Leslie looked through our old family photo albums, teasing me about the colorful, plaid outfits my brothers and I used to wear. They practically glowed. Mom must’ve found a sale one weekend.
Dad hovered nearby, almost treating Leslie like a new tool he’d just bought. He was quite excited to have her here with them. Multiple times throughout the day, he knocked on the door to the parlor where she stayed (one of only three rooms besides my parents’ bedroom and the kitchen with a window air conditioning unit) to see if she needed anything. He seemed concerned she might run away.
We ate every dinner at the dining room table, which was reserved for Thanksgiving and extremely special occasions. Mom even used the fancy tablecloth. I felt like I should slip on a suit coat. When it was just Mom and Dad here, they ate dinner in the living room in front of the evening news. Back when I was fourteen and Andy and David had both moved out of our house in Maryland, dinners in our tiny sauna of a kitchen stopped for good. Suddenly, we were free to eat wherever we wanted, so, naturally, Gordon, my third-oldest brother, and I headed for the TV. Mom and Dad soon followed and continued the practice on the Cape.
Emma, the beagle Mom and Dad had obtained from a rescue shelter a few years ago, snuggled up to Leslie’s leg hoping to coax a treat or two off her plate. Emma knew a dog lover when she saw one. To Mom, this was another star in Leslie’s crown. Mom was a super softy for dogs and had taken in ten over the years. We used to wake up with dogs sprawled across our legs. So the fact that Leslie had rescued five of her own (along with five cats), plus taken a shine to Emma, sealed the deal. Mom approved, though she’d already fallen in love with her on the phone. Dad was in, too, happy to have a fresh pair of ears to hear his endless stories.
The entire visit went as well as I could’ve hoped, except for our final morning. Leslie and I said goodbye to my parents but then got into a huge argument because I hadn’t hugged Mom. This was a big deal to Leslie. Her family hugged and said they loved each other every day, so it was extremely unusual and unacceptable that my family didn’t do this. Or, at least, that I didn’t do it. The rest of my family wasn’t her responsibility, but she wasn’t going to let me get away with it anymore. I tried to explain this was how we’d always interacted, that it would’ve been awkward for all involved if I started hugging folks like we were at a wake. “I’d probably get punched,” I told her.
“You’ll get used to it,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Not every family’s like yours,” I insisted.
“No, but you can hug your mama. It’s not that big of a sacrifice. And she’ll probably appreciate it a lot more than you think.”
We ended up driving back to my parents’ house so I could hug Mom. She opened the front door and met me on the step. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder at Leslie, who somehow managed to smile and wave at Mom while drilling holes through my skull with her eyes. She was talented.
I’d hugged Mom before, yet admittedly it had been a long time. In a family with five guys, it simply wasn’t on our radar much. We didn’t even shake hands or high-five each other on the basketball court. Actually, we didn’t say hello that often. Nodding was our preferred mode of communication.
Mom stared at me, waiting for an answer. I finally shrugged and said, “Don’t freak out,” and leaned over and hugged her. Then I whispered, “I love you, Mom.”
She said, “Why, thank you, my dear. I love you, too.” When we pulled apart, she was smiling and peeking over my shoulder like she knew exactly who was behind this. As I walked back to our rental car, I turned to see Mom waving her fist above her head to Leslie, who returned the fist wave. They had me surrounded.
When I got in, Leslie said, “See, that wasn’t too painful, was it?”
I saw the wide grin on Mom’s face as she stood on the step waving to us, and I answered, “No, not too bad.”
Chapter Seventeen
A Part to Play
That fall, Bryan’s moment of truth arrived. He applied for his practicum a second time, knowing if he didn’t get accepted, his future would look much bleaker. I was ready to camp outside the homes of whichever administrators and professors were making the decision, holding up signs reading, “FREE BRYAN,” “EQUALITY FOR ALL,” and maybe even, “LET MY PEOPLE GO.” Backup sign ideas included, “HE WON’T KILL ANYONE” and “I’VE GOT A GRENADE.”
