The rhythm of the session was wrong—very wrong—and Brenden knew it. In therapy, a good psychiatrist may lead in order to draw the patient out, but in general it is hoped that the patient will come to his or her own conclusions. In that way there is a great possibility that the outcome can be lasting.
Wonderful in theory, Brenden thought, but the practical side of his mind said, He’s sending me the wrong messages. There’s something not authentic in what he’s telling me. Why?
“Antwone, in one of our early conversations, you were clearly upset when you were talking about sex and Darla. Now you’re telling me it doesn’t matter?”
“It don’t matter, man,” Carver said. “I mean, when you ain’t got it, you ain’t got it. Isn’t that right, Doc? Like you, man. You can’t see, right? I mean, you’re blind, so that’s the way it is. And what it is, it is, right?”
“It’s not always that black-and-white.” Brenden tried to smile. “You know, there is a thing in life called gray, and most of us live in that state most of the time.”
“What’s that old saying my mother used to tell me? The proof is in the pudding?” Antwone laughed darkly. “Well, there ain’t no pop in this pudding.”
“Antwone, I’m trying to tell you that’s not necessarily true. There have been amazing breakthroughs in spinal cord injury. People can go back to having a very satisfying sex life, even having children.”
“Well, that’s good for them, Doc, you know. But Darla, she’s all woman and needs to be satisfied—the right way, if you know what I mean.”
“Antwone, I think you’re taking a really limited view on this subject. Look, there are some terrific interviews I’d like you to watch, with couples talking about their sexual relationship after spinal cord injury. I think they’re very informative. I’ve watched them, and they’re extremely positive.”
“I ain’t gonna watch losers have sex, Doc. If I want to see skin flicks, there are better ones on cable. You know what I mean?”
Brenden’s mind was spinning, and the question kept pulling on his brain. Why is this guy being so cavalier about the thing that before meant so much to him? Why is he taking such a different attitude?
“Have you talked to Darla in the last few days?”
“She’s called a couple of times, but I haven’t picked it up.”
“Why, Antwone? Why haven’t you talked to your wife?”
“Because there ain’t nothing to talk about, Doc. We’re done. I’m done. You know, it’s just that simple; it’s all over, and it don’t matter anymore. It just don’t matter.”
“Why doesn’t it matter?” Brenden pressed. “Why has your attitude about Darla changed?”
“Marvin is right, you know,” Carver said. “Sexual healing.”
“Marvin?” Brenden asked. “Sexual healing?”
“Marvin Gaye, man. Eighties soul. Weren’t you hip back then?”
“I guess not,” Brenden said.
“Well, when there’s no healing, there’s no healing,” Carver said, his hands drumming the sides of his chair. “There’s no sense trying anymore.”
“Antwone, I’d like to suggest that before you give up on your marriage, you have Darla come back up here so that we can all share in this conversation. What do you think?”
“Get out of my face about this,” Carver answered angrily. “That just ain’t gonna happen. Aren’t you listening to me? We’re done! I’m done. Can’t you just let it go?”
“Antwone, I believe that sometimes when a person is hurt—really deeply hurt—they can become paralyzed by the pain.”
Immediately Brenden knew he had used the wrong word.
“That’s right,” the man screamed. “Finally you got it, man. Paralyzed. Paralyzed. Paralyzed. Nothing works. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s gonna be. Nothing working. Period. End of story. We’re done.”
Abruptly the man’s mood shifted, and he began crying. The doctor waited.
In these moments with a patient, it was hard to know what would happen on the other side. Sometimes when the tears stopped, patients would be willing to step back and take another look, but Brenden was sensing that in this case, at the end of the tears, Carver would be even more resigned to the idea that his relationship with his wife—and, Brenden feared, with his life—was finished.
The doctor didn’t expect to hear Nelson’s chain rattle as the big dog stood, and before he had a chance to command him to lie down again, the animal moved forward toward Carver. Brenden heard the sound of Nelson’s nuzzling as he placed his nose in Carver’s hand as if to say, Is something wrong? Can I help?
Then Brenden heard the rustle of the man’s shirt as he pulled his hand away. But the big dog was persistent, and the doctor listened to his paws click on the hospital tile as he moved in even closer, resting his head on the man’s knee.
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.