I’m fucked up in the head is what she’s politely saying. But she has said one thing that’s right. This doctor’s office is the one place where they’ll know about my type of injury.
Taking a breath, I slide myself out of the car, using a second to balance myself. Then, with my new rolling gait, I walk across the parking lot toward the entrance. Behind me I hear the beep of the SUV locking, then Allie’s footsteps as she catches up to me.
I give my name at the reception desk, then take a seat in the waiting room. I’ve an early appointment so there’s only one other person sitting down. They take a look, then move their gaze away politely.
“So, Mr Allen. What’s your first name?” Allie asks, conversationally, having overhead me speak to the receptionist.
I shrug. “Not that anyone uses it anymore, but it’s Greg.”
Still wondering why I’m putting myself through this, when it’s for others not for myself, I pick up a magazine and start thumbing through it. It’s about cages, not bikes, so it doesn’t hold my interest.
Luckily, I don’t have long to wait.
“Mr Allen?”
Nodding that’s me, I stand. Allie gets to her feet as well. I glance at her questioningly, my eyebrow raised in challenge.
“I know what these appointments are like. You’re given tons of information which you can’t remember later. It’s good to have someone there to take it all in.”
A whore? Coming to a doctor’s appointment with me? I’m just about to turn her down with a scoff, when her words sink in. Yeah, all the info the doctors in California had hurled at me, well, some of it hadn’t stuck. And it’s not like I’m going to be stripping my clothes off. Even that wouldn’t reveal anything she hasn’t seen already.
With a disbelieving shake of my head, I give in.
Chapter Nine
Allie…
I don’t know why I felt so driven to hear what the eye doctor was going to say to Truck, but I’m desperate to help him. I want to understand what’s driving him, or more accurately, what’s not. I need to have some clues of how best to help him. Though he hasn’t said much, he acts like a man who’s had enough. That scares me. Truck needs something to live for, and he’s not going to find that hiding away.
“I’m Dr Austin.” A pleasant middle-aged woman reaches out her hand to Truck, then glances at me with her chin raised.
“I’m a friend,” I exaggerate to explain my presence.
Her face widens as she smiles and nods. “It’s good to have support at times like these. Please sit.” As we do, she consults some notes in front of her.
“Right, Mr Allen, or can I call you Greg?”
“Truck’s what everyone calls me.”
She glances at him, and smiles again. “Okay, Truck it is. How are you doing?”
Truck glances my way, then responds, “I’m doing fine. Thought it was time to improve my appearance.”
Her sharp eyes land on him. Removing her glasses, polishing them, then replacing them on her face, she points to her screen. “Says you lost your eye about six months ago. That’s not a lot of time to adjust. I suspect you’re still having problems.”
Truck looks at her curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Before you lost your eye you had 20/20 binocular vision, didn’t you?” She waits for the chin lift of confirmation. “You know how two eyes work together?” Without waiting for a response, she goes into her spiel, seeming not to care if he does or does not. It’s all new to me, so I listen intently. “Two eyes allow you to see in 3D. When you look at an object, both eyes focus on it. This means you get information from two points of view that the brain then combines and analyses. This not only allows you to see where the object is, but also its shape, size, and if it’s not fixed, how fast and what direction it’s moving in. When you lose an eye, you revert to a 2D view of the world. Those cues you had before, well, they’re now missing. With the loss of three dimensional sight, you can easily get confused.”
Truck remains silent.
“You have to relearn how you see the world. You may misjudge where objects are, how far they are away and their speed of movement. Your depth perception will be different. You may misinterpret what you’re seeing as your brain fails to come up with the right explanation. A shape may not be what you believe it to be.”
“I’m here to get a prosthetic eye,” Truck suddenly snaps. “I’m well aware I can’t see properly.”
“That’s not how I work, Truck. Yes, we’ll sort out a prosthesis but you already know that won’t give you your vision back. We also need to train your brain to accept signals from just one eye instead of the two it’s been used to.”
