A Different
Kind of Beauty
SYLVIA MCNICOLL
Text copyright © 2004 by Sylvia McNicoll
EPub edition copyright © 2011 Sylvia McNicoll
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In the United States,
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Fitzhenry & Whiteside acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.
Cover Illustration by Sharif Tarabay
Design by Wycliffe Smith Design Inc.
Printed in Canada
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McNicoll, Sylvia, 1954-
A different kind of Beauty / by Sylvia McNicoll.
Sequel to: Bringing up Beauty.
ISBN 1-55005-059-1 (bound)
ISBN 1-55005-060-5 (pbk.)
eISBN 978-155455-985-5
I. Title. PS8575.N52D53 2003 jC813'.54 C2003-902341-9
PZ7
U.S. Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data
(Library of Congress Standards)
McNicoll, Sylvia, 1954 -
A different kind of beauty / Sylvia McNicoll.—1st ed.
[ ] p. : cm.
Summary: The relationship between a dog and a man who is coping with his impending blindness.
Sequel to: Bringing up beauty.
ISBN 1-55005-059-1
ISBN 1-55005-060-5 (pbk.)
eISBN 978-155455-985-5
1. Guide dogs _ Fiction _ Juvenile literature.
2. Human-animal relationships -_ Fiction _ Juvenile literature.
(1. Guide dogs _ Fiction. 2. Human-animal relationships -_ Fiction.)
I. Title. [Fic] 21 PZ7.M2385Di 2003
DEDICATION
For Angela McKay who lost her sight and gained a vision.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
For all the insights and information, thank you to Angela McKay & Fenway, Karolyn Al-Koura & Silver, Lori Shea & Karoo, Canine Vision Canada and the Canadian National Institute for the Blind; also,thank you to Dr. Lindsay MacVicar for the medical facts checkup. Another special thank you to Kate Lowe and her grade six class for listening to the story and to my daughter Jennifer for reading Elizabeth's half to them. There are many tales and truths that went into the making of A Different Kind of Beauty. However, in the end I folded, stapled and mutilated them all for the sake of fiction. Any errors made are entirely my own.
Thank you also to The Canada Council for the Arts who always help me when I ask. I am deeply grateful as well for the many library visits across the country the Council has sponsored on my behalf. I feel lucky to be Canadian.
CHAPTER 1
Elizabeth and Beauty
Debra’s Home Again
Fall—you gotta love it. At least Beauty sure did. Bright white sunshine that warmed the frost from her paws. Crisp breezy air that cooled her down enough for long walks. And swishy orange-brown leaves that carried delicious smells she couldn’t resist—and which she added to, by squatting. With every happy step her thick brown tail waved “hello”: to the bright red cardinal trilling in the tree; to the squirrel she strained at the leash for. I had to yank her back for that one. A future guide dog can’t chase squirrels. Was she ever going to learn?
Hello to the cat squinting from behind a picture window. Beauty’s tail was waving again. Hello to my former and only boyfriend, Scott, walking on the sidewalk with his latest girlfriend. I wanted to die when I saw her.
“Hi, Elizabeth,” Scott called to me, not dropping the hand of the blonde beside him. She seemed to grip his hand more tightly as she smiled at me too.
“Hi, Scott.”
Beauty angled herself so she could lick Scott’s outstretched hand while slapping The Girlfriend’s legs with her tail.
Why did I feel like saying, Good girl, Beauty, instead of what I really said? “Settle down, Beauty. C’mon now. Settle down.”
“Gwen, this is my friend Elizabeth and her dog Beauty the Second.”
“Oooh, kind of like royalty, eh?” She reached out and patted Beauty’s head. “Is she a chocolate Lab?”
“Mm-hmm.” Beauty’s brown fur and pink-rimmed nose and eyes were a dead giveaway.
“Elizabeth fosters Labs for the Lions Foundation,” Scott told her. I liked the way he said that, as though he was proud of me. “They train dogs for blind people.”
“So does that mean you have to give her back to…um… that foundation?” She scratched behind Beauty’s ears now.
I nodded. “But I still have at least five months with her.”
“How could you ever give up such a cute puppy-wuppy?” she baby-talked at Beauty. Beauty dropped her mouth into a grin, agreeing with Gwen as she slurped at her hand.
“I’ve done it before with Beauty One. Knowing that she’s not mine, I hold back a little.” I smiled and looked at Scott. It was kind of the way I felt toward him. We’d been best friends forever and went out for a while when he still went to my school. Scott made me laugh and always put me in a good mood, just like Beauty. But he belongs to everybody; he’s just that friendly. I have to hold back every time I see him.
“I could never do that,” Gwen said with awe. Beauty twisted her head and leaned toward Gwen to get a better angle for ear scratching.
