by Tom Sullivan
As they turned down the hall from the elevator, Brenden speculated that his family might already smell them coming, and he wondered what kind of greeting they would get.
As Brenden put his key in the lock, he heard the sound of little feet rushing to greet him. Pushing open the door, Nelson did what he always did—burst forward to relish the affection from the family he loved. Then Brenden heard a unanimous response from both children and Kat. “Eew, what smells?”
“It’s Nelson,” Brenden said sheepishly. “He got sprayed by a skunk.”
“It’s gross, Dad,” Brian said. Mora just held her nose, and practical Kat was already going to the pantry to see if they had any tomato juice or vinegar.
“Okay, team,” Brenden said, “we’ve got to try to get Nelson ready for me to take to work. Brian, you go fill up the tub with warm water. Mora, see if you can find your bottle of children’s shampoo. Kat, is there anything else we might use?”
“We have some tomato juice,” Kat said.
“Okay,” Brenden said. “Let me take Nelson outside, and I’ll start with that.”
Over the next few minutes, the McCarthy family got busy. Brenden poured tomato juice all over Nelson and—to Nelson’s annoyance—rubbed it into his coat. But all that seemed to do was make the smell stronger.
When the tub was ready, the family moved back inside, and Brenden lifted Nelson over the edge and dropped him into the warm water. Now, for a Lab, that was about as good as life gets; he was being patted and stroked and loved, and he was in water. Life couldn’t get any better, could it?
The entire family got wet as the big animal enjoyed his bath, shaking water all over the place, soaking the bathroom floor. Rub and scrub and scrub some more. Everybody took a turn, with Nelson apparently finding the whole experience fantastic.
Eventually, after using three or four big towels, Nelson was dry, and the smell had diminished somewhat.
“I don’t know,” Kat said. “If you bring that dog to the office, I’m pretty sure you’ll lose patients.”
“Yeah,” Brenden said. “I’ve been thinking about that. I might just have to”—he paused—“get out the old white stick.”
“What stick, Daddy?” Mora asked.
“It’s called a cane, Mora. I know you’ve never seen me use it, but it’s something that many blind people use to help them get around.”
“A cane?” the little girl asked again. “Is it alive? Is it an animal?”
Brenden laughed. “No, princess; it’s just a stick.”
That’s how Brenden had always seen a cane—as a stick, a symbol of limitation, a badge of blindness. He had hated using it in rehab, and the idea that he might have to use it today made him irritated at Nelson, and the realization made him disgusted with himself. It wasn’t the dog’s fault he got sprayed by a skunk, and didn’t millions of blind people use their canes every day?
Suck it up, McCarthy. Just suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself.
“Listen,” Kat was saying, “I’ll get the kids to school while you take a shower. Your clothes will be laid out on the bed. And I’ll give you a sharp tie so you don’t feel uncomfortable with the cane.”
She knows me so well, Brenden thought. Her instincts had always been pitch-perfect, but she had never been a docile spouse. When he needed it—and he often did—she was not afraid to tell it like it was.
They had met while Brenden was rehabilitating from his accident. Kat was a ski instructor in Winter Park, Colorado, at the National Sport Center for the Disabled, and they had fallen in love during their time together on the slopes. When they were dating, Kat used to tease him that being blind wasn’t such a bad thing because he didn’t know how ugly she was. In truth, Kat Collins-McCarthy was a stunner whose smile could light up the world and whose eyes were so lively that people couldn’t stop looking at her. She stayed in great shape, and even though Brenden met Kat after losing his sight, he could tell she was a babe. But her guileless sense of her own self-worth added to her charm, and Brenden loved her for her goodness, honesty, and that quality of innocence that made her an extremely positive person.
Brenden knew he could not live without Kat because their love was special in so many ways. Principal among these was the directness of their communication and the trust they had established—much in the way he had with Nelson—in developing a relationship that could best be categorized as interdependent.
He knew the pride she took in dressing him just so, shopping mostly at an exclusive men’s store in Seattle called Mario’s, where she spent much too much money. But she was committed to the idea that if he looked the part of a professional, people would be more willing to accept the concept that Dr. Brenden McCarthy was a competent psychiatrist, rather than merely a blind one.
He understood that Kat was determined to make his blindness only one part of how people saw him. In his mind he was Brenden McCarthy—husband, father, psychiatrist, athlete, and citizen of the world—who happened to be blind. He knew that he couldn’t eliminate his disability, but he was driven to express his abilities rather than live in his disability.
KAT WAS BACK FROM taking the children to school by the time Brenden had showered and dressed. As her husband came down the stairs, she smiled to herself at how handsome he looked. She saw him go to the closet and rummage around behind the winter coats to find his white cane. She watched as he unfolded it, clicking the pieces together.
“Honey,” she asked carefully, “do you want me to walk you across to the ferry? I mean, can you do that with your cane?”
“I’d better be able to,” Brenden said. “I do it every day with Nelson.”
Kat almost answered, But that’s different, but she bit her tongue to stop herself.
“Okay,” she said lightly, “then give me a hug and get out of here.”
Nelson was already at the front door, skunk smell and all, waiting for Brenden to put on his harness and leash.
