The Love Virus

By Eleni Cay

When Katie finds out that her increasingly unresponsive legs and extreme fatigue is due to Multiple Sclerosis, she rides an emotional rollercoaster – anger, denial and fear – when faced with a wheelchair-bound existence. She puts her studies at Oxford on hold, and she splits up from her fiancé, Mark, even though she still loves him. While undergoing treatment, Katie is diagnosed with MS2 – a virus that paralyses the mind. In hospital, Katie has to cope with her irritating bedfellows who argue constantly, and where she is treated by Dr Andrews, a handsome psychologist. The closer she gets to him however, the worse her pain becomes. Compounding Katie's struggle is Mark, who returns to her bedside day after day. Once Katie begins Dr Andrews' new experimental MS2 treatment, Mark can't recognise her anymore. He begins to wonder if Katie will ever be cured.

 

Eleni Cay is an award-winning poet living in Norway and in the UK. This is her debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleni Cay
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393075103

Book preview

THE LOVE VIRUS

Eleni Cay

©Eleni Cay 2020

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from the author, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate rights organisations.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter One

‘D on’t pick it up!’

‘Why? It’s a sign!’

‘It’s full of viruses.’

‘It’s beautiful. Authentic design.’

‘It’s probably from that pigeon.’

‘Blue feathers mean life.’

‘Babe, the feather is grey,

I’ll buy you a clean one.’

‘I want a real feather!’

‘A real one will make you ill.’

The wind blew the feather next to my right foot,

then further away, but still,

I saw it glistening on the narrow pavement,

refracting the nocturnal sky

into all corners of Florence Park.

I was completely unaware

that I was already infected,

that I was already a patient.

Mark and I had a few more drinks

in the student union bar.

We got home late.

I was completely exhausted,

but Mark was full on for it.

‘There, ouch, don’t touch me there,

please, a bit, move to the right!’

I pushed Mark to the side,

though he was still inside me.

‘Better?’ Mark’s chest hair felt

like blades stabbed deep into my flesh.

But I wanted him to come. Desperately.

I thought I could hold it.

‘Better?’ he asked again,

moving rhythmically.

I burst into tears and screamed loudly.

Mark stopped, got out of me.

He looked puzzled and upset.

What was wrong?

He had got the expensive wine,

he was freshly shaved,

he remembered the Enya song

and the jasmine candle.

‘I’m sorry Mark. I don’t ...

I don’t know what’s wrong ...

It’s really not you. I don’t know

how to handle ... I don’t ...’

Mark didn’t say a word.

It was the fourth time that

we had tried that month.

He went to the bathroom.

He came back and lay down

on the right-hand side of the bed.

He did not touch me.

He did not look at me.

I pretended I was asleep.

He knew I wasn’t,

and I knew he wouldn’t be for a while.

We lay next to each other like two shoes

that don’t belong together.

We knew we could not fix this,

no matter which position we took.

For a moment, I hoped that he would

extend his hand towards me,

say it will be all right, quench the fire.

But he didn’t and I understood

that even if I surrender everything,

I cannot govern his desire.

‘This isn’t working.’ I woke up

to the brusque sound of Mark’s voice.

‘I know,’ I opened my eyes,

‘I think it will be better if we break up.’

I didn’t say more,

didn’t want to make it more dramatic.

I tried stopping the tears by looking

at the bright white ceiling.

Mark turned his head

and looked at me in disbelief,

then turned over onto his side,

pulled the blanket

that was covering my defunct body.

This was the moment it dawned on me

that I needed to quarantine our love.

That to make Mark part of me,

I must set him free.

Chapter Two

The ground is cracked in an X shape.

Darkness. Then a loud ‘Welcome’.

I jump up. ‘Don’t worry, babe.

You’re in the right place with us.’

The travel agent pulls on his vape,

releases the vapour through his nostrils.

Post-workout sweat mixed

with bad breath.

‘Who are you? Where am I?’

