Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  “It’s a professional engagement?”

  He nodded. Better to be upfront. Then he coughed. It was the cough that galvanised her.

  “You really can’t record today. Should we try tomorrow or would you like another day to rest?”

  He cleared his throat. To be safe he should give it another day. “What about Wednesday?”

  “That should be fine.”

  “What about Friday night?” He needed to hear her voice to know what she was thinking, because she was right, if he listened carefully, the sound of it would tell him what he needed to know.

  “You really think I can help you?”

  She was hesitant, considering, but not shut down about it. “It’ll be dark where we are, looking into bright lights. A bad combination for me. Can you trust your eyes enough to be mine for ninety minutes?”

  “I…”

  She was breathing like she’d rather run than answer. And that gave him what he needed. He cleared his throat. “It’s okay. It’s not important. I’ll work something out. You say Wednesday morning same time will be fine?”

  She touched his forearm. Light, quick, but meant to detain him. “I’d be happy to help.”

  It just about derailed him. He shook his head. He’d heard no in her breath, in her inability to complete a sentence. But she’d said yes. Sound might be pure but it was complicated. This was pushing her comfort zone.

  Hugging her would be inappropriate. He had to tighten his shoulders to stop from reaching for her as if she was Taylor. He didn’t have that right. Didn’t mean he didn’t want to have her freesia freshness close to him.

  He smiled. “That’s great. I’ll pick you up.” He laughed. “I mean in a taxi. I really haven’t driven since I was fifteen.” But he felt that way. Fifteen again and fearless, devious, not quite telling the truth to anyone who might worry about him so he’d get his own way.

  He spent the rest of Monday alternately clearing his throat, swigging cough medicine and keeping his mouth shut. He thought about making an appointment with Lina. He hunkered down with a couple of audio books and a script for a cartoon about a gang of street cats, a modern day Top Cat. He’d play the gang leader, a raggedy Maine Coon called Harley. He needed to decide whether to do it or not. He didn’t dislike cats that much.

  On Tuesday morning, Eminem’s I Need a Doctor ringtone style woke him. Lina personally, not her office, it came in on the theme song from House. He almost let it go through to message bank. Both of them already knew what her tests were going to say.

  “You know the loss of my night vision inspired the name of my mate’s bar.”

  “Damon. Why haven’t you made an appointment?” Speakerphone. Classical music turned down low, an enclosed ambience. Lina was in her car.

  “Moon Blink.”

  “It’s an old term for night blindness. We have to do this. Have you told your parents?”

  “And worry them. No. What are they going to do about it? We all knew this was coming.”

  “It’s not coming. It’s here. All you’ve got is silvery light and dark, vague shadows. You’re going to wake up one morning and see nothing.”

  “I’m ready for it.”

  “You’ve learned to use a long cane? You’ve told your family and friends? What about registering for a guide dog? Oh seriously, this woman is doing her makeup in traffic.” There was a short sharp toot. “Move it, lady.”

  He sighed. “I don’t know why we’re bothering with more testing.”

  “Because I’m a doctor and that’s what we do, and because you think this is not happening. You’re compensating. You’ve got enough random peripheral vision left for your very clever brain to fill in the blanks, but that can’t go on.”

  “Did you know that some baseball pitches are so fast, it’s impossible to keep your eye on the ball. The brain predicts where it’s going.”

  “Yes, Damon, I know that.”

  “Did you know there are experiments where blind people are taught to experience sound through vibrational touch.”

  “That we are learning ways to extend the range of human senses. Yes, Damon, but I’m talking about you, right now, not future you who learns to see again using your toenails and a piece of magic tech.”

  “I’m managing fine as it is. Maybe I’ll stay like this a while.”

  There was a blast of horn. “You’re right, I don’t know that. You haven’t had the typical choroideremia symptoms, so let’s do the tests.”

  “Was that some kind of reverse ophthalmology?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it was. I have a cancellation this afternoon. You’re coming in.”

  “Shame, I’m busy.”

  “Damon. Don’t make me regret clearing time for you.”

  “You said it was a cancellation.”

  “Who do you think cancelled?”

  Four hours later they continued the conversation they’d been having for most of his life face to face. Lina was behind her desk after putting him through a range of tests. “Hopefully within the decade they’ll have isolated a cure for this.”

  “That’s your version of making me feel better, right?”

  “When we finally got your diagnosis correct, all those years ago, I hoped there might be a treatment to halt the progress of the dystrophy. A cure seemed too much to hope for, but with stem cell research moving ahead, it’s only a matter of time before they isolate the faulty gene.”

  He slow blinked. Lina was a white blur. “There should be courses you can take to help understand doctor speak.”

  “You don’t want to hear what I really have to say.”

  “Nope.” He did Jack Nicholson, the line about not handling the truth from A Few Good Men.

  “Tough luck, tough guy. You’ve got random patches of vision up close like a jigsaw and you’re very good at filling in the blanks. In other words you’re a superb cheat. Otherwise it’s shapes and shadows aided by good lighting. You might retain a sense of light and dark, but in all likelihood you’ll see nothing at all.”

