Early in the new morning, usually around two o’clock, they’d return stumbling, laughing, and yelling. I always hesitated to go out into the hallway during these times of madness, but our shared bathroom was at the other end of the hall. One Thursday night, I bravely made my way down there.
“Hello?” A voice called out from the handicapped stall. Her stilettos were kicked off and poking out beneath the door. She reeked of smoke, sweat, and vodka.
I tiptoed into the second stall, moving as quietly as I could, but I gave myself away coughing once I got a whiff of the sour air trapped in the bathroom.
“Helloooo?” she drawled again. “Who’s in here?”
“Tiffanie,” I said, standing perfectly still. I felt awkward and nervous, and I just wanted to use the bathroom in peace.
“Tiffanie who?”
“I live down the hall,” I told her.
“Tiffanie? Tiffanie. Oh my God. Why don’t I know you? Do I know you?” she slurred. I wondered whether I sounded that way when I was doped up in the hospital.
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“Were you at the Dell tonight?” she asked, topping off each word with a drunken trill.
“No,” I said and then quickly decided against going to the bathroom.
I pushed open the door and, in a rush to get back to my room, smacked into two guys stumbling down the hallway. They were clutching red Solo cups, their beer sloshing over the rims as they staggered along, looking lost.
“Sorry!” one shouted over his shoulder. The other one just looked confused.
I was embarrassed, said nothing, and walked as quickly as I could to my room, where I immediately closed and locked the door. No one knew who I was— the drunk girl in the bathroom confirmed that beyond a shadow of a doubt. To drown out the fears that I had made a costly mistake by going to college too soon, I turned my TV on and let a Fresh Prince of Bel-Air rerun distract me. The channel selection was minimal— UMass Dartmouth had yet to negotiate a cable deal for its students. But anything was better than my racing mind and the thumping and squealing I could hear through the walls. I was forced to listen to my neighbor having sex.
Then I had a new worry: What if I never get to experience that myself? What if I’m never seen by others as someone to date? Clearly I didn’t fit in with the other college students so far. Would I ever be loved that way? It was too much to ponder at such a late hour, so I tried my best to ignore the sounds, but I couldn’t ignore what I was feeling: I wanted to go home.
I was also struggling in my classes, not to mention just getting to them. While other girls whizzed by me holding their lattes and purses, my wooden crutches rubbed my armpits raw. I avoided wearing short-sleeve shirts and tank tops, fearing someone would notice the crimson rash. No matter how warm it may have been, I always wore long-sleeved shirts or sweaters.
I ate alone every night in my room while everyone else went to dinner in pairs and packs. Some of the girls in my dorm walked past my door hand in hand with their dates. I fantasized about where they were going. The Olive Garden? The 99 Pub down the road? Maybe they were heading somewhere fancy in Providence, a restaurant adorned with twinkly lights, votive candles, and white tablecloths. More than anything, though, I wondered if I’d ever have a boyfriend of my own.
When the first semester of my freshman year was over, I couldn’t have been happier than to return to Marlborough. Before Christmas, Mike came by to see how my freshman year was going. There were no wood chips and no yelling this time. Instead, I met him at the front door.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asked. Always a rhetorical question and never one I really needed to answer. A hug did just fine.
He brought a card for me with a written invitation to dinner inside. I was tempted to ask for him to honor it by walking me down the hallway of my dorm, holding my hand. I watched him tuck the card beside some funny newspaper clippings Papa had given me to post on the corkboard in my dorm room. For the moment, things between Mike and me seemed back to the way they were supposed to be. We had long forgotten our fight.
“Babes, you’re actually kind of hot now,” Mike said with a wink. “But don’t let it go to your head. I’m proud of you.”
I felt myself blush a bit and I thanked him quickly before delving into how tough college had been for me. It was all so wild, I told him, and nothing like I’d expected.
“Wild how?” he asked, a mocking edge in his voice.
“I hear people having sex constantly.”
“So?”
“So? It’s horrible!”
“Sex isn’t horrible.”
I snorted in reply.
“Do you think you’ll ever have sex?” Mike continued.
“I don’t know,” I replied, slightly annoyed and embarrassed.
“Well, you thought of everything else you want to do in life. Have you thought about having sex?”
“Of course I’ve thought about it.”
“How have you pictured your first time?”
I fell silent as I considered for a few moments whether I could share something so personal with Mike. Then I caved.
“I picture slow music, candles, and pink roses everywhere. I picture wearing something cute with sparkles or ruffles and bows. And I picture a smile on his face, whoever he may be, and falling asleep next to him as he holds me tight and safe in his arms.”
Mike sighed. “See, that’s the problem with you girls. You aim way too high and you want the knight in shining armor in the movies. Then you get disappointed when it doesn’t happen.”
“Anyway!” I said, eager to change the subject, “I have too much to do first, like get off these crutches. There’s no use talking about dreaming about a knight.”
“Having crutches doesn’t prevent you from having sex. But if you are going to hang on to your little fantasy, you may want to ditch those sweaters you wear all the time,” he teased. “You’re going to have to show your scars.”