‘Are you scared? Ha ha ha ha!’

I’m not scared of the man.

I’m scared of the air around him.

Of the billions of possibilities

of what the invisible could become.

Of the dust mites, chemicals, farts,

fragrances, pollen and viruses around us.

All powerful. All invisible.

‘You will soon meet your

two fellow travellers.’

‘So there will be three of us?

Three is never a good number.

Someone is bound to lead,

someone, to be unhappy.’

He drags on his vape with a sleazy smile:

‘A big group would spoil

your authentic experience.’

The saliva pools on his lower lip,

drops slowly on the tiles.

There are packs of half-eaten kebabs,

shiny packaging from a sex toy.

‘How much is it to travel virtually?’

He scrolls up my profile

on his notebook screen.

I almost said I am not into junk foods

and find him ugly.

The blue light creates a fake halo

around his fat face.

‘Are you still studying

psychology at Oxford?’

‘I had to suspend my studies for a year.’

‘Suspended but technically

still a student. Good for you, babe.

Massive price reductions for students.

Full points for all your assignments,

good for you, babe.’

He puffs on his vape, I want to escape

but there is no clear path, sign or button.

The windows are curtained

letting in a tiny shimmer,

it could be sunshine or streetlamp.

Time doesn’t matter in this room.

‘To qualify for a fifty per cent discount,’

you’ll need to disclose a few things.’

The travel agent puffs

towards the brass chandelier.

It has six bulbs, two are lit,

four are for the atmosphere.

‘Disclose what exactly?’

‘Fifty percent of your thoughts

generated on the island.

For eighty per cent,

it’s an eighty per cent discount.’

‘How Faustian!

You want me to travel without

my mind? You want to fill

and empty it on demand?!’

His bald head and bulbous nose

shine like halogen.

There is nothing attractive

about this man. His few teeth

are yellow, with dark specks.

No eyebrows, only two black

pins wanting specs. There is

a nice pair of Dolce & Gabbana

glasses on the table,

but he is not wearing them,

and I am unable to un-see them.

‘Don’t miss out on the cracking deal!’

He sounds like an automated ad.

I want to shut him up,

but I don’t know how.

‘Don’t miss out on the cracking deal!’

I look at the wall behind him,

at the Victorian-pattern wallpaper

with one picture: a big framed map

with hand-painted borders.

‘Don’t miss out on the cracking deal!’

The map shows an island

in the middle of a vast sea.

The travel agent catches my gaze.

‘That’s Andratalia.

You can be there within seconds.

Just select your deal!’

‘Okay. Eighty per cent then.

How much is it all together?’

‘That is gonna be 4,500 Bitcoin.’

‘Did you apply the discount?!’

‘This is not a student trip!

You want to join or not?’

I don’t want to gamble

with this Mephistopheles.

‘When is the departure?’

I ask in distress.

‘You’ve got a choice

of two dates: now or never.’

His face folds

into a triple chin as he laughs.

‘I want to go now. Now!’

He takes his eyes off the screen,

stops vaping. There is finally

some clarity in the air.

‘We will first cleanse your brain.’

‘Cleanse? What are you talking about?’

‘Numb selected memories.

To increase chances for authenticity.

It’s a premium service.

You just need to pay 500 Bitcoin more.’

‘I don’t want any other service!

I want Andratalia! Now!’

‘Okay, okay, no worries, babe.

Jeez, what a customer!’

He hands me a wooden box.

‘It’s yours. A bonus. Forever.’

It’s a small ebony box. I turn it around.

It is paper-light.

It has the word KAI

written on its lid in bright white

Arial font. That’s not my name.

I suspect he gave me a cheap,

non-personalised alternative.

‘What does KAI mean?’

‘It will all make sense

when you get to Andratalia.

Just open it when you get there.

Okay, babe?’

I paid, the travel agent disappeared

like a cardboard cut-out of a fat rat.

I am alone, my calm restored.

Just me and my box.