“I’m sorry, boy,” the man said. “You’re going to have to stay here with Kat.”
The big dog started whining. He ran to his master, turned, and then went to the front door again, expectant.
“I’m sorry, Nelson,” Brenden said again. “Stay, boy. Stay with Kat.”
He turned to his wife. “I think you’ll have to hold him until I’m out the door. He doesn’t understand.”
Kat took the big dog by the collar and put him in the guest powder room with the door closed.
“Okay,” she said again. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it,” Brenden said, and he couldn’t have been more right.
THERE ARE TWO TECHNIQUES Brenden would utilize as he moved through space with a cane—the inside and outside applications. When inside a building, a blind person is taught to put the cane across the body, tracking the wall in a corridor or hallway to find a door or an elevator or a flight of stairs. Outdoors, the cane is tapped from side to side, swinging left as the right foot moves forward and right when a corresponding left step is taken.
To Brenden, all of this was mechanical, arduous, and cumbersome. Whereas Nelson moved quickly and could think them through the travel process, Brenden was now forced to remember how many steps it was to the elevator from their apartment. How many steps to walk down after opening the front door and exiting the building. Where exactly was the crossing that would lead to the ferryboat dock, and once there, where in the world was the ticket counter?
A trip that normally took Brenden and Nelson just two minutes took ten with the cane, and he found himself becoming impatient and irritable.
Boarding the boat, he was nervous about feeling the gangplank with the tip of the stick. Nelson always took him right to an empty seat, but now, as he groped for a place on one of the benches, he kept sticking his cane into people’s feet.
“Hey, Doc, where’s Nelson?”
“Where’s the pooch, Doc?”
Brenden tried to answer everyone politely, but he found himself becoming anxious as the
ferry made the twenty-minute crossing and docked in Seattle.
THE BIG BLACK DOG was also becoming anxious. For Nelson, the idea that his master had left without him was unusual. Oh sure, Brenden and Kat occasionally went out at night, leaving Nelson with the children and a babysitter, or took their bike rides without him, but this was different. It was different because the man had dressed to go to work, and work was what Nelson did. He had gone upstairs to Brenden’s office, where he always waited for his master, but now he was feeling a vibration, some honed instinct cultivated by great animals who had served their owners over thousands of years.
He ran downstairs and scratched at the front door. Kat tried to settle him and finally put him back in the office with the door closed. The dog was whining now, almost howling with concern, and Kat wasn’t sure how to handle it. When she tried to pat him and tell him everything would be all right, it only enhanced his efforts to express to her that he was worried.
So what to do? She decided that the best course of action was to leave Nelson alone, and that drove the dog into action.
She was in the laundry room, folding clothes, when she heard the screen in the open window crash; Nelson leapt through the upstairs window, landing hard but bounding up and galloping away in the direction of the dock and the ferry he believed must have carried Brenden away.
“Oh no, Nelson!” Kat cried as she raced to the front door, picked up his leash, and ran after the concerned guide dog.
BRENDEN KNEW THAT IT was thirteen blocks straight up Marion Street from Pier Fifty-two at the Seattle dock to his office in the Swedish Medical Center. He had chosen the center because the campus of Seattle University offered him easy access to its library for any supplemental materials he might need to provide better patient care.
The walk was basically uphill, and there would be crossings at Western and Post, followed by First through Ninth, then Terry Street and Bourne Avenue, and then he would find himself directly in front of the Swedish Medical Center complex.
On the surface, easy. With Nelson, a piece of cake. But on this morning, with only the white stick to guide him, potentially disastrous. Between Sixth and Seventh Streets, Brenden and Nelson would enter an underpass because of the freeway running above them. The noise level was always high, but the competence of the dog and the trust the man had in the animal made the transition easy.
Why? Brenden wondered. Why on this day are there repairs going on inside the underpass?
Men were working with jackhammers, and evidently there was a temporary barrier—which Brenden’s cane and then his shins found—placed there for people to find an alternate route back onto Marion Street. Not able to see the detour sign, Brenden was completely confused, and there was no Nelson to ask for help. Disoriented by the cacophony, he turned the wrong way, tripping off the sidewalk and turning his ankle. The pain, the embarrassment, and the reality of his blindness came crashing in on him with a profound intensity he hadn’t felt since early in his rehabilitation. As he struggled to clamber back to his feet, a burly construction supervisor rushed over to help.
“Dude,” he said. “What are you doing out here like this? I mean, you being . . . uh, I mean . . .”
“You mean blind, sir? Right now I’m asking myself the same question. Look, would you mind giving me some help to get around the construction? I think I can do the rest.”
There was that awful awkwardness as Brenden and the man tried to decide how to walk together. Brenden worried that the guy was going to get a couple of his big buddies and carry him like a potato sack, but eventually Brenden got hold of the man’s arm and followed him, limping, back onto Marion Street.
From there, every crossing was awkward and nerve-racking. Brenden had almost forgotten how to listen to traffic flow because Nelson had taken care of that concern for the past eight years. Eventually he tapped his way into the Swedish Medical Complex, though he had all kinds of trouble finding the elevator.