  “Got it.”

  “Soon, Damon.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s natural to find that depressing.”

  “Right.”

  “Damon.”

  He stood up. He was out of here. The tests were a waste of time, waste of money. They told neither of them anything they didn’t already know. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to see you making plans to manage this.”

  “Shit, Doctor Pentecost. You want to see me acting more like a blind guy.”

  “That’s not what I said. Sit down. Don’t insult me by playing that line.”

  Sitting didn’t suit him. He moved around the desk to the window behind Lina. So long as he had the sense of light and dark, he didn’t feel blind. He’d talked himself into believing this would be as bad as it got, that’d he’d continue to be an exception to the usual rule, but knowing his luck had run out made him tight in the chest. Lina was worried about him being depressed. She should be more concerned he was going to hit someone and end up jailed for assault.

  “Damon, don’t be a twit. Things could be much worse.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I should be grateful.” Yul Brunner from The King and I, “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “You know you only do this voices thing with me when you’re upset and trying to deflect, or you want me to forgive you for something.”

  He turned from the window and Lina was standing behind him. She’d stood behind him on the progress of his disease since he’d first had vision trouble as a snotty kid. She was irritatingly correct about everything. “Yes, doctor. Carry on, doctor. Can I have a hug, doctor?”

  She grunted. “You can be very irritating.”

  But she was so easy to rile up. “Yeah, all right. I’ll be good.”

  “I want to see you again as soon as anything changes.”

  He nodded. She reiterated what she’d just told him about cheating, depression and getting his act toget
her, in case he didn’t get the message the first time, and he was back out on the street hailing a taxi and trying to be grateful for the fact he had income enough in the bank and secured work in the pipeline not to have to catch a bus or genuinely miss owning a car.

  The cartoon cat was devious and grumpy, the character matched his mood. He phoned Les and made him the happiest agent on the voice actor block by agreeing to voice Harley in Street Tails. Then he went back to bed with a book.

  By Wednesday morning he was less sour lemon and more zesty lime, not a cough or a throat clear to be heard and his mood restored to normal enough. Knowing he was going to see Georgia helped. Last thing he wanted to project to her was sad sack, victim.

  Seems she’d had enough of that in her life.

  10: The Force

  It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t. It was a professional engagement. A gig. It was helping out a work mate. That’s what this was with Damon, collegial. Collegial with fish giving. No, God, that can’t be right. It was not knowing what the heck to wear to this non-date with a new colleague who happened to be a famous voice actor and freaking out the fish with her anxiety.

  Fluffy hid under her bridge and Georgia stalked around the tiny flat in her underwear. Her best underwear. Not the old M&S stuff, new stuff that matched. Not that it mattered. Not that anyone was going to see her underwear. Not that Damon even could see her underwear if he wanted to—not that he’d want to. Argh! It’s just that she was going out so she might as well wear the good stuff.

  Oh God. It was a date.

  She had a date with Damon Donovan who sang like a street smart fallen angel; one who chugged bourbon, smoked the finest from Havana and rode in on custom-made chrome, wearing denim that wrapped those long legs of his in licks of awesome.

  She sat in her one chair, sharing her unease with distressed leather. It wasn’t a date. Not even close to the fairytale. There was no way after the fractured relationship they’d had that Damon liked her enough to want to see her outside of work, so this was work. As far as he was concerned she was an industry professional, and because she’d worked in theatres, uniquely qualified to help with an experiment in live performance.

  And God! He’d said he’d pay her so this most definitely wasn’t a date, no matter what her deluded, male-attention starved, soft spot for a singer brain wanted it to be. So it didn’t matter a decibel what she wore, something practical, dark and fitted so it didn’t catch on staging would do.

  Decision made, but stomach still unsettled, she opted for dark blue denim and a black shirt with black ballet flats. An outfit she’d wear to Avocado on any weekday. She pinned her hair up so it wouldn’t get in the way. Her one concession to going out, apart from the underwear, was a sparkly star-shaped hair stick she shoved in her messy bun. Damon wouldn’t know it was there, but it was a touch of whimsy that made her feel like this was a night out instead of another day at work.

  She was ready, to the touch of pale lipstick, an hour before she needed to be. She sucked at this. She was sweating though it wasn’t especially warm. She took her shirt off and sat in her jeans and bra. It was amazing how much a person could change. Not that she’d ever been the life of the party, but before Hamish’s injury, she’d been at all the right parties, known what clothes to wear, how to flirt up a storm, play for laughs and have a good time.

  Hamish’s injury, Jeffrey’s violence, took her confidence and mashed it into something small and weak that flickered instead of flamed. Hamish did the rest all by himself. He’d just about snuffed her out, made her tentative and fearful with his extreme moods and neediness, when she’d once been outgoing and socially adept.

  The idea of helping Damon was jabbing too many sore spots. The one in her head said getting involved with anyone, straight after leaving Hamish, was a stupendously bad idea.

  The one in her body made of muscle tension told her she was freaked out about doing or saying something that showed how socially retarded she’d become, and the one in her gut simply longed to be clear of all that baggage, to be easy with people, to laugh freely again and to have a new friend in Damon.

