Now I’m chuckling loudly as well.
Sam chooses that moment to appear at the door. She seems genuinely delighted not only to hear me laughing, but Sandy too. “What’s the joke?” she asks.
Sandy and I freeze, look at each other, then we’re back to helplessly laughing again.
When Sam throws up her hands and walks off, Sandy leans in. “Please don’t ever tell my stepdaughter what we’ve just discussed.”
“I won’t,” I promise, wondering if she’ll ever report back that my idea worked.
Having mended the rift with Sandy, it’s one more worry eased. Now I’ve just got to wait out Hope’s arrival, and my old man’s return. Then I can truly take my place as an old lady.
Marcia gives birth to her third baby—not another set of twins, so many lost money on their bets. They call her Alexis. She brings her to see me, and I stare at the bundle in her arms in wonder, wondering whether Hope will come out looking as plump and healthy as that, worried she probably won’t as the odds are against it. It worries me slightly that the sight of a newborn baby doesn’t make me feel maternal in any way. Then I forget my thought as I have to rush to the bathroom.
My chats continue with the two new mothers. One topic we discuss is labour. Apparently Darcy and Marcia said it was easier the second time, especially as Marcia hadn’t been trapped on the compound in the middle of a raging wildfire. The first time, they told me, it had been more painful, and they’d talked me through what to expect. This pregnancy has been so difficult, I haven’t been focused on the mechanics of what happens at the end of it, just want it over and done.
Pain. Something I’ve suffered all these last months. I’m not particularly frightened, just hanging onto the hope that after I go through that, I’ll have a baby and feel well again.
All I’ve got to do is keep going until it’s time to bring Hope into the world. I’ll have to survive with the minimal contact I have with my man. Odd phone calls when he’s allowed to make them are the only connection.
It’s not enough. I need to see him.
I’ve planned for the journey, sick bowls and bags will be within easy reach. I’ve had yet another visit to the hospital to get rehydrated and my electrode level topped off. Tomorrow’s a good time to attempt a trip off of the compound.
Drummer’s prepared me. I won’t be able to hug my man, but at least, I’ll be able to see him and satisfy myself he’s okay. I’m slightly concerned he hasn’t rung over the last few days, but force myself not to worry, knowing phone calls are privileges which can easily be taken away.
It’s the evening before that Drummer comes in. I’m sitting in their living room, having a chat with Sam, my enthusiasm that I’ll be seeing Truck tomorrow, overflowing.
When Drummer starts talking, it takes a moment for his words to sink in.
“What the fuck do you mean, I can’t go and see him?” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Drummer has to be wrong. “I’ll be fine, Drummer. I’ll…”
“It’s not you, it’s him. No, he’s okay, Allie,” he adds the last quickly to dispel any worry I might have. “He’s been put in solitary, and isn’t allowed visitors.”
My hand covers my mouth. “Why?” I rasp out from behind my fingers.
“Chaz, the president of the local Wretched Soulz?" It’s a question to confirm that I know who he’s talking about. I nod to show I’ve heard of him. “Well, he’s got a couple of men in there, and has been having words. Truck pissed off one of the other prisoners, who decided to retaliate by taking a razor to Truck’s good eye.”
I feel blood draining from my face, but again, Drummer continues fast. “He’s good, Al. Got enough protection and nothing happened, but there was a fight.”
Truck in solitary for fighting?
“How long is he going to be there for?” A week or two delay, that I can cope with.
Drummer sighs. “It’s hard to tell, Al. Word is that it’s not punishment, but for his own safety. The gang he is up against may not give up. But that could be bullshit. These prisons are a law unto themselves, and they can do whatever they fuckin’ want. Alex, even in her official capacity, can’t get an answer.”
Someone’s taken hold of my hand. It’s Sam. “At least he’s out of the general population. He won’t be able to get hurt if he’s confined.”
