by Tom Sullivan
THE NURSE DELIVERED ANTWONE Carver’s nightly pill, and the man’s ritual was working well. Placing the pill in his mouth, he tucked it into the back of his cheek as he quickly drank a small cup of water. Then after a polite “good night” to the nurse as she walked out the door, he removed the soggy pill from his mouth and placed it—along with all the others he’d been saving—in his shaving kit.
My stash is getting bigger, he thought to himself. Not long now. Not too long.
THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Carver wheeled into McCarthy’s office, Nelson didn’t even have to be prompted to say hello. He did it naturally, and the response from the young Marine was becoming almost as natural. If you were watching, you would note that the young soldier actually seemed glad to see the big black dog.
A nice breakthrough, Brenden observed, calling Nelson back to the side of his chair. Everyone wants to be loved. That’s what I’m hoping for—that everyone wants to be loved.
This morning Carver seemed more open, even somewhat enthused to begin their conversation.
“So what are we going to talk about today, Doc? What part of my mind are you going to try to blow?”
“I want to know more about the Corps,” Brenden said. “About what it really means for you to be a Marine. Let’s start with why you joined.”
“Easy,” Carver said. “It wasn’t no choice.”
“Oh, you mean because of the trouble you were in?” Brenden suggested. “But why the Corps instead of the Army or Navy or some other branch of the service?”
“I love the posters,” Carver said. “You know: ‘The Marines want you’; ‘The few, the proud, the brave’ . . . all that stuff. It seemed cool to be part of something that was special.”
“Did you always want to be special?” Brenden asked.
“I don’t know, man,” Carver said. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, you wanted to make it in the NBA. That’s special. Since you’ve been in the Corps, you’ve had a spotless record. I think somewhere inside Antwone Carver, you want to be part of something that matters, something that counts. So is that what you got out of the Corps?”
Carver laughed. “It’s funny. I liked it right from the beginning,” he said. “Even the discipline. When a lot of guys hated the DIs—”
“You mean the drill instructors?” Brenden clarified.
“Tops,” Carver said. “Sergeants. I loved them. You see, I figured they couldn’t make it tough enough for me. Coming from the streets, where I come from, I could handle anything they threw at me. The hikes. The hill climbs. The live ammo tests. Even simple stuff like parade, ground, and inspection. Even the hand-to-hand combat, when the other guys figured I was too little and couldn’t handle myself. When it came to basic training, man, it was cake. I loved it. And when I got out of Parris Island and the sergeant congratulated me, I put on the dress uniform, and I felt awesome, really awesome. And then they sent us over to that pit.”
“Iraq?” Brenden asked.
“Yeah,” Carver said, the derision clear in his tone. “It isn’t a fair fight, you know.”
“Tell me how it’s not fair.”
“When you’re in country,” Carver said, “you just don’t know who to trust. It’s a lot like living in the hood, man. You gotta be in the right gang because they’ve got your back. Over there, when you’re in country, your brothers—I mean, the Corps—they’ve got your back. Everybody else, they’re just trying to stick it to you. I mean, look, man, one day you’re trying to help these people build a school or fix a road, and the next day the guy you’re helping turns around and blows you up. That’s not war, man. That’s some kind of royal foul-up. It’s just a mess. No way to understand.”
“But you decided to be a lifer,” Brenden put in. “You went back on a second tour. That’s when you got hurt, right?”
“I’m a Marine, man,” Carver said. “The Corps is my family. I already told you that. There’s the Corps and Darla, and now there’s nothing. I told you all that before.”
“I know we’ve talked about it a little,” Brenden said, “but you still haven’t told me about the day you got hurt. I mean, how it happened.”
Carver sighed. “They’re all cowards,” he finally said, his tone derisive. “All cowards. I’ll tell you something, Doc, I’ve even seen the tapes. They sit out there a quarter of a mile away with a plunger, waiting for us to drive along in our Humvee with no armor plating. We’ve just got sandbags up the sides and some old plywood that’s supposed to keep us safe. So they sit out there in the desert—a long way away from the road—and when we drive by in caravan, they pick out the vehicle they want in the convoy, and bang!”
Brenden waited a beat and then went on. “So tell me the rest of the story, Antwone, if you feel like it.”
“So there we were, Doc, in a Humvee. They call it a cardboard coffin—a perfect place to get shredded, you know?” Carver pointed to his shriveling legs and then remembered the doctor’s blindness.
“My legs, man. They’re shredded.”
“Sorry,” Brenden said. “I’m so sorry.”
Carver went on. “So we’re on the road from Fallujah back to Baghdad to Marine Corps barracks. Baghdad. What a waste that is. Six million people sprawled all over the place. Every street, building, and back alley just somewhere else where you can kill a Marine. The whole country’s like that. I mean, day after day you drive the highway—the ‘Death Highway,’ man—from Fallujah to Najaf, one hundred and fifty miles of death. Day after day, just waiting to be shredded.
