My mom couldn't figure out why I came out of the exam room upset. I told her it wasn't her business. The whole way home I fumed and remembered how much I hated Cole—he was a jerk but this was more than being a jerk—this was my life. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't tell me. In all the Googling, I read the stuff that said boys were less likely to get it but I felt like he should have known and told me. He did know; I was sure of it. I tried not to cry on the drive and shut myself in my room for the rest of the night when I got home. My mom tried to get me to talk. She knew it was something about the appointment but didn't know what.
“It's not your business,” I answered behind the closed door.
“It is my business when you slam doors around my house and are crying and carrying on like this. What's going on?”
It killed me to think about telling her. She was going to be so disappointed, upset, and probably mad. “Please just leave me alone. I really don't want to talk about it.” She could tell my defenses were weakening.
“I know you don't want to but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.” She opened the door without asking and I turned my head to the wall. “Mom! Can't you leave me alone!”
“Nope, uh-uh,” she said, helping herself to a seat on my bed and moving my dreads to the side so she could rub my back. “It's in the parents’ manual: when your daughter says she doesn't want to talk about it, she really, really wants to talk about it.”
“But I don't. I want you to leave me alone.”
“You need to. There's nothing you could tell me that would make me love you any less.”
“What is that even supposed to mean? Why do you assume it's something that would make you mad?”
“Isn't it? You've never come out of an appointment mad at the world like this.”
“You don't need to know my business and, yeah, fine, if I tell you you are going to get mad. And you'll tell Dad.” I started crying again. I sat up and found my way into her arms. “I'm such a stupid idiot!”
“Why? What happened?”
“I don't want to tell you.”
“Oh, come on, Tatum. It's already happened, whatever it is. You can't go back, you can't change it. Don't make a decision on your own.”
“What?!”
“Sweetie, if you're pregnant ... we can figure this out together,”
“It's not that ... it would probably be better if it was.”
“What is it?”
“I have herpes. Cole gave me herpes.” I couldn't even look at her when I said it. She was speechless for a long time. We were quiet together, and then she spoke.
“I'm so sorry. I think it is better than being pregnant, though. It's not going to change your life the way a pregnancy would.”
“Yeah, it does. They can't fix it.”
“I know, but it's not like having a child or living with the decision to not have it or give it up.”
“I know, but ...” I whimpered, “I'm ruined. Who will want me now?”
“Oh, sweetie.” She hugged me but didn't promise me anyone would want me or tell me it would be OK. I kind of think it would have been better if she had been mad; it would have been easier to take than knowing my mom thought I was ruined for life, too.
“We'll get through this,” was all she said.
“There's nothing we have to get through. I'm not going to die. I'm just infected for life.”
“Like I said ... we'll get through it. Calm yourself down, and then come help me with dinner. OK?” With that she left and I can only remember talking about it one other time, the day I extracted my revenge from Cole. It was my business, my problem, and mine to learn about, and figure out how anyone would ever love me. Luckily for me someone would, but I didn't know that then.
The sores came back; they still do—not often, but that's why the bottled up memory of Cole, on the bad shelf, never quite gets dusty. They pop up and remind me to never let my body and feelings override my mind ever, ever again, no matter how convincing or charming the man is. No more I love yous, no more Mr.-Wanna-date-me breaking rules and stealing bases. He would be out of the game before it started.
The rest of my senior year was full of rejection and perfection. I rejected the boys that were only into sex, with a ferocity. I got hit on a lot but most guys wouldn't even start the game. If they asked for my number I explained the first rule and gave them my dad's. I can't believe how many guys asked if I was serious, like it was odd for an official adult to have her parents still involved. It's not like my parents were horrible people.
Having rules was good and safe. They proved who was willing to play and who was trying to play me. I admit it: I was jaded, I was bitter, but it was because I was broken and embarrassed, and afraid to be hurt again. The rules did their job. No one made it past first base for a long time and I liked it that way. It was power and control, and it was mine.
Life was good and everything was fine. I graduated, started classes at a community college forty-five minutes away from base that fall, and decided it was time to seriously entertain boys again, on my turf. One guy, named Chris, from the gym, actually got himself to second base before I cut him off. He was too needy. He jumped at the chance to be exclusive. I about had a heart attack when he started talking about growing old together. We had only been exclusive for two weeks and he was talking about our eighties and great-grandkids. It freaked me out. I had barely started really dating. I decided that I wanted to have fun, play the field since I had one to play, so I pushed him back to first. It was awkward at the gym for a while, but he got over me and moved on to another girl within a couple months. I knew he was a fast mover, but was shocked when they got married a year later. He really did want to settle down. I didn't feel bad one bit. I was living life on my terms, having fun, being free, growing up.
The only problem was school. My money was running out. A letter came to the house close to the end of my second year; it looked like any other letter from the college. It wasn't. It was a rejection and application. My scholarships were all used up. I didn't get any more. I'd received as much grant money as I would get. It was time to fill out the student loan applications ... or maybe not. My job was great; I loved getting up in the morning and seeing my people. They were my friends; I got paid to work out and talk all day long about stuff I loved. Why couldn't I take a year off, save up money and do college later? Why? Two reasons: Mom and Dad. I knew they were gonna flip out when I told them, and they did.
