Missing Hours

When he comes to, it’s too bright, so bright it stings — Ilya groans. There’s this odd beeping — is it in his head? “Sv’et,” he mutters, barely hearing his own voice. Is he sick? He just had the flu — is it back? Father is going to be so angry. It gets darker — finally — and Ilya hears someone speaking. His head is spinning even with his eyes closed, the back of his head, his temples, his whole body ache terribly. He vomits all over himself. When he comes to, he is again blinded by light. People are talking nearby — and it doesn’t even sound like Russian. Is the TV on? Did Andrei turn it on just to piss him off? Screw Andrei. When he comes to, someone is definitely speaking English. Every muffled sound makes his ears hum. “Mozhna pat’eeshe?” he says hoarsely — a blissful silence follows, but not for long. “Eeliya.” A male voice. Someone seems to be touching his arm — he barely feels it. “Eeliya? Eeliya!” “T’eeshe,” he grumbles. The pain has subsided, but his brain is all foggy. What… What is… When he comes to, it’s dark, and he finally tries to open his eyes. He’s not home. “Kakova khr’ena,” he murmurs. Complications from the flu? Has he been hospitalised? He needs to pee, so he tries to stand up, but as soon as he moves, the pain — what’s happening? — saps his strength and he… When he comes to, his head keeps throbbing, and he groans. “Eeliya,” someone says, and who the hell is Eeliya? Sounds like a girl’s name. Sounds like Liliya — it’s annoying. Ilya forces his eyes open, and there’s a dark-haired man standing over his hospital bed. A hoodie? Not a doctor, then. “Shto proiskhodeet?” he asks, and the man starts mumbling hurriedly. Is this English? “Ya na anglichanina pakhozh? Shto za preekoly?” The man puts his hand on Ilya’s palm and falls silent — finally. Ilya doesn’t feel his touch; the rising panic is drowned out by the pain. “Eeliya,” says the man. “You are at hospital.” His accent is atrocious. What the hell is he doing there if he can’t even speak properly? “What.?” “You… ah, I don’t know how to say that. A car. A car accident.” The man keeps on speaking English, and Ilya can only make out “2 days”. He’s been here for two days? What car? “Russian. Speak Russian.” “Eeliya, I’m not that good yet.” “I’m not Ee-liya. Il-yah! Ilya,” he says through clenched teeth. “Call my father.” The man straightens up abruptly, then says something about doctors and darts to the door. It’s almost quiet again. When Ilya wakes up, the English-speaking asshole is back, and he pushes the red button to call the doctor as soon as he catches Ilya’s gaze. “Eeliya…” His body is wracked with pain, and now this lunatic… He’s not a doctor — who is he anyway? What is he doing here? Ilya feels too nauseous, and the man touches his hand again, but his skin feels numb — nothing but pain. “My phone?” Ilya tries to sound firm. “I need to call my father.” “Eeliya, you father is dead.” What the fuck did he just say? Ilya can’t have misheard that. “Dead?” Dread fills him, merging with the pain and the panic and the nausea and whatever else is wrong with him. “He died three years ago,” adds the man. Dread and panic flare into rage so quickly that Ilya doesn’t even bother to say, “Do you think you’re funny? I’m going to be funny too,” before he lands his fist square on the man’s nose. He was close enough — he’ll soon learn to shut his damn mouth. It’s agony, everything is blurry — the asshole is lucky Ilya is weak; otherwise, he’d have smashed his whole face in. A man in white rushes in — a doctor? Finally. “Get the asshole out of here. Call my father.” The asshole is several steps away from the hospital bed — afraid to come closer, and there’s something red on his face — Ilya can’t see clearly, but he knows it’s blood. To hell with him. Why is he speaking with the doctor — more English? He retches and passes out.

* * *

“I’m fine.” “Mr Rozanov is disoriented — we’re sorry, but it’s best if you keep your distance from him. Head injuries are unpredictable.” Shane isn’t crying — he’s shaking so much his ice pack clatters. “Does he not remember losing his father?” asks Yuna. “Does he have amnesia?” “He slips in and out of consciousness, and we can’t manage a proper conversation. He only speaks Russian — and we’re not sure how accurate his speech is, so if you can’t translate, it’s best to find an interpreter. And we need to do another MRI scan.” “Shane, did he… Shane!”