But I see the look in Drummer’s eyes. “He won’t do well, will he, Prez? To be confined in a small cell, not able to see anyone.” We’ve had men inside before, I’ve heard what solitary is like, and it’s not pretty. Men who join a biker club are the type who love freedom. “Will he be able to call?”
Prez shrugs. “He might. They did allow him to speak to Alex.”
So he might not. As Drummer had said, prisons seem to be a law unto themselves.
How much more will we have to bear? Truck’s injuries, my disastrous pregnancy, him getting locked up in the first place, and now he’s in solitary for God knows how long. Not only am I preparing for a baby alone, I won’t even be able to see him, perhaps not even talk to him.
I miss him.
“Allie,” Drummer crouches in front of me, taking both of my hands, “I know this is fuckin’ hard for you, and for him too. Fuck knows I wish there was more that could be done to take this burden from you. I know it’s no help at all to remind you, time marches on. You will both come out the other side.”
“It’s so hard, Drummer. I feel it’s me, you know? That I’m being punished for being born, and Truck’s suffering because he aligned his stars with mine. What if it hadn’t been me that night, before he left for California?”
“Nothing to do with you, Al. Truck’s cards would still have fallen the way that they have. Without you, he may not have come back to the club.”
“Without me, he’d still have his freedom.”
“Nah,” Drummer shakes his head. “Where Truck was at before you went around calling? I suspect he might well be dead.”
“You could equally say Truck’s been bad for you,” Sam interjects from my side. “If you hadn’t fallen for each other, you wouldn’t be in the state that you are. You wouldn’t be fighting as much as you are to keep this baby alive inside you. Do you really want to wish your relationship with Truck away? And Hope too?”
“Of course, I don’t,” I cry out.
“Then why do you think Truck would be wishing he’d never jumped into bed with you?” Drummer raises his chin at his woman as he takes over. “What doesn’t kill us, Al, makes us stronger. Reckon that’s the thought you’ve got to keep in your head.”
It’s a good thought, but, as I run my hand over my swollen stomach, I wonder if Hope will be the death of me after all. Truck being in solitary is just one more obstacle I have to face, and worrying about how my man is coping, along with everything else, might be the death of me yet.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Allie…
“A month, Drummer. This is getting ridiculous.”
Prez sighs, sweeping his hands back through his hair. “Alex is trying, Allie, but the harder we push on the legal side, the more they’re digging in their heels.”
“It’s affecting him badly.” I think back to the all too short phone call I had with him last night. Even Truck’s voice sounds weaker, as if he’s half the man he’d been before. “This good time credit is bullshit as well.” I don’t need to see Drummer’s reaction. Alex has explained if Truck had been sentenced for a year and a day he’d be liable for a reduction in time served for good behaviour. As he’s been sentenced for exactly twelve months, he’ll have to serve the full time, though that does include time already served when he was denied bail.
“The right to appeal has been denied as well,” Drummer reminds me.
Alex had tried to get his sentence commuted on the grounds the judge allowed Truck’s affiliation with the club to overly influence him, but he’d sentenced the maximum he could give him and no more, so hadn’t overstepped the bounds. My man is still inside, and will be for anothe
r nine months and two weeks.
Everything is one blow after another. At some point I expect to be knocked down.
Thinking about Truck takes some of my mind off my own misery. My back is aching, my feet swollen and sore. I’m still being sick tens of times every day, still going into the hospital regularly. In fact, that’s where I’m going today.
Drummer stands. “I’m worried about you, Allie. You look very pale.”
I must look bad if I appear worse than normal. As I go to stand, I wobble, my weight, front heavy, overbalancing me.
Sam’s there to help me, her worried eyes meeting Drummer’s for a second, before coming back to me. “You take care of yourself, Allie. When you’re back from the hospital, we’ll look through the things you need and get ordering.” Sam sounds eager. She’s been encouraging me to get stuff ready for the baby, but not wanting to risk tempting fate, I haven’t wanted to buy anything. I’ve also delayed a baby shower, though the old ladies wanted to arrange one for me. Enough shit has gone wrong over the past few months for me to have no confidence in any outcome.
