31. Vandal
VANDAL
“Outside of last night, are you generally sleeping better?” Doc asks on our video call.
I smile at the question as I lean over the fence by the pool and look in the direction of the marsh. A heron is standing knee-deep, completely motionless. He looks like a stiff breeze would blow him over, and yet he’s still standing. I suppose there’s a metaphor about life for me in that.
“Define ‘better.’ Does it count if the thing that keeps waking you up is a five-year-old kicking you in the ribs because she’s decided she likes trying to crawl into bed with you and her mom because she feels safe there?”
Doc laughs softly. “That’s progress.”
I roll my eyes, holding back a grin. “Pretty sure progress doesn’t leave little bruises.”
“Who is she?”
“Elsie.”
“The little girl you’ve mentioned before. The one whose mom you met before you decided to prioritize your own care?”
I nod. The truth is, I’ve mentioned Elsie a lot before, just not by name.
I think I was worried Doc was gonna tell me that twelve-step stuff about not getting into a relationship, so I’d tried to be non-committal.
But she wasn’t like that at all. She gave me harm-reduction plans that are so far holding and disavowed a rigid plan that wouldn’t work in my world.
“So, how are things with her mom?”
Violate me, Vandal.
My cock stirs just at the thought of those words. Words that have unlocked a completely different way of having sex with Daisy. I can be rough or gentle, whatever Daisy needs. Because, honestly, it’s all so fucking good, I don’t care either way.
“Good,” I admit.
Doc raises an eyebrow. “Just good?”
The silence on the other end stretches, and I know Doc won’t speak again until I’m honest.
“What do you want me to say, Doc? That I love her with my whole fucking heart? That her and her kid are stitching me back together?”
“I’d rather have that as an answer than good. It’s honest. I can hear it in your voice. It’s the first time you’ve sounded hopeful…”
“But?” I ask.
“The but is for you. I feel like your unspoken sentence was ‘I love her with my whole fucking heart, and Daisy and Elsie are stitching me back together. But I’m scared of what will happen next if I let them. Or if they leave. Or if the stitching doesn’t work.’”
“I can see why they gave you your PhD.”
Doc chuckles. “And I can see why you have a ‘but’.”
The heron finally makes a move. One careful step after another. He’s not rushing or forcing it. And it takes a moment for his huge wings to beat so he can fly again.
I think I’m gonna get a heron tattoo.
“But the nightmare this morning... It scared me, scared Daisy, woke Elsie.” I already told her what the dream was about when she first answered this call.
I needed to talk to her about it to get some perspective on whether what happened to me was going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Whether I would forever remember Alvarez’s voice or the pain of the cattle prods.
“I sat there shivering and gasping for breath while Daisy rubbed circles on my back and Elsie ran into the room with her bear. She climbed onto the goddamn bed and threw her little arms around me. I don’t want any of this to touch them, and yet my dream scared them both. ”
Doc rubs her forefinger over her pursed lips as she thinks about what I just said. “I’m sure that was at first frightening, and then fraught with complicated emotions in response.”
“I thought about getting dressed and riding to the club to have a drink to escape how overwhelming it all was,” I admit.
“How utterly human of you,” Doc says. “Did you?”
“No. I waited ten minutes to see if I still wanted to. And by then, the three of us had gotten comfortable on the bed. And Daisy had reassured me everything was okay.”
Doc smiles at that. “That’s such amazing progress you should be patting yourself on the back, not hating on yourself.”
“But I scared them.”
“Maybe for a moment. But from what else you’ve told me about Daisy and Elsie, you’re also creating feelings of immense safety for them.
You’re meeting each other where you are.
And I’m sure in that moment of fear, feeling love from the two people you are coming to care for must have felt special.
A tangible connection to the good in a world that has shown you its share of bad.
You more than most know how uncertain and fragile life is, Vandal.
Everything you were assured of—your sight, your strength, your role in your club—got damaged in the most horribly violating way.
But even if your sight was gone, even if your strength was gone, even if you were no longer an enforcer at the club, would you regret how you’ve used those three things in the last ten years? ”
“Not one bit,” I answer immediately. “I’ve loved every second of being an Outlaw.”
