Dwarf: A Memoir (30 page)

Mom knew it, too, as she followed, giddy, behind Eric in his pursuit.

“Jesus Christ.” Mom sighed, out of patience with my dad’s avoidance. “Gerry!” she
shouted. “Would you stop walking for one goddamn minute?”

Dad was officially cornered in the spare bedroom. Mom watched over Eric’s shoulder
as he pulled a black velvet ring box from his pocket.

“Sir,” Eric began softly, “I’d like to ask you for your permission to marry your daughter.”

“Oh . . . you are serious,” Dad responded, as if my moving in with Eric hadn’t tipped
him off about where our relationship was going.

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Dad paused, then smiled and shook Eric’s hand.

An hour later at the restaurant, I sat next to Eric on the arm of one of the couches
in the waiting area at the Olive Garden. I mentally sorted through our U-Haul, wondering
if we had everything we needed and whether the overflow would fit Eric’s Ford Escape.

The blue recliner was not coming with us.

My clothes, jewelry, and bedroom set were all carefully packed into the truck, along
with a dozen Home Depot cardboard boxes, red plastic bins, and a set of unmatched
luggage. We would buy our living room and dining set in North Carolina and I looked
forward to perusing the aisles of the furniture stores together.

The hostess called us and we were seated, but Eric quickly excused himself to the
men’s room.

I waited in the booth, growing antsy when he didn’t return for five minutes, then
ten. I wondered if he was sick in the bathroom. Would this affect our drive to North
Carolina in the morning? The waitress had come and gone asking for our drink order,
but Eric still was nowhere in sight.

When the waitress returned to my table she asked that I get up and move. “We actually
have a better table for you both in the back,” she said. “Would you mind moving?”

Confused and slightly annoyed, I agreed.

“Will you let him know where I am?” I asked, gesturing to Eric’s empty seat. “He went
to the men’s room.”

“Sure,” she replied, motioning for me to follow her. She led me around a few tables
and through the private dining room.

“Right through here,” she said, but then she stopped and stood off to the side. I
stood next to her, anticipating another waiter rushing by with a tray full of food.
But no one came.

It took a moment to fully process the scene: the balloons, then the familiar faces
of my aunts and uncles and my friends from college. Even Johnny, Eric’s best friend
from the marines, was there. Finally, I noticed Eric standing in his dress uniform
beside my father in the corner. I stared at him, trying to make sense of the scene
with a hopeful inkling about what was about to happen.

Slowly, Eric walked toward me with a giant smile and dropped down to his knee. I hardly
thought this would happen for me now. I always felt so behind the curve. Friends of
mine in college who didn’t even have boyfriends at the time had all the details of
their proposals planned out. They spent hours daydreaming about the particulars of
the ring they wanted, the perfect “will you
marry me?” speech, the perfect guy. Some had even picked out names for their future
children.

I never had. But now it was happening.

“I love you,” Eric said. His face was red as he blushed in response to all the eyes
on him. “Will you marry me?” He opened the box to reveal a sparkling diamond heart
set in white gold. My very own heart-shaped ring.

I could hardly choke out a word and excitedly nodded yes.

The waitresses were clapping, and crying, and in the corner, gripping my dad, Mom
did the same. In what seemed like an instant, my family had gone from pain and grief
to smiles and tears of happiness.

That’s life.

My engagement story unfolded just as I would have written it myself— sweet, spectacular,
and surrounded by the people I love. Even Papa was present in his own way. As Eric
slipped the ring over my finger, a new song came on over the speaker system in the
restaurant.

Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.”

Admired

Our wedding day.

A
FTER A BUSY
year of planning my wedding and coordinating the arrival of Eric’s groomsmen from
Iraq, the big day was just around the corner. I was having fun with all the preparations,
but thoughts of my grandparents began creeping into my planning and nagging me even
in my dreams. The idea of not having a single grandparent watch me get married made
me sad.

Eric and I were back up north for the weekend so I could attend my bridal shower.
Leaving Eric in bed to keep sleeping, I slipped out of the covers, pulled on my robe,
and headed downstairs to walk through what had become our wedding staging area.

In an array that stretched from the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the
great room stood sixteen tall, potted trees that would line the aisle at my wedding
ceremony. In the kitchen,
Mom joined me for a cup of coffee. She’d been staying up late at night for months,
wiring crystals to every branch of the trees.

“Why pay someone to do it when I can make it look just as nice?” she’d always tell
me.

I wanted an enchanted forest theme for my wedding, complete with peacock feathers,
deep red roses, and tons of sparkle. In his usual fashion, without consulting anyone,
Dad had trucked through the woods and came back with bare trees to decorate and make
into my decor. I wanted a forest and he brought me a forest.

I lifted the filter out of the coffee machine, emptied it into the trash, then turned
the faucet on and rinsed my hands. I still took so much pleasure in these tiny independent
motions. Even as I was enjoying preparing coffee for Mom and me, the dream about my
grandparents continued to haunt me. But there was nothing I could do. Three of my
grandparents had passed away and I hadn’t even seen my paternal grandfather, Jeremiah,
since I was a baby.