  She went to the fridge and took out the milk, poured herself a glass and drank it. Cold and smooth, it did nothing to sooth the sore spot in her heart. The one that loving Hamish had perpetually bruised, and that being with Damon made tender and throbbing all over again.

  She should’ve said no to this. Damon would have found someone else. He wasn’t without resources, but she’d muddled it all up. Though he’d been perfectly clear this was a professional arrangement, she’d spun it from want and loneliness into something else entirely.

  She’d knitted a whole fantasy where he was interested in her, where his flirting meant something and he’d touch her with desire, instead of the plain-faced curiosity that led him to ask Lauren questions about her.

  She stared at Fluffy for a while and tried to still her thinking, quiet the futile flutter of feeling that was spiking her temperature, making her wish she could call in sick. Fifteen minutes before he was due to collect her she put her shirt back on, refreshed her lipstick and locked up. She’d meet him out the front to save him trying to find her second-storey flat.

  He was early. He was standing in her stairwell. “Damon.”

  “Thank God. Taxi driver didn’t have a lot of English. I was hoping he’d put me in the right place.” He was dressed casually, a white buttoned shirt with jeans, the sleeves rolled up, the collar open, and a couple of buttons undone. She was infinitely glad he couldn’t tell she was checking him out top to toe.

  “Do I look all right?”

  Ah! How did he do that? “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s quite possible there’s something off about how I’ve dressed. I used to share a house with Angus and Jamie, and Jamie used to rearrange my wardrobe so I’d sometimes end up looking like an op shop reject and no one would tell me.”

  Georgia laughed before she thought to stop herself.

  “Well might you laugh.” Which is what Damon was doing too. “I’ve never quite gotten over it.”

  “You look.” What did you say to a man about how he looked? What did you say to this man, wonderful, delicious, dream inspiring?

  “Oh God.” His hands came up to his chest, by way of brushing the fly of his jeans, to check it was closed, she guessed. “Is it that bad?”

  “No. No. I was searching for a word.”

  “That is bad.”

  “You look fine.”

  He grunted and tipped his head up to face at the ceiling. “You had me imagining all kinds of embarrassment.” He angled his face towards her. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She moved for the stairs and then stopped. He didn’t have his cane. He’d come from the road, across the lawn and path, around the side of the building and up one of two staircases. Did the driver walk him to the stairs maybe? He was behind her, hand on the railing.

  “Should I be helping you?”

  “No. I’ve got this.”

  She went down the stairs, glancing behind her to check on him. But he was so sure-footed she had no reason to be concerned.

  She opened the stairwell door and it was much like opening the door for him at Avocado, except there was a step.

  “Damon, there’s a small step.”

  “Yeah, I worked that out on the way up. I tend to wear shoes out toe first.”

  He put his hand to the door and stepped down to meet her, turning towards the street front. At Avocado he didn’t use his cane, but she’d seen him come in from the street with it, and if he wasn’t holding his cane, he’d been holding on to Taylor.

  “I should be helping.”

  “It’s twenty-two steps over a brick path, then there’s two steps over the pavement and a strip of grass, four steps. Assuming the taxi waited in the same place, I should be able to open the door for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But if you want to give me your arm, it saves me counting.”

  Did she want to? H
e had it all planned out. “How do I do this?”

  “Put the back of your hand against the back of mine. That way I know you’re there and you’re okay about me touching you.”

  She didn’t need to do this for him, but she wanted to, even if her reasons were less than pure. She stepped closer to him and touched the back her hand to his. He moved immediately to trail his hand up the back of her arm till he reached her elbow. It was such a gently intimate move. This is what she’d seen him do with Taylor and she’d stupidly thought it meant something more, but it was entirely practical.

  “If you lead me, this is the best way. All you need to do is be slightly in front of me and warn me about any steps or obstacles.”

  It begged to be said. “Like trapdoors.”

  He gave her arm a light squeeze. “Particularly trapdoors.”

  “Do I just start walking?”

  “Yep, and I’ll come with you. If you have to stop suddenly, worth telling me so I don’t walk into you.”

  She started forward and he was half a step behind. He had aftershave on, the perfume tantalising. How much better would it be if she could put her nose to his neck and drag that scent into her lungs? His hold on her arm was so light to be almost not there at all. Her body wanted to simply stop and lean back into him. She imagined his arms folding around her, settling her against his chest, tucking his face down against her cheek.

  “Everything okay?”

  Hell. She’d come to a complete stop in the middle of the pavement. “Yes, fine. I’m sorry.” Her face burned.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  She swallowed and focused. He’d dropped her arm. She could try the back of the hand thing again or she could walk a few steps and open the taxi door for him. Damon was the one who needed to worry about tripping, but she was the one doing it.

  “I’ve got the door.” She took a few paces over the grass and opened the door, ducking her head to smile at the driver.

  Damon stepped forward and reached his hand for the door, trailing it along the top edge to the car roof. “I’d say after you, but you’ve ended up before me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”