“All that aside, everything at college is just different and scary,” I said dismissively.
“Of course you’re scared; you’re finally on your own,” Mike said. His voice was soothing and I began to feel silly for being so uptight. “You haven’t even crossed the street by yourself and now you’re miles and miles away.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve crossed the street.”
“Oh yeah? When?”
“In the past.”
“Babes, you have never crossed the street in your life. Admit it.”
I paused and thought for a moment.
“Admit it,” he urged again.
I thought back to all that time with the pins, and living in Texas and Douglas, but literally couldn’t recall a single road I had crossed on my own. Once again, even though it pained me to admit it, Mike was right.
And he knew it.
“I’m right!” he exclaimed. “I’m right! See! Listen to me, babes. You’re just catching up on the little shit others have always done and don’t pay attention to anymore. The big stuff is going to scare the crap out of you if you let it. So don’t let it.”
“How do I do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, standing up to give me a hug. He was making the visiting rounds with everyone home from college, I figured. So many people wanted Mike’s attention. I wished for more time with him, just like I always did.
I followed him to the door and pressed him for an answer.
“But, Mike, how do I stop being so scared?”
He walked down the porch steps and paused, flashing that brilliant smile. Then he gestured to the road down the hill, illuminated by only a sliver of light from a lone streetlamp.
“I don’t know . . . try crossing the street?”
While I stood shivering on the porch, Mike jogged back to his truck, climbed inside, and smacked the horn twice before driving down the road and out of sight.
After the holidays, I returned to UMass and stared out the window of my dorm room, watching crowds of
people cross Ring Road. The snow was packed into a thin layer across the sidewalks. If I was to take Mike’s advice, I decided it would have to wait until the spring.
That winter, Thirsty Thursdays returned and so did the squeaking beds. As if to make up for lost time during the holiday break, couples stumbled into dorm rooms even more frequently, without regard for anyone who might be trying to sleep or study. I dug into my messy desk drawer and pulled out a set of headphones. Then, over the music playing on my laptop, I heard shouting. Pushing the headphones off my ears, I listened to the cries coming from just beyond my door.
“He promised!” cried a female voice. “He promised me!”
I opened my door and found one of my hallmates sitting on the floor in a corner with her back against the wall. Her face was red and streaked with tears.
“He promised he would be right back,” she continued, looking up at me. “He said he would stay the night with me this time.”
I said nothing, just moved closer to her to listen. I’d never felt such empathy for a stranger before. She continued to cry as she told me about what a disaster her date had been. In my fantasies about having a boyfriend, being lied to or deceived never crossed my mind.
“I’m Crystal, by the way,” she said with a sniffle. “That’s my roommate, Larissa.” Crystal motioned to the open door. Standing in the door frame, in Tweety Bird slippers, Larissa smiled and then joined us on the floor. It was nearly six months into my freshman year and I had finally begun to befriend my hallmates.
Though I had started to become more comfortable, college still wasn’t what I was hoping it would be. So I spent many a weekend back home in Marlborough. On Fridays, Dad would pick me up in his big red truck, blasting the Beatles, and bring me home for the weekend, only to do the reverse early Monday morning before my classes began. By shortening the time that I stayed in my dorm room (which was now fully adorned in clippings and comics Papa gave me when I went home), the end of the school year arrived quickly and I told myself that my sophomore year would be better.
At home that summer, I fell back into my old habit of sleeping in until the early afternoon hours. So when the sharp ring of the house phone tore through one peaceful morning, it was awfully jarring. I’d only gone to sleep a few hours earlier. The sound jolted me awake and I knocked the receiver off the base to silence it.
“Tiffanie?” a little voice said before I had a chance to say hello.
“Hey,” I replied sleepily. It was my cousin Gina. We hadn’t talked in years, and she never called me. I felt my pulse pounding in my temples out of aggravation.
“I just wanted to see how you are . . . how are you?”
“I’m tired,” I replied, squinting at my bedside clock. It was a little after eight a.m.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice cracking as she sniffled.
“Wait, how are you?” I asked, concerned and suddenly wide awake.
“I’m all right, I’ll be fine. I just know you were so close. I’m so sorry.”
“Gina,” I began slowly, “what are you talking about? It’s early. Is everything okay?”
She paused and inhaled sharply.
“You . . . you don’t know?”
“Know what? What are you talking about?”
Gina burst into tears.
“It’s Mike.”
“What about him?” I interrupted, confused and annoyed.
Gina sobbed and didn’t say anything.
“Gina! What about him?” I demanded.
“I work at the hospital and I was told that a girl is coming in for treatment, because she found a guy named Mike Gould. She found him.”
“Found him where?”
“He committed suicide over the weekend, Tiffanie. He hung himself.”
And then I went deaf. My stomach contracted and a nauseating ripple crawled up my throat. Gina was making no sense at all. Mike was fine. I had spoken with him a few days earlier and he’d made no mention of anything wrong. He would have told me.
It felt like the room was closing in around me, and I couldn’t hold the phone anymore. It was too heavy and I could hardly breathe.
