Together: A Novel Of Shared Vision Part 11

"So, now that you've got this big spanking new animal to take care of you, how are you going to take care of yourself? Where do you want to live? And more importantly, how do you want to pay your rent?"

"I don't know," Brenden said. "I think I told you that I was just beginning my internship as a medical doctor and that I thought I was going to be the next world-cla.s.s orthopedic surgeon. But now I just don't know."

Barnes thought about it. "Didn't you tell me that you did your premed work with an education minor? What about teaching? Biology or chemistry or something like that?"

"I don't know," Brenden said. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a teacher. I don't have that kind of patience."

"Okay," Barnes said, scratching his head. "What about research? Something in the scientific field? Did you like science enough to give that a try?"

"No! Not really," Brenden told him, laughing. "Sure, I got through the science courses-all the chemistry and stuff-but it was really only to go to med school. I don't think I ever would want to spend my time in a lab, and anyway, I might have trouble mixing up the formulas. You know, pouring dangerous acids into test tubes."

Now Barnes laughed. "You know what, Brenden? You're well on the way to good health because at least you're beginning to develop a sense of humor."

The young man smiled. "I suppose if you can't laugh at yourself, you can't laugh at anything."

"You got that right," Barnes said. "Humor is the best medicine there is." The big man drummed his fingers on his desk. "Look, Brenden, it might be too early to suggest this, but what about using your medical degree as a practicing doctor?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, finishing your internship and then doing your residency in psychiatry. As a psychiatrist, you'll be working with other people who lose their sight along the way, or," he quickly put in, "anyone who has problems to deal with. It seems to me you already have the most important element in place."

"What's that?"

"Empathy," Barnes said. "I think you're one of those guys who would be very empathetic when it comes to thinking about the problems of other people."

Brenden sat back for a minute, listening to the clock as he thought about it.

"I suppose I could finish my internship and then look into the possibility of doing a psychiatric residency somewhere."

Barnes leaned forward, enthused. "That might be terrific, Brenden," he said. "I'd be happy to help you. I know everybody that's anybody in the field, at least anybody in Colorado. You could probably do your residency right here in Denver, at the CU Health Sciences Center. Their psychiatry division is excellent, and the guy who runs the department is a poker buddy of mine. Actually, he's not too happy with me because he thinks I cheat when we use Braille cards, but that's his problem. Would you like me to call him and set up an appointment?"

Brenden felt the excitement in his stomach.

"Yeah, yeah, I really would, Mr. Barnes. Please give him a call."

"On one condition, kid," Barnes said.

"What's that?"

"That you stop calling me Mr. Barnes. It's Marvin or Bad News or Mr. B, okay?"

"Okay, Mr. B," Brenden said, remembering that was what the man's secretary called him during their first meeting.

"Good," Barnes said. "Good. I'll make that call and set up your appointment. Oh, listen," he said, remembering something, "I had a little conversation with my friend, Hal O'Leary. Remember I told you about him? He's the guy that created skiing for the disabled up there in Winter Park, where I go every weekend. They say we're going to get a big dump of Colorado powder in the next couple of days. You want to take a trip up there with me? My wife will drive us. Edna doesn't ski, and she really doesn't like snow very much, but she enjoys-what do you call it? The ambiance of the whole thing. What do you say? You want to try it?"

Things are really happening fast, Brenden thought. Maybe too fast, but he found himself compelled to say, "Yeah, I'll go up there with you and see what happens."

The big man stood up, his chair squeaking with relief. "Okay, I've got your address. I'll pick you up Sat.u.r.day morning at, let's say, 6 a.m. That'll get us up there in time for a good breakfast, and then we'll see if we can find you someone who will get you pointing downhill. Sat.u.r.day morning, okay?"

"Okay," Brenden said, picking up Nelson's harness and leash. "Sat.u.r.day morning."

chapter eighteen.

Bad News Barnes was as good as his word, arriving promptly at six o'clock Sat.u.r.day morning, along with a thermos of coffee and a bag full of Egg Mcm.u.f.fins.