“I’m coming with you today,” Drummer announces, as he settles me in the wheelchair.
That surprises me, normally a prospect would drive me to the hospital, then come and collect me when I was discharged. The prez is a busy man.
“There’s no need, Drummer.”
“Every need,” he contradicts, as he starts wheeling me down the track. “I couldn’t look Truck in the eye if we didn’t take care of you, Allie, and your time’s getting close.”
One month to go. One more month of being sick and poorly.
“How are you feeling today, Allie?”
Tired, sore, nauseous as usual. Faint. A normal day.
I’m sick, of course, on the journey, but Drummer takes it all in his stride. He appropriates a hospital wheelchair for me, and we go directly to the ward and the bed that indeed seems to have been reserved for me.
I’m prodded, poked, hooked up to an IV, then Drummer leaves with promises to pick me up the next day. The same routine that I’ve become used to.
It’s the next morning things take a turn for the worst. I can’t feel the baby moving. When I guiltily realise I haven’t felt her for a few hours, I call a nurse over in consternation.
“How long, Allie?”
“Since last night,” I realise belatedly. I’d been relieved she’d been sleeping a few hours. Now I feel mortified. Should I have said something earlier? What if I’ve been through this for eight months, and it’s all been for nothing?
“I’ll get your doctor.”
Luckily the doctor’s office is only in the next building, and she’s here quickly. I examine her face to see whether she’s worried, but can’t read anything. She’s friendly, calm and business-like.
But she wastes no time. They bring in a handheld sonogram, then follow that up with the portable machine. There is a heartbeat, but even to me, it sounds different.
“Baby’s in a little distress,” the kindly doctor informs me. “Think we need to prepare you for an emergency C-section.”
What? “You said it was better to carry her as long as I could.”
“Allie,” she starts while turning and issuing a few instructions before looking back to me. I know almost all the medical staff she’s talking to from the number of times I’ve been admitted. I think this makes it close to thirty. “Allie, you’ve done what you can. You’ve given her the best start you could, now we can care for her better if we deliver her.”
Deliver her? Today? I’m not ready. More importantly, is she? “Will she be okay?”
“We’ll do our best.”
I read between the lines. There’s a chance she won’t. A chance she won’t have developed sufficiently to survive on her own. That despite the care they’ve given to me and her, something could have gone wrong.
The hurry they are in worries the hell out of me. Things move so fast they are soon giving me a general anaesthetic. Then I know nothing at all.
When I come around it’s like trying to reach the top of a pool having dived in too deeply, but the water is as thick as molasses. My head pounds, as I try to distinguish voices talking around me.
What’s happened?
My baby. It suddenly hits me.
“Sir, you can’t be in here.”
“Try to get rid of me.” I hear Drummer’s voice challenge. “She needs someone with her.”
“She’s in recovery,” a female voice says soothingly. “She’ll be waking any time now. You can see her as soon as she’s come around.”
“Why the fuck is she getting blood?”
“She haemorrhaged. It’s not unusual with HG.”
“She going to be okay?”
“She’s going to be fine.”
She manages to make a sound, nothing more than a groan, but it gets their attention. Despite the nurse’s futile efforts to shoo him out of the room, Drummer steps forward and takes hold of my hand.
“Hope?” I stutter out weakly, staring into his eyes. If anyone’s got bad news, I want him to be the one to tell me. My boss. My friend. “The baby?”
“Baby’s doing as well as can be expected.” The nurse comes to my other side. She glances up at the machine beeping beside me. “She’s in an incubator in neonatal care. She’s a little underweight and needs help with her breathing.”
“Can I see her?”
“As soon as you’re recovered from the anaesthesia, yes.”
“Will, will she be okay?”
“I’ll take this.” Dr Cassidy steps into the room. “You’ve done well, Allie. You’ve got a lovely baby girl.”