“Once you see your dog guiding a blind person, it makes it all worthwhile.” Suddenly, I wanted to explain more to Gwen, about how this time I wouldn’t let myself get sick over giving up Beauty. I would eat normal meals, not just dry toast. I’d drink milk, not flat ginger ale. And I wouldn’t cry over her old toys. This Beauty would be different. Instead I repeated, “The blind person makes it all worthwhile.”
“Her fur is so smooth and shiny,” Gwen said as she patted her.
Funny she should admire that about Beauty when I envied that very thing about Gwen. Her hair looked like wheat hanging upside down, blond and straight. My hair kind of sproinged from my head, all red and bushy. Gwen’s skin looked smooth too—no tw
o-million freckles to play connect-the-dots with.
“Beauty does amazing tricks.” Scott dropped to his knees now. “C’mon girl, do Elvis for Gwen.” Scott started singing, slightly off key, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog …” He tossed back his head and howled, “Arr-rooo!”
Beauty’s upper lip hooked over her left incisor as she gave a soft growl. She wagged her whole body and Scott wagged his butt. They howled together. With a stretch of the imagination you could see how she sort of looked like Elvis, with her wagging butt and curled lip; at least like the Elvis I’d watched on Dad’s old videos.
“Uh, thank you, thank you very much,” I said in my best southern drawl. It was Beauty’s cue to stop. Her lip sank down again.
“That is amazing,” Gwen said, chuckling.
“Elizabeth’s great with animal training,” Scott agreed as he stood up.
“Hey, I never did anything. Beauty came by her Elvis naturally,” I said.
“Actually, I think Beauty’s training you, Scott!” Gwen touched his arm. Did she know about us—I mean, the former us?
“Well, nice to meet you, Gwen. We’ve gotta go. We’re picking up Debra from the airport and I just wanted to tire Beauty out. She gets restless in the car,” I told Scott. “My sister’s flying in from L.A.,” I explained to Gwen.
“Is she an actress?” Gwen asked, sounding hopeful.
“No. Even better. She’s a famous artist. Debra Kerr. She illustrated Camel on a Skateboard. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
Gwen’s blue eyes lit up instantly. “My little sister has that book! Wow, that’s really exciting! Maybe I can pop by and get it autographed sometime.”
A girl that excited about Deb’s picture book—I might almost have liked her if she hadn’t been clinging to Scott’s hand again. “Sure, I think Debra would be happy to do that. Fame hasn’t affected her at all.” I grinned. “Gotta run now. See you. Come on, Beauty, hurry up. Do your business.” As I’d hoped, the sight of Beauty squatting, back arched, was a quick exit call for Gwen and Scott. I scooped, and with the serious business over, headed back home with Beauty.
Later, sporting a green jacket that read Future Guide Dog, Beauty paced beside me at Gate 6, waiting for Debra’s plane. Canine Vision likes foster families to take their dogs everywhere, and airports were a good experience for Beauty.
“Settle down, Beauty. Stay. Sit.”
Beauty whimpered as she reluctantly lowered her butt. Dad ran and checked the airport monitor to see that, yes, Flight 404 was really on time and arriving at 17:10—a time he normally spent on the commuter train home from Regal Trust.
Mom held a bouquet of red carnations. She didn’t ordinarily go for cut flowers but they were a fundraiser for some women’s shelter. She’d swapped the class she usually taught at this hour with another English instructor. All of us waiting, waiting for my big sister.
To me, Debra held all the mysteries of dating in her head—she was practically married after all; I needed her. I wondered if she still wore black all the time—last Christmas she had—but now that her book was out, maybe she’d changed. Then, in the middle of my wondering, I spotted her; there among a tanned bunch of travelers. She wore tiny dark-blue sunglasses and, yes, a black long-sleeved shirt with matching pants. It looked like her mascara had smeared down her left eye. Not like Debra. Or wasn’t that her, after all?
Debra usually swoops when she walks. She’s tall and her stride is long and confident. Only this girl walked with smaller, more hesitant steps. I tilted my head. Her jet-black hair had sprouted bright-red-and-blue streaks, which was more Debra’s style. Was it her or not?
Closer and closer. I squinted. Finally she waved. A small wave with a small smile; and I ran, Beauty bounding beside me.
“Debra!” I called with my arms outstretched. As I reached her I jumped to bear-hug her, knocking down those tiny blue sunglasses.
That’s when I realized that the dark color smudged down her left cheekbone wasn’t mascara at all. Everything inside me slid around all topsy-turvy, and I felt slightly sick. My sister’s left eye was circled by a deep purple bruise.
Kyle
The Last Perfect Image
Sunset at Waikiki Beach, a pink and golden moment full of soft breezes. I will never get up on this thing, I thought as I lay on my surfboard, the sinking sun warm on my back, a curly phone-type cord attached to my ankle. I’d spent three weeks in Hawaii, paid all this month’s allowance on the lesson and surfboard rental my final day, and it was going to end like this.
