by Tom Sullivan
Better to have died when the IED exploded than to live like this, Antwone Carver thought as the drug-induced sleep took over. Better to be dead.
WHEN HE AWOKE AGAIN, the nurse was standing over him. She looked down to read the hospital bracelet. “I’m Ms. Anderson,” she said. “And you’re Antwone Carver?”
He did not nod, but his eyes said yes.
“Well, Mr. Carver, I’m here to clean you up. How about a shave and a nice sponge bath?”
The young Marine didn’t respond, so she took that for a yes.
She brought the bed to a sitting position, filled a metal bowl with warm water, and began to shave him. Antwone noticed she was really good at it, perhaps because she had performed this task many times on guys who couldn’t do it for themselves. He did not answer any of her questions, nor did he make eye contact with her, even though she was quite pretty.
Finishing the shave, she emptied and refilled the bowl and then began to sponge him down. This was more than he was willing to accept.
“Just leave me alone, will you, ma’am?” he asked, turning his head away from her. “Just leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that, Corporal Carver. I’ve been told you have a visitor, and we want you looking your best.”
A visitor? Antwone’s eyes finally found her face. “Who’s here to visit me?”
“Oh, I think it’s someone you’ll want to see.” The nurse smiled knowingly. “In fact, I know it’s someone you’ll want to see. A very beautiful woman. I think I heard her name is Darla.”
Darla. The sound of her name caused the young man’s upper body to jump. “Darla’s here?” My Darla is here. His voice quavered. “Does she know? I mean, has anybody told her that I’m . . .” The words stuck in his throat, and the young nurse, seeing his face, tried to help.
“You mean does she know that you’ve had a spinal injury? Yes, I believe someone has talked to her, so let’s get you cleaned up. We don’t want to keep a beautiful woman waiting.”
Feeling a little desperate, Antwone said, “Ma’am, when you finish . . . I mean, when you finish cleaning me up, could you help me get dressed?”
“I don’t know, Corporal Carver. That’s unusual, considering your condition.”
“Listen. I’ve been going to therapy. I mean, they move me around and stuff. What’s the matter with me can’t get any worse. Just help me put on my uniform, please. I want . . . I want my wife to see me as a man, a Marine.”
The nurse smiled. “Okay, Corporal,” she said, “I’ll get some help, and we’ll get you all spit and polished.”
“Spit and polished” was a long way from how Antwone Carver grew up. Born in South Central LA, in a family of eight with no knowledge of his father, Antwone hovered on the edge of a life in the gangs. His mother, Ruthie, did the best she could to raise her children with moral and Christian values, but the streets and peer influence are powerful things. Antwone spent some time in juvie for shoplifting before good fortune smiled: a U.S. Marines recruiter came to his high school and was impressed with the kid’s skills on the basketball court. The next time Antwone got in trouble for stealing a car, he remembered the recruiter, and a deal was made with the courts allowing Antwone to take early enlistment in the Corps and ship out to Parris Island for basic training. Esprit de corps, some call it. The drill sergeants call it “getting right.” It’s when a young man crosses over and decides that the Corps is his family.
That’s what happened to Antwone Carver. Over the next three years, even after one tour with Desert Shield during the incursion into Iraq, Carver decided he would be a lifer, expecting to be a sergeant major with a big pension and security.
Returning home after Desert Shield and waiting for his next assignment, Corporal Carver was billeted at Camp Pendleton in San Diego. And there, in a club, on a night he would never forget, he met and fell in love with Darla Clark. He used to tell his buds that Darla was his ebony princess, and the fact that she had married him was right out of a fairy tale. “Beauty and the Beast,” he’d say. Darla was everything that he was not—poised, articulate, and beautiful.
Two years older than Antwone, Darla Clark had graduated from San Diego State and was in her second year as a fifth-grade teacher. For the first time in his life, he overcame his natural shyness and courted her aggressively, doubting that they would ever really connect but being compelled by love to try.
Darla told Antwone that she admired his devotion to country and felt he would love her unconditionally, always be faithful, and raise their children with the values and principles he was developing in the Corps. They married just before he shipped out for his second tour in Iraq, this time not as a conquering Marine but as part of a police force, driving around in Humvees and personnel carriers, waiting to be blown up by insurgents.
That’s exactly what had happened, and now Darla was here and he would be seeing her for the first time as a cripple. What would he say? What would she say? He didn’t know, but he was worried and frightened. For the first time in a long time, Antwone Carver doubted himself, wondering if his beautiful wife could still find something to love in the young Marine with a body broken by war.
And then—there she was, just as he remembered her, just as he had dreamed of her night after night in the Iraqi desert: the turned-up nose, the full lips, the dark eyes that danced just for him, her hair cut short and stylish, her body tight and toned. She crossed the room, bent over, and kissed him.
“Is it okay?” she asked softly. “To kiss you, I mean?”
He reached up and clasped her to him, nearly lifting her onto the bed. “There’s nothing wrong with this part of my body,” he said, kissing her neck. “It’s just my legs.”