I sit forward. “Will Truck be able to drive again? Or ride his bike?”
“Yes, there is no reason why not. Some people use an additional interior mirror to compensate for the lack of peripheral vision on that side. It’s a case of learning to use monocular cues, and turning your head side to side. If you’re interested, Truck, I’m friends with a driving instructor who can talk you through techniques for driving safely after the loss of an eye. I’m well aware from your line of work you know the importance of that.”
I find that interesting, but I want to know Truck’s reaction. She’s offered him both help and hope. Is he going to accept? I notice Dr Austin is sitting back, giving him time to process the information.
“What you say makes a lot of sense,” he says at last. “No one has explained it like that before. I did try to drive, got out of the parking lot outside my apartment. I felt… dizzy is the word for it. Drove straight back, and hit the wall when I reversed. Only gently, thank fuck—God—I was going a snail’s pace, but, well, lost my confidence then. I couldn’t judge the distance.”
“I’ll book you in for some sessions. It will be hand and eye coordination, techniques to learn to scan for people and objects around you. It’s not normally covered in rehab as they concentrate on getting you mobile again, and doctors in the hospital just want to make sure your injury healed correctly. People tend to forget how two eyes work, and what’s lost when you lose one.”
Again Truck takes a moment to take that in. Then, for the first time I’ve seen him since before he went to California, a genuine smile curves Truck’s mouth, and his chin rises and falls. “I didn’t know how much it would help to know what I’m going through is normal.”
“People underestimate the impact of losing an eye. It’s an uphill struggle to learn to cope. Unfortunately the mental adjustments necessary aren’t always discussed after an enucleation.” She glances at me, then adds, “That’s the operation to remove an eye.”
“It was all done so fast. The surgeons were trying to save my arm, my leg. Fuck, my life.”
“Exactly,” Dr Austin agrees. “But we’ll help you make the most of the vision you have left. Now, let’s talk about what you came here for. You have an ocular implant which was put in at the time of your operation, so all we need to do is make the prosthetic and fit it.
“Is it glass?”
“Not nowadays, no, though people still refer to it as that. It’s made of acrylic, and is coloured to match your remaining one. While the pupil won’t react to light, the prosthetic will move with the other eye.”
“Do I… take it out at night?” I notice Truck seems to view that distastefully.
“No. Once a month you’ll need to clean it, but you’ll sleep with it in with no problem. Have you any other questions? I’ve arranged a consultation with the ocularist, he’s waiting for you now. And I’ll be in touch about the therapy sessions.”
Truck has nothing else he needs to ask, she seems to have given him enough to think about for now.
There’s more of a spring in his step, an optimism, as I tag along with Truck. I’m with him while the ocularist talks him through the ins and outs of making the prosthetic. It’s a detailed process and will take several visits, from making a cast of his eye socket to trying their best to match the colours and paint his new
eye to match his existing iris, even down to using shredded red cotton to mimic the veins. I’m impressed at the lengths they will go to when matching his fake eye to his existing one. From very close up, it’s explained, the eye will look fake as the pupil size won’t match the other as it changes. But the muscles in his socket will make it move in co-ordination with his remaining eye.
On the drive home, he’s quiet, thoughtful. By the time we arrive, I look across to the passenger seat and notice he seems exhausted, as if the appointments had taken their toll on him.
“Next week you start your sessions. Let me know and I’ll drive you.”
“Allie, no. You’ve got—work—to do at the club. I can’t monopolise your time.”
I go to correct him, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“I’m not an invalid. Don’t treat me like one. I can get an Uber like everyone else.”
I wish he’d let me help, but what can I do if he refuses my offer? “Let me drive you, Truck. It’s no bother.”
“You’ve been a great support today, but let me do this, my way.”
It’s the dismissive tone of his voice that stops me from pressing my case. He doesn’t want my assistance. Is it a good sign he wants to take these next steps by himself?
