by Tom Sullivan
He was about to tell the dog to get back when Carver said, “Good dog. You’re a good dog.”
The Marine reached forward in his chair, patted the animal, and then Brenden was sure he heard him hug the big dog. Wow. A new breakthrough—just maybe.
Nelson stayed still, allowing affection to pass between them.
Brenden remembered the first time he and the dog had shared a moment like this. It was when Smitty, the dog’s trainer, and the newly blinded Brenden had gone to the guide dog school to take Nelson out of his kennel in the middle of the night, and for the first time, the animal had chosen to go to Brenden rather than his trainer. Smitty then told Brenden that animals had a special instinct, that they just seemed to know when people really needed them. And as Brenden listened to Carver and the big black Lab, he knew Smitty had been right.
After a while he said, “Antwone, if you can accept love from Nelson right now, isn’t it possible that you can find a way to accept love from Darla?”
Carver answered him quietly. “This ain’t real love, man. I mean, like between people. This is just a dog. It ain’t people.”
“But it’s real,” Brenden said. “Isn’t it, Nelson?”
The big dog came back to his master and licked his hand.
“Antwone, after I learned to love Nelson, I was ready to fall in love with my wife—with Kat. Nelson proved that love is an absolute. Everyone wants it. Everyone needs it. Don’t close off love because you think someone can’t love you back. I don’t believe it’s only your decision to make. Darla is offering her love to you freely. The question is whether you can accept it in return.”
The men were quiet, and Nelson lay down, taking his customary place next to his master. Carver finally broke the silence.
“You just don’t get it, do you, Doc?”
“Get what?” Brenden asked.
“Look,” Carver said, “when I met Darla, I had the Corps, man. I had—you know—I had big-time game. When you got game, everything’s cool.”
“Let me ask you something,” Brenden said. “When did Magic retire from the Lakers?”
“In ’93,” Carver said, “when he came down with that AIDS thing.”
“Right,” Brenden said. “When he contracted AIDS. What do you think when you see Magic now?”
“Oh, man,” Carver said, “he’s the coolest brother on the block. All the stuff he’s done for South Central, with the theaters and Starbucks and all the bling he’s given away. Magic’s the top brother, man.”
“That’s right,” Brenden said, “and he hasn’t touched a basketball in more than a decade. So why do people love Magic so much?”
“Because he’s Magic,” Carver said. “What are you, stupid? He’s Earvin ‘Magic’ Johnson.”
“That’s right,” Brenden said. “And you’re Antwone Jamal Carver.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Here’s what I think, Antwone. You served your country in a way far greater than Magic served it on a basketball court. You sacrificed for your nation. You’re a member of the greatest fighting force on earth—the Marine Corps. And you went to war and fought for us with courage and distinction. I think that’s heroic.”
“But I came home broken,” Carver said, “and now the Corps doesn’t want me, and Darla doesn’t need me.”
“Oh yes, she does,” Brenden said.
“How do you know, man?” Carver challenged. “You’ve never met her. You don’t know nothing.”
“But I’ve . . .” Brenden bit his lip, remembering. “But I’ve heard you talk about her, and it sounds to me that you at least believe she loves you.”
“She doesn’t love me,” Carver said. “She pities me. That’s all. Pity isn’t love.”
“I don’t pity you, Antwone,” Brenden said. “I admire you.”
Carver laughed. “Well, isn’t that wonderful? A blind white doctor admires a low-life, no-legged, no-sex black man, right? Isn’t that something?”
He laughed again, and Brenden noted the abrupt mood change and decided to probe it.
“So are you feeling sorry for yourself, Corporal?” he asked. “Because that’s what I think. I think that instead of stepping up like a Marine, you’re copping a plea to pity. Is that what you’re doing?”
“Yeah, man,” Carver said, agitated. “I feel sorry for myself. You bet I feel sorry. I’ve been cheated, man. That’s the way it is. Cheated by life. I was born with nothing, and I got nothing, and now I’m going to die with nothing. That’s the way it is.”