I also considered bribes and blackmail, though I didn’t possess any incriminating evidence to dangle over someone’s head, and I only had enough money to bribe them with lunch at Subway. Regretfully, I had to forgo these options.
Bryan handled the wait much calmer than I. My focus was solely on the negative consequences of him getting rejected, how bad the meltdown would be, how far the free fall. I didn’t even bring up practicum for fear it would launch him into a state of panic, though maybe that was more for my benefit. Bryan seemed unrattled by the whole process, even confident. Maybe a little too confident. He mentioned one morning, “I’m looking forward to actually working with clients and not just reading about it.”
I contemplated revisiting the extortion route.
He’d come so far and made such progress, I didn’t want to see him suffer another setback. I wondered if there was a certain number of failures each person could withstand before apathy automatically kicked in, like we were on the clock from birth in a race against ourselves. If that were true, the seconds had to be ticking down on Bryan.
Yet another possibility Richard and Bryan were opening my eyes to was that, from the right perspective and with a positive attitude, setbacks increased strength, fortitude, and drive. They could be fed upon as fuel to push forward until breaking through. It was hard to believe, but maybe failure was actually a good thing, at least in doses. As we waited for the news, I sincerely hoped so.
The only time Bryan appeared nervous was the day the letter arrived. He sat on the end of his bed and handed it to me. “You read it,” he said, lowering his head. As I took a deep breath and carefully opened the envelope like it was plutonium, I briefly considered lying if it was disaster, though I couldn’t think of a plausible substitute. Hey, guess what? They’re really excited about letting you know their decision just as soon as time permits. That made a lot of sense.
I had no choice but to read it verbatim. Why put off the inevitable? He’d find out one way or another. Better to hear it from me.
When I read the word “pleased” in the opening line, I exhaled. Bryan was in. He’d been officially accepted into practicum and would start this semester. “You did it, bud!” I exclaimed. “You’re in. Way to go.”
At first, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even raise his head. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me, or believed me. Yet then without looking up, he lifted his fist above his head in celebration, a lot like Mom on the Cape. Everybody was doing it.
Bryan looked relieved, and I realized he’d been much more worried these last few weeks, even months, than he’d let on. He admitted, “I didn’t know what I was going to do if I didn’t get in. Maybe Mexico—I hear the cartels are hiring,” he added with a grin.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
He stood up, answering, “No sense stressing you out more.”
I smiled to discover that at some point during his many late nights studying while I slept, Bryan had quietly switched our seats to start looking out for me. He could take care of himself now. But much more, he’d grown strong and stable enough to protect others. He was more than on the right track—he was leading the way.
R
Della was one of the most selfless people I’d met. It was in her DNA to put others first. So when her daughters’ homesickness persisted and the girls begged to move back to Tennessee, she swallowed hard and said goodbye to Evelyn and Emilee. She was now separated from all four of her kids, and I knew it was only a matter of tim
e before the divide grew too great and she rejoined them. They were her babies—she couldn’t be expected to live without them, at least not until they were grown. As much as she loved Richard, I seriously doubted she would’ve been willing to move to Texas if a few of her kids hadn’t tagged along. Evelyn and Emilee had viewed it as an adventure, though it wasn’t their idea. This was Della’s journey, and the thrill of change had worn off for her kids. Della couldn’t hold them against their will—she had to let them go. But it wouldn’t be for long. I knew sometime soon Richard would have to make the same sacrifice as Della and leave home. What I didn’t know was where that would put me, and when.
To accompany Della’s bad news, Richard received some of his own. A trainer in Fort Worth had been diligently working with a German Shepherd puppy to take over as Richard’s new service dog. Richard and the trainer both thought training a puppy before he had a chance to learn any other habits would solve bonding and communication issues. However, when Richard took possession of the dog, he and Della quickly learned that he had bladder problems. He was supposed to be housebroken yet clearly wasn’t. After a while, Richard took him to the vet to discover the dog had more than typical puppy bladder struggles, but internal problems as well. When the issue persisted and wouldn’t improve, Richard had no choice but to send the puppy back to the trainer until further notice.