CHAPTER 7
MY PARENTS were not at all happy. I broke it to them a week after my college graduation ceremony. I had an AA; that was something they could respect, I told myself. The memories of other times I disappointed them told me differently.
“What do you mean ‘on hold’?” my dad asked.
“I mean what I mean. I'm taking a break for a while. I've been so focused on my future. I need to relax and figure me out. I don't know if I want to be a physical therapist for the rest of my life. I've been thinking about being a trainer, or ... I don't know, coaching. I'm not like Theo, I don't have a full-ride scholarship I have to use or lose; my money's gone.” Theo picked up a four-year baseball scholarship the year he graduated and he and his girl, Kennedy, were studying at the University of Washington.
“You had thousands of dollars in scholarships; that one covered a full year,” Mom reminded.
“It was for one year, and the others are all used up, too. I applied for grants. I didn't get any. I'm done unless I want to get a loan. And I don't. I think I want to be in sports med but I'm not sure enough to waste money on it. I'll go back when I know.”
“You're going to forget everything you learned. You're pissing your life away for nothing!” my dad said, slamming his hands onto the counter.
The crappy part about being in the moment was that I had to be in it. And all I wanted to do right then was be anywhere but standing up to the both of them. I knew they were looking out for what they thought was best for me, but I wasn't sure college was best an
ymore.
“Dad, I have a degree! I didn't quit. I know you're mad, but I'm not changing my mind. It's my life and my money. It's not your money paying for my classes; it's mine, and I don't want to waste it.
“And we don't want you to waste your life. We'll do parent loans and help,” Mom said.
“I don't want your help! I need to figure me out. I love working at the gym. People are fit and healthy there. They're not in pain and recovering. I can show them how to be better, how to train harder, and sculpt their bodies. I like it. Maybe I like it better than fixing broken people.”
“You're barely making more than minimum wage,” Dad countered.
“So?”
“So?! You can't live off of that.”
“Not forever, but I'll be fine for now.”
“You live at home. We're taking care of most of your bills. You need a career.”
“I can do it on my own. You want me to leave? I will; you know I will!”
I heard almost the same conversation between them and Theo when he decided not to enlist. Only they took it easier on him because he wasn't giving up on his future the way they said I was. Baseball scholarship or not, they blamed the reason he wanted to stay in Washington on his girl, and they blamed me taking a break on the gym. I think, deep down, Dad wanted us all to follow him into the Air Force and no decision, not a full-ride baseball scholarship, not a career in physical therapy, would have made him happy but that.
“That's not the point, Tatum. The point is you need to focus on your future.”
“But I don't! I'm barely twenty! I have my whole life in front of me and I'm not some spoiled rich kid that can afford to get three years into a degree and figure out it's not what I want to do. I don't want to enlist ... I don't. No offense to you Dad,” I said, “or to the military, but I can't stand around and have people tell me what to do all day or go get blown up or raped. It's not for me. This is the best thing for me right now.”
“Sweetie, you're young. You don't know ...” Mom started.
“Mom, stop! My mind's made up, OK? I just wanted to tell you so you stop asking what my class line-up is for September. There is no next year ... for now. I'm taking a break, for who knows how long. I'll let you know when I do.”
In retaliation for their not understanding me I pierced my lip. I always wanted a lip ring. I think it made my point rather well.
What I didn't expect was for Brett to side with me. He didn't want to enlist and miss his shot at a scholarship like Theo's, or better yet, get picked up and drafted straight into the league teams. So far no one had approached him in school but there were rumors his senior year, we all heard them, and scouts were watching him the way they had watched Theo. There were league scouts watching him, too, not just college scouts. Brett wanted nothing more than to make it to the majors. If he got picked up, his dreams could come true; if he enlisted, he wouldn't be able to take any deals. He knew, like I did, that Dad was going to flip if another one of his kids dodged enlistment, but Brett never wanted anything but baseball; Theo, Thomas and I all played around with the idea of enlisting, dangling it like a carrot in front of my dad, but only Thomas followed through. It was less of a surprise when Brett broke it to them, but the tension was still thick. Living around the house, me dodging school, and Brett dodging enlistment, was difficult for us all.
That's when Brett and I decided to make our move. We talked about it before, but after they chewed my head off for not re-enrolling I asked Brett if he would move out with me. He had a good job at a car dealership; I had a job, too. We didn't need our parents to pay our bills. We made the plan and moved out. Two rebels on the loose, sort of.
My parents were at a loss when we told them, which we waited to do until after we found a place we thought we could afford. My heart broke for my mom. She had to deal with her husband leaving for long periods of time but at least she always had us, especially me, her feminine companion through it all. One by one we were leaving. I felt like I was abandoning her; we all were, for our own lives. All she would have left was Travis and Dad's promise that this was his last term and then they could retire back to Ohio. None of us meant to abandon her and she knew it but it didn't help the hurt.