“You’re wrong, Antwone,” Brenden said. “Yeah, you were born in a tough environment, but you did something about it. You joined the Corps, served your country with honor, and married Darla.”
“And all that’s been taken away,” Carver said. “It’s all gone.”
“You keep saying that,” Brenden said. “So, okay, in your head it’s gone, but you’re here, and tomorrow you have a chance to change it, to try again. Look, I get where you’re coming from. When I went blind, I thought my life was over, but you find out that there’s a whole lot more of life to be part of. It’s a question of choices. I think you’re feeling sorry for yourself and giving up much too early. I think you’re quitting. And like you said to me, I think that’s stupid. And even more importantly, Antwone, I don’t think it has to be like that. I think maybe I’m a good example for you to study.”
“Okay,” Carver said. “So you’re awesome. That’s what I’m supposed to think? Dr. Brenden McCarthy, Superman, right, man? Nothing can hurt you—kryptonite, blindness, nothing. Well, a lot of us aren’t like that.”
“Listen, Antwone,” Brenden said, meaning it, “I couldn’t do what you did. I would have been scared to death to go to Iraq, to fight there. I think you’ve got what it takes to do anything, to win at anything. And I think people who are winners are like that from birth. They just have something that makes them special. I believe you’re one of those people.”
Carver didn’t answer, so Brenden pressed the point.
“Antwone, none of this gets solved in a day, or in one session together, or in conversations with Darla, or in rehab, or in going home and starting to look for a new life. It all works one step at a time. That’s what we’re doing here—working one small step at a time—but I’m telling you, man, some morning you’re going to wake up, and it will be like you got to the top of a mountain, and you’re looking down on the world, and it looks pretty good down there, and you look back and think, I made this climb, and now I’m up here.
“You asked about my life? Well, that’s what I did. I did it literally. Nelson and I went back to the mountain where I got hurt and climbed it together. And we made it. When we were up there together, I thought, Look at how far we’ve come. And that’s how I feel today. Sure, there are more mountains to climb, more obstacles in the way, but I believe I can do it, and I know you can do it. It just starts with small steps, so don’t quit, Antwone. Don’t quit on what’s going on here.”
As before, the man didn’t say anything, and Brenden heard him turn his wheelchair toward the door, dismissing the therapy.
In most cases Dr. McCarthy would stop a patient from cutting off the session—it gave up too much control—but with Carver he had the feeling that he needed to break off their communication so that he could absorb what had happened.
As the Marine turned the doorknob, Brenden asked, “So how are you doing on your meds, Antwone? Is everything going okay? Any reaction that I should be aware of?”
“The drugs? Oh, the drugs. Yeah, they’re fine, man. Doing everything they’re supposed to do. Can’t you tell? I’m feeling good, real good. Can’t you see how much better I am?”
The psychiatrist didn’t say anything, because another alarm had just gone off in his head.
NIGHT HAD FALLEN, AND Brenden McCarthy couldn’t sleep. Slipping out of bed quietly and stepping into his sweats and running shoes, he went downstairs, with the loyal Nelson shaking himself awake and following.
Alone in the
dark he poured himself an Irish whiskey and sat down, holding the glass in both hands and trying to understand what his concern was really about.
The session started badly, but in the end we did pretty well, he thought. I believe we made some significant progress today. I can’t say that Antwone Carver is turning the corner, that he’s prepared to take on new direction, but I think we have him thinking about the issues. And that always has to come first.
“Thank you, Nelson,” he said out loud. “I’m starting to believe you’re a better psychiatrist than I am. It’s about that instinct you’ve got. It’s a lot more perfect than we humans have.”
A single thump of the tail said that the animal agreed.
So what is it? Brenden considered again. Why is my alarm going off? Okay, if it’s not something in the session, it has to be an attitude. But about what?
