Together (18 page)

The big man
stood up, his chair squeaking with relief. "Okay, I've got your address.
I'll pick you up Saturday 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. Saturday morning, okay?"

"Okay,"
Brenden said, picking up Nelson's harness and leash. "Saturday
morning."

chapter eighteen

Bad News
Barnes was as good as his word, arriving promptly at six o'clock Saturday
morning, along with a thermos of coffee and a bag full of Egg McMuffins.

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 assigned 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 assigned 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 assistants 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 McMuffin.

"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-class 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
butt 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 Saturday 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.