Mom made us promise to come to dinner every Sunday the way she made Theo and Kennedy come. I loved her more that day than ever before. I saw how hard it was for her to let her babies go. If she hadn't already seen Thomas and Theo go, or if Dad was anything less than the amazing guy he was, I don't think she would have handled it that well, but the boys did leave and my dad was the best kind of husband and she couldn't keep us young forever. All she could do was demand Sunday dinners and there was something comforting in knowing we could always go home, even if it was only for dinner, until Dad retired.
This time when we packed up, it was just Brett and me. When the older boys left, neither needed much but Brett and I had an apartment to fill. Dad, Mom, Travis, Theo and Kennedy helped us move on Sunday after an early dinner. The best part was that Mom and Dad paid our deposit. I didn't see that coming but after we put down the deposit and first and last month's rent they gave us each cash that equaled half of the deposit. They went over a budget with us and filled up the fridge and pantry with our favorite foods, which Trav helped himself to as they all moved us in.
Then they said goodbye and Brett and I were on our own for the first time in our lives. It was exhilarating. The first night all by ourselves in our own apartment is one of the best memories on my good shelf. We did like Mom made us do when we were kids—we sucked in the memory for all time and eternity. Both of us laid on our backs on the living room floor and memorized the way the room looked: the sounds inside and outside, water heater warming in the utility closet next to our tiny bathroom, people running up the stairs, making reverberations that echoed and vibrated our little home, the smells: carpet cleaner and fresh paint, “and your stinky feet,” I said as we inhaled, making the memory stick. To this day the smell of fresh paint sends me back to that little apartment.
Our apartment was on the third floor of a complex in the middle of the city. It worked perfectly for both of us because it was close to everything. It was tiny. The whole thing couldn't have been more than seven hundred square feet and that's a generous guess. We didn’t have to fight over who got the master bedroom because neither had a bathroom, but I demanded the one that was slightly bigger. We set up our living room with surround sound so the games would play loud and clear. Neither of us were what I'd call master electricians but we were both determined to figure it out and hot-headed enough to think our way was right. Between the fighting, switching of wires, and stringing of cords all around the little room, it took like five hours one Tuesday before we finally figured it out. But we got it.
The thing that took me the most time to get used to was the absence of jet noise. The city was noisy in its own way but it felt like something was missing. It took me a week to realize what it was. My whole life, no matter where we lived, had always been on base, always gates to wait to open, security to clear us, and always jets and planes and helicopters coming and going.
Christmas was hard. It was an exceptionally cold morning in Washington and we were alone on Christmas morning for the first time ever. Alone, but not alone; we went to see them later but it was the first Christmas without my Mom's monkey bread to wake up to. There was no hot cocoa on the stove waiting for us, no soft carols streaming down the hall either. I missed my mommy, and for a moment, even though I loved being a grown-up, I wanted to go back to being younger. I wanted to come out of my room to find her sitting quietly on the couch with a book and her amaretto-flavored coffee, waiting for us to come to her.
There were exactly nine Christmas morning memories on my shelf without my dad at home. As technology got better we could Skype him so he was with us in some way, but there had never been one morning I hadn't woken up with Mom. She was Christmas. I ran into Brett’s room, jumped on his bed singing “Hark the herald angels,” and told him to g
et up so we could get where we belonged.
We stayed with them all day. It felt good to be home—home with Mom and Dad and Trav, too, and home on the base where the planes landed and took off even on Christmas morning. It was the first night since we moved that I wanted to take it all back. Our gifts were lame grown-up ones like dish towels and Tupperware. The only frivolous gift Brett and I got were our usual season tickets for our local Double A baseball team, the Patriots.
Our parents bought season tickets every year. They swore that minor league was always where the best action was. I agreed. Every player's dream was to move up and on to the big contracts and major league but they had to start somewhere. The players’ dreams were tangible in the minors. The majors were about glory and fame, baseball cards and limelight, but the joy of game was best felt on the high school and minor league fields before contracts got out of hand. Season tickets had become a tradition, one I could keep even if I was a big girl living on my own for the first time.
The summer after we moved out, I met Mom and Trav at the Patriots’ home field for every game. Dad, Theo, Kennedy, and Brett came when their schedules allowed. Somehow, by sheer luck, I managed to weasel my way into a job with the team before the season was over. It was a win-win for everyone. It meant for the next season, and as many as they'd keep me, I got to be part of the team, and not only did my parents not have to pay for it ... I got paid to be there! I greeted the fans when they came in, emceed events during inning breaks and helped set up and close down the field and stands for home games. The gym was totally cool about me getting a second job, too, since my shifts there were early morning and since we were the official gym of the Patriots anyway.
Brett was obsessed with getting drafted and saw my new job as an opportunity to get on the team. I saw a letter come in from A&M offering him his second best option, and I saw him ignore it; he was holding out for the league scouts. He wanted the majors—he ate, slept and dreamed them. It was a long shot; we all knew it, but who wanted to pop his bubble, and who was I to tell him he was ruining his future by passing up their offer? Instead I asked the players I knew from the gym if he could come down to warm up with them before games, and I introduced him to the coaches, too. He joined the gym to get in better with them and he waited for his moment to come, never doubting that it would.
Catching Tatum Page 8