Richard was heartbroken and didn’t know what else to do. He’d spent so much time and energy trying to find a new service dog, yet something always went wrong to prevent it. He didn’t understand why. He’d never encountered these types of obstacles with his other service dogs. Decades without any major problems. But now he couldn’t catch a break, and he was starting to wonder if maybe God didn’t want him to find a new service dog. Perhaps this was a sign that Richard needed to focus more on Della to strengthen their bond. With another service dog, his attention would be divided, and Della needed all of Richard right now with her kids gone.
After a few days of moping, he finally said to me, “Maybe I’m supposed to lay this down.”
I tried to put a positive spin on it, and said, “Or maybe it’s not the right time. You just got married not too long ago. That’s a huge change. You’re getting close to graduating. There’s lots of big stuff in your life already. It might be better for you, and the dog, if you waited a little while so you can focus on it properly.”
He thought about this for a few moments and said, “Yeah, maybe…maybe it’s for the best. Maybe God’s holding me back for a reason.”
“He must be using both hands to hold you back.”
He laughed and replied, “You know me—full speed ahead.”
It was good timing for a break from dog hunting because Richard was finishing his last two classes to earn his master’s degree in religion with a minor in pastoral counseling. It had been a long, tedious road, but his diligent hard work had paid off. I vividly recalled our last-minute, frantic scramble to pass his first class just under the wire. Our time management had improved, yet there were days when his degree track felt endless. All of the punishing hours listening to Computer Lady read textbooks as only she could. The constant papers, discussion boards, sermons, and projects. I’d begun dreading syllabus day at the beginning of each new session.
But as we crawled across the finish line to complete the second of our three major goals (marriage and master’s down, job search ahead), the late hours and mountain of work were all worth it. He’d finished, and nobody anywhere could ever take it away. For the rest of his life, whenever Richard spoke at an elementary school or at a church (which he now had more time to do), he’d be introduced as having cerebral palsy and undergraduate and master’s degrees. That was enough to stop anyone from jumping to inaccurate conclusions about the capabilities of people with disorders.
This called for a celebration, so we decided to throw Richard a graduation party at a local church. However, an intimate, low-key gathering wasn’t what Richard had in mind. He had something bigger in store. He rented a freestanding lift and planned to use it to stand up during “Rise Again” by Dallas Holm to show that anything was possible through Christ and one day he’d stand in heaven. Unfortunately, his plan included two oversights: First, the song was about Jesus rising from the dead, not standing in heaven; second, and much more importantly, Richard never wore a belt or underwear, so as soon as he was fully upright, his pants would fall straight down, kicking off the real party.
None of us even thought about his lack of a belt until he was already strapped in about to attempt the feat. The light bulb flashed in my head and I jumped up from my table and raced over to the lift as a few of Richard’s larger friends tried to wrestle him into position. Della hurried over, too, having figured out the crowd was about to witness a striptease. Both of us took turns whispering in Richard’s ear about the belt blunder, yet while he acknowledged it was a problem, he still seemed optimistic he could pull it off if we found some rope to slide through his belt loops.
I looked at Della, amazed and frustrated by his determination, and shook my head. “Richard,” I said, “we don’t have any rope. This is a church, not Home Depot. I don’t know, maybe they have rope somewhere, but it’d take too long to find. These people are waiting.”
Della suggested, “Why don’t you just tell them what this represents, what the song means to you? I think that’d still be very powerful.”
We both waited for the verdict, as the big guys kept struggling to make the lift work with Richard. Thankfully, they couldn’t, and Richard finally decided to abort the plan. It just wasn’t safe—there was a good chance he would’ve fallen and hurt himself. Plus, there was the whole nudity aspect to consider.
