Dwarf: A Memoir (27 page)

Before long, I decided to send him an early draft of my memoir. It was a work in progress,
but I wanted him to know who I was. More than that, I wanted him to know who I was
not— a five-foot, ten-inch busty blonde with smooth, sexy legs. I knew what it was
like to suffer and to force yourself to fight. I knew what it was like to feel exceptional
physical and emotional pain. Most important, I knew what it was like to lose someone
you care about for reasons you don’t understand. I wanted to be up-front
and honest. I also wanted him to feel more at ease talking to me. We were fairly close
in age and got along well in our casual chats, so I wanted to make sure he knew I
could be a real friend and not just a fair-weather one. Maybe he’d been through some
shit during the first tour and he could very easily go through a whole lot more. I
needed him to know I could relate on some level. I’d been through a lot, too.

If nothing more, should he need it, I could provide an ear to listen, and a shoulder
to lean on if he wanted to unload or vent. Worst-case scenario, I thought, he wouldn’t
read my work, or he’d be too freaked out to carry on any relationship at all. I hoped
for the best.

Later, he called me while standing duty at the barracks.

“I read it,” he said, his voice deep and booming. It reminded me of Papa’s. In the
background there was shouting and whistling that brought me back to living in my dorm
room. Before I could thank him for reading or ask what his thoughts were, he continued.

“I’m impressed. You could say that I’ve fought my battles and you’ve fought yours,”
he said. “We’re both veterans, just different wars.”

I was flattered by his analogy. I felt brave and oddly recognized. Honored, almost.
With such a simple sentiment, he did more than validate everything I had been through.
He appreciated it.

“I know this sounds really weird, but I would like to meet you,” he said. His voice
turned softer, genuine, and kind. “I’ve never met anyone with dwarfism before, someone
who has gone through bone-lengthening surgery. It would be cool to meet a person who
knew what it was like to crawl out of hell but still keep a smile on their face.”

I’d been picturing him while we were on the phone, long before he even brought up
the idea of meeting. I wondered what it would be like to look into his eyes in person.

“Yeah, it would be cool to meet.”

“I don’t even know how that would work, but it would be nice. Put a face or something
to the letters beyond just a photo, ya know?”

We finished up our conversation in our usual, casual way, but there was nothing casual
about what swirled around and around in my head. And maybe even a little in my heart.
I sent many things overseas to troops, but I have never met any of them. There was
a part of me that thought it sounded a little creepy, but I mulled over the concept
that night as I got ready for bed. Washing my face, I suddenly felt a sense of lightness
and an urge for adventure at the idea of going to meet my pen pal marine.

Why not?

Nothing was stopping me. Who said I couldn’t pick up and go for a weekend? Wasn’t
this why I’d had surgery— to live life to the fullest? To get up and go when I felt
like it, and not let my body stand in the way? I didn’t have any expectations. I was
just a girl who wanted to show support, and he was a guy in need of it before he headed
to war for the second time. If I didn’t go and he became another soul sacrificed for
our country, I would hate myself.

Early the next morning, I approached Mom over breakfast. She listened as I recounted
my conversation with Eric.

“Why not?” she said, just as I had the night before. “But only if I go with you.”
That afternoon, we researched flights together.

The weekend of January twentieth, we took off for North Carolina. Dad was less than
thrilled. Mom and I had always done our own thing throughout my life with all my surgeries
and our decisions.

“What should I do if the plane crashes?” he asked.

“Make sure to go to our funeral,” my mom quipped.

Though it minimized my sweet father’s concern, I couldn’t help but laugh.

As I hobbled down the narrow aisle of the plane, Mom stuffed our weekend bag into
the overhead storage bin. I stared at her, nervous that I’d made a mistake in rushing
to book a flight. The choice to board a plane and meet a perfect stranger who didn’t
even know I was coming topped my personal list of crazy.

“Mom, I didn’t call Eric to tell him we were coming this weekend,” I told her. I didn’t
mean for it to be a surprise, but I’d gotten caught up in the thrill of booking our
flight and being spontaneous. And whenever I pictured myself telling Eric that I was
coming, I felt like a stalker or an overexcited little girl.