“So we’re on the road, headed back to Baghdad. There are four of us. We’re weapons platoon, you know? Easy company. Fifth Marine Division. And we’re proud. Proud of our unit. Proud of our platoon. Proud of the Corps. But ticked off because we’re here. So we’re out there on patrol looking for the bad guys and just praying not to get shredded. I’m up on top, you know, as a gunner observer. Cassidy’s driving. There’s a tactile commander, a brother, Lieutenant Brown, and another brother, Jackie Washington, serving as a scout.
“We’re driving, and I’m up on top, and I’m vigilant, man. I’m on my game. They call it situational awareness. And I know where I am, man. And I know where I have to be, you see? It’s a hundred and twenty degrees out there in the desert, you know? And a hundred and forty inside the Humvee. Air conditioning is a joke. You nearly sweat to death. So I’m studying everything around, and you know what’s amazing, Doc?”
“What?” Brenden said.
“The desert sky, man. You know, it’s really beautiful. Clear. I mean, unbelievably clear. You can see for miles with the sun reflecting off everything. It’s beautiful out there—the colors and everything. Like I said, you can see for miles and miles, but you can’t see them. And you can’t see the IEDs. That’s what they call them, Doc—improvised explosive devices. There’s nothing improvised about it, man. It’s figured out. They make them out of artillery shells they fill with explosives and bury them under the road. Then bang!”
“And that’s what happened to you?” Brenden asked quietly.
“Bang!” Carver said. “Bang! I don’t know if I really heard it—the bang, I mean. They say you never hear the one that gets you. I don’t know if I actually heard it. The shock picked our Humvee right up in the air. Imagine that, Doc. Over a ton of Humvee just picked up in the air and dropped upside down with me under it. And then the fire and the guys screaming, and I’m shredded. I can’t help anyone. And I’m conscious. You know what I mean? I know what’s going on, but I can’t do anything about it.
“So I hear them all die, man, inside that deathtrap Humvee. Everything’s burning. But I’m not inside. The fire’s all around, but I’m not in it because I’m the observer. I was on top. They’re dead, and I’m alive.”
Now Brenden heard the Marine crying, and he sat quietly, letting him go.
“They’re dead, and I’m alive! And I’m responsible. I killed them, right along with the Taliban.” The young man was sobbing now. “And
now I’m here, and I’m worth nothing. And good Marines are dead. And I killed them.”
“Listen, Antwone,” Brenden said, leaning forward in his chair, “I can’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling. I mean, I haven’t been where you’ve been, but forty thousand guys have been wounded in this war. Over five thousand Americans are dead. And behind each one of those men there’s another American soldier who feels responsible. From what you’ve described, it wasn’t as if you were negligent or you weren’t paying attention. What was the phrase you used? You said a Marine has to be situationally aware. Well, from listening to you, it seems to me that you were as aware as a person could be.”
“But they’re dead!” Carver screamed. “They’re dead, and I killed them. I didn’t see . . . I didn’t warn them . . .” Coming through his sobs, his voice was almost a moan. “I should be dead. I should be the one that’s dead.”
“I don’t think so, Antwone,” Brenden said softly. “I think your fellow Marines would want you to live. What do you guys always say? Semper fi? Always faithful? Well, I believe you were faithful to your duty, Antwone. Faithful to the Corps and faithful to the three friends you lost. I hear your pain when you tell me you wish it were you that was dead, and I have no doubt that if you could go back in time, you would sacrifice your life for your comrades.
“We’ve never talked about it, so I don’t really know what kind of faith, if any, you have. But in the Bible, Jesus says, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ I believe that God was speaking directly to you. Your pain is that you could not sacrifice—not that you would not—and I believe God loves you and knows how much you loved the guys you served with. So the way I see it, both God and I are sure that you’ve always been faithful. I’ve already learned how much you love your wife. Whenever you speak of your mother, I know you understand how tough her life has been, and I can hear the softness in your voice when you talk about your brothers and sisters. I know you feel sorry for what has happened to some of them. Remember, Antwone, I told you that I think you’re a really good human being who wants to be part of something larger than just yourself. I think you’re a team player, and that’s a great person to be.”
The man had stopped crying and was quiet. Finally he said, “So what do you do when there’s no more team? When it’s all been taken away?”
“Maybe you find another team,” Brenden suggested. “Or maybe you examine the possibility of accepting God as a part of your life. This is not psychiatry, Antwone, but I believe God is always there for you, so you’re never really alone. I think maybe you need to find another way of belonging.”
He heard Nelson change positions on the floor, reminding him that his canine friend had a story.
“We all struggle to belong,” he told the Marine. “Take Nelson here. He started off as a stray puppy living in a state park, eating scraps and drinking from the lake. His trainer adopted him from the SPCA and took him to the guide dog school, where he learned his job. No, he excelled as the best guide dog they ever had. Then, he had two different masters. Neither of them worked out. He had . . . too much personality . . . too much energy that the previous masters didn’t understand. There he was, with all that training—the best of the best—but useless, with no one to serve, no home, no place to belong. Then I came along, and we fit. I mean, we fit together. We understood each other. The loyalty and love are mutual.”
Almost unconsciously, Brenden reached down to touch the dog. He continued, “You never know how it’s all going to work out. That’s the risk you take putting it out there. You have to keep searching for a place to be yourself and for the people you want to share your life with. I know you believe you found them in the Corps and with Darla. That doesn’t mean you can’t fit in somewhere else, be valuable, find a place.”
