The Forgotten Spring

Corpses mounted without mercy.  

The virus claimed lives faster than undertakers could claim bodies. Leila couldn’t keep pace with the onslaught herself. Standing by an accelerating conveyor line from six feet apart to six feet under.

“What is that smell, Madame?” asked Mrs. Dufresne. “No one will tell me what that stink is.”

Leila was surprised. Mrs. Dufresne was probably one of the few who could still smell anything. The elderly lady’s ragged breath sounded like glass bubbles popping into a million shards inside her quaking chest. The virus had detonated a fiendish fever. Shredding her lungs like shrapnel. Drowning her from the inside in blood and bile.  

Mrs. Dufresne’s red eyes swelled. “Is it me, Madame? No, do I smell like that.”

“Shhh, shhh,” Leila mouthed. “You smell lovely.” She kept dabbing Mrs. Dufresne’s forehead with a thawing gel-pack. “Like lavender and sage.”

Mrs. Dufresne twisted her chapped lips into a weak smile. Another resident began to wail down the hall. Leila raised the volume on Mrs. Dufresne’s CD player. Old jazz standards crooned around the distant cries. 

***

Leila and Khitam heaved Mr. Mancuso’s body onto the gurney. Hot agony surged down Leila’s spine, as if her vertebrae tore off the muscles in her back. She slid her hand over his stiff face. 

Once. 

Twice.

It was no use. Rigor mortis had turned his skin to stone. She couldn’t get his eyes to stay shut.  

Khitam tucked Mr. Mancuso’s purple feet into the body bag and slid the zipper shut to his knees. She mewled like a mouse when her latex glove got snagged in the metal teeth.  

Leila sniffled and the inside of her goggles fogged. “Call Amina,” she said. “He’s been like this for hours. She has to notify his family.” 

In the first weeks, Leila and Khitam could rely on the strong male orderlies. But three months into the inferno, most of the residence staff were bedridden themselves. Amina was the only nurse who hadn’t yet tested positive.  

“One of us has to call,” Khitam insisted. “Amina’s got enough to deal with upstairs.” 

“Don’t make me do that,” Leila said in desperation. “Not again.” 

But Khitam wheeled the gurney into the corridor and towards the foyer. Leila panted in her N95 mask. Swelling and constricting over her mouth. Like half of a human heart stitched onto her face. Kept beating only by the brute force of her staggered breathing. 

***

When she moved across the country, Leila nurse sister had left a stash of PPE in a trunk in their parents’ basement. The provincial Health Minister had sat at press conference after press conference, pledging to supplement the facilities’ stockpiles. But May into June, and no aid was ever sent. 

Whatever protective coverings Leila and Khitam donned became more tattered and threadbare by the day. Leila shared what she could with the staff. By month’s end, they had to ration and recycle the supplies.  

She’d wash and use the same three masks and two visors. Fresh gloves were soon nowhere to be found. She’d alternate with rubber ones the cook used to wash dishes in the kitchen. She’d seal them off at her wrists with elastic bands. 

***

Another old man who couldn’t speak anymore. He could only cough. Hacking like he was choking on his own tongue.  

Leila didn’t know to put baby powder in the folds of his saggy skin. Two days after his sponge bath, the resident’s fingers were bloody from his scratching.  

A vicious rash had erupted along the edges of his diaper.  

Only her mother’s old Lebanese lullaby kept him calm long enough to apply corticosteroid cream. She didn’t know its name nor all the words. And she was sure he knew none. But her hums sedated his squirming.  

She lathered on the medicine. Singing softly for his forgiveness. 

***

Leila would shower to scrub the virus out of her follicles. Frayed clumps of hair would fall and clog the drain.  

“You need to eat something,” her mom urged in a frustrated panic from the top of the basement steps. “Lilì, your immune system needs vitamins. Please!” 

Leila rolled over on her cot, retreated into the dark of her underground quarantine bunker. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been within six feet of her parents.  

***

Leila’s phone buzzed repeatedly in her pocket. She hadn’t spoken to her boyfriend in days. 

She’d text sporadically in the stairwell between floors, apologizing over and over.  