“Is she okay?” I repeat, anxiously. “Tell me straight, Doctor.”
“She’s got a condition called Apnoea. She doesn’t breathe so well at the moment as her brain’s respiratory centre isn’t developed as much as it would have been if she had gone full term. It’s not uncommon, but she will need to be in an incubator until she can breathe on her own. She’s undersized, but that’s what we expected.”
“Will it affect her long term?”
“The long-term prognosis, I can’t give you. But we’ll be monitoring her closely over the first few months.”
The nurse is putting a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
The doctor looks at the results, then says, “I know you’re anxious to see her, Allie, but you need to let the anaesthesia wear off a bit first. We need to get your strength back up as well. Sir, she needs rest.”
Drummer looks up from the chair by the side of the bed where he’s been perusing his phone. “And I’m here to make sure she gets it,” he replies in a tone broking no argument.
“But…”
“If I was her husband, would you make me leave?”
“No, but…”
“I’m here in his place as his proxy. Not going to let a brother down.”
There are some battles you win, some you don’t. I would smile if my head wasn’t aching so much and a myriad of concerns weren’t on my mind, but Drummer’s not going anywhere.
“Rest,” he tells me sternly, as the medical staff at last leave me alone.
I close my eyes, anxious for the time to pass so I can see my baby for the first time out of the womb, wondering how I will feel when I meet her at last. I no longer feel pregnant, and the nausea seems to have already faded. I feel strangely empty, the movements I’d become accustomed to, gone. My abdomen hurts, but I don’t feel like I’ve given birth. Where were all the contractions and pushing Darcy and Marcia had told me about? My baby was taken from me with no effort on my part. One minute she was there, the next, she was not.
Surreal.
I’m a mother.
I don’t feel anything like it.
When I next wake I can feel a change in myself. My head’s no longer pounding, there’s just a dull ache, and, for the first time in seven months, I don’t feel the need to be sick. Drummer’s place has been taken by Sam.
She smiles when she
sees me awake. “Drummer’s gone back to the club for a while,” she explains. “He’s going to try to get a message to Truck.”
Truck’s a dad.
“Do you think they’ll allow a visit now that he’s got a baby? Surely he’s entitled to meet her?” They can’t keep me from visiting, can they?
Sam looks at me sadly. “I don’t know, Allie. He’s in the pen, not in jail, and still in solitary. They make the rules, not us. Now,” she brightens, “if I get a wheelchair, think you’re up to visiting your daughter?”
I should be delighted, happy. Instead there’s a dread deep inside me as I ask myself a serious question. Am I going to be like my mom? Am I going to blame Hope for all she’s put me through over the past eight months? Am I going to blame her for being the reason my husband is languishing in prison?
I’m scared of my reaction once I see her. Will love bubble out of me? Will I feel a need to hold and protect her, and keep her safe? Or will I feel nothing at all?
As Sam takes me down to the neonatal unit, I’m terrified of what I might find. I’ve been warned she’s wired up to machinery and I won’t be able to hold her right now, so I’m sure I know what to physically expect, but it’s my emotional reaction I’m most concerned about.
I expected a small baby. She’s tiny, looking more like a doll.
“She’s absolutely beautiful, Allie.” Sam sighs, her eyes glistening.
Is she? She looks wrinkled. Her eyes are scrunched shut, and her fists are clenched tightly. A machine quietly beeps regularly by her side.
She’s mine. Truck and I made her.
“I can’t, I don’t…”
Sam takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tightly. “It’s a shock. You weren’t expecting to meet her for another four weeks. You weren’t awake for the birth. No wonder you’re having trouble adjusting. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“I can’t believe she’s mine.”
“That she is, Allie. She’s your daughter.”
I feel nothing. No connection at all. I try and appear interested as the nurse talks me through her condition, but she could have been speaking to someone else for all the attention I paid.
Truck Stopped: Satan's Devils MC #11 Page 32