He snapped his fingers, prompting the dog to lift his head, questioning his master.
“PTSD,” he said out loud, “and the drugs. Let’s see, how long has he been on the medication? Almost two weeks now, and yet I don’t sense its effects when we’re together. Why not? I need to check on that tomorrow. I need to talk to Antwone and to the nurses on duty. The drugs clearly should have kicked in by now, and yet he’s still manifesting symptomatically the same way he was at the onset of therapy.
“Maybe the dosage isn’t correct. I don’t think so. The orders were written clearly in terms of the curve he’s supposed to follow. So if the dosage is increasing but I’m not seeing the effect during our sessions, what’s going on? I’ll talk to the nurses and the attending physician tomorrow. Something’s weird here. Something’s really weird.”
Brenden stood and stretched, went to the sink, washed out his glass, and placed the Irish crystal carefully back on the bar.
“Okay, Nelson,” he said, “let’s go back to bed. Maybe we can get to sleep now. We both could use the rest.”
The big dog followed his master quietly up the stairs and into the bedroom. Snuggling in next to Kat and pulling the down comforter up to his neck, Brenden relaxed and tried to settle his breathing. The alarm had stopped ringing in his brain, but his mind was still active with the thought that something must be wrong and that Antwone Carver needed much more attention.
Finally, blessed sleep overtook him, though dawn was only a couple of hours away.
chapter fifteen
Brenden was not the only person losing sleep that night. Marine Corps Corporal Antwone Jamal Carver was wide awake, and he had been that way all night. Over the last hours, he had been taking inventory of his life—the good and the bad; the highs and the lows; love, hate, longing, and loss. He figured that if this was going to be his last night on earth, it was important for him to think about what it had all been worth.
His shaving kit rested on the bedside table, and the pills that he’d been storing rested in the bottom of the case. Three pills a day for twenty-four days; seventy-two slightly soggy little pills that would transport him to—where?
That’s interesting, he thought. Where will I go? Heaven or hell? Or just to nothing?
He didn’t much care. As far as he was concerned, God had let him down anyway. His mother’s Jesus had never been interested in him. And besides, he’d just lost his legs in a war in which both nations claimed that God was on their side.
And his neighborhood—where gangs ruled the streets and pimps and drug lords ran the nights—what was God doing about all that? Oh, sure, he had heard the Bible-thumping preachers on Sunday mornings with his mother and had seen the rapture of a choir in full voice, but for him God had never really stepped up, and Antwone Carver had never experienced the power of prayer.
For the thousandth time, the screams of his buddies had surfaced in his mind last night, the intensity so great he felt as though it was happening all over again. He could still hear their dying prayers, asking for God’s help to pull them out of the fire after the IED had blown up their vehicle. He could smell their singeing flesh. That memory overshadowed any thought that God would make a difference in his life. So about heaven or hell? It just didn’t matter.
He remembered the last time he had talked to his mother. Darla had arranged for her to fly up to see him when he first arrived in Seattle. She had cried and told him that everything would be all right. She said it would be hard for her to cope with the loss of the money that he had been sending her from his combat pay. But she insisted it would all work out and that God would take care of everything. Antwone had hugged her, said good-bye, and believed that she was wrong.
He hoped that she would be okay—that some of his brothers and sisters would fill in the space—but he doubted that. They had enough problems of their own, or they just didn’t care.
He speculated on whether Darla would ever get the payoff from his insurance policies. What had that doctor said? He was suffering from PTSD. Maybe that was considered enough of an illness that the insurance companies would pay, and if that happened, Darla could help his mother. They had agreed on that before he went to Iraq, deciding that if anything ever happened to him, Darla would do what she could for his mother.
Things weren’t so bad. There were some loose ends he couldn’t do much about, but it seemed to Antwone that except for Darla, life would go on pretty well without him.
