Dwarf: A Memoir (24 page)

“We can make this work,” Mom said, just as she had in our base housing in Texas with
the scorpion.

Mom assured me that I’d feel better about living by myself as the days went by. But
I didn’t. With the first few days of college behind me, each night alone was still
scary. I slept with the TV on, and I had the regular blaring of Limp Bizkit CDs from
a nearby dorm room to keep me company, too. I lay awake in bed, reminding myself of
what had led me to be here, alone, in a room and at a place that felt like an alternate
reality. A part of me felt like I had made a big mistake. Maybe my dad was right and
I had started college too soon. Maybe I should have waited, given myself a year, at
least, to adjust.

But adjust to what? Up until this point, I had never been on my own, not for a week,
or even a few days. The concept of independence was, for most of my life, a fantasy
that played out in my imagination while sitting in the gut of my blue reclining chair.
The reality was this: I had no idea how big the world really was or, more important,
how I was going to fit into it.

I may have been scared to be a college girl, but back home in Marlborough, my dad
was terrified.

Every night for two weeks straight, he made his way to my bedroom, flicked on the
ceiling light, stayed in there for a few moments, and then walked out without saying
a word to my mom. Finally, he broke his silence.

“How could you let her go? She’s not ready.”

“I didn’t let her do anything,” Mom responded. “She chose to go. If she’s not ready,
she’ll tell me. She knows I’m only a phone call away.”

But I never did make that phone call. Nor did I ever consider leaving, even as I watched
dozens of students succumb to the pressures of freshman year and depart just as quickly
as they arrived. I never viewed that as an option for me.

Every Monday through Friday, I’d force myself to get up, make my way outside, and
wander through the winding trilevel corridors of UMass to find my classes. I walked
in late to every class and my frustration and embarrassment made me feel so much smaller
than my proud new height of four foot ten. Everyone whooshed by me confidently, holding
their coffees, books, and notepads, like they knew what they were doing and where
they were going, at all times. In my fantasy while undergoing the bone lengthening,
I
was that girl walking the hallways with a purpose and a smile.

But the truth was, I had no clue. I wasn’t that girl I had dreamed of at all. The
surgery didn’t change these aspects of my life as I had naively thought it would.
I knew no one at school. With each week that passed, I ached to go back home to the
familiarity of my room and even the blue reclining chair. The world beyond my house
moved so much faster than I had ever considered.

And I hated it.

Every Thursday, or “Thirsty Thursday,” as I learned that they were called, the girls
in my hall would gather with their doors open and music blasting. As they got ready
for a night of partying at the Dell, where the upperclassmen lived, a thick cloud
of hairspray and perfume would fill the halls, clashing with the aroma of my Salisbury
steak microwave dinner that I ate alone in my room.

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?”