Like so many young people, Brenden had stayed up far too late on Friday night, and the big man's early morning enthusiasm completely overwhelmed him.

Barnes loved Motown music, along with Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin, artists who had been current during his Vietnam experience. He not only played them at a volume that filled the SUV with a cacophony of sound, but he also sang along with most of the tunes in a pitchless voice that made Brenden question his ethnic roots.

Barnes laughed uproariously. "You're probably right, young Brenden McCarthy. I may be one of the few African-Americans I know with neither rhythm nor vocal acuity, but, buddy, I love to sing, and somehow Edna has put up with it for all these years. Haven't you, honey?"

"Mm-hm . . . mm-hm," said the big man's wife.

Barnes laughed again. "See, Brenden? Tolerance. That's what makes a good marriage. Tolerance. Now let me tell you about Hal O'Leary and the Winter Park program.

"Hal O'Leary was a hot-shot ski instructor in the early seventies, a lot more interested in the nightlife than he was in the lessons he gave during the day. He came to Colorado from Canada, where his folks were pretty well-off, so he was probably a little spoiled. It's funny how we find our way. Like I told you, for me there was Vietnam and football. You'd never think that someone with a background like that would do what I do now. But here it is. That's what's wonderful about your life, Brenden. You just don't know where the fates will take you. It's a matter of being open to the possibilities.

"Anyway, O'Leary hotdogged his way around the mountain, and the guy who ran the ski school had just about had enough of Hal's act, so he a.s.signed him to a rather challenging situation. There was a nurse named Rhetta Steadman who worked at St. Joseph Hospital in Denver. She and I came from the same theater of war. She had been a combat nurse in 'Nam right about the same time I was there. She came home and started to work in the rehab program at St. Joe's, with both veterans and children who were dealing with disabilities.

"One day some kids approached her and told her they had always wanted to ski. At that point disabled people had never been on the mountains anywhere in the world, but this Rhetta Steadman was really something. She called the ski school in Winter Park, and, well, the rest is history.

"So anyway, the first group was a.s.signed to-guess who- Hal O'Leary. I love his story about that first day when a bus pulled up in the parking lot where he waited. He heard the sound of a bunch of kids singing 'A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall' as raucous as it gets. The door of the bus opened and out stepped Miss Rhetta, followed by a kid crawling down the stairs. Imagine that. Hal found out later that the kid suffered from spina bifida and couldn't walk. Then along came three kids holding on to one of Rhetta's a.s.sistants because they were blind. The bus driver unloaded wheelchairs because there were also a few children who were paraplegic. And just to make it a little more interesting, Hal soon learned that some of the other kids were mentally challenged. O'Leary just stood there in the snow, flabbergasted."

"Wow," Brenden said. "What did he do?"

Barnes waited to answer while he finished chewing his fourth Egg Mcm.u.f.fin.

"Somehow he got them up on the mountain the first day, trying to make it work with regular equipment. The kids were falling all over the place, and no one actually skied. But something happened to Hal O'Leary; these children touched his heart. He began to think of ways to open the sport and allow them to enjoy the freedom of a downhill run. For the amputees, he worked on what became the monoski. This is a ski with two small side attachments, sort of like miniskis that allow for stability-you've probably seen them. For other disabilities, he created the ski bra-a bungee cord drilled through the tips of the skis that keeps them together. He figured out that blind people could ski the mountain with a guide calling turns. That's what you and I are going to do. And for the mentally challenged, he knew you had to have just the right kind of instructor.

"That was about thirty-five years ago. Since then, the National Sports Center for the Disabled-that's what the program's called-has taught over a hundred and fifty thousand special-needs people ways to enjoy this terrific sport. They've dealt with over a hundred and forty different disabilities in the program. No challenge seems to be impossible for Hal and his staff to take on. Winter Park comps some of their services, but the rest of it comes from donations. Brenden, I believe this is the single most important sports program for the disabled in the world. Talk about building self-worth and a true sense of self-confidence, Hal O'Leary's program does it in spades. Look what it has done for me."