“That was smart,” she replied, plopping into her seat and motioning to take my cane.
“Call him when we get to the hotel.”

“What if he can’t meet this weekend? What if he’s somewhere out of state?” My worries
and worst-case scenarios were having a party in my mind as the captain announced over
the speakers that we’d be taking off on time.

“Then you have a nice weekend away with your mother.”

Negative thoughts continued to haunt me when we landed and drove our rental car to
the Millennium Hotel in Durham. In our suite, with my heart beating fast and my palms
sweating, I dialed Eric’s number into my cell phone, feeling like I had definitely
done something creepy.

When I revealed the surprise, he sounded stunned, but very happy.

“I’ll head out to see you around seven tomorrow night,” he suggested. “We can hang
out, maybe get some pizza?”

“Sounds great!” I responded. I couldn’t stop smiling all night.
It wasn’t until eleven o’clock on Saturday night that Eric finally walked through
the door. Mom had booked our hotel suite near the airport, not realizing that Camp
Lejeune was three hours away, in Jacksonville. It took him four hours to reach me
because he kept getting lost.

The moment I set eyes on him, I realized he was every bit as striking as in his picture.
He had a strong, perfectly square jawline, a cute cleft in his chin, and those long
eyelashes that girls always envy. There was, however, one big difference in Eric’s
appearance in person. He was smiling. The online photos showed a man in uniform— a
rough, tough, and disciplined marine just like the ones I remembered from my childhood
at the car wash. But that night, he arrived in civilian attire— a blue short-sleeved
shirt with tattoos peeking out from underneath, jeans, and sneakers. He had shed his
camouflage skin and taken a more approachable form. The only trace of military I could
readily spot was his high and tight haircut. His broad shoulders and strong physique
made me feel like I was three feet tall again.

I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar in our suite’s mini kitchen. As he approached,
Eric went from being another service member on a Web site to someone very real. He
made Prince Charming look like a pansy. He shook my hand and I was surprised to notice
it was soft and smooth— not what I expected at all. I thought for sure his hands would
be weathered, worn, and scarred. These were supposed to be hands that could kill a
man, but he gripped mine ever so gently.

Eric kept referring to my mom as “ma’am” and offered his hand to her as well. Everything
was “Thank you, ma’am,” “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, thank you, ma’am.” It made me tingle.
I’d heard a lot of this in Texas, but I wasn’t old enough then to fully appreciate
it.

Our conversation in person flowed just as easily as it did over the phone. We smiled,
laughed, joked, and hardly realized that the pizza we ordered tasted like particleboard.

Eventually, we made our way to the television in the living room. We ordered
Red Eye
and
The Skeleton Key
on pay-per-view. My mom excused herself to the bedroom. Eric and I had a great time
picking apart the plotlines and the acting. I felt comfortable and at ease lingering
in our instant connection. After the movies, like two warriors back from fighting,
we compared our battle scars.

“Check this one out,” Eric said with a grin as he pulled up his jeans to reveal a
scar on his knee. “I got this one in high school playing softball.”

“Oh, please. I’ve got you beat,” I replied, rolling up my sleeve to flaunt the deeply
embedded knots in my forearm.

“That’s fucking awesome! All right, now . . .” He rolled up the other leg of his jeans.
“What about this one?” He revealed, proudly, a vertical slash across the back of his
calf. “This is from concertina wire from my time in Iraq.”

I appreciated his effort but was having too much fun playing with him to say so.

“Seriously? You call that a scar?” I mimicked Crocodile Dundee’s Australian accent
and raised my loose-fitting black pants to reveal my shin. “Now,
this
is a scar!”

“Nice!” he said with a laugh.

In all my life, I had never smiled as much or as naturally as I did in that hotel
room. Despite traveling hundreds of miles on a whim, I felt like I was right where
I belonged. When my pen pal marine looked at me with his perfect, almond-shaped eyes,
I felt something I didn’t think was possible in such a short amount of time. But there
was no denying it— it overtook me like a wave. I’d
never given much thought to love at first sight before, but I was convinced, beyond
a shadow of a doubt, that this was it.

