Missing Hours

He wakes up with his hands strapped to the bed — makes sense. He kind of expected that from the moment he punched the asshole — does Ilya need to apologise? Yeah, he damn well does. His legs might also be strapped. He knows he’s not paralyzed, but there’s something really off with the way his body feels — besides the pain and the discomfort of having been lying in one position for so long. A nurse brings him water, and he drinks it through a straw — she says something, but he doesn’t understand. “I don’t speak English,” he grumbles, and the woman falls silent, then pushes the red button. The doctors reappear and chatter away in his ear — is it really so difficult to understand that he cannot comprehend the meaning of their words? Everything hurts, he’s tired, he’s groggy, and the interpreter has fucked off god knows where. When a nurse takes out her phone and he hears the robotic voice of an online translator, he feels so grateful he might cry. Oh, no, he’s actually crying — what the hell. “Mr Rozanov, how are you feeling?” “Everything hurts. What country is this?” There is a brief pause, and the doctor finally tells him something new. “You’re in Ottawa, Canada.” “What am I doing here? Why aren’t I in Russia?” “You’ve hit your head and lost some of your memories.” “Why here?” “You live in Canada now.” He doesn’t know whether to believe them or not. The explanation that he has somehow forgotten moving to another country sounds more plausible than there being an entire damn foreign team in a Russian hospital with all the nurses speaking nothing but English. They ask him to count from ten to one, they poke and prod at him — his hands get unstrapped at this point, but he has to promise not to make any sudden movements. “Do you promise to stop lying to me?” So, he’s alone in Canada, he doesn’t know how he got there, his father is dead, Andrei is dead to him, and none of it makes sense. These people are probably not trying to harvest his organs — it looks like a really nice hospital. His head is splitting with pain, but at least it’s a little easier to think now. “It’s a medical imperative to keep you from being overwhelmed. You’ve had several seizures, and we don’t want them to recur.” “And I don’t want to be lied to.” “We are sorry, but you’ll need to wait until your condition stabilizes.” There are more questions, and it all drags on endlessly until he finally loses the battle to keep his eyes open. They give him an injection, the pain subsides, and he falls asleep. He briefly wakes up when a nurse brings him a meal, but he doesn’t even have the strength for that — he passes out again almost immediately.

* * *

@hollyandrozy i shit you not i’ve been crying for three days straight 😭😭😭 TELL ME IF MY BABY IS OKAY #staystrongRozanov #staystrongHollander

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DRIVER SUSPECTED IN ILYA ROZANOV HIT-AND-RUN IN CUSTODY HIT-AND-RUN INVOLVING HOCKEY STAR ILYA ROZANOV: POLICE INVESTIGATING DRUNK DRIVING ANGLE GRAPHIC VIDEO: MOMENT NHL’S ILYA ROZANOV IS STRUCK BY CAR

* * *

@wifematerialistic If I see a person trying to get behind the wheel drunk — I’m gonna fight them, I swear to god I’m gonna throw hands AND set their car ON FIRE. YOU are the problem! YOU should suffer, not him!!! #staystrongRozanov #staystrongHollander @allexes69 Regret watching the video so much. Just… a guy laughing on his phone, heading home, and then… because of one selfish bastard? 💔 #staystrongRozanov #staystrongHollander @hollyandrozy AND THE FUCKER JUST DROVE AWAY?! @peteyball Look, I get the sentiment, but for real… hoping Hollander gets back on the ice soon. Ottawa needs him @wifematerialistic Btw, have you heard of COVID-19? I’m a bit concerned here

