Missing Hours

They want to do another scan before he can leave, and Ilya hates how the hallways all merge into one endless beige nothing. The rhythmic knocking of the MRI machine makes him feel claustrophobic, and his head throbs, tiny hammers hammering nails into his temples and the back of his skull.

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@HealthyCA Due to the spread of COVID-19, we urge the public to wear masks (change every 4 hours), use gloves, sanitize hands regularly, and keep a 2-meter distance from others in public. @timdennins Okay, sure. But can you tell us where to actually get masks? There aren’t any anywhere I’ve looked. Come on. @10tborgia no shit where are all the masks? im using a scarf for now but arent proper masks supposed to be safer?

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The clothes Yuna brought for him fit okay and look perfectly boring. “I’m ready,” Ilya says, though he is far from it, his heartbeat lodged in his throat. He pulls on a warm hat and a mask. Yuna pushes his wheelchair through the identical hallways and past indistinguishable people, heading for the emergency exit. He climbs in the backseat and tries to calm himself. He’s going to be fine — Sveta is waiting for him. A French song whispers from the radio, grating on his nerves. Not another language, please. Shit, does he know French too? Outside, it’s too fucking bright — he needs sunglasses. “Hi,” says the driver. “Uhm. Hi,” replies Ilya. Does he know this man? The reflection in the rearview mirror — dark eyes, dark hair — tells him nothing. “Are you okay?” “Yes, of course. Yes.” “Uhm… The apartment is ready, by the way. I hope you’ll like it.” “Oh, is it yours?” it finally occurs to him that there’s a reason he’s sitting alone in a car with this man. “Are you Yuna’s son?” “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot you may not recognize me.” “Yeah. Sorry.” “No, I mean… ” “Do we know each other?” The man falls silent — not helpful. “Yeah. We know each other.” “Through Yuna? Or.? For how long?” Another pause, heavier this time. “Sorry, I’m not sure how much I can say right now.” “Bah, boring,” Ilya concludes and looks out of the window, willing Yuna to return — time drips like an IV. “What is your name?” The man stays silent for longer — a slow guy. Okay. “Shane. Shane Hollander.” Ilya he’s heard the name somewhere — it’s an itch inside his brain he can’t scratch. He knows him, knows his soft voice. The front passenger door swings open a second before he remembers — the memory slips away. “Sorry, guys, I needed to have a quick talk with Dr Teller! We’re good to go now.” The snow in the streets glares, blinding him, and the world tilts and throbs — another migraine is crashing in. The murmuring French from the speakers makes him want to scream. “Headache,” he murmurs, covering his eyes with his hands. The music stops, and Yuna starts loudly rummaging through her bag. “Here, honey. Take this pill. Here’s some water.” He gags on the water, and the coughing sends fresh jolts of pain through his skull. He has no idea where they are, but at least it’s not far from the hospital. When the car stops, he can’t stand steadily; Yuna’s son helps him out — the man is seriously strong — and guides him into a house. He thinks he hears Sveta’s voice, but he passes out as soon as his head hits a soft pillow. When he wakes, the gap between the windowsill and the Roman blinds is dark. He slowly looks around: a fancy room with glass and wood and lots of tasteful decorations. He eases out of bed, but the apartment beyond is disorientingly large. A wave of anxiety sends him backing into the room, shutting the door. If he gets lost here, he won’t be able to handle it. “Sveta?” he shouts — his voice is uncomfortably dry, and it rings in his own ears. “Ilya!” she rushes into his room. “You’re awake. The doctors told us you’ll need some time to adjust.” “What the fuck is this place? It’s huge.” “Nice, right?” “I’ll get lost,” he whispers. “I’ll get fucking lost here and will die in a cupboard.” Sveta stares at him. “You’re serious,” she says incredulously. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… What about some signs? We’ll just tape labels and arrows to the walls.” Gosh, so stupid. “That won’t mash well with the design,” Ilya replies. “Screw the design. Okay. Okay, so, can I leave you for fifteen minutes? Half an hour max.” “I’m not a child.” “I’m aware of that, but… Shit, you’ll need a phone — if something happens, you need to call me. Wait a minute.” She hurries out and returns with a white box and a SIM-card. “It’s a new one, let’s set it up.” He understands it’s a phone, but he doesn’t quite remember how to use it. Buttons were easier to manage. “Right.” she sees his hesitation and decisively rips off the foil. “It’s easy — don’t worry.” She works her magic, looking up several times and saying, “Oh, right,” over and over. It’s fucking