by Tom Sullivan
“The outside’s not bad,” Brenden said, meaning it. “Not bad at all.”
“You bet, buster,” Kat said. “I am one great package.”
She took his hand in hers across the table. “Brenden, I believe God sent you to me, that you were picked especially for me, and I’d like to think that you feel the same way.”
“Of course I do, Kat,” Brenden said earnestly. “You know that’s how I feel.”
“My point is, Brenden,” she went on, “the old adage is really true. Love does conquer all, and when we love, we accept the idea that part of what we care about is each other’s imperfection. Now, if you want to think of disability as imperfection, at least for this conversation, you can understand what I’m trying to say.”
“But when a disability is imposed on you by accident,” Brenden asked, “or in this case, by war, relationship can be lost in the starkness of adjustment, can’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Kat said, “and that probably means you’re going to have to talk to Mrs. Carver to understand where she’s coming from.”
“That’s what I thought,” Brenden agreed. “But not yet. I have to find a way to establish trust with Antwone and rebuild some of his psychological foundation before I begin working with him on reestablishing his relationship with his wife. You see, Kat, I had to begin to love myself before you could love me.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Kat acknowledged. “But Mrs. Carver loved Antwone before his injury, and I don’t think a woman who commits her heart gives up on a guy just because he’s hurt. We’re a unique species, Brenden, we women. When a woman loves a man—I mean, really loves him—she adapts, no matter what.”
Brenden leaned across the table and kissed his wife lightly on the cheek. “You certainly do,” he said. “You’ve been adapting to me for years.”
“And it’s not easy, boy,” she said, giving him that Kat smile that even a blind man could see. “What’s the Billy Joel song? ‘Just the Way You Are’? Well, that’s how I feel.” And she confirmed it, singing quietly, “I love you just the way you are.” Brenden joined in for a few lines, savoring their time together.
Then he reached down and touched his stomach. “Boy, am I full—and now we have to bike home.”
“Slowly,” Kat said. “Very slowly.”
DARLA CARVER HADN’T SLEPT. As far as she could tell, she hadn’t slept for days, and when she looked in the mirror that morning, in the bathroom of her apartment in San Diego, the face that looked back at her was tired, worn, and sad. My broken heart is all over my face, she thought as she studied her reflection. But I can’t give up on Antwone. I just can’t give up.
For the thousandth time she tried to decide whether she should go back to Seattle and pound on his door and his heart, or give him the space to miss her and work out this nightmare for himself. She couldn’t decide. Her husband had pushed her away. She understood that, but she also knew that in some way he was trying to save her from his perception of what her life would be like with him.
Antwone had always been a fighter, and in one way or another he had always reached for the higher ground of life, whether it was on the basketball court or in the Marine Corps. His mother’s persistent faith in the unwavering love of Jesus had made an impact on Antwone, perhaps more than he knew. She believed his character had been shaped by that faith, and as a result, he would overcome his disability. She could only hope that in time he would realize he needed that love—from Jesus and from her. The tough part was, would he ever believe that she needed him?
Staring at the exhausted face in her mirror, she had no answer when it came to convincing him. I’ll just have to be patient, she thought. I just have to believe in love.
“I hope so,” she said out loud and then turned it into a prayer. “God, please grant me the strength to get through this, and please bring Antwone back to me. Amen.”
ANTWONE CARVER WASN’T PRAYING at all. He was consumed by self-pity, loathing, and rage. All he could think about was that life had once again dealt him a terrible blow. The explosion was just another in a chain of events that designated him as a loser. Black, poor, short, and disabled—unable to fulfill even the basic role of a husband and, someday, a father. Antwone Jamal Carver was worthless to himself, the Corps, Darla, and anyone else.
So what to do about it? He sat in his wheelchair and pondered that problem. He didn’t have a solution completely worked out yet, but at least he had something to think about, and he became consumed, thinking about nothing else.
chapter eleven
Something was nagging at the back of Brenden McCarthy’s mind.
It was that little voice people are always talking about; the little voice that arose out of personal instinct and was cultivated through years of experience and an innate survival mechanism. A voice that told him God was trying to guide him.
That little voice had served him well throughout his life. It let Brenden know that Kat was the only woman for him, and it gave him a special insight into understanding people and developing the intimacy necessary to be a competent psychiatrist.
Now that little voice at the back of his head was telling him that something was not quite right about Antwone Carver. On the one hand, the Marine was unwilling to enter any form of therapy. The guy had made that crystal clear. Why then was he so willing to accept a drug protocol to treat PTSD? It didn’t make sense. As Brenden and Nelson made the ferry crossing on the following Monday morning, the doctor listened to that little voice, knowing that he needed to figure out Carver’s true motivation.
As he sipped his coffee with the big dog lying at his feet, listening to the comforting throb of the ferry’s engine, Brenden speculated about how he would go about trying to break down the barriers in order to engage Carver in treatment intervention. He knew his time with the Marine would be limited. The VA system worked to get these guys back to their homes and families, and that was the way it should be. Brenden understood that it would be up to someone else to carry on the long-term, meaningful work that would hopefully bring Carver back as a healthy member of the civilian community. But he knew it was important for him to set the groundwork that would allow the injured man the chance to gain a foothold on his future. The first few weeks were critical. He decided that his best course was to talk to Antwone in practical terms.