As before, someone was there to help, pushing the fourth-floor button for the Madison Tower, and he finally arrived in his corner office, collapsing gratefully into his chair with a cup of coffee delivered to him by Janet, the secretary a number of the doctors shared.
WHEN KAT ARRIVED AT the dock, she could not see the black Lab, but she heard the commotion coming from the waiting ferryboat. As she arrived at the gangway, she saw Nelson literally running between people’s legs, his nose to the ground, smelling, searching for his master. The ferry passengers were pointing to the dog and saying things like, “Where did that dog come from?” and “Wait, isn’t that the blind guy’s dog?”
“Excuse me,” Kat said to the young crew member standing at the edge of the gangway. “That’s my dog, Nelson. He ran off, probably thinking my husband would be on the ferry. I’m sorry about that. May I go on board and get him?”
“Sure,” the man said. “I know your dog. I’ve seen him ride with your husband a few times. Go ahead, ma’am.”
As much as the big animal loved Kat, getting him to leave the boat without his master wasn’t easy. What was critical to Nelson was that he find Brenden, or at least that he satisfy himself that his master wasn’t on the boat.
Other passengers got involved in the game, as if they were chasing a greased pig. Eventually two men cornered Nelson, and Kat got a leash on him and led him back home, where she kept him firmly tied to a chair, even though the smell from his earlier encounter with the skunk nearly choked her to death.
AS HE WAITED FOR his first patient, Dr. Brenden McCarthy considered the significance of his relationship with his big black guide dog. He realized that Nelson not only had changed his life but had become indispensable to him. The dog made Brendon’s career—and livelihood—possible. Even though Nelson’s high-strung personality off duty sometimes challenged the McCarthy family’s patience, they received so much unconditional love from the pooch that any rowdy behavior was accepted as part of the package.
His cell phone rang abruptly.
“Hello,” he said.
“Well, your pal really went crazy this morning,” Kat told him.
“What happened?” Brenden asked.
“Oh, nothing much. Nelson just jumped through an upstairs window, broke a screen, ran across the street, got on the ferry, and almost escaped to Seattle trying to find you.”
“Oh my,” Brenden said, not able to hide his smile. “I guess that dog loves me.”
“Ya think?” Kat said.
chapter two
I go for mine; I got to shine.
Now throw your hands up in the sky.
Kanye West is pumping through the boom box. The boom box, with its ten-inch woofer, bounces the sound off the nearby tenements, and the word shine has an echo that amplifies the macho essence of the game.
It’s the courts in Laurel Park, at the corner of Laurel Street and Center Avenue, Compton, California. The game is “you stay, you play.” Hold the court, and you play; lose, you’re a dog, leaning on the fence with your arms crossed in an attitude that says, I’m better than anyone here if I want to be. Crips and Bloods own this turf, but here on the courts, gang is put aside for the game.
It’s early evening, before the lights come on. The heat of the August day and the sweat of the men rise into the air, mixing with the LA smog to create an acrid, moist heaviness that envelops the game, holding everyone in the vortex, focusing their effort.
Kanye is continuing to rap about the good life and getting it all for free, no matter where you are—from New York to Atlanta, Miami to right here in LA.
The teenager is compact, powerful, a force of energy, one with the basketball. He moves not with the grace of a dancer, but with the darting intensity of a small animal who knows he has to be quicker and smarter just to be in the game.
They’re playing twenty-by-ones, and you have to win by two. There are no foul shots in the game. When a foul happens, you play on, because the crowd is your jury. There are no refs and no rest. He slides behind a teammate’s pick and e
levates. The boy has hops as he hangs in the air, and the jump shot is pure.
Swish. The net doesn’t even move.
His teammates appreciate it. “Dog,” one yells, “that is NBA!”
“A Kobe,” another chimes in, meaning Kobe Bryant of the Lakers.
“Hollywood, dog,” a third adds. “Big-time Hollywood.”
Now he’s on defense. Never watch a head fake, his coach has taught him. Head and shoulders mean jack. It’s all below the waist. Knees and hips. Slide. Slide. Keep your feet under you. Don’t leave your feet. Stay down. Hands up. Watch the ball. Don’t get screened off. Anticipate the pass.
Yes! His instincts are right, and he steals the ball. He’s out in front, flying down the court, and although he’s small, he gathers himself just inside the foul line. Knees flex, now soar. He’s in the air, cradling the ball, and somehow he’s above the rim ready to rock the baby. A slam dunk right over the biggest dude on the court. It’s a sure thing.
But it doesn’t happen. Instead, he’s hanging in the air, suspended in space, unable to find the ground, unable to feel his feet, unable to come down because . . . because . . .
HE SCREAMED, HIS DREAM becoming the ultimate nightmare as reality brought him crashing to earth. He could not feel his legs. He could not feel his feet. When his hands reached out and touched his knees, he could not feel them. He clawed at them, digging his nails into his skin until he bled, willing himself to feel. But there was no feeling, and the knowledge that he was paralyzed from the waist down caused him to scream again, bringing the nurse and the shot and the tortured sleep that he wished could be death.