* * *

“Hello, my name is Dr Teller. Do you…”

* * *

ILYA ROZANOV RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER BEING HIT BY CAR HOCKEY PLAYER ILYA ROZANOV IN ICU AFTER CAR ACCIDENT

* * *

@CentaursOttawa Our captain Ilya Rozanov has been admitted to hospital after a hit-and-run accident. We ask everyone to respect his and Shane Hollander’s privacy and send your prayers. #staystrongRozanov #staystrongHollander

* * *

When he comes to, there are too many people in the room. The asshole notices him first — he says something, and suddenly the whole crowd is at his bed. “Hello. My name is Anna Karpova, and I’m a Russian-English interpreter. Please pause briefly after speaking so that I have time to translate,” says a woman. Ilya squints at her, but he can’t make out her features — everything is blurred and out of place. His thoughts are slow, it is difficult to think. He nods silently, which is a huge mistake — the back of his head, temples and neck are torn apart by pain. A man in white says something, and she speaks again. “Can you tell me your name?” “Ilya Rozanov,” he manages with difficulty. He is thirsty and cannot concentrate — the doctor is talking, she is talking, but at least the asshole is silent. “Do you know where you are?” “Hospital.” “Do know why you’re here?” Things are so blurry — it must be the flu. He hasn’t felt this awful in a while. “Uh… the flu?” “What is the last thing you remember?” Panic grips his throat, and he asks hurriedly, “That asshole said my father is dead. Is my father dead?” The man in white says something to the asshole, and Anna turns her head, listening — why isn’t she translating? “Tell me. Tell me!” His voice is so hoarse he starts coughing, he jerks and his head explodes with pain. His mouth is finally wet, and it tastes like copper. When he comes to, the asshole is nowhere to be seen. Good. He looks around with difficulty and finds a red button. If he presses it, it will call someone, but if it were a button for a nuclear strike on his own head, he’d press it too. It’s the doctors and the interpreter — unfortunately. “Where’s my father?” “Your father is away at the moment. We apologize for the inconvenience, and we will contact him as soon as possible. What do you remember before you ended up in hospital?” His memory is a rusty sieve. He remembers hockey — some good hockey, and he remembers his school English teacher. He remembers the asshole saying his father is dead, and it feels real — Ilya can’t make sense of the faces around him, but what they say doesn’t ring true, it all sounds like a lie. His breath quickens. “I was taking exams?” he tries. He knows it’s the wrong answer. “What year is it?” Why are they asking that? Why are there people speaking English? Are there not enough competent Russian doctors? “Why does nobody speak Russian?” “This is a new team from abroad. We apologize for the inconvenience, Ilya Grigorievich. Can you tell me what year it is?” “Why did the asshole say that my father is dead?” he repeats, and he doesn’t need any more proof — they are going to lie to him again. “He confused you with someone else. How are you feeling?” His heart is beating so fast he feels like he’s going to throw up. “Where’s my phone?” “No phones allowed until you’re better.” “I need to speak to my father.” “He’s away at the moment.” A lie, another lie! Ilya grabs the tubes attached to his arm and tugs so hard that the IV stand by his bed crashes to the floor — everything clangs like hundreds of bells in that Valdai museum he visited with his team not long ago. It’s splitting his brain. “Fuck, what’s going on? I know you’re lying — tell me the truth! Where am I? Who are you? What the fuck are you doing? What…”

* * *

HOLLANDER INJURED, ROZANOV STILL AT HOSPITAL HOLLANDER SITS OUT FOR ROZANOV’S HOSPITAL STAY

* * *

Ilya dreams of the funeral — Andrei looks too fat and too old, Sveta looks as gorgeous as ever, and he finally connects his fist with his brother’s face. His father is actually dead. The asshole was telling the truth.