Our movie marathon critiquing and snacking took us well into the three a.m. hour.
I fell asleep sometime after that, but Eric stayed awake. He didn’t sleep all night.
Instead he did what a marine is trained to do. He kept watch over me and made sure
I never rolled off the couch.

Around six in the morning I woke up but didn’t open my eyes. I felt Eric holding my
hand, bending my little fingers, and slightly tightening his grip. I wanted to see
what was going on, but the last time I opened my eyes only a sliver, I saw my dad
crying at the edge of my hospital bed. The last time I had the urge to take a glimpse
at the world surrounding me when it thought I was asleep, my heart sank with sadness.
That Sunday morning, I allowed myself to peek at the romantic scene unfolding before
me.

Eric was smiling softly as he held my hand in his. He was studying it, becoming fond
of it, appreciating every detail that made it unique. He gently raised my hand to
his lips and placed a tiny kiss on my fingertips.

By the morning, Eric and I both knew what we’d found in each other. But our love story
wouldn’t be long and drawn out. We didn’t have the luxury of taking our time and getting
to know each other like other couples. Literally, we had only five months (four, really,
factoring in his infantry training in California) before he would be shipped off to
the sandbox. We took advantage of every passing day. Though we never discussed it,
we both knew that once a marine was over there, God only knew what would come next.

For Valentine’s Day, Eric flew up to Massachusetts to see me. He didn’t approach his
platoon sergeant before purchasing a ticket. He didn’t request special liberty before
leaving the guarded
gates of base or even ask for permission from his squad leader. He just did it, without
a single word. We visited Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester, dined out, took dips
in the hot tub at my house, and rented nearly every movie available. His visit flew
by. It didn’t matter what we found ourselves doing, even the most mundane activities
were a blast because we were together.

In the weeks that followed, my mom planned a couple more trips to the beaches of North
Carolina so I could see Eric. But as the time ticked down closer to his deployment,
while I appreciated my mom’s efforts, I wanted him all to myself. I wanted to travel
on my own.

Before my first solo flight, Mom took me on an impromptu visit to Victoria’s Secret.
To me, the store had never meant anything more than a place to get cotton panties,
flannel pajamas, and robes. The idea of being sexy (or wearing undergarments that
looked the part) had never factored into my world before.

“Can I help you ladies with anything?” asked an employee wearing a headset and dressed
in a black suit.

“Actually, yes. Her boyfriend is a marine,” Mom blurted out as I suppressed the urge
to blush.

“Oh. And he’s coming back from the war?” She smiled at both of us.

“No, he’s going to war,” my mom replied. “For the second time.”

“Oh, wow, I gotcha,” she said. “So you need something to make some memories with?”

I stood there silently, feeling happy with a side of awkward.

“Exactly,” my mom continued. “She’s going to visit him in North Carolina and they
need to make some memories before he deploys.”

The lady’s smile grew even wider. She started walking through the store and motioned
for us to follow.

“Are you sisters?” she asked over her shoulder.

Finally I got a word in. “No. She’s my mom.”

“Wow. I wish my mom was cool like this.”

My mom grinned, clearly flattered. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

I rolled my eyes and followed the clerk as she led the way to a particularly scandalous
spot in the store that reminded me of the Pussycat Dolls and Christina Aguilera. It
was nothing but hot pink ribbons, ruffles, and binding black corsets accented with
rhinestones. This was a frilly satin sex festival and I was about to buy a ticket.
I didn’t feel awkward about having my mom with me. After all she and I had been through,
sex was hardly an embarrassing topic.

But I did feel out of place, as though my life were suddenly on fast-forward. I never
considered myself sexy or the type to prance around in suggestive lingerie. I knew
many of my friends loved me as a person. I had been someone’s friend, close friend,
or even best friend, but I was never someone’s true love. I might have been adventurous,
lively, funny, and loud, but never the object of desire. For someone to be in love
with me, and for him to want to express that love, was entirely different. That kind
of love meant I would have to be a woman. Up until this point I was catching up on
just being a girl.