After breakfast, I began getting ready for my bridal shower, hoping that the dream—
and my feelings of sadness and regret— would fade. I didn’t want anything to take
away from my special day. My shower was held at Maxwell-Silverman’s in Worcester.
It had a retro jazz club feel. There were toy hot air balloons decorating the ceiling,
adding a feeling of whimsy. Everyone who was important to me was there, from sorority
sisters to friends and family. Even the nurses who helped take care of me at my worst
came out to celebrate. Now they were seeing me at my best. They were all excited to
sip mimosas, indulge in multiple desserts, and play shower games.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about how a wedding is supposed to bring together not
just a bride and groom, but our families as well. And mine was only half represented.
I’d discussed this with
my mom, but why hadn’t I done anything about it? I thought I was brave, strong, and
ready for anything life threw at me, yet I could barely gather the courage to ask
my dad about his relatives. Was I really that tough if I didn’t do anything about
it?

In an instant, my good feelings about the guests at my shower melted away. Sure, I
loved everyone in the room, but who
wasn’t
there? Then, like another gift placed in front of me to open, I got the answers to
my questions.

From behind my table, an army of women I’d never met before filed into the room. It
was Dad’s side of the family. Mom had invited them but wanted it to be a surprise.

One by one, holding gifts of their own, they introduced themselves.

I remained quiet and listened to all their names, shocked and wondering if it was
all real. Mom stood up to hug them.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“Thank you for connecting with us after so long,” one replied. “We wouldn’t miss this.”
She turned to me and introduced herself as my aunt Marsha.

I had an aunt Marsha.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” I said, my voice and hands trembling. I had aunts, cousins,
and second cousins standing before me, all with loving smiles. And they would be there
for my wedding.

A few days later, I woke up and followed the same path through the potted trees to
the coffeemaker. I emptied the filter, filled it with fresh grounds, and waited to
fill my mug. But as Mom and I settled into our chairs, I gathered the courage I wasn’t
sure I had.

“I’m going to call him,” I told her. Then I looked up my grandfather Jeremiah’s number,
picked up the phone, and dialed quickly before I could change my mind.

It rang for only a moment and then I heard the voice of a cheerful man on the other
end.

“Hellooo?” his voice sang out.

“Hello . . .” I paused, unsure of where to go from there. “This is Tiffanie. Your
granddaughter.”

The seconds that followed felt like an eternity. My heart raced.

“Yes!” he shouted into the phone. “Hello, hello, hello! How are you?”

I felt my face flush as I heard how happy he sounded to be on the phone with me.

“I’m very well,” I said, fidgeting. Mom stood at the other end of the kitchen counter,
fighting back tears. “I heard you are coming to my wedding and I want you to know
that I’m so happy,” I continued. “I . . . I would love to see you before then.” I
flung the idea out there like a rock loaded into a slingshot, unsure of where it would
land. But at least I tried.

“Yes!” he said excitedly. “Now. You come now!”

“Right
now?
” I wasn’t prepared for his response.

“Now. I’ll be here waiting.”

“What did he say?” Mom asked, practically jumping up and down. “Tell me, what did
he say?”

“He said he wants to see me
now
.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Then let’s go!”

We dashed around the house and threw on some clothes. I hurriedly applied makeup and
spritzed myself with my favorite perfume. Then I called the one person I talked to
about everything.

“He said he wants to see me now!” I told Eric, who’d returned to Camp Lejeune. My
voice was shaking, my mind racing. How had I gone this long without speaking to or
hearing from my grandfather when all it took was one damn phone call for us to
plan our reunion? “What do I say when I see him for the first time? What do I do?”
I asked Eric, nearly panicking.

His answer was beautiful in its simplicity.

“Baby, you say hi, just like you did over the phone.”

In the car, Mom called Dad to tell him where we were going. “Good,” he replied simply.
Dad’s reaction stumped me. If he felt it was so natural that I was going to see Jeremiah,
why hadn’t he initiated it years ago?

I decided that my father really just hadn’t known how to do that.

“Tell Papa I said hello,” Dad said.

Papa? The name was so familiar. I repeated the word over and over until it started
to feel real. I had
another
papa.

Jeremiah’s two-story home was decked out with autumn decorations. A gold and red wreath
with plastic pumpkins greeted visitors at the front door, along with a festive fall
flag waving in the wind. His cute barn-shaped mailbox marked the house number and
we parked beside a tall, white privacy fence. I heard voices and laughter from the
backyard and the fence was open, like a sign that I was welcome to walk in.

So I did.

Mom led the way and I followed quietly behind her, not sure what to expect. I didn’t
even know what Jeremiah looked like. What would he think of me? Did I look like a
DiDonato, or more like the Pryors of my mom’s side?

From behind the small backyard swimming pool, my new papa stood up the moment he saw
me and made his way toward us. We met right in the middle of the yard.

His arms were outstretched and so I extended my own and we embraced. It was automatic,
like nothing at all, as if I had only returned from a long vacation. There were no
words exchanged.
I didn’t have to say anything and neither did he— the tears that trickled down his
cheek said it all.

Though I had lost one grandfather, I had somehow found another.

The floor of the hotel suite felt solid beneath the balls of my feet, a sensation
that never got old. From inside my satiny stockings, I dug my toes into the rug and
squeezed. The scene around me was like a dream: all of my best girlfriends chatting
and laughing, their matching Swarovski crystal peacock broaches glittering on their
red dresses.