Dwarf: A Memoir (28 page)

Meandering through the store, I felt inept, gauche, and nervous. Without much warning,
a desire that was tired of being suppressed finally surfaced. All at once, I wanted
to look good enough to eat. Even if I feared being eaten alive.

I glanced at a few outfits, while Mom mocked a few others, and eventually I made my
choice: black satin boy shorts with a rhinestone butterfly in the back, and an electric
pink corset decorated with black ruffles across the bust. I made my way to the
dressing room. When I lifted my shirt over my head, wisps of hair fell carelessly
out of place from my short ponytail. My mom waited outside the dressing room and made
small talk with the lady helping us.

I heard her criticize other garments outside the dressing room. “Why bother wearing
anything at all?” Mom quipped about one of them.

“Some of it’s ridiculous. Plus, it lasts for only five minutes, then it’s on the floor,”
the lady said, laughing along with her.

I fumbled with the row of black hooks on the hot pink corset. Then I attempted to
slide on the boy shorts, but quickly realized bending down in a corset went against
the natural order of things. I had to start over, undo the corset, pull up the shorts,
and then fumble with the hooks of the corset top all over again.

“Does it fit? Do you need a different size?” the lady asked.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I replied. “I haven’t got the damn thing on yet.” Convinced
that I must be missing the instruction booklet, I took a deep breath.
C’mon, Tiffanie,
I coached myself.
You’ve taken out your own stitches and staples! For years you cranked your bones apart—
you can handle a few hooks.

Then I pictured Eric, and I became caught up in my reflection in the mirror. I pulled
the elastic out of my hair, which fell and shaped my face in a surprisingly flattering
way.

I liked what I saw, because I felt confident about the person I was buying this little
getup for in the first place. The fit of the boy shorts around my bottom made my legs
appear even longer and the corset flattered my hips, hugged my waist, and lifted my
breasts. As I examined myself in the mirror, thoughts of Eric running his fingertips
from my shoulders to my hands made the knotted scars on my arms virtually disappear.
I fantasized about his tight grip around my waist, pulling me so close against him
I
could feel the warmth of his dog tags against my skin. Visions of him kissing my shins
and thighs erased the years of abuse on my legs. Lost in my dream world, I liked what
I saw in front of me.

“Are you okay?” the lady asked. I didn’t realize I’d been silent for so long.

“I’m definitely okay!” I called out.

Despite the struggle and the ugliness of all the pain I’d experienced, I felt beautiful
when I pictured myself with Eric. I felt normal. It was as if all the messiness I’d
been through had been airbrushed away, and what remained was my true self.

I was beautiful. And I was ready.

I called out once again beyond the dressing room door. “I’ll take it!”

On May 20, 2006, I boarded a plane by myself for the first time. My mom helped me
check my suitcase, the sexy lingerie tucked deep inside. I was seated in an airport
wheelchair, and an attendant pushed me down the long tunnel to the plane. Walking
long distances will always be an uphill battle for me. Settled into my seat, my Steve
Madden platform shoes firm and flat on the ground, I left Boston happy, stress free,
and enthused— like any other girl jetting off to see her boyfriend. When the flight
attendant asked if I wanted a drink, I opted for a screwdriver and enjoyed every sip
of it.

For forty-eight hours, Eric and I never left our hotel room. Though I had a rough
idea of how the choreography was supposed to go, I let him take control. I put my
trust in him and he didn’t abuse it. He treated me so delicately, so respectfully,
that any anxieties I had drifted away. In his arms, every move he made was magical.
Eric’s tenderness made me feel innocent again.

As we lay together, I felt appreciated for being both a warrior and a girl he loved.
“You know what I can’t figure out?” I
asked, partially to be cute and partially because I genuinely wanted to know.

“What’s that?” he asked while he rubbed my shoulder with his thumb and index finger.

“Where did you put your white horse?” I asked with a wink.

He chuckled a little bit and kissed my forehead and then my hand. “Oh, I traded him
a while ago.”

I smiled. “You traded him?”

“I traded him for a rifle.”

On the thirteenth of July, Eric deployed to Iraq for the second time. He didn’t want
me to fly down and wait with him as the buses loaded his company.

“It’s too hard to say good-bye to you in person,” he explained. I thought I heard
a crack in his otherwise solid voice. Even though I cried my eyes out, he was right.
It was easier to just say “see you later” over the phone. I wouldn’t see him again
until February.

As I waited for his first letter to arrive, I ordered a T-shirt emblazoned with the
words
Half My Heart Is in Iraq
. Immediately when it arrived in the mail, I threw it on. My marine pen pal had become
my
marine.

Homecomings

Reuniting with Eric at Camp Lejeune after his second tour in Iraq.

W
HEN
P
APA’S MEMORY
started to go, he had to move to an as sisted-living facility. Mom said it was because
he had forgotten the stove was on and set a glass bowl of linguine on the burners.
“Things are getting worse,” she said night after night. And she was right. He couldn’t
recall how to work his VCR or his record player, and the voices of Frank Sinatra and
Dean Martin no longer filled his living room.

Every time I had a chance, I climbed into my roadster and took off down Stevens Street,
enjoying the tight, winding roads and the wind in my hair on my way to Whitney Place
Assisted Living Residences in Northborough to break Papa free and take him to Dunkin’
Donuts. Whitney Place was like a mini resort with a kind staff, and also my first
employer— I worked at the
front desk three days a week and every other weekend. Each time I pulled around the
circular driveway, Papa was waiting on a bench, smiling broadly and waving at me,
as though I might confuse him with another grandfather sitting outside.

