Dwarf: A Memoir (19 page)

As we made our way down the front porch stairs, I was shocked to notice what was waiting
in the driveway.

“A stretch limo!” I shrieked. “I thought we were going in your Jeep, Mom!”

“Wait, wait, let me get in front of you!” she told my dad. “I want to see her face!”
Mom hurried out in front of him, her high heels clattering on the pavement.

“Ready?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“We’re ready!” Mom announced, tapping on the roof of the limo with the palm of her
hand.

The limo door opened, and there, with a sweet sixteen balloon and a big smile on his
face, was Mike.

“Happy birthday, babes,” he said, beaming.

From behind him, Megan, Jen, and another friend of mine from English class, named
Erin, chimed in. “Happy birthday!” they all screamed, throwing their hands in the
air.

“Oh my God!” I shouted. Mom clapped her hands and cheered. I’d never seen her happier.

Mike had helped plan the whole thing.

As Dad eased me into the limo, I had tears in my eyes.

“Don’t ruin your eye makeup,” Jen said, adding another thick coat of gloss over her
lips.

“We’ll see you all there,” Mom called to me.

“You’re not coming in, too?” I asked, shouting out the door.

“No, no. This is for you. We’ll follow in the car.” Before I could argue that there
was more than enough room, Mom shut the door. Mike seated himself next to me. “Are
they under there?” Mike asked, gesturing at my legs as the limo began to pull down
the driveway.

“My legs? No, I left them in the house. I’ll have the doctor put them back on when
the night’s over,” I joked.

Mike playfully nudged me, and his leg slightly brushed up against mine, tapping one
of the pins.

“Oh, shit, did that hurt? I’m sorry!”

“I didn’t feel anything,” I said. “You’re way more freaked out about these suckers
than you were about the pins I had in my arms,” I said, brushing it off.

“There weren’t as many . . . in your arms,” he stammered. “And they weren’t as big.”

“Mike isn’t as tough as he puts on,” Jen said, rolling her eyes and winking at him.
“So, how’ve you been?”

“Tired, to be honest. It’s hard to sleep. I can’t roll over and get comfortable. But
I’m good.”

“Good! It’s your birthday!” Jen squealed. She couldn’t relate. “We need to celebrate!”
She quickly turned on some upbeat club music. Soon, everyone was singing along, even
quiet Erin.

“I have something for you,” Mike said to me, reaching into one of the limo cubbyholes
and pulling out a plastic container. Inside was a perfect pink Tiffany rose corsage.
Red roses never appealed to me. Girls always talked so much about red roses, but I
wanted something different, something uniquely me. And Mike got it. He got everything.

“I have to pin it on you. If I stick you, don’t get pissed.”

I laughed. “As you can see”— I pointed to the velvet ball gown covering my legs— “I’m
used to being stuck with pins.”

Mike didn’t crack a smile.

“It was a joke.”

“You can do better than that,” he said as he pinned it perfectly above my heart.

When the limo hit a bump, instead of sticking me with a sharp pin, Mike ended up bumping
into my legs again.

“Shit!” he shouted. “I’m sorry.”

“Mike, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

“No, dude. I should sit over there.” He nodded toward the opposite end of the limo.

“It didn’t hurt, Mike.”

“I keep knocking into them. We’re gonna go over more bumps in the road.”

“It’s all right, seriously. I promise.” I patted the pins myself to show him it didn’t
hurt. He was so scared he would hurt me that he moved as far from me as he could.

After a half hour of music, jokes, and talking about what my life at home had been
like thus far, the limo finally rolled to a stop at the Castle, a medieval-style restaurant
that served pretty much anything suburban diners could imagine.

My excitement melted away when my dad took out the wheelchair from the trunk of the
Pontiac and rolled me inside the restaurant. I wasn’t upset by the wheelchair itself—
I knew that no one expected me to walk. But I
was
embarrassed when the hostess had to clear a path for me to be wheeled through. I
wanted to just go in smoothly and easily. Instead, a big production ensued.

People rotated in their chairs to watch. Some women seemed concerned for their purses;
worried, perhaps, that I’d roll over them. Others set down their dinner forks, hunks
of bread, or soup
spoons and slid their chairs and their bodies awkwardly underneath their table to
make room for me. I felt totally helpless sitting there and relying on everyone else
to get me to my meal. Inside, I was criticizing the glacial pace with which our hostess
moved chairs, slid empty tables to the side, and flattened bumps in area rugs so my
wheelchair wouldn’t get caught. Could she go any slower? Why not just place a giant
spotlight on me and hire an announcer?

Everyone move aside! Here comes Tiffanie and her medical issues!

My embarrassment must have been written all over my face, because Mike spoke up.

“Hey, Tiff?”

I looked at him. He nodded and waved a hand in my direction, encouraging me to just
let it go.

“Is this okay?” the hostess asked after what seemed to be a lifetime of rearranging
the damn place. Why was she looking at me for approval? As if I would say, “No, this
table sucks. Can we possibly find another table so we can create another scene? Perhaps
at the other end of the restaurant?”

I looked to Mike again. He winked at me.

“It’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Wonderful. Enjoy your meal.” She smiled and walked off.

Dinner was great, and so was the conversation. We exchanged “what we’ll do when we’re
twenty-one” stories and laughed about memories we all shared before I left high school.
No one focused on my surgery. I could be myself and experience a slice of normalcy
with my birthday cake. I wanted the night to last forever.