My problem is, I don’t know him at all. Even if I’d become close to him before he left for California, he’s come back different.
I settle for, “If you change your mind, you know where I am.”
“I’d ask you to come in…” His words sound awkward, as if he doesn’t seem to know how we should part.
Neither do I. What are we? Friends? Friends with benefits that he knows are there if he asks for them? How does he see me?
I make it easy for him. “Sure, you’ve got a lot to think on. That doctor seemed to know what she was talking about.”
He remains seated next to me. “I haven’t been to therapy,” he admits. “Not since rehab.”
He should be talking to someone about how to get on with his life. Those understanding words he heard today helped a lot. I’m reminded of Drummer’s suggestions of ways he could get back on a modified bike. Truck needs to think forward, and in my view, therapy would help. “Don’t you think you ought to? You’ve lost a lot, but like Dr Austin, there are people who understand and can suggest how you can adjust.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Drummer wanted me to ask him to come to the club, but I don’t think he’s in the right headspace yet. I do, however, take the liberty of reaching over and putting my hand on his and squeezing gently.
“You need someone, Truck? You call me.”
He gets out of the passenger door, and I watch this strong man who’d been brought so low shuffle toward his front door wishing there was more I could do to help him.
I drive away thinking today has been a success. For him, and for me. He let me in. A small step, but surely it’s positive?
But as the days pass and he doesn’t contact me again, I start to wonder whether he ever will. Whether he’s relearning to see the world, coming to grips with driving and becoming independent again, and starting to live life in a world that doesn’t include a whore in it. That’s the basis of everything. Even if Truck wanted a friend, he wouldn’t choose one like me. Best I stop dreaming.
“You okay, Allie? You’ve just polished the same glass a dozen times.”
That Sam is speaking to me is surprising.
I place the glass with the others, and turn back around. “Just thinking, Sam.”
“About Truck?”
My mouth gapes. “You know?” Rapidly I wonder what I could have said to give that impression. Certainly I haven’t spoken to her. Whores don’t go out of their way to speak to old ladies. And vice versa. I wonder why she’s approached me.
Sam looks around, but apart from Tommy who’s sweeping up over by the pool table, we’re the only two in the clubroom. “Drummer told me. I’d noticed you weren’t going with the men, so I asked him.” Her mouth narrows. “You like Truck, don’t you, Allie?”
I stare at her suspiciously. Is she going to tell me sweet butts should steer clear of members? But the expression on her face is sympathetic, so I decide not to deny my feelings for the scarred man.
“I do Sam, more than I should. Pretty stupid of me, huh?” I’ve come to the realisation that Truck would never dream of making me his old lady. He wouldn’t even date me. Dating is what you do with a woman you want to get to know, not one you can take without any pretence at the social niceties. There’s no mystery to me.
Sam looks at me sharply. “You’ve spoken to him, Allie. He let you inside his apartment. Don’t you think Drummer’s tried? I went too, with Darcy. He wouldn’t open the door, even to someone on his firefighting team.”
“I’m a whore, Sam.” I shrug. “That’s the only reason he let me in. You know men, they get fed up with their hands after a while.”
“Don’t forget Truck was a prospect. He couldn’t go with a sweet butt for almost a year. He’ll be well used to servicing himself.”
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t getting it elsewhere.”
“True, but doubtful. He was here every minute he wasn’t on his firefighting shift,” she surmises. Her head tilts slightly. “What are you going to do?”
Again my shoulders rise and fall. “It’s been two weeks, Sam. I don’t know what to do. He knows I’m here if he wants me. I just don’t feel I can intrude, don’t feel I can go around again unless I get an invite.”
“Does he know?” she asks quickly. Then clarifies, “That you haven’t been working?”
“No.” I think that would be the worst thing for him to know. Thinking I’m still a whore means he’ll feel entitled to use me. If he called me around for a booty call I wouldn’t refuse. I’ll take him any way that I can.
“Tell him. It might make a difference,” she stresses.