Not that it was a bad way. I mean, I’m not a big athlete. Just holding onto the board—feeling the swells of the ocean lift and drop it—soothed and relaxed me. But it seemed like the whole world stood along the beach, watching, cameras poised. It’s the daily event at Waikiki, everyone lining up in front of the pastel-colored hotel towers, all waiting to capture forever the perfect sunset. So much anticipation and expectation. Like all the tourists need one special chance to put pink and gold into their ordinary lives.
Suddenly, I knew something bigger had to happen for me, too. I glanced back at the sun—it was melting like a round pat of butter on an ocean of toast. So surreal.
But then I saw the wave coming. As it rolled toward me, it gathered height and power. Something gathered inside me, too. An urge, a strength, a force. I paddled desperately, gaining on the wave just enough so I could hoist myself off my chest. Then carefully, first onto one foot and then the second, I straightened slightly, my ankles and knees bent, my arms unfolding straight out like wings. The wave connected, the whole surfboard surging forward. I could feel the power beneath my feet. I shifted my weight to the left a little to adjust my balance, and then quickly to the right. I felt in control, and yet not—somehow comfortable with the wildness of that water, my feet planted securely on top of the board. It was as if I was in balance with life even as it hurtled me forward to unknown destinations.
It’s a feeling I’d give anything to have back.
All the cameras on the beach flashed, and even though the real subject of the photos was the sun, I felt like a star.
And then the sun set, taking my sight with it forever.
OK, it wasn’t as dramatic as all that. On the plane home from Grandma’s, my eyes began to fuzz up. I’d blink and blink but I still couldn’t sharpen my focus. I couldn’t watch the movie; it was too annoying. I just kept wanting to adjust some button to make the picture clearer. I headed back for the bathroom, kit in hand, to test my blood sugar. Maybe I needed more insulin. I pricked my finger and stuck the blood droplet on the test paper. I did feel tired, but then who wouldn’t on a ten-hour flight? And I was pretty good about ignoring my symptoms. In fact, visiting Grandma in Honolulu had been about Grandma showing me how to live well and keep good control of my blood-sugar levels. But Grandma complained along with me. “Too much compromise, too little hot fudge,” she’d say.
Anyway, squished up inside that airline stall I tested a perfectly fine seven on the Glucometer. Especially considering that the last meal I’d had was regulation air fare: little squares of unidentifiable protein, and carbohydrate with tomato sauce. I gave myself a shot of four units of insulin and everything should have been fine.
When I landed back at Pearson and stumbled toward Mom she immediately dialed Dr. Worden on her cell. He sent us to an eye specialist who peered into my eyes and grumbled out the word retinopathy.
“The blood vessels in your eyes are weakening,” he said as he shuffled through his drawer. Then he wrote something on his notepad. He never even looked up.
“But I’m fifteen years old. It’s not like they’ve had a lot of wear and tear,” I argued.
“This condition occurs in twenty-five percent of diabetes patients. But you’re right, rarely in someone as young as yourself.” He tore off the top sheet of his notepad and handed it to Mom. “Still, we’ll make an appointment to have the vessels cauterized by laser, and your vision should be fine. Try not to worry.”
&
nbsp; Up until that moment, I hadn’t worried at all. Still, how bad could it be? It was the “should be fine” that started things racing inside me. By the time I left the office I needed a candy, I felt so light and faint.
I used to look forward to weekends but then they scheduled my laser appointments for Friday afternoons. Two months of ruined weekends. By Thursday my stomach would tighten and I’d have trouble sleeping. Friday morning I found it hard to swallow my artificially sweetened cereal. On the way to the surgeon’s office my knees would shake, and they’d buckle under me as I collapsed into the chair. If only I didn’t need to stay awake for the whole procedure. I had to hold perfectly still as the laser click-clicked, frying each vein closed. Hundreds in every session. I’d feel queasy at the burnt-hair smell of lasered tissue, even though the nurse swore it was only the smell of the gases combining. Acidy-sweet cereal bits backed up my throat. Afterward it was as though mallets pounded against the back of my eyes, so Saturday was another ruined day.
I began to peer at the world through a sheet of waxed paper, watching blurry shapes move around. Next, the specialist recommended surgery to remove the blood and scar tissue, one eye at a time, with a space of a couple of weeks in between. At least for those I was put out. I didn’t think I could stand being awake as the doctor popped out my eyeball and cut slits in the back of it to relieve the pressure.
Each time, I’d awaken with horrible headaches. Those surgeries worked well; at least the wax paper opened up in the middle for a time. But then a black dot would form, and then another.
And over ten months the next two surgeries worked well, too, until one dot turned into a hole that swallowed up my central vision. I had to look at the world sideways through the wax paper curtains on my eyes. The next surgery didn’t work at all. My left retina had detached and that eye saw nothing.
“Do I have to go through it again? What if this one doesn’t work either?” I asked the specialist, turning so I could at least see the outline of his face through the wax curtain of my right eye.
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