Simon offered a polite wave in return. The entire party over there seemed well on their way to steaming—the table held at least half a dozen empty wine bottles—so he decided to assume they were being friendly. At least they weren’t staring in silence or looking the other way in discomfort.

The maître d’ shifted the table closer to Simon, then passed around menus.

“Dinner is my treat,” Simon told his parents, “so order whatever you like.”

Of course they argued with him, but he convinced them it was the least he could do, considering they’d made the four-hour drive and had to stay in a hotel overnight.

He examined the menu, wishing his medications didn’t stop him having alcohol. A glass of wine or two would certainly help him tell his parents that Garen was now his boyfriend.

“The Pollo Cacciatore looks sound.” Ma adjusted her gold hairslide so it held back more curls. “Simon, you’ll be having the Spaghetti Bolognese, like always?”

“The Penne Arrabbiata, actually.” He mimed using a fork. “Short pasta’s easier to eat. I can just stab it instead of twirling it.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She shook her head. “So many challenges to consider. I dunno how you do it.”

I haven’t got much choice, he thought, but felt no resentment toward her lack of knowledge. Before his illness, he’d never thought about such things either—like making a mental note not to drink too much water, so he wouldn’t need to haul himself to the restaurant toilet and back.

After they’d ordered their meals, his mother held up the bag of gifts she’d brought. “Time for prezzies! Simon, we got you separate gifts, because—well, you’ll understand once you see your da’s.”

“Wait, what?” His father’s thick black eyebrows rose above his glasses. “I thought it was because—”

“You’ll see. Mine first.” She handed Simon a flat rectangular box.

Even before unwrapping it, Simon knew it contained dress shirts. He preferred to buy his own clothes, but he knew it pleased his mother to do it for him, and she made good choices at least seventy-five percent of the time.

“Aww, these are dead lovely, Ma.” He admired the fine linen cloth on the pair of Oxford shirts.

“You sure you like them?” She reached across the table and collected the discarded gift wrap. “If not, I’ve still got the receipt. I can exchange them.”

He wouldn’t dream of asking her to do that, even if he’d hated the shirts. “I love them. Great incentive to get back to the office.”And to train my fingers to do buttons again.“Here’s your gift from me,” he said, reaching into the bag he’d set on the empty chair beside him.

She took the small box and cooed, “Ah, such pretty wrap.”

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