I remove the security tape,

slide the cover off. A small

feather slowly slips out.

Then more and more,

creating a giant golden gate.

The feathers float around me,

they land on my hair,

on my shoulders.

They look like colourful snow.

They are small feathers,

with soft barbules at the tips.

I’m bathing in them,

in their tranquil world

my body dancing,

gently whirled.

Chapter Three

‘I ’ve never had anyone faint after

lumbar puncture. These coronials!

Can’t deal with any bit of pain.’

The nurse took a sample

of my spinal fluid.

A microsecond of hesitation

in her hand, a millimetre

to the right or to the left

and I could be paralysed forever.

I was already sitting in a wheelchair,

so this was unlikely to get any better.

A flock of white coats

flew into the room, my parents behind.

‘Her Barthel Index is very low,

twenty over a hundred. Tinetti score

just below twenty,’ the senior

doctor reported. The nurses’ red nails

pecked notes on their iPads.

‘She should have been referred

much earlier. She has lost

thirty-two per cent of myelin.

It’s irreparable damage.’

Dr Kawaleski continued

with the diagnosis, each

sentence sounding more

and more deadly.

‘There is nothing we can do

about the numbness,

tingling or impaired vision.’

I was glad Mark

didn’t need to hear that.

The doctor’s words

reaffirmed my decision.

Dr Kawaleski picked up

a reflex hammer, raised it

ten centimetres from my knee.

The hammer swung loosely

between his thumb and forefinger.

I could see the piece of metal

moving from my leg to my belly,

I knew I should be feeling something,

my skin should be responding.

But I had no idea whether

it was warm or cold,

or somewhere in-between,

I felt like watching my body on a screen.

Dr Kawaleski touching my exposed calf.

Not erotic.

He watched my muscle contract,

my foot planted in his supporting hand.

My feet dangled over the edge of the bed,

ten pairs of eyes fixed

on my lifeless limbs.

The junior doctor cast a piteous look

at my right leg.

I hadn’t shaved for a month.

My leg looked like

a long chicken nugget.

I closed my eyes ...

My grandfather used to keep chickens.

Each year he would get thirty chicks.

He nursed them from young,

working long hours in the field

to feed them the most nutritious grains.

They were his minions;

no one else could control his hens.

He was in charge of the best eggs.

He would have names for his girls.

Susie1, Susie2 and so on,

but he knew exactly which was which.

He loved his Susies.

He didn’t mind killing them.

It was part of the love cycle.

He nourished them,

they needed to nourish him.

He killed them in batches,

four at a time. He put them

in a big thick bag,

bashed it with a heavy mallet.

Then he would take them out,

one by one, and cut their throat

with a knife. He used to keep

his knife in the garage.

We children knew it was

Granddad’s killing knife

the wooden handle

had some blood stains

no one could wash off.

One day he chopped off a hen’s head

but she didn’t die.

It escaped his hands

and started running around the garden.

Not too far, just a few last reflexes,

towards the warm nest,

where she used to lay eggs.

I was traumatised

for a few months after that.

Mum did tell me not to watch.

She must have seen it many times.

She used to say that life is nothing

more than a simple nerve circuit.

‘Your MRI scan is tomorrow.

It’s a painless procedure,’

the junior doctor looked at my sunk face,

his words morphing me

into a toothless creature.

‘No breakfast before, okay?

Do you have any questions

for Dr Kawaleski?’

‘What about the Rooster?’ I turned

away from the junior doctor, trembling.

‘What about what?’ asked Dr Kawaleski.

‘Our Katie likes fantasising,’ Mum

jumped in, ‘She says the nerve loss

feels like ants running in her legs.’

Why was mum talking as if

I were a ten-year-old?!

I didn’t say ants. I said rooster

and I meant rooster.

He was in the room.

He was breathing on my neck.

He was getting ready for an attack.

‘She’ll be all right.’ Dr Kawaleski

exited the room, the nurses

following tight behind him,

throwing roses at his feet. 