And right on cue, Diana Ross and the Supremes began to sing, "Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough to keep me from getting to you."

The whole feeling of the moment got to Brenden. In fact, all three people in the van joined the Supremes in a heartfelt chorus.

Arriving at the mountain, Brenden met Hal O'Leary, who was waiting for them.

"Brenden McCarthy," he said, putting out his hand as if he'd known him all his life, "I'm Hal O'Leary. Marvin tells me you might just be the next blind world's champ, and that gets me excited. We haven't had a world-cla.s.s blind guy in our program for the last-let's see-about the last five years, so you are very welcome. Am I right? You did ski on your high school team and then did some racing in college?"

Brenden shrugged. "Yeah, but that was before I was-"

O'Leary interrupted. "Physically challenged? It's all relative, Brenden. Remember, you're not going to ever have to compete with the guys you used to race against, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the same kind of fun. Even if you decide you don't want to race, the sport is going to give you back the most important possible gift."

"What's that?" Brenden asked.

"Freedom," Hal said, sounding like Smitty. "By the way, didn't you just get a new guide dog? Where is he? We have kennels here."

"Oh, I didn't know that," Brenden said. "I left him at home."

"No problem," O'Leary told him. "No problem at all because this morning, you got really lucky."

"Why is that?" Barnes put in.

"Because Brenden's going to spend the day with Kat."

"Aw, man," Barnes grumbled. "I thought I was going to get to ski with Kat."

O'Leary laughed. "She's had enough of you, big fella. She's tired of dragging your b.u.t.t around the mountain, so I'm taking you out myself to give you a real workout."

Just then, Brenden heard the sound of light feet coming up the stairs and a voice that pealed like a church bell.

"Bad News Barnes." She laughed. "Don't let your feelings be hurt. You'll always be my favorite."

"Now, that makes me feel better, Kat. Let me introduce you to Brenden McCarthy. Brenden, this is Kathleen 'Kat' Collins."

"Hi, Brenden."

The girl put out her hand, and as Brenden shook it, he found himself remembering Barnes's conversation about handshakes. This one said definite, strong, feminine, warm. He registered all of those feelings and then felt a twinge of guilt, remembering that his relationship with Lindsey had just ended. Lindsey.

"Are you ready for a great day?" Kat asked. "The snow is absolutely perfect, and I know it won't take long to get you comfortable. You just have to trust me."

Brenden noted that they were still holding the handshake, and he could sense that she wasn't pulling away.

"Have you got your own ski stuff?" she asked, finally dropping his hand.

"Oh, s-sure," Brenden stammered, getting his thoughts back together. "My skis are on the rack, and my boots are downstairs."

"Well then, let's suit up"-Kat laughed-"before the yahoos ski all the powder off."

Brenden took her arm and walked down the stairs, forgetting to say good-bye to Barnes. The big man laughed and called after him.

"That's how to dump a friend, pal. Just because she's a hot-looking girl."

Brenden turned his head and smiled.

"Sorry," he said over his shoulder. "I'll buy lunch."

Kathleen "Kat" Collins had grown up in the East and graduated from the University of Vermont, where she had been number one on the ski team, in both downhill and slalom. She had read about the National Sports Center for the Disabled and felt that it would be a great place to work while she decided whether to go to graduate school and get a master's in special ed. Kat was born to be a teacher, and now in her second winter as a member of Hal O'Leary's staff, she was the most requested instructor on the lesson schedule.

About five-five with great legs, rock-hard abs, and dancing blue eyes, Kat did not think of herself as beautiful, but no one who met her would ever forget her impact. She was as warm and bright as the sun at the top of Winter Park Mountain, and Brenden was immediately bathed by her light. She made him feel completely comfortable, both in the way she guided him and in the conversation that began on their first chair lift ride and stopped only when she began the first step in his ski lesson. Getting on and off the chair lift was the immediate goal, and Kat explained exactly how they would do it.