“Then always remember that whatever time you have with Daisy and Elsie, spending it with someone you can see a future with, accepting love from two people who don’t owe you any, feeling the peace of putting someone else first, a child, her mother, none of it would have been a waste if it made you happy. ”
“Thank you, Doc.”
“You’re welcome, Vandal. I need to go because I don’t usually take these calls during the day and have to start my next appointment. But I’m very glad you called me.”
“I’m glad I did too.” Because it was a step to admit I wasn’t perfectly fixed, because that was what I had hoped for. Now I realize how unrealistic I was being, while still celebrating the progress I made.
I hang up the phone and step back inside.
The house is quiet. Elsie is at camp. Daisy is at the bar.
And I head to an appointment with one of the specialists looking after my eye.
But, by the time the doctor finishes shining lights in my eyes and asking me the same three questions in twenty different ways four hours later, I’m about ready to take the eye chart screen and eat it.
Not because the appointment is bad, but because I’m suddenly itching to get back to the club and talk to my brothers.
Dr. Kilner leans back on his stool, rolling away from the examination machine with my file balanced open on his knee. He has the careful expression of a man used to giving both good and bad news in the same tone.
I brace out of habit.
“You’ve made significant progress,” he says finally.
I blink once, then let out a long exhale. I shouldn’t be surprised. The edges of my vision don’t blur the way they did a few weeks ago. It isn’t perfect, but I knew it was improving. And yet, somehow, I placed all my confidence in the doctor confirming it than trusting my own observation.
“How significant?”
His smile is small but genuine. “Enough that I am very pleased with where you are, and the odds of a better recovery outcome are higher than when you walked in.”
I don’t know what to do with the information, so I look down at my boots and realize they’re all scuffed to shit.
There’s dried mud on the heel from where Havoc and I started digging to put a more secure fence around the pool, and one of the laces needs replacing. But studying them feels easier than accepting the stinging of tears at the fact that my vision is returning.
“Thanks, Doc.”
“It’s still a journey, Mr.…Vandal. The trauma to the eye was severe.
So I’m not going to stand here and promise you everything will return to exactly how it was before.
There’s still inflammation. Still some irregularity.
You may have sensitivity to light for a while.
You’ll probably have days where fatigue makes the vision worse. ”
“Sounds like a party.”
“It’s not the kind of party I choose to go to, but compared to where we started, Vandal, this is excellent. And cosmetically, the scarring is healing well. Some of it will soften over time. Some won’t. But the tissue looks healthy, and there’s no sign of complications.”
My fingertips automatically brush the raised edge near my temple where the damage cuts into my hairline.
I’ve been letting my hair grow back since the attack, but lately, every time I catch my reflection, the uneven length makes the scars look worse, like I’m trying to hide them and failing. “So, what does this mean?”
“It means you’re healing, and we keep doing what we’re doing. Drops for another few weeks. Sunglasses when you’re outside. No unnecessary strain. And please, for the love of God, stay out of fights.”
I give him a look, and he gives me one right back.
“I’m serious,” he reiterates.
“Fine.”
He flips a page in the file. “As far as riding goes, I’m comfortable easing restrictions provided you’re honest with yourself. Daylight first. Short trips. No longer rides. No night riding. And if the vision starts to blur or depth perception feels off, you stop immediately.”
I don’t tell him that I’ve already been behind the wheel of a vehicle many times. I know I was riding illegally, but sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do.
As I put on my sunglasses and get on my bike to begin the ride back to the clubhouse, I realize the word healing has become somewhat of a theme.
There was a time, not so long ago, when that word would’ve made me want to put a fist through something.
It sounded too soft and too easy for what it was.
Healing makes people think of soup and sleep and getting better in a straight line, and my recovery has been nothing like that.
I make it three blocks when I see a narrow store with a barber’s pole sandwiched between a bakery and a vape shop.
Without overthinking it, I pull my bike up outside.
The barber is a man in his seventies with hands that are gnarled but don’t shake and a face that suggests he’s heard many of the secrets in this town.
There’s a flicker of empathy when he takes in my scars, but he still asks me what we’re doing today, even though it’s clear my hair is a mess.