But then there was Darla—his Darla—the only person he truly loved. Involuntarily he started to cry, and for a while he was overcome by sadness. He didn’t want to leave Darla, but he was sure that it was the best thing for him to do. All of Dr. McCarthy’s talk about a good future just wasn’t real. What did the doc know about not being able to feel anything below the waist? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Anyway, Darla was young. She would find someone else. The brothers would line up for her. He had no doubt that was the way it would be. All at once he was overwhelmed by the desire to hear her voice one more time, to hold on to the sound of it, to have just one more memory of his beautiful wife before crossing over.
He didn’t want to alarm her, but he decided that even at this hour he had to make the call.
“Hello,” she said in that husky-sleepy way he loved when he used to wake up at night and talk to her. “Hello,” she said again.
“I love you, Darla,” he said.
“Antwone,” she said, instantly awake. “Antwone, I love you. Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said. “No, everything’s fine, girl. I just couldn’t sleep, and, you know, I just needed to hear your voice.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “I’m so glad. I love you, Antwone. Are you calling to tell me you want me to come back up there?”
Now the words were tumbling out of her.
“I can leave school, get on a plane, be there tomorrow. Is that what you want, Antwone? Because that’s what I want. I miss you. I love you. I want to be with you.”
Carver choked back tears as he heard his wife’s pleading, offering herself, offering her love.
“I’m not ready for that, Darla,” he managed to say. “I’m just not ready yet.”
“But you’re calling me,” she said. “That tells me you miss me and love me.”
Now he couldn’t stop the tears.
“You’re my whole world,” he said. “You’re everything, Darla. You know that. You know how much I love you.”
“So let me come up there, Antwone. Let me come right now.”
“Not now, Darla. Like I said, I can’t handle it yet.”
“Listen to me, Antwone,” she said. “I’ve been reading about couples who live with your kind of spinal injury. I’ve been read ing that they can love each other, but listen to me. It doesn’t even matter about the sex. Our relationship is not just about sex, Antwone; we’re about love—our love. I just want to be with you, don’t you see? I need to be with you. I need you. Why can’t you see that, Antwone? Why do you keep pushing me away?”
Antwone didn’t answer because he didn’t know the answer. All he felt at the moment was utter, total
sadness. He was—what? He thought about it. He was empty, without the capacity to love, even though his wife was offering him so much.
“Darla,” he said, struggling to get the words out, “you know how much I love you. You’re the only good thing that ever happened to me, Darla; you and the Corps. I hope I’ve made you happy sometimes. I hope you don’t feel like you’ve wasted your life loving me.”
“Antwone, you’re my husband. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. When we’re together I’m a whole person, and when we’re apart I’m just Darla. I learned that when you were over there. Oh, sure, I’m a teacher. I love the children I teach. I love my family. But when you’re not here, I’m not complete. Do you understand that, Antwone?”
“I just hope you’ve been happy, Darla,” he said. “I always want you to be happy.”
“I’ll get a plane ticket tomorrow,” she pressed. “I’ll be there with you.”
He could feel himself choking again on his tears. All he could say was, “We’ll see, Darla. We’ll see.”
“Oh, Antwone,” she said. “I’m so glad you called. I love you so much.”
“You, too, Darla. I’ll love you forever.”
He pushed the button, ending the call, and reached for the case on his bedside table.
SURPRISINGLY, BRENDEN WAS AWAKE. As far as the black dog was concerned, he and his master had just gone back to sleep, but here they were already, heading downstairs to start the morning coffee. In the kitchen, on impulse—or was it something more?—he picked up the phone and dialed veterans hospital, asking the operator for the nurses’ station on five.
“Nurses’ station. Jamee Edwards speaking.”
Brenden knew the voice.
“Oh, Jamee,” he said, “it’s Dr. McCarthy. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Doctor. You’re up early.”
“I know. I couldn’t sleep. Hey, Jamee, would you do me a favor?”
“Sure. What’s that?”
“Would you go down and check on Antwone Carver, please? We had a rough session yesterday, and I just want to know he’s okay.”