I tried to get out of bed but I got tangled up in the sheets and went crashing to the floor. The phone quickly followed, landing next to me. Gradually my hearing came back, and I heard a vicious scream grow louder and louder until it filled the room, the hallway, and then the whole house. Mom bolted out of her room and flew down the hall.
“Where are you? How did you fall?” she shouted in a panic. She looked down the stairs, expecting to see me at the bottom before realizing I was in my bedroom. “Who’s on the phone? Why are you screaming?” She dropped down on her knees and squeezed my shoulders, searching my face for an answer.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened. I just kept wailing, in more pain than I’d ever felt. Mom grabbed the phone, and Gina told her what had happened while I tried to process the idea that I’d never see Mike again.
The remaining days of that summer were a total blur. All I did was watch television and bicker with my mom. One minute I’d feel infuriated with Mike. I’d curse at him and fling my hateful words into the air, calling him selfish, weak, and a roaring hypocrite.
“How dare you give up on life entirely when you never let me give up!” I’d scream at no one in particular. “You were perfect. You had everything and everyone! You would not allow me to ever, ever feel bad for myself, but what about you? Why didn’t you ever reach out to me? I was always there if you needed me; all you had to do was say something! Anything!”
I hated him for what he did, but I loved, missed, and needed him so much more.
Then the next hour would strike, and the roller coaster of emotion would scream downhill once again. I’d cry, wail, and beg for it just to be a terrible, horrible nightmare. I tried to piece together how Mike could have done such a thing. It was like trying to put together a thousand jagged puzzle pieces that refused to fit one another. I dissected our conversations a hundred times over in my mind. Mike had told me that he was selling his truck and buying a Mustang instead. That struck me as odd. He loved his truck, but I didn’t question him. Now I wished more than anything that I had.
In a way, I didn’t want to understand why he took his own life. I was angry and I didn’t think I could forgive him. And then the cycle would begin again, and the anger would erupt once more.
When my attempt to distract myself with mindless television failed, I returned to the one thing that never let me down— writing.
As I wrote, the hours melted away, much as they had when I was turning my pins. I wrote and wrote, and I’d shut down the PC only to turn it back on as soon as I awoke and then I’d write some more. Dad would get up for work at four a.m. and walk by my room to see that I was still awake, still writing.
A few weeks later, the wind blew gently through my hair as I stood, gripping my crutches tightly, on the perfectly manicured lawn of the Northborough cemetery. Some loose strands from my ponytail tickled my nose as I gazed down at Mike’s dark gray tombstone and an eternity candle that was burning softly next to it. Someone had placed his dirt bike racing number, 107, against the tombstone, along with tiny toy dirt bikes arranged atop the mulch at the base of his resting spot.
I hadn’t gone to Mike’s funeral. I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye that way. But now, standing at his grave, I began to accept that Mike would no longer call me. Never again would I hear his adorable lisp or those wood chips tapping against my window. I also found a way to accept that everyone has troubles in life and Mike was hurting. And for whatever reason, he didn’t want me to know. Maybe I had been the selfish one, because for years it was all about my surgery. I never asked him if he was all right.
I had printed out the lyrics to “Wonderwall,” which I always thought of as our song. Below them, I wrote: I love you. — Babes. Slowly I leaned forward, rested it beside the tiny toy bikes, and let myself cry. And I promised Mike, out loud, that I would
live the life I fought for and nearly forgot to appreciate. That meant going back to UMass in the fall. I’d even cross my first street.
Huge cement flowerpots lined the UMass parking lot. They were heavy structures in place for security reasons, but until now I had managed not to drive into them as I backed out of my parking space after my English class. I had specifically planned my sophomore year schedule around every writing, literature, playwriting, and screenwriting class I could find.
As much as I loved the Grand Prix, and as good as it felt to be behind the wheel, there were large blind spots I always had trouble working around. If that car was filled up with water, I was certain I could do laps from the front seat to the back. It was a tank.
Back at my dorm, I called my mom to tell her what had happened. She said she expected a fender bender at some point and my dad, in the background, assured me with a shout, “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed!”
I smiled at the thought that I had just gotten into my first fender bender. Just like everyone else. My bumper now proudly displayed a sign that I had experienced a benchmark screwup like so many other kids my age.
Just as I hung up the phone, my door flew open.
“Tiffanie!” Larissa shouted. “What happened to your car?” The concern in her voice beckoned other hallmates, who all gathered in my room.
“I hit something, I guess.” I laughed it off.
“Oh my God! I’m glad you’re okay. Are you going home this weekend to get it fixed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Girl, you can’t leave it busted like that. You gotta do something.”
Then I had an idea.
“Maybe it’s time I look into getting a new car.”
Back home while on break, my parents had given me a chore. It was kind of a ridiculous notion for someone my age to have chores for the first time, but I had never been physically able before. Now my job was taking out the trash. Even more ridiculous? I loved doing it. I was finally tall enough to stand over the bin, grip the elastic band, and lift it out. The sound the can made as it fell away from the bag was music to my ears.
Dwarf: A Memoir Page 17