On the way home, Mike still sat across from me inside the limo. When we arrived at
my house, everyone gave me a hug good night and wished me one final happy birthday.
We’d been smiling so
much all night that our cheeks hurt, and my dad was no exception. It was a gift in
itself to see him smiling like that. As he picked me up out of the limo and carried
me up to our front door, I waved good-bye over his shoulder. By the time he placed
me on the blue recliner, my body had had it. I was suddenly really tired, and the
pain in my legs gradually began to breach the line of defense my pain pills had provided.
The night had ended at the perfect time.

“I’ll tell Mom you need more pain medicine when I go out there to bring in your gifts,”
Dad said. “You made out like a bandit tonight, huh?” I’d received a pink Victorian
collectible bear, a desk lamp with glass beading, and, my favorite gift, a warm afghan
with Winnie the Pooh on it. I felt thoroughly spoiled.

“I sure did, Dad, thank you,” I replied. The pain kept growing. My muscles started
to twitch, and the skin around my pins began to burn with irritation from sitting
upright for hours in the wheelchair.

Outside, Mike climbed out of the limo.

“Mrs. D., you need help with that?” He took the Pooh blanket and the bear from my
mom and made his way inside.

With my dad outside tipping the limo driver, Mike came into the living room. I felt
the twitching and burning sensations fade away as he smiled at me.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” I said, smiling.

“Do you want the TV on?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be going home?”

He flicked on the TV then made his way toward me. “I just thought I’d help a little
before I go.”

“MTV? Good choice,” I said.

“Music is always good for you,” he said, inching a bit closer. “Did you have fun tonight?”

“I didn’t think I would, but I really, really did.”

“Good. I was right.” I could tell he was still a bit nervous around the pins. “Do
you hurt right now?”

I paused. “No. I don’t.” The truth was, even if there was pain pulsing through me,
I barely noticed it when he was around. “I have to turn them soon. You want to watch?”

He laughed. “Most girls ask me if I like them, or if I want to hang out. Leave it
to you to ask if I’ll watch you stretch your bones.”

“I guess I’m not like most girls.”

“No shit, dude.” He smiled even wider.

“Well?” I continued. “Do you want to see how all this works?”

“No,” he replied quickly.

I was mildly disappointed. I wanted to show him, but he was clearly too scared to
see what I’d really been going through.

Instead, he placed the blanket carefully over my legs, as if it would make all the
pins go away. Then he sat beside me. “I don’t think I have time anyway. The limo is
leaving soon.”

I had always envisioned my first real kiss to be like those passionate, soap opera
embraces. Where the guy struggles to admit how much he loves the girl, and just before
she rushes in the opposite direction, he grabs her, pulls her into his arms while
gazing into her eyes, and plants one on her.

That night, there may not have been any soap opera dramatics. But there were fireworks
inside my chest when Mike took my hand and slowly pulled himself close to me. I could
feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as he slid his other hand into
my hair. He held my jaw gently in place and guided my lips toward his. There was an
explosion inside me when I felt his smooth lips touch mine.

After each movement of his mouth, a small breath escaped
his nose lightly and brushed against my skin. The smell of his cologne made me dizzy.
It felt like we kissed for hours.

It was amazing.

When Mike finally pulled back, ending my very first kiss with easy, little kisses,
he gave me a pleased smile. I said nothing. I felt comfort, and total peace. A feeling
I hadn’t experienced since my surgery began. Mike had given me the perfect gift. He
gave me back a feeling of true happiness.

“Do you know the name of this song?” he asked, gesturing at the television.

As he stood up, the name of the band and the title of the song appeared in white block
letters in the corner of the screen. “It’s ‘Big Empty,’ by Stone Temple Pilots. It’s
the acoustic version,” he told me. “You should get the CD.”

“Okay.”

“Cool.”

And with that, he was gone. I heard him say good night to my parents and, moments
later, I heard the limo door slam shut.

Some girls get their first high heels for their sixteenth birthday; others get a DJ
at their party; and others may even get their first car. But I had the best gift of
all.

I had Mike Gould.

And that made my sixteenth birthday very, very sweet.

Duct Tape and All-Nighters

Me and Papa in our matching Christmas presents—we both picked out a “writer” hat for
the other without even knowing it!

W
HEN
I
WAS
seven, I fell in love with a keyboard that my dad had bought me for Christmas from
the Fair. Music always held my attention, which thrilled my mom, who was anxious to
support any budding talent or interest I might have. So I began taking lessons at
a local piano teacher’s very cluttered home. Today, I think his place could probably
be featured on one of those shows about hoarders. I’d never seen a house with so much
stuff. His music room was positively chock-full, with sheet music, books, and potted
plants covering nearly every inch of the space.

Somehow, I was able to concentrate among the clutter and I quickly chose my favorite
piece, one that I longed to play myself: Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” It was quite a bold
and ambitious choice for a little girl. My instructor, impressed and maybe a little
amused
that I had even heard of “Für Elise,” agreed to help me learn to play it.

I climbed onto the piano bench— quite a feat in itself for someone just over three
feet tall— and sat down beside him. My feet dangled high above the floor and the brass
piano pedals. With his thumb and pointer finger he showed me the first four keys to
the song. I picked up on it right away. I was excited and inspired to learn more.
He played the next few notes. I repeated after him. And though they were the exact
same notes that he had just played for me, something didn’t sound right.

It was that beautiful echo created by the pedals as he pressed them down firmly with
his feet. I couldn’t reach them— not even close. And no matter how hard I tried to
pull an echo sound out of the keys, when it was my turn to mimic what my teacher had
played, my version was always different. It never sounded like it should. In time,
I gave up and learned “Mary Had a Little Lamb” instead.