“When am I seeing you?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.”

“You need a break.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know how you’re standing. How are you holding up?”

Giving her all wasn’t enough for anyone. She didn’t answer his question and merely said sweet nothings. Because she wasn’t.  

***

“Will you stay, Madame?” wheezed Mr. Grégoire. “Just so I go to sleep?” 

“I have to finish my rotation first,” Leila said. “The other residents need me. But I’ll be back to see you as soon as I’m done. I promise.” 

***

Leila found Amina in the kitchen, crying and buttering stale toast. The supplier hadn’t turned up for days. They’d done a grocery run last night, but the shelves had already been ransacked.  

They had been forced to focus on those who couldn’t feed themselves. Some of the residents hadn’t had a meal in over twenty-four hours.  

It had taken three stops to find enough bread and milk.  

They couldn’t even find any Tylenol. 

***

Khitam and Leila rolled Mrs. Dufresne onto her side. She yowled from the pain. They winced at the sight of her bedsores. 

“Stop, please,” she begged through tears. “It hurts.” 

“I’m sorry,” Leila said. “I know. We’re almost done. Almost done.” 

The sores on her back had deepened into small craters. Their flesh bleeding red, their pus oozing yellow. They hadn’t been able to change her soiled diaper in time. Feces had seeped into the open wounds.  

They were running low on gauze and bandages. They cut the wipes into halves to double the supply. But became drenched in pus twice as fast.  

***

“Don’t pick up,” Leila whispered with every ring. “Please don’t pick up.” She hunched over the receptionist’s desk. Tugging the telephone cord till she hoped it’d snap.  

“Hello?” answered a woman on the other end of the line. Leila’s breath escaped her body before she could control it. She could hear the woman whimper and tremble, anticipating the unavoidable. 

“Mrs. Mancuso, good day,” Leila said, unable to say anything more. It was a stupid thing to say. It wasn’t a good day. There were no goods days in this death colony. 

“My husband?” she cracked, hoping the call was anything other than what they both already knew. “My husband. No, tell me it’s not true.” 

“I’m – I’m so sorry.” 

She wailed and Leila pressed the phone into her neck, unable to bear the sound, wanting but unable to hang up the line.  

***

Leila worried about Mrs. Dufresne, having not passed by her room since last night. She hoped the other volunteer hadn’t left the window open overnight to ventilate the room. The cold triggered her bladder. It hadn’t been the first time Leila had found her stewing in her own urine. 

Naked and shivering. 

***

By the time she had returned to his room, Mr. Grégoire hadn’t fallen asleep. But he wasn’t awake, either. He’d never be awake again. 

“Mr. Grégoire?” Leila squeaked, shaking his shoulders. “Mr. Grégoire!” 

She had come back like she said she would. Still, she felt like she had broken her promise. 

His jaw had fallen to his chest. His eyes stared at nothing but her betrayal. She shrouded the grandfather under a bed sheet. She wouldn’t be able to change her garb until later. So she swallowed her snot and tears. 

***

Come late June, most of the already too few nurses and orderlies were sick. Or burnt out beyond recovery. One morning, Khitam stopped showing up for their joint shifts. Leila didn’t bother to ask why. So it was just her and Amina. Tending to thirty-four infected seniors. 

***

The rep on the phone told her she wasn’t trained or licensed to treat the seniors. She’d only have to clean the rooms and serve the meals.  

Leila found herself giving patients their medication. Triple-checking to make sure they got the prescribed dose. She was sure it wasn’t legal. But the laws of man and the divine alike had all but forgone this place.  

The Public Health Director came onto every news channel and assured citizens that the situation in their city was under control.  If only her shoe could fly at his head through the TV.  

***

Some of the sickest seniors couldn’t even swallow their tiniest pills. She’d grind them into powder and mix it into a spoonful of apple sauce. They’d just vomit the slime and saliva back onto themselves. 

***

She’d shut the door on dead residents. Recite a prayer for the grandmas and grandpas once the workers arrived to take the bodies away.  

She had become a crypt keeper. Gatekeeping departed souls. Rolling them from one tomb down to another. Time must’ve moved forward, as more and more began to close. 