* * *

It doesn’t feel like a dream — he’s laughing, looking at an open Skype window on his laptop. His tutor begins a sentence with, “Never have I…” “Never have I lost a game!” “Well, never have I heard a bigger lie.” “Never have I lied in my life!” She laughs too — she’s easy to talk to, and she actually enjoys it when he jokes around. He can spout any nonsense that comes to mind — this isn’t psychotherapy, after all, he doesn’t have to tell the truth. “Not only do my teammates…” she begins again, and it takes a couple of seconds for him to come up with what to say next. You need to structure it like a question even though it’s not one. Inversion. Piece of cake. When he opens his eyes, there are two women with him, and his hands are strapped again. It’s blissfully dark. Never before in his life has he forgotten anything like that. Not only do his teammates like to talk shit, but they also enjoy winning cups. Scarcely does he understand what’s happening. “Eeliya,” says one of them. She continues speaking, and he understands her — it’s ‘Good morning, my dear’. The other woman translates, and he recognises her voice if not her face. “Good morning,” he awkwardly says back and waves his strapped hand. “You’re back, but they already used Google Translate.” “Eeliya! You speak English again!” “Yeah, it feels…” he’s looking for the word ‘familiar’, but his mind is blank. “I know something. I know this, I think.” The dark-haired woman is not pleased with his answer, but he is, he’s happy to remember something and he clings to the memory, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. It’s coming back. Slowly — but it’s coming back. Maybe soon he’ll remember what he’s doing in fucking Canada. Canada — why not the States? “Who are you?” he finally asks. “Ah, yes, sorry! My name is Yuna. I’m… ah, I’m family.” “My family?” “Yes.” She’s not saying anything else — the doctors must have told her to keep things from him. “Okay. What day is it?” “It’s Tuesday.” Very helpful. He should have asked about the date, not the day. What’s really annoying is that he doesn’t remember which one is Tuesday and which one is Thursday. “What year?” “Uh… I’m… I’m not sure I’m allowed to say.” Annoying, goddamn annoying. He actually wants the asshole to come back — at least he told Ilya the truth, and he is someone important, otherwise he wouldn’t have been sitting by his bed. “I need something. From pain.” He drifts off after a nurse gives him drugs, and he sees himself in front of a whole horde of journalists barraging him with English questions, and he understands close to nothing, can’t say a word. A man sitting next to him at the table starts speaking. He is watching a hockey interview on YouTube and writing down the words he sees in the subtitles. When he wakes, there’s a man in the armchair opposite his bed. He’s reading, and he glances up when he hears Ilya move. “Eeli… Il-ya!” the man says. Ah, it’s the asshole. “I’m sorry about… you know,” says Ilya. “Is your nose okay?” “Yeah, it’s… It’s fine. You’re speaking English again,” he sounds happy. The words just come out in English. Ilya lives in Canada now, doesn’t he? It makes his stomach twist that he doesn’t remember, and it’s even worse that he has no idea how much he has forgotten. The asshole- The man said his father died three years ago. Did he forget three whole years of his life? That’s a lot — he feels like he’s only started living, he doesn’t remember graduating high school or going to prom — there’s nothing in his head but emptiness, and he’s still dizzy, and his head hurts even when he’s pumped full of painkillers. “Do I play hockey?” he finally asks and closes his eyes. The light is too bright — the asshole needed it to read. “Uh, I’m… I don’t think I should…” “I remember that I played hockey. Do I play hockey?” “I mean… yes.” “For what team?” “Uh…” “A Canadian team, yes?” “Yes. The Ottawa Centaurs.” “Oh. Are they in NHL?” “Yes, and we’re pretty good, actually. So, yeah, we are in the NHL.” We. He’s a teammate, and he’s clearly proud of the team — so protective. “Do we have Stanley Cup?” “I mean, not with this team, but yeah, we’ve won some.” So they’ve played together for a while. Three years? More? Less? The timeline is blurry, and it makes him nauseous. “What’s your name?” The man is silent for a moment, then he sighs and says, “I’m Shane. Shane Hollander.” He knows this name. He doesn’t know anything else but the simple fact that he knows this name; he’s heard it, and it’s agony how close he is to remembering and how far out of reach it feels. “How long do we know each other?” “Uh, twelve years, give or take.” Ilya’s breath hitches — he’s lost twelve years? More? It’s more than a half of life! No, how old is he? What is he supposed to do now? “Twelve years,” he repeats, and his heart is racing; everything is spinning, and it fucking hurts.

* * *

“I fucking told him we’ve known each other for twelve years, and he started shaking! Fuck! Fuck! I knew I shouldn’t, but I… It felt so good to talk to him that I… Fuck!” Yuna is trying to get him up off the floor, but he’s not a child anymore, and she needs to do something quickly before people see. “Shane, let’s go home. Shane, please. David is bringing the car to the emergency exit. Eeliya is with the doctors now, everything is going to be fine. He’s a tough guy, you have to believe in him.”

* * *

“Mrs Hollander, I believe it’s better for Mr Rozanov’s husband not to visit him for several days. We need to…” “Yes, Dr Teller, I understand. I’ll talk to Shane. Thank you.” She doesn’t know how she’s going to tell Shane — he’s just calmed down, and the news will be a heavy blow. She tightens her grip on the phone and closes her eyes, sighing. “It’s a temporary measure. Mr Rozanov responds well to you, so maybe you…” “Yes, absolutely, I’ll be there. Thank you.”

* * *

Next time he comes to, it’s the evening, and the two women — Yuna and the interpreter — are no longer there. He half expects the asshole– the man from yesterday to be there. He does need to apologise for punching him in the nose, but it seems like he’s finally got his peace and quiet. Not exactly peace — his head hurts and he turns his head and gags — a nurse appears by his side and asks him if he’s feeling okay. He’s not. His hands are still strapped — he has to struggle to reach the bed controls and raise the headboard a little. He wants to die.

* * *

ILYA ROZANOV STILL IN ICU