Dwarf: A Memoir (25 page)

“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.

“You ready?” Mom asked. We had a shopping trip like none other ahead of us. I tied
the red strings of the bag and handed it to her to bring with us out to the driveway.

After a familiar drive down the highway toward Worcester, we were pulling into the
Shrewsbury BMW parking lot. My mom supported my longtime dream to drive the car that
had inspired me, outlandish as it may have been, and now we were here. We sold the
Grand Prix and used the money for a down payment on my would-be new car. Mom was determined
to show me a way to make my dream a reality.

We walked into the showroom together and I felt like I was living out a fantasy. Immediately
I zeroed in on
the
car— my car— that I had only seen flashing by on commercials for years, never up
close. It was even more magnificent than I thought. The Z3 was perfect, it was gorgeous,
and it practically grinned at me on the showroom floor.

“Would you like to sit inside?” asked a salesman. He opened the door and I handed
my crutches to my mom, lowering myself down into the driver’s seat.

The roadster sat low to the ground, and the bucket seats hugged my body. The fresh
new leather smell was intoxicating. I gripped the steering wheel and imagined whizzing
by my house and back to school.

Everything was compact inside— it was the perfect fit. I stretched my leg out to feel
the surface of the pedal under my foot. Part of me hesitated, fearful I wouldn’t be
able to reach, but I was pleasantly surprised when, with a simple adjustment of the
driver’s seat, the ball of my foot easily met the gas pedal. My dream had come true,
and I had accomplished exactly what I had imagined. The car was mine.

When I drove the roadster to school, my friends were always
excited to join me for a ride. If anyone needed hairspray, mascara, or beer, I made
sure to volunteer, just to have the chance to drive. But the biggest thrill in my
new car came in a most unlikely place: the drive-through Wendy’s just off campus.

One day, after ordering a junior bacon cheeseburger and a Coke at the outdoor speaker
(a place I’d never seen from the driver’s side), I did something I only dreamed would
one day be possible: I drove around to the pick-up window and easily reached outside
to pay for my food. Finally, after so many years of fantasizing about such little
exercises in independence, I was
doing
them.

Under a cold, moonlit sky that winter, I stood in front of the apartments at the Dell.
I couldn’t believe I was there. Somehow, I had mustered up the gumption to rush Phi
Sigma Sigma, and I was about to go to my first sorority party.

I had found their flyer a week before deciding to rush. The theme of this week’s party
was
Charlie’s Angels
and I considered it to be a sign. I had come to think of Mike as my angel because,
through his death, I finally learned to truly live my life. Plus, joining a sorority
seemed like a great way to get involved and meet people. Phi Sig, as I would come
to know it, was nothing like the stereotypes I’d heard about sororities. For starters,
it wasn’t made up of only tall, thin, Barbie-doll types. Phi Sig welcomed girls of
all shapes and sizes. The sisters were from all different races and backgrounds, and
some were tall and skinny while others were short and round. They were inclusive,
funny, and warm. And it was clear to me, even as an outsider, that they all had one
thing in common: how much they genuinely enjoyed being there. It seemed like they
appreciated the little things in life, too (even if
that didn’t include taking out the trash or flipping on a light switch), so I could
certainly relate.

Their motto was “Aim high.” When I hung out with the Phi Sig girls, I didn’t feel
like I had to fit into any particular mold. I could just be myself, and they seemed
to really like me.

In my first interactions with the Phi Sig ladies, I wondered if they did those girly
group things. Did they gather in one girl’s room at night to watch movies and order
in pizza? Meet between classes to gossip? Borrow each other’s hairspray? I had never
done any of those things and wanted so desperately to be able to say I had. Maybe
this was my chance.

One of the Phi Sig sisters, Nicole, was average height and on the voluptuous side
and she embraced everything about what made her different. Her commanding presence
and lack of filter when she talked made her stand out— she spoke my language. She
made being different (and being loud!) seem fun, and it felt natural to be by her
side, as if I were her apprentice.