***

The Premier urged sick nurses and orderlies to continue showing up for their shifts. The staff shortages left the hospitals on the brink of total collapse.  

“We told them,” Amina said in a rage. “For years, our union warned them. But did they listen to us? The politicians, they don’t give a fuck about any of us. They couldn’t be clearer. We’re all on our own.” 

Leila could taste the bitter dismay regurgitated from Amina’s mouth. It was a sick fate for these elders. To work for decades. To pay tax into a system that ultimately abandons them. 

Depriving them of dignity. Starving them of humanity.  

***

She couldn’t bear to return to Mr. Grégoire’s room. Its mosaic of photographs that haloed the head of his bed.  

A birthday party at the park flanked by his grandchildren. Pitching a tent with his sons on a family camping trip.  

A garage Christmas party with one of the mechanics sporting a Santa hat and fake white beard streaked with grease.  

A sepia portrait with his bride. No, his widow. Cutting the cake on their wedding day.  

***

Canadian soldiers arrived one afternoon, but which afternoon Leila couldn’t say. She only knew they’d arrived too late. It wouldn’t be long before many are coughing as well.  

In heavy boots and full camo, troops formed human assembly lines. They emptied trucks full of food and supplies. From Ottawa, the Prime Minister lauded the military’s efforts. The Premier accepted the federal aid through crossed arms and gritted teeth.  

Their stomping startled some of the seniors. In her delirium, Mrs. Dufresne mistook the soldiers for Nazis. Taking the villagers hostage during their invasion. She hacked up bloody mucus onto her chin.  

But she was inconsolable. Leila couldn’t calm her, and Amina wasn’t around to administer any sedative. To care for the others, she had to leave poor Mrs. Dufresne there. Wailing like an orphan of war. Confused and terrified. Gnarled in agony. To shield her frantic eyes, Leila kept the door ajar.

Alone. 

***

If she could help take care of one grandmother, she’d still be of better service than prolonging the inevitable demise of dozens. Nothing could be done for them that she hadn’t already. 

In wanting to be of use, she had never been more useless. A helpless witness to institutional neglect and mass-scale suffering.  

***

Some lost their jobs. Most lost their peace. Everyone lost an entire generation.  

***

She hobbled out of the seniors’ residence on the sides of her soles. The blisters under her feet screeched on the linoleum.  

The infinite questions of Mrs. Dufresne, Mr. Mancuso, Mr. Grégoire, and the other residents pounded in her skull.  

Will I get better, Madame? 

The parking lot was empty. She stumbled into the driver’s seat. The digital clock above the stereo told her it was four-thirty in the morning. She looked into the rearview mirror. The goggles had burrowed red cuts around her eyes. 

Where is my wife, Madame?  

She fiddled with some music, but the radio frequencies moaned like ghosts. She turned off the station to try and silence them.  

You remind me of my granddaughter, Madame. 

Her foot slammed on the break and her chest hit the steering wheel. A faint honk fumbled from the horn. Her front teeth burrowed into her lower lip till she tasted cold metal. 

I’m not ready to go, Madame. 

She slammed her fist against her temple. Then the other fist. Then again. And again. And again. Unfurling her fingers. Wedging her nails into her scalp. Until blood clotted and clumped under on her fingers. 

Why are my children not allowed to see me, Madame? 

The elders seized her vocal cords and clawed their way out of her throat. And they screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And screamed.  

Please stay with me, Madame. 

And they didn’t stop screaming. Not when Leila’s larynx collapsed from exhaustion and her mouth imploded shut. And not when she scalded her skin in boiling water and tossed her uniform in a barrel of bleach. 

I don’t want to die alone, Madame.

---

Anthony Portulese (he/him) is an emerging queer Italo-Québécois writer from and living in Montreal. His writings have been featured in Panoram Italia, Accenti, and Maisonneuve. His short story "The Stars of Saint-Léonard" was the second-place finalist for the 2025 carte blanche Prize. He recently completed the manuscript for his first novel, while also earning degrees in civil and common law from McGill University. He spends most of his time hiding in cozy cafés, scribbling in a dark, dusty corner. @tjportz