When he was buckled back into his wheelchair, Richard took Della’s suggestion and told everyone the point behind the lift demonstration. He also expressed his sincere gratitude for their love and support, not only while he’d worked on his degree, but for the entire time he’d known and leaned on them. He said, “I know I’m a pain in the butt,” which got a good laugh, “but when you lift me up, I fly like an eagle.”
This segued nicely to his next musical selection, Chris Tomlin’s “I Will Rise,” with its lyrics, “And I will rise when He calls my name, no more sorrow, no more pain. I will rise on eagles’ wings, before my God fall on my knees.” I thought this would’ve been a much better selection for the lift stunt, though maybe it would’ve been too overwhelming because as we all listened quietly to the song, Richard began sobbing so hard he had to drive his wheelchair to the other side of the giant curtain dividing the basketball court where we sat. For the remaining two and a half minutes of the song, everyone squirmed in their chairs listening to Tomlin sing and Richard wail as he drove slowly in circles down by the other basketball goal. It was awkward, yet we knew he was happy and thankful, so we let him be.
After the song ended, Richard regrouped and rejoined us. As I watched him chat with a few friends, I thought about the fact that, although he was pushing fifty years old, he’d remade his life. He’d gone back to school, remarried, and graduated. He was living proof that it was never too late to start over, to change direction to a better course, and that everyone had something to offer. Most people, including me, felt they didn’t have anything truly insightful to share with others, a significant, life-altering word to impart. But Richard showed me it was impossible to know who needed to hear exactly what only I could say, and that if withheld, that person lost out. I held the power to hurt someone just with my silence. It was a sobering thought. How many people had I met who could’ve used a little encouragement, or a simple piece of advice from my unique perspective that would’ve made a world of difference to them? How many friends had wanted to vent anxieties and fears yet needed me to inquire first? How many just wished I’d listen?
Everyone had something to offer because everyone else had a need. No one was exempt, and no excuse valid. There was no getting off the hook with this.
We all played a part.
R
Through an extreme stroke of good luck, Leslie found an accidental posting online for a $30 room rate for the Joule, a five-star downtown hotel in Dallas. It should’ve read $300. Before they could realize their mistake, she quickly booked a three-night stay that included free valet, breakfast, and a massage. It was the steal of the year. The Joule had a world-class spa, an outdoor pool on the tenth floor that extended eight feet out from the building over Main Street (the pool had a plexiglass wall at the end so swimmers could see pedestrians, and vice versa), restaurants, retail boutiques, an art collection, and was close to the Dallas Arts District and less than a mile from Dealey Plaza (the JFK assassination fascinated me).
Of course, when Leslie visited, I drove over each day from Fort Worth to make a thorough inspection of the hotel to ensure her safety. Didn’t want her to be at risk in the big city. I checked the pool several times.
We also attended an outstanding Weepies concert in Dallas that weekend. They were one of our favorite bands. We toured the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository, now a museum, where Lee Harvey Oswald supposedly fired three shots in six to eight seconds to kill President Kennedy, though I had my doubts. In later years, accomplished marksmen using the identical model of Oswald’s rifle couldn’t load and fire three shots that fast, and certainly not that accurately. None of it made much sense, which only intrigued me more. Leslie probably got more enjoyment out of watching me scurry around the museum like a curious kid in a toy store than from the exhibits themselves.
We went to Neiman Marcus and other fancy shops and stores downtown, the Dallas Museum of Art, and Galleria Dallas. The weather was beautiful. It was a perfect weekend.
Except for one thing.
Leslie thought I was going to propose.
I didn’t.
She didn’t confess this until later, so at the time, I thought everything went great. She did seem a little distracted the day she left for Memphis. It turned out she wasn’t distracted, she was using every ounce of strength she had not to burst into tears until her drive home. I’d ruined the weekend without even knowing it. On what was supposed to be a dream trip when she got engaged, I’d given her a hug and a kiss and told her to drive safely.
Life at 8 mph Page 17