Chapter 10. Day 8
Gordon came sliding into the room on his knees, mouth wide with joy, his hair still wet with snow, arms outstretched.
"And he makes it! Gordon Tracy makes it home, and the crowd – wait for it, Virgil – the crowd – what do they do, Virgil? Oh yes, oh yes, the crowd goes wiiiillllddd!"
Virgil laughed.
"You idiot. Get up before Grandma sees you."
"Before Grandma sees what?" came a stern voice from the kitchen, and Gordon gave a comic shriek.
"Hide me!" He scrambled behind Virgil's chair.
"One good reason," said Virgil.
"Um – because Alan's gonna be in here in about five seconds and Grandma can blame him for the snow on the floor?"
"You know selling out your brother's not really any kind of basis for negotiation."
"It's not? Huh." Gordon shook his head. "Boy, have I been getting it wrong all these years."
"Get up. I'm not saving you."
"I know. Worth a shot though, wasn't it?" Gordon clambered up from behind Virgil's legs. Then he kept going, in a kind of slow motion cat crawl, onto the table, over Virgil's homework, then up the wall to float into the corner of the ceiling.
"Of course! That's it! Gordon, we don't have to worry anymore! You can float everywhere." Virgil smacked his own forehead. "How could I forget that?"
"I dunno, bro," said Gordon, but the ceiling was far away now, and Virgil felt a twinge of anxiety.
"Don't go too far," he called, but even his concern for Gordon getting smaller and smaller in the distance was trumped by his relief that he wouldn't have to see Gordon stuck in a bed any longer. Floating was the answer. Why had he missed that?
He chuckled, and the sound woke him up, abruptly.
His neck was badly cricked, and there was drool out the corner of his mouth. The light was blue, the room was warm, and his brother was vomiting with pain in front of him as Jacinta steadied his head and wiped his mouth.
"Oh. Hell." Virgil blinked hard, struggling to come back from the memory of that long gone snowy day, back when Gordon flung his body about the planet like the world was made of rubber and he wanted to see how high he could bounce.
"S'okay," Gordon croaked. His ribcage was bruised and swollen, but the duro-bend strips were gone; he was breathing on his own, since this morning. "You seemed like you could use the sleep."
And there it was, right there, the well of kindness at the heart of his little brother if you only knew where to look.
"Day eight, Gordon," said Jacinta, setting the bowl aside. "You're doing so well."
"Yeah." But Gordon didn't look well. Waking from sleep with the younger Gordon's face fresh in Virgil's mind brought the current one into sharp and bleak focus. His colour was gray, his eyes bleared with a pain that never stopped, his mouth ragged with the screams he saved for himself alone in order to spare his brother.
For the weakest moment of his life, Virgil wished himself back in that afternoon, with the scent of wet wool and wood-fire in his nostrils, the sounds of his kid brothers wrangling happily in his ears. Just the memory of those home-like aromas was enough to bring the acrid notes of vomit and disinfectant into a harsh contrast that made him ache.
Ten more days of this.
Rubbing his eyes and his mouth, Virgil bent to pick up the book where it had fallen from his hands.
"Okay. Where were we? Right. Search for Atlantis. Chapter 8. I know I Left it Somewhere."
A hoarse chuckle.
"Where Did We Park that City Again?"
And once more Virgil began the thankless task of wresting back a few more hours from the day.