As he held his wife in their first loving embrace in more than eight months, he sensed that something else might be broken, something that couldn’t be fixed, even by love.
chapter three
Brenden loved being a father. He loved it more than anything. Brian and Mora were the lights in his life, and Kat said she could tell. “It’s written all over your face,” she told him. “You could never tell a lie—your face is too expressive.”
“You mean I can’t get away with anything?” he joked.
“My dear,” she said, “you are an open book, and I can read every page.”
RIDING HOME ON THE ferry across the Sound with Nelson at the end of a long day, Brenden was always excited, anticipating the shared time with his family—to balance his life, to chill out, to touch the emotions that made living truly meaningful. He knew he wasn’t the only one who felt that way when Nelson’s pace picked up as they walked up the ferry’s gangway. The big dog loved to be loved, and he got plenty of it from this family.
“You’re a lucky dog,” Brenden told his friend. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, pal? And both of us are getting more than we deserve.”
Even while he was working, the dog’s tail thumped against the man’s leg in a demonstration of pure, unadulterated happiness. Nelson greeted the children the way he always did, as if he had been away on a long journey instead of just at work for the day. He made little crying noises as he licked them, turning in circles and doing cartwheels across the living room from child to child, trying to get every inch of his body patted by the people and then launching off to find a toy, knowing the kids would play with him until everyone was exhausted. And Brenden knew Nelson needed this time to expend more of his high energy.
Observing the activity, Brenden noticed that something was different tonight. Though the game was just as spirited, Brian wasn’t playing. Brenden wandered into the kitchen as Kat was preparing dinner. “Something wrong with Brian?” he asked.
Kat placed her knife down on the cutting board and turned to her husband. “I was going to talk to you about it later, but we’ve had our first incident at school.”
“Incident?” Brenden asked. “What happened?”
“Well,” Kat said, sighing, “your son felt it was necessary to defend his father’s honor.”
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br /> “Oh?” Brenden queried, his eyebrows rising.
“Yeah,” Kat went on. “It seems some kid in his class named Jimmy asked our little man if his dad was blind, and then went on to make fun of you with some kind of ‘Blindy, Blindy, Blindy’ chant while they were out on the playground.”
“So what did Brian do?” Brenden asked.
“He socked him, and then the kid socked him back. So he has his first shiner under his left eye.”
“All right!” Brenden said with a hint of a twinkle in his voice. “Did he win the fight?”
“I think so,” Kat said. “He just got a black eye. The other kid had a bloody nose and a cut on his lip.”
“All right,” Brenden said again. “Good job, Brian!”
Kat became more serious. “So, Dr. McCarthy, what do we do about it? I mean, how do we handle this kind of thing?”
Brenden considered it thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Remember, I haven’t been blind very long. This is all kind of new. Let me start by talking to the little guy when we tuck him into bed.”
Kat and Brenden had developed an approach to bedtime that was special and very consistent. After sharing stories together, they alternated the tucking-in responsibilities so they each got to enjoy the last moments before sleep with both children. The condo allowed the children their own bedrooms, and this seemed the best way to keep everyone together but also to provide memorable moments for each parent individually with their son and daughter.
Later, Brenden sat on the end of Brian’s bed, rubbing his son’s back as he settled down for the night.
“So, Brian,” Brenden asked casually, “did you have a little problem at school today?”
The little boy propped himself up on one elbow. “No, Daddy.”
“Oh?” Brenden went on. “Your mommy told me you had a fight with one of the kids in your class. Is that true?”
The child answered softly. “Yes.”
“Well, Brian,” Brenden said, “it’s not a good idea to fight unless a guy has a real good reason. Why did you fight with the other boy?”
Brian didn’t answer.
“It’s okay, Brian,” Brenden encouraged, putting an arm around his son and hugging him. “You can tell Daddy. I won’t be mad.”
“He called you a bad name.” Now his son was crying. “He called you a very bad name, Daddy.”
“I know,” Brenden said. “Your mom told me. He called me ‘Blindy,’ didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Brian said. “I hate him, Daddy. I hate him!”
“No, no,” Brenden told him quietly. “Sometimes people say some bad things, but they don’t really mean it. In fact, a lot of times when people say bad things about another person, it’s because they don’t know the truth. You know what I think, Brian?” Brenden said, getting an idea. “I think Nelson and I ought to come to school with you and talk to all of the kids about being blind and about the wonderful job Nelson does helping me. What do you think?”
Brian stopped crying and took a big sniff. “That would be good, Daddy,” he said. “I think that’d be really good.”
“Okay, pal,” Brenden said. “I’ll call your teacher tomorrow, and we’ll fix this. Now, you go to sleep, okay?”
Brian nodded—and soon was dreaming happy thoughts.
A FEW DAYS LATER, Dr. Brenden McCarthy took the morning off. With Nelson on one side and his little boy holding his hand on the other, they entered Brian’s first-grade classroom accompanied by the sounds of the kids exclaiming, “Ooh, that’s a big dog,” and “That’s Brian’s daddy,” and “What’s that handle on the dog’s back?” and “I’m scared of dogs!”
The teacher was named Mrs. Martin, and she was one of those outstanding educators who always put children first. Having three kids of her own, she understood completely when Brenden called and explained what he wanted to achieve by coming to the classroom. The teacher was excited at the prospect.