annoying how helpless he feels. “Here. It’s done,” she points at the screen. That’s my number.” He recognizes the icons. “I’ve disabled the browser — please don’t try to google yourself. Promise me.” “Okay,” he sighs. “I’m serious — I won’t forgive myself if you have a seizure.” “I won’t google myself,” he repeats, irritated. He’s stuck in an apartment with a younger version of Yuna. “Sorry. Anything else before I go?” “Water. And show me the bathroom.” “It’s en-suite,” Sveta goes to a door, opens it and leaves it ajar. “I’ll bring you a water bottle.” She returns with the bottle, leaves it on the nightstand, and leaves Ilya alone. He heads straight for the bathroom. And there it is — a mirror. He doesn’t recognize himself. Without his hair — this could be a stranger; he’d walk right by. He steps closer, trying to focus on the details of his own face — there are wrinkles. He has wrinkles now, and that’s more than three years could do. His gaze sweeps the countertop — he grabs the toothpaste tube, searching for the production date — 2019. Fuck. Ilya returns to the bedroom — thank fuck there’s only one door from the bathroom — and snatches the new phone. 1st of March, 2020. No. That’s… that’s bad. He sits down slowly — he knew a lot of time had passed. His memories are like a Pollock painting: splattered everywhere, disconnected, impossible to make sense of. He doesn’t know what came before or after, but he remembers playing a lot of hockey, giving interviews in English, partying — constant partying. Having sex. He definitely slept with Sveta. The phone starts ringing — an unknown number. Ilya isn’t going to deal with it now — he fumbles with the side buttons and finally turns the damn thing off. Sveta is back before he knows it, and he forces himself out of the room to meet her. She takes off her mask and lays out markers, paper and tape on the table. “How’re you doing?” she asks. “It’s 2020,” he replies tiredly. “Fuck.” “No seizures? Have you been conscious all this time?” “Just a headache. The usual.” They tape huge paper arrows all over the walls. Now Ilya can find the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room, and the bathroom. He feels a little better, even though the place looks ridiculous, like a child’s game — a giant maze for those who have forgotten the way to the kettle. Sveta’s brought crepes with jam — they are good. “I hope you don’t expect me to cook,” she says. “Nah, I can cook, no problem. Thank you for this, by the way.” “I was waiting for Yuna to tell me I could come. They wouldn’t have allowed me into the ICU.” Ilya hums and stuffs himself with crepes — she won’t tell him more about Yuna anyway, so there’s no point asking. Is Yuna really family? His father’s wife? Nothing makes sense. “After the accident, Andrei found my number and called,” Sveta says, and Ilya stops chewing. “What did he want?” “He asked how you were doing.” “Hm.” “I told him you had a will, and he wasn’t in it — then he called me a gold-digging whore and hang up.” “Do I? Have a will, I mean.” “Yeah. There was a close call a while ago, and you decided not to take chances.” “What happened?” “Rough flight. But nobody got hurt.” “Hm.” That he doesn’t remember. “Are you married?” he asks. “Ilya!” Sveta laughs at him. “You’re not subtle — I’m not going to sleep with you!” Now that she mentions it, he could use a blowjob. He’s pretty sure he’d feel better after one. “I’m just asking. Are you seeing anyone?” “Ilya.” “Okay. Tell me something else, then.” “There’s no toilet paper in the stores — that’s wild.” “Huh, is there something in the water?” “No, it’s the flu. A new one, COVID-19. They are talking about a lockdown, and everyone’s panic-buying.” “Fuck.” Ilya feels helpless: he was supposed to be protecting her, and now she’s stuck taking care of him. The last person to take care of him was his father — a man who solved problems with brute force, money and connections. Ilya always felt that if danger came, his father would be there. His father, dead set on fighting an invisible enemy, saddled with two sons… Oh — he remarried. One blank in his head seems to have filled itself. Was it Yuna? No, Polina. “I’m sorry you have to be here.” “I’m not. I want you to feel better, and there’s finally something I can do — sitting on my hands didn’t feel great. We were all scared.” “Sorry.” She hugs him, and they settle onto the sofa, his head resting on her warm lap. “I miss your hair,” she sighs. Ah. Well, shaved hair is the least of his problems, and he doesn’t mind — but Sveta does. “Do I look ugly?” “You look sick. But you’ll get better.” Ilya knows her well — she sounds sure even when she’s lost. “Do we have enough toilet paper?” he asks, feigning concern. Sveta laughs, her thighs jerking with the motion, but her hand never stops, gently petting the short hair near his forehead.

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CANADA ANNOUNCES MAJOR COVID-19 RESTRICTIONS