The truth was, for Carver to get the maximum benefit available under his service disability, the psychiatrist’s diagnosis would seal the deal. Brenden figured that he could make this point strongly to Carver, even if the man thought the time they would be spending together was basically worthless. That was often the case, Brenden mused, when people began therapy. No one wants to face the possibility that a psychiatrist could be helpful, because in agreeing to that concept you are accepting the idea that you need help, which is difficult in the case of military personnel.
Dr. Harrison had told him during their lunch that the macho soldiers’ code of bravery—and their intense training in how to survive independently—made it much harder for professionals to convince them that any form of therapy was a good idea. Harrison had gone on to say that overcoming this barrier with Antwone Carver would probably be the most frustrating part of McCarthy’s job.
Brenden also knew that the newness of tremendous dependence on other people—to accomplish even the most basic tasks—was a harsh lesson in humility. Fear and pride had to be pushed aside so that learning could commence. Antwone’s military training taught him about independent survival, but his childhood faith in God’s sacrificial love would show him how to start living again.
Brenden could only hope that Bad News Barnes was right, and that his own disability and the adjustments he had made could serve both as an inspiration and as a demonstration to Carver that he could continue to have a full and vital life.
Brenden and Nelson arrived at the hospital, and as always, the big black Lab had quickly acclimated to his new work surroundings. Brenden never even had to issue a command. Nelson simply entered the bu
ilding, went straight to the elevators, put his nose on the Up button, and guided his master inside, where Brenden selected the fourth-floor button. When they got off the elevator, Nelson wound his way down the corridor, stopped at Brenden’s office door, waited until the man put the key in the lock, and then guided his master to his chair and lay down with a contented sigh that said, Now, wasn’t that good, Master?
Brenden asked the duty nurse to have Carver come to his office after he finished his course of physical therapy. Thank goodness the Marine was used to the regimen of taking orders, and he arrived promptly at eleven o’clock, though Brenden could tell right away Carver still had no interest in seeing him.
The doctor tried to break the ice, asking Carver if he’d had a chance to watch the DVD on Magic Johnson and the Lakers.
“Yeah,” Carver said.
“So, Antwone,” Brenden said casually, “what do you think it was that made Magic Johnson such a unique basketball player?”
Carver was on safe ground, so he chose to answer the question.
“First of all, man, he must have had eyes in the back of his head or had, like, Superman vision, you know? I mean, it was almost like he could look through walls or something. Some of the passes he made, man—I don’t know how he could see someone open, but the ball would just be at the right place, and it would be a slam dunk for Worthy or a skyhook by Cap or that sweet Byron Scott jump shot—all set up by the Magic Man.”
“Then you’d say that Magic made everybody better?”
“Oh, no question, man. When you played with Magic, some of it rubbed off.” Carver paused and then cleared his throat. “So why’d you ask me to come here, Doc? I told you already, I’m not interested in any therapy mumbo jumbo, so unless we’re going to talk hoop, I think it’s about time for me to go back to my room.”
“Look, here’s the deal,” Brenden said. “When you get out of here, you’re going to want the most money you can get around your injuries, right?”
“Mm-hm,” the man said. “One thing for sure,” he went on, “I’ve earned the right to some of Uncle’s dollars. He took the best I have. I deserve something back.”
“That’s right,” Brenden agreed. “And I really want you to get it, but you’re going to have to talk with me for a while so I can write up the report on PTSD, confirming the diagnosis. It won’t be too painful, I promise you. You might even feel better.”
“Humph,” the man acknowledged. “Okay, Doc,” he finally said, resigned, “what do you want to know?”
Brenden sat back in his chair and assumed the casual body position Kat had recommended. He also made sure that he was facing directly toward the sound of Antwone’s voice, knowing that even if he couldn’t see him, it was very important that Carver felt that Brenden was really interested in what he had to say.
It was good that Brenden remembered what it had been like to be a sighted person, and those memories helped him greatly in making the important visual connections his patients needed.
“Okay, here’s the first question for us to talk about. Who is Antwone Carver?”
The response came quicker than Brenden expected.
“He’s nothing,” the man said. “He used to be something, but now he’s nothing.”
“Why do you feel that way?” Brenden asked.
“Man, isn’t it obvious?” Carver said, the anger flaring. “You more than just blind, man? Are you stupid, too? I’m in this chair. I’m going to be in it for the rest of my life. What kind of a life am I gonna have now that I can’t walk? I can’t do nothing for myself now.”
“Nothing at all, Antwone?”
“Here it is, man. I got my GED in the Corps, so I’m not qualified for anything. And there’s not much else that really interests me. I’m never going to be an office type. I’m blue collar, man, all the way, and there just ain’t many jobs, you know, for a blue-collar brother with no skills. You hear what I’m saying, jack? This rehabilitation don’t mean nothing. Rehabilitate to do what, man? Pick up my checks the first of the month? That’s as far as rehab’s going to take me.”