‘Let’s go out,’ Dad said. I forgot

he was sitting by the window,

looking numbly at the

children in the street.

He seemed to be sick,

as if he were the patient.

We both needed some fresh air.

I inhaled, filled my lungs

with the few oxygen molecules

preserved by the hospital birches,

replaced breath by breath the stale air

exhaled by the doctors,

patients and nurses.

I glimpsed the never-ending

expanse of blueness above us,

I closed my eyes ...

I recalled the freckled face

of the junior doctor.

He looked like a bad strawberry,

the fungus grown from the bottom,

all the way to the hair gel

holding a few leaves together

on his triangle-shaped head.

His badge had the name Mark engraved

in standard format and the letters OS

added to the end with a black marker.

– Markos.

He must have been a new recruit

from Greece. He pushed

my wheelchair while completing

his online shopping on his Apple watch.

He said a few Greek words

to confirm the order.

He helped me climb onto the bed,

wrote my name onto

a small whiteboard above it.

The hospital had probably

had those boards since the 1980s.

But Markos didn’t mind the gap

between the tech he was wearing

and the tech available around him.

He grew up with huge contrasts.

He picked up a tablet,

typed short sentences

with long feminine fingers.

He asked me questions that permitted

only yes or no answers.

He converted them into digits

that divided my body into

a set of data points that can be

entered into a quadratic template

for the medical traders.

I opened my eyes ...

there were no templates for the sky.

It was an open-ended playground

for water creations.

That’s why the sky never judges,

never offers personalised service.

THERE WAS A LITTLE hill

in the hospital courtyard.

I thought it would be too much

for Dad to push me up,

but I didn’t want to embarrass him,

so I didn’t say no.

I was fairly light,

but the wheelchair was not.

Dad pretended he had as much strength

as he used to when he pushed me

on the swing in our back garden.

We were up the first quarter of the hill

and his breathing got laboured,

letting out short gasps, his knuckles white.

‘You okay, Dad?’ Dad didn’t respond,

he pushed harder. Sweat and tears

were running down his cheeks.

He was pushing harder,

but we stood still.

I was cursing the architect

who in his shiny office

never thought that one day,

there would be a fifty-two-year old dad,

pushing his paralysed

nineteen-year-old daughter up the hill.

‘Blue skies smilin’ at me /

Nothin’ but blue skies do I see /

Bluebirds singin’ a song /

Nothin’ but bluebirds all day long ...’

Someone was playing a scratched version

of Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Blue Skies’.

I looked up, the sound was coming

from a wide open window

on the third floor.

I remembered how dad took me to

a jazz club once. He liked blue notes

and he liked this song.

He couldn’t stand mum’s cheesy pop.

Too smooth for him.

He liked the dissonance.

Not jarred jazz, but a blue note

here and there,

that can bring the whole song

to another level.

Perhaps this whole

Multiple Sclerosis thing

was one of those blue notes.

It added some novelty to the ordinary,

some new vocabulary we all had to learn,

something new for friends to Facebook

and to Tweet about.

Some modifications to my diet,

to my personalised Google ads.

Some changes to my thinking,

to my love life ...

It was just a blue note, nothing more,

so why was I crying like a baby,

making it even harder for Dad?

I wished I could take the blue note,

fold it into a little ball,

and like a cloud let it rain out

on the fields where Granddad

used to work to feed his chicks.

DAD AND I GOT BACK to the hospital room.

I needed to use the loo.

The nurse’s name was Dally.

She had a Thai accent and small hands.

She knew exactly what to do.

No need for labels. It wasn’t jarring,

it wasn’t demeaning for her.

She just wiped what needed

to be wiped, then handed me

a thin slip, it looked like rice paper.

‘Please tick your food for tomorrow.’

I ticked the boxes vegan and disabled.

Vegan meant that

I would have chickpea curry.

Disabled meant that

I didn’t need to collect it in the canteen.

It was the first time that

I had ticked the disabled box.

The