“C’mon in, let’s blow this joint,” I said one afternoon and waved him into the car.
He slowly lowered himself down into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss me
on the cheek. I had the top down and the sky above us was crystal blue and cloudless.
Papa adjusted his trusty white Nike golf hat and pulled his blue golf slacks up toward
his hips. Within a minute or two down the highway, a cluster of gray clouds formed
above us, interrupting the abundant sunshine.

“Looks like rain,” Papa said, gazing at the sky intently.

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “The sun’s still out, we’ll be fine.”

We drove along in comfortable silence, the wind whipping at my windshield as I turned
up the volume of my Frank Sinatra CD— which I always made sure to have in the car
when I was going to see Papa. I navigated the road toward Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Tiffie,” he said more insistently, “listen to Papa. I think we better put the top
up. It looks like rain any minute.”

“Oh, Papa,” I said with a smile. “You worry too much. We’ll make it to the drive-through
and back to Whitney Place before any rain.”

We ordered our coffees— a Hazelnut Coolatta for me and a hot black coffee for him—
and I turned toward the parking lot exit. Then the sky opened up. Within seconds,
we were soaked and I scrambled to find us a parking space through the blinding sheets
of rain.

With Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” still blaring from the speakers, Papa and I looked at
each other and burst out laughing as raindrops continued splashing our faces and rolling
down our noses. Papa just shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“That’s life,” he said. “That’s life.”

When our Indian summer ended for good, and fall began to show its true colors, Papa’s
life grew even cloudier. No longer would he be waiting on the bench outside. He’d
be in the common living room area, fast asleep in a chair. Our trips out together
ended, and I’d make our Dunkin’ Donuts coffee runs alone. Then I’d silently place
the drink on the table beside him and sit on a nearby couch until he woke up, or sit
behind the front reception desk to work.

I’d answer phones, greet residents and their families, and sort mail and newspapers,
and when the night grew quiet, I’d make personal calendars: one for my new exercise
routine to help me be free from my cane by the time Eric returned from Iraq, and the
other to count the days until February when I would be in his arms again. Like the
sight of the clothes I’d ordered from catalogs and the roadster commercial I watched
over and over as if it were a big-screen blockbuster, these calendars helped me envision
and focus on the day my marine would be home. More than that, they helped me ignore
the persistent fears that Eric was dodging rocket-propelled grenades and IEDs— improvised
explosive devices— out in the desert.

I found myself daydreaming about what that day would look like when he returned to
me. I pictured big band music blaring somewhere in the background as the American
Coach buses triumphantly pulled into a parking lot at Camp Lejeune. Crowds of friends
and family would be dotted with waving American flags as everyone waited anxiously
for the doors of the buses to fold open, revealing our men in uniform, home safe.
And then there would be me, standing caneless in perfectly fitting jeans, kitten heels,
and my soft velvet jacket with a satin bow. My makeup would be perfect and my hair
adorably curled, and I’d top off the
look with the crystal heart necklace Eric bought me, plus a coat of vanilla lip gloss—
his favorite. And when I finally saw my marine in his digital desert uniform, I’d
jump into his arms with one knee bent like they do in the movies and he’d dip me into
a long, passionate kiss. The scene looked a lot like the ones from the 1950s films
I had loved to watch with Papa growing up that were now collecting dust on his bookshelf.

That winter, my morning trips down the curvy driveway to the mailbox grew slower.
The cold always wreaked havoc on my joints, and the ice and snow building up on the
driveway made the walk even more perilous. But I never stopped making those trips,
with my cane in one hand and a pink envelope sealed with a heart sticker in the other.
I wrote every day and every night, and sometimes two or three times in one day. I
did everything to keep Eric updated on all that was going on, even if the only change
had been in my appetite— he knew about it all.

“Have you heard from him, Tiffie?” Papa would ask at Whitney Place, propping his elbows
up on the counter of the reception desk. Though Papa struggled to remember so many
things, he never forgot to ask about Eric.

“I have!”

I looked up at Papa smiling, pushing aside my worry. “Want me to read you the last
letter he sent me? I’ll get it for you, Papa.”

“Sure,” he replied, “let me get another cup of coffee first.”

“I’ll make it for you, Papa.”

By six p.m., the phone fell quiet at the front desk. Papa had settled onto a couch
in the communal living room. I made my way to the coffee machine, making a full black
cup for him and a half-cup with cream and sugar for me. I walked carefully, without
my cane, trying to push my progress a little bit more each day.

Carrying our coffees and my letter to the couches, I walked
past the baby grand piano that was almost never played. Then I opened Eric’s letter
and began to read.

I love you, baby,
the letter began. Papa sipped his coffee and sat back on the couch with a soft smile
and a faraway look in his eyes.

So I wake up today to the sound of HMMWVs and a seven-ton, which meant resupply was
here. Sure enough I was right and I found two letters and a postcard waiting for me.
I helped move water and whatever else they needed done and then went to your letters.
Let me tell you it’s been a hard week, so getting your letters really lifted my spirits.
I’ve had a toothache for the past 8 days. Mix that in with missions, patrolling, the
heat, lack of sleep, a lot of physical work and stress— it’s been a bad week. But
I’m feeling good because of your letters. God, I love you
.

As I continued reading aloud, I noticed a few residents making their way down the
main hall. There was Trudy, a real riot who moved quickly despite her wooden cane,
and Connie, the no-nonsense lady who loved nothing more than a spirited debate. They
both joined us in the living room to listen to my letter. Then Marion, a prim and
proper uptown gal, came in with Mr. Rochette, a marine who served in World War II.
Before long, I had my own listening party— about a dozen residents who all gathered
in the living room around me and Papa each time I received mail from Eric. They all
listened intently, and I noticed the occasional smile or twinkle in their eye when
I’d read phrases like
I can’t wait to come home
and
I love you
.