I’m saved from answering when the door opens and Road and Marvel walk in. Sam nods at the men, then tells me, “Zane and Eli will probably be driving Sophie mad by now. I better go and rescue her.”
“Beer?” I’m already grabbing bottles and opening them.
“Thanks, Allie.” Road leans his elbows on the bar. “Have you heard from Truck?”
“No.” It seems they dragged the truth out of Drummer when he introduced the change in my role at church. I suppose he had to say something. They’re still providing my keep and a roof over my head after all, I have to do something in return.
“Rather than waiting for him to contact you, why don’t you dress pretty and go to see him?” Marvel suggests. I’m well aware the suggestion isn’t for me, but because Truck’s brothers are impatient to have him back.
“I’m not going to tart myself…”
“Not dress as a sweet butt,” the man originally from California interrupts. “Wear something conservative, but pretty. How about a nice dress?”
I’m getting fashion advice from a biker? The absurdness of it makes me crack a smile.
“Marvel’s got a point. Truck knows you as a sweet butt, he knows you’re a biker girl. But what if you showed him something different? The woman you really are?”
I stare at Road, thoughts whirring in my head. What type of woman am I? I’ve been a whore all my adult life, and a couple of years before that. What am I underneath? I don’t even own a dress or feminine clothes. All my skirts are on the point of indecent. When I go off the compound I usually wear jeans or shorts.
“Hey, Al,” a booming voice interrupts. Caught up with Marvel’s suggestion, I hadn’t noticed Peg walk in. “Drummer said Truck’s pretty weak on his left side. Need to get him here and to the gym where I can start to work with him.”
I sigh loudly. “If it was as easy as that, Peg, he’d be here now. He won’t come to the club and won’t see any of you. I don’t even know if he wants to see me again.”
“Then go to him. Thought you wouldn’t give up so easily, girl.” Peg fixes me with a glare.
I
purse my lips, thinking. I could pop into Tucson, buy some nice clothes. Doesn’t have to be expensive, just something that doesn’t make me look like a whore. First time for everything, I suppose. I can’t remember a time when I wore a dress, not since I left home.
“I’ll go into town tomorrow,” I decide out loud. “I need to go shopping…”
“No time like the present, girl. We’ll get one of the others to tend bar. You go and do your thing, and make sure you get in that door.”
Peg’s the sergeant-at-arms. When he says snap to it, you do.
With only a short detour to grab my purse, I’m yet again taking the keys to the SUV, and heading off into Tucson, taking myself to the nearest Walmart where I look at racks of clothes I normally ignore. I’m taken by a retro fifties dress, yes, that looks a style that might suit me. I even team it with a linen jacket. I hardly recognise myself when I look in the mirror. Making a sudden decision I remove the labels, then still wearing my new clothes, take the tags to the till and pay for them and go out into the autumn day feeling like a different woman.
Bolstered by presenting a new persona to the world, I go to Truck’s apartment. My hand is shaking as I place my finger to the bell.
I hear the footsteps, then a pause as presumably he’s checking who’s calling.
Twenty years in the future - Drummer
I sip my whisky once again, musing on the past. “I’d known Allie a long time, watched her. She wasn’t like Chrissy or Jill. Peg, you know what they were like. If it hadn’t been Wraith or Rock, it would have been someone else. It wasn’t the men themselves, but the desire to be anyone’s old lady. From what I saw, Allie’s feelings for Truck took her by surprise as much as anyone else. It was him, the man, not just that he was a club member. It might have been easier for her if he hadn’t been patched.”
Peg’s head dips up and down slowly. “Truck had some shit to work through in his head, and not just about his injuries.”
“He had. But I hoped Allie would be able to get through to him. She liked him, a lot. I could tell. It was something about the way she spoke about him, or rather, what she left unsaid. It was like you finding Darcy, or me finding Sam. Someone snuck in and got under your skin without you noticing.”
Truck Stopped: Satan's Devils MC #11 Page 9