Brenden heard the man shrug in his wheelchair. “Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically. “There’s a place just waiting out there for a no-legged, no-sex black man, right? There’s a big place waiting out there in that great big beautiful world just for me. Right?”
“I believe there is,” Brenden said, “but why don’t we talk about it on Wednesday? I think that’s enough for today.”
The Marine didn’t answer. A moment later, Brenden heard him wheel out of the office.
When Carver left, the doctor sat still, moved to the very core by the intensity of the young man’s feelings and by the sense that at this moment, Corporal Antwone Carver, United States Marines, had lost everything. Brenden often empathized with his patients, but his professional responsibility generally allowed him to maintain the objective distance necessary to be truly helpful.
Now, as he sat in his chair, alone with his big dog, he felt an unbelievable level of simpatico for Antwone Carver. I know what it feels like to be that empty, he thought, to feel that worthless, to feel so alone. Somehow I’m going to have to find a way to rebuild Carver’s support system, and even more basic, his sense of self-worth. There has to be a button that can be pushed; something that will unlock the pain and lead to healing. Something or someone like Nelson was for me. As a doctor, I have to believe in that truth—and as a person, I’ve proved it.
WHEN HE GOT HOME that night, Brenden was even more attentive than usual to his children. And later, when he and Kat went to bed, he felt the need to hold on tight, to keep her close, to value his family and his life more intensely than ever before.
chapter thirteen
Brenden was reviewing his case notes on Antwone Carver, and beyond the obvious pain and loss, Carver’s repeated expression of love for his wife continuously shone through. So why, Brenden thought, is Mrs. Carver not here? Did he have the ethical right to shortcut the arduous process of therapy by talking to her directly? He remembered what “Bad News” Barnes had told him: that sometimes when working with these veterans, you had to “cross the line” and step outside the ethical guidelines of your profession. He was quite sure that if he asked Antwone for permission to talk to his wife, the man wouldn’t give it. But surely Mrs. Carver could give needed insight into Antwone’s psyche. So what to do?
If Antwone had pushed his wife away, that meant when he was released from Brenden’s care, he would probably return to South Central LA and to what—a life back in the hood with no support and no future? Brenden was not willing to accept that for one of America’s finest, and so, breaking every rule, he picked up the phone and called Darla Carver.
“Darla Carver,” she answered. The voice Brenden heard sounded intelligent, cool, and careful.
“Mrs. Carver, I’m Dr. Brenden McCarthy. I’m the psychiatrist assigned to evaluate the effects of your husband’s injuries up here at Veterans Hospital. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you while you were here visiting Antwone, but I thought it might be important for us to have a conversation so that I can gain some insight into the direction that I’m taking regarding your husband’s therapy.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” the woman said, surprising Brenden. “Antwone and I will work it all out for ourselves. It’s our business. We’ll figure it out.”
“Mrs. Carver,” Brenden said, choosing his words carefully, “I understand the personal nature of what’s going on between you and how difficult it must be for you and Antwone to share feelings that are so intimate, but I want you to know that I really care about your husband, and I’m hopeful that the time he and I spend together during treatment can place him on the road to a positive recovery. Please, may I ask you a couple of questions about your relationship with your husband that may shed some important light on the emotions he’s expressing?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and Brenden waited.
“Listen, Doctor,” she said, “Dr. . . .”
“McCarthy,” he prompted. “Brenden McCarthy.”
“Well, listen, Dr. McCarthy, I certainly hope you can help Antwone. I’ve been praying for someone to help him, but I really don’t want to talk to you about any of this
. It’s just too . . .”
Brenden heard her voice break.
“It’s too painful. I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Carver,” Brenden put in quickly, “please don’t hang up. I want you to understand that I have very personal reasons for taking an interest in your husband’s case. You see, I am blind, and I lost my sight in an accident—much like Antwone was hurt in war. For both of us, our disability was imposed on us by circumstance rather than by birth. I understand the devastation and trauma that come with a sudden disability like your husband’s. Please know that I really want to help him, and talking to you could be invaluable and, I think, make a substantial difference in future adjustment. Would you at least take down my phone number and call me anytime—24/7—if you decide you’re willing to talk to me?”
Again there was a pause on the line.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll take your number.”
After she had written it down, Brenden said, “I mean it, Mrs. Carver. I really care about Antwone, and I believe there’s a lot we can do for him if we work together, so please call me at any time.”
After hanging up, Brenden considered what he would do next. He realized that the last session they had shared had been extremely painful for the Marine. Carver was carrying a heavy load of guilt, along with the complete shattering of his self-worth. Brenden felt it was critical to offer Antwone information about options available to paraplegics—both professionally and physically. He would also need to begin clearing up the misinformation that was out there regarding sexual function in spinal cord injury, and so he turned on his computer and began to gather information that he could explain in simple terms to Carver.
He was surprised to find how many Web sites dealt with sexuality in paraplegics with spinal cord injury, and he began to take notes on the material that seemed most cogent to Carver’s case.