“We’re very happy to have you, Dr. McCarthy. I’m sure your coming to class will be a wonderful experience for the children.”
And so, there they were—Brenden, Brian, and Nelson, who evidently assumed that this whole group of twenty-three children was gathered here just to play with him. Brenden could feel the big dog quivering in his harness, wanting to lick every child he passed, but never breaking his responsibility to the work as they moved to the front of the classroom.
“Children,” Mrs. Martin said, “this is Brian’s daddy, Dr. Brenden McCarthy, and his guide dog, Nelson. They’ve come here this morning to share with us so we can learn about what it means to be a blind person.”
Brenden put in, “Hi, everybody. As Mrs. Martin said, I am Brian’s daddy, and I am blind. Who knows what it means when someone says a person is blind?”
He heard someone raise a hand.
Mrs. Martin called on the little girl in the third row. “Annie, what do you think it means when someone says a person is blind?”
“It means they can’t see,” the little girl said, sounding slightly embarrassed.
“That’s right, Annie,” Brenden said. “It means a person can’t see. But do you know what?”
“What?” the little girl asked.
“I heard you put your hand up.”
“You did?” she said, sounding amazed.
“I sure did. When you lifted your arm, I heard your sleeve make a rustling sound.”
“Wow!” the class said together.
“When you’re blind,” Brenden went on, “you learn to use all of your other senses. Now, who can tell me about the five senses?”
A little boy spoke up. “There’s your eyes.”
“That’s right,” Brenden said. “What’s your name?”
“Andrew,” the boy said.
“And what do you do with your eyes, Andrew?” Brenden asked.
“You see.”
“Right. So what other senses do you have?”
A girl in the first row interrupted. “I know, I know!” she said excitedly.
“Good,” Brenden told her, “but let’s give Andrew a chance first. So what other senses do you have, Andrew?”
“Touch and hearing.”
“That’s right,” Brenden encouraged, “and what else?”
“And smell,” Andrew said.
“And what else?” Brenden prompted.
Andrew was stumped, so Brenden turned to the little girl in the front row.
“Okay, let’s see if my friend up front here can help. What’s your name?”
“Andrea,” she said.
“All right, Andrea, what’s the fifth sense?”
“Taste,” Andrea said proudly.
“That’s right,” Brenden told them all. “So there’s sight and hearing and smell and taste and . . . What’s the last one?” Brenden asked.
“Touch,” they said together.
“What are some of your favorite things to touch?” Brenden asked.
Now the children responded eagerly.
“My dog’s fur,” one said.
“My cat,” another put in.
“A flower,” a little girl added.
“My daddy’s head,” a boy in the back row chimed in.
Brenden chuckled. “Why your daddy’s head?” he asked.
“Because it’s bald,” the little boy said, “and it’s so smooth.”
Everybody laughed.
Brenden took the class through all five senses, getting some great responses and loving the whole experience. He had brought several things with him, including a Braille book and a slate and stylus to show the children how he could read and write.
Actually, he admitted to himself, I’m not very good at Braille. I only use it occasionally, but I can fake it enough here.
He then showed the kids the cane he used for mobility before Nelson came into his life. As always, holding the white stick in his hand brought back difficult memories of his early days of blindness, and he was glad to move on, demonstrating for the childre
n his talking alarm clock and his voice-actuated laptop computer.
Before talking about Nelson, he asked if any of the children had questions.
A little girl asked, “Do you have dreams?”
“I sure do,” Brenden told her.
“Well, can you see things in your dreams? I mean, are you blind when you dream?”
“That is a very good question,” Brenden said. “Yes, blind people are blind when they dream, and in their dreams people talk a lot. It’s like turning on the radio instead of a television. In these dreams, people talk and talk and talk and talk.”
Everyone laughed.
“Can you see color?” a little boy wanted to know.
“No,” Brenden said. “Remember, my eyes are broken.”
“But when I shut my eyes,” the little boy went on, “I can see black.”
“That’s right,” Brenden told him. “That’s because your brain is still trying to help your eyes see.”
That caused everybody to think for a minute.
“How do you know if people are pretty or not?” a little girl asked.
“Everyone’s pretty as far as I’m concerned,” Brenden told them. “I think people are beautiful. And the wonderful thing is no two people are exactly the same. What makes them special is that they’re all different. All of us are special because there’s no one else like us.”
A boy asked, “Do you think black people are beautiful?”
“Absolutely,” Brenden said. “I think black people are really beautiful, and white people are beautiful.”
“How about Japanese people?” a little girl said.
“Japanese people are beautiful,” Brenden said enthusiastically. “All kinds of people. Everyone is special. Everyone is different. Everyone is beautiful.”
The class clapped their hands.
“I think your doggy is beautiful,” a little girl said.
“Oh, he is,” Brenden said. “Nelson is one of the smartest creatures in the world, too, and he has a very special job.”
Brian jumped in to help. “He’s a guide dog,” Brian proudly told his classmates. “Nelson helps my daddy go to work every day and ride the ferry, and they go jogging together in the morning, and sometimes he takes my dad on trips all by themselves.”