"Brenden, when I tell you that we've gotten to the Wait Here sign, it means that we're the next chair to go. You'll step out onto the ramp, and the most important thing is to make sure that your skis are parallel to mine. I'll watch for that. Then I want you to reach back with your right hand, and I'll count down-three, two, one-when the seat is coming. You'll feel it, and then just sit for the ride, okay?"

"Okay," Brenden said and performed his maiden voyage perfectly.

On the ride up Kat asked, "Did you ski this mountain before, Brenden? I mean when you could see?"

"Oh yeah," Brenden said, reliving the memory. "I was in the Eskimo program and used to take the train up here every Sat.u.r.day morning. I know every inch of these runs, or at least I used to," he said, his eyes dropping.

"Oh, come on," Kat said, "you'll remember the runs right away, and that'll help us a lot because you'll have a feel for all the terrain changes. It's amazing how much people remember when they lose their sight. I actually think that having been sighted makes it much easier to be blind." She touched his arm. "Listen," she said, "I didn't mean to be so forward; it's just that I've seen how students who could see before make good use of the information they gathered when they had sight."

Brenden shrugged in his jacket. "Maybe," he said. "I can't say that I'm at that place quite yet. It's only been a few months since my accident, and well, I guess you could say I haven't yet accepted everything about being blind."

"Okay, okay," Kat said, giving Brenden her best sunshine smile. "Enough of this serious stuff. We're about to get off this chair, so let's get ready to ski, dude."

Despite himself, Brenden couldn't help but love the girl's enthusiasm.

"Okay," he said, "blind or not, let's go ski."

When they arrived at the top of the mountain, the young man was impressed with the way Kat took over.

"All right, Brenden," she said. "I know you've been a skier for a long time, and my guess is you've been a very good one."

Brenden smiled. "Anything and everything, Kat. Anything and everything. That's the way I used to ski."

The girl touched his arm gently.

"And you'll ski that way again, Brenden. I promise. You have a great background. Let's talk about how we'll move around the mountain when it's crowded or when I have to get you through narrow areas. It's called the human guide system. I'd like you to take my arm and ski as if we were one person. What I mean is that we'll turn together. All you'll have to do is remember that whichever one of us is on the uphill side of the turn initiates it. The other person just sort of lets his or her skis come around. But remember that the key is to never stem. You must never let your heels go wide so that we can avoid crossing."

"I get it," Brenden said. "That could be painful."

Kat went on. "I'm going to take you to Cramner. It's a wide-open intermediate slope, but it has some good pitch, and I think you'll love it."

What Brenden liked right away was the feeling of skiing with Kat as one. They glided over the snow as if they had been doing this all their lives, and he could tell that the girl felt it too.

Arriving at the top of Cramner she said, "You know what, Brenden? That was awesome. I ski with a lot of people, but that was awesome. We can go anywhere."

Brenden was full of confidence.

"So, how do we go down the hill, Kat, when I'm skiing by myself?"

"I'm going to ski behind you, Brenden, right in the tracks of your skis, and I'll either be calling the turns for you, or, if we're lucky, letting you have some freedom. Now, I want to caution you. When I tried to ski under a blindfold with an instructor behind me, I found it very scary because I couldn't gain the kind of confidence I needed to have in my instructor. Moving through s.p.a.ce without my eyes at high speed was frightening."

Brenden was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

"It is frightening, Kat," he said, "but I've been getting used to it, sort of, thanks to the help of a wonderful guide dog named Nelson. I'm kind of"-and he was surprised at his use of the word-"beginning to adjust, so I think I can do this."

Kat took in this information, smiled to herself, and went on. "Well, we're standing at the top of the run, Brenden, and we've got a clear s.p.a.ce, so you can begin when you're ready. Point your skis down the hill, and I'll call the first turn."

As Brenden pushed off, he found himself extremely nervous and showed it by saying, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa," as his speed began to pick up. Why was he afraid? He stopped, shaken.

"I'm sorry, Kat," he said. "I'm sorry. I guess I spoke too soon about confidence. I'm just a little-"