“Isn’t it possible,” Brenden suggested, “that you really don’t have the whole picture? That you’re underestimating yourself or maybe feeling just a little sorry for yourself?”
“What? You don’t think I have a good reason?”
“Oh, you’ve got plenty of good reasons, Antwone, but what good does that do you? Remember, you can’t change your yesterdays, but you can do something with your today and your tomorrows. I think that kind of decision is up to you. Look, you’ve already proved you’ve got what it takes to make it in the world. You told me about your family, how dysfunctional it was, and yet you made a decision to try for something better. You chose the Corps, and you married Darla. Why can’t something like that happen again?”
“I told you,” Carver said, raising his voice. “Because there’s nothing left.”
“You mean your legs,” Brenden said. “Because you can’t walk and because you believe you can’t really love? Listen, Antwone, do you think love is sex? I mean, do you think they’re the same thing?”
“What are you talking about, Doc? Between a man and a woman, there ain’t no love without sex.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Brenden responded. “There’s a whole lot about love that doesn’t happen in the bedroom. There’s a lot more to being a human being than just sex. Remember the question I asked you? Let’s stay on that point for a while. I asked you, who is Antwone Carver, deep down inside?”
Carver didn’t answer, so Brenden prompted, “Is he a guy who loves his family? I know they have a lot of problems, but do they matter to you, Antwone?”
Brenden heard the motion as the man nodded.
“Do you think your mother’s proud of you? I mean, because of the Corps and Darla and everything?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “She’s proud.”
“Did you help her with some of her bills when you were getting combat pay?”
“I guess so. Sure,” the man said. “I gave her some dough every once in a while.”
“And I bet you’ve helped your brothers and sisters, too, right?”
“Sometimes. What else are you gonna do? People need help, you give it. What’s that mean? It doesn’t mean you’re worth anything. Maybe it’s just because you want them . . .” He stopped, so Brenden finished the sentence with a question.
“Do you mean you want them to love you? Is that what you mean?”
No response came from the Marine, so Brenden pushed on. “So what about the Corps? The guys in your unit. Do you help them out?”
“That’s different,” Carver said. “That’s the Corps, man. You know. Of course you help a brother. It’s the Marines. We’re all brothers.”
“So what do you think the Lakers felt when they played with Magic? What do you think that was all about?”
“It was team, you know?” Antwone said. “They were all part of a team.”
“So is it reasonable to think that being a member of a team is part of who Antwone Carver is?”
“I don’t know,” Carver said.
“And your relationship with Darla—that’s being part of something more than yourself, isn’t it?”
“She’s my heart,” Carver said, dropping his eyes. “She’s everything.”
“And, Antwone,” Brenden pressed, sensing an important opportunity, “does she feel the same way about you?”
“You mean, does she love me?” Carver said quietly. “Yeah, she loves me.”
“Why? Why does she love you?”
Carver didn’t answer, and Brenden let the silence hang between them.
Finally he said, “If your wife was here in this room with us, I have a feeling that she’d say she loves you because of who you are, because you have qualities that make you Antwone Carver—and that Antwone Carver is a valuable person with a lot to offer. Look,” Brenden went on, “between now and when I see you in a couple of days, would you make a list of the reaso
ns Darla loves you? Write them down, and then ask yourself the question: ‘If Darla can feel this way about me, isn’t it possible that I can feel good about myself?’”
Immediately Brenden felt the man pushing back. “There’s no reason for Darla to love me anymore,” he said, his head still down. “Because there’s nothing left to love.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Brenden told the young Marine. “I believe when you think about it, you’ll figure out there’s a lot about you that is pretty darn special.”
Carver didn’t acknowledge the last comment, but Brenden knew he heard it.
As he heard the man move his wheelchair toward the door, Brenden asked, “So, Antwone, how’re you doing on the medication? Any problems? Any reaction?”
“With the drugs?” Antwone said. “No problem, Doc. No problem at all.”
“It takes a few days for them to take effect,” Brenden told him, “but I think you’ll find that the results will be very helpful.”
“I hope so,” the man said as he wheeled through the door. “I’m counting on it.”
chapter twelve
Brenden sat with earphones clamped on his head as his computer program read the text of a book called The Devil’s Sandbox. He needed to try to develop at least a cursory knowledge of the Iraqi conflict and the circumstances under which the Marines were forced to operate. The age-old hatred between Shias, Sunnis, and Kurds; the tribal structure; the fledgling government—all of it placing America’s finest, the Marines, in a role that seemed, at best, to be miscast.
As a civilian, Brenden believed the U.S. Marine Corps was the greatest fighting force in the history of the world, but it seemed to him that it functioned best when understanding its true enemy. He expected Antwone Carver to talk about a soldier’s disillusionment with the role he was asked to fulfill, and Brenden was preparing—as his therapist—to be able to empathize with the patient’s frustrations.
Kat had seen her husband this way before as he struggled to get inside the mind-set of his patients, and she understood it would be a long night for her man. So with a gentle kiss on the cheek and a soft “good night,” she went to bed, leaving Brenden to try to understand a complex problem that had clearly been exacerbated by the United States.
