The Letter

by Marie Tillman

  Neither Pat nor I knew what to expect once we were away at school. We decided to stay together, but made that commitment without really knowing what that would mean. I had no interest in dating other guys, but I wanted to experience college. I’d decided to go into freshman year premed, which meant I’d have a difficult class schedule that would require my full attention. In my heart I hoped that Pat and I would be able to stay together, but I knew I couldn’t be sure. When you’re eighteen, starting a new, exciting life of coed living and freedom from parental eyes, long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. People may start college attached to their high school sweethearts, but typically these romances end by Christmas or summer vacation. But though we were hundreds of miles apart, Pat and I grew closer in college. The transition to life outside sheltered Almaden rocked both of us. All of a sudden, we were thrust into this wider world and felt overwhelmed. We found comfort in each other, not only in the steadiness of our relationship but also in the knowledge that we were going through the same thing. On the phone for hours, we’d talk about how homesick we were, the things we missed about Almaden, and how weird our new experiences were. Our writing got more and more intense and frequent. We relied less on our family and old friends and relied more on each other. We became coconspirators, each other’s point person—the one we would check in with each day and the one with whom we’d talk over decisions large and small.

  “I just got my class schedule,” Pat said when I picked up the phone one day. He sounded agitated. As an athlete, he received all kinds of special treatment; he even had an academic counselor in the athletic department who chose his classes and offered guidance on which majors would work well with his training schedule.

  “Yeah? How does it look?”

  “They have me signed up for some sort of remedial math class,” he said. “I checked with some of the other guys, and they’re all taking it.”

  “Oh. And you don’t want to?”

  “It’s not a prerequisite for anything,” he said, “and it seems like high school math. It seems like a waste of time. What do you think?”

  “I’d look into it,” I said. “Don’t just take it because they put it on your schedule.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Pat really wanted to graduate in four years, or earlier, and for the first time was taking his academic career seriously. It was one of the differences I’d noticed in him when he was released from jail. He went to college with higher aspirations for himself than he’d had previously. Just the spring before, back in Almaden, he’d teased me for studying UCSB’s course catalog because I’d wanted to have my path all mapped out. But now he wanted his path mapped out, too, and was looking for advice. We talked it over awhile more, and he ultimately decided to push back and take more responsibility for his course load.

  I hung up the phone feeling satisfied. I got so much from my relationship with Pat, and I was happy when I could help him, too, even when it was with something small. His football schedule was pretty grueling and he’d sometimes leave his room as early as six in the morning to lift weights or attend a practice, and after classes and more practice, he wouldn’t get back until eight at night. So most of the time, I would fly to Arizona. In all our time in college, Pat came to UCSB twice. It just wasn’t feasible, either schedule-wise or financially. Though Pat was becoming known at ASU as a football star, he didn’t have much money, nor did he have time to earn any. I, on the other hand, nannied and waited tables as much as I could to save up for airfare. Sometimes when I visited, I’d do little things like fill up Pat’s gas tank while he was at practice, or buy him some groceries, which always made him mad. He was adamant about making things work on his own and sometimes had a hard time accepting this kind of help from me. I admired his independence, and it made me want to rely less on my parents for support.

  Though he didn’t have the money to visit or buy me gifts, his gestures were always meaningful. On our two-year anniversary, at the beginning of our sophomore year, he pressed a dried flower in between the pages of a letter he sent me.

  10-1-95

  Two years ago at this exact time I was as nervous as could be. Acting out in my head how the date was going to go and hoping I didn’t make an ass of myself.

  Luckily the date went ok despite a few car stalls and the lack of blankets. I remember the day like it was yesterday and I’m grateful for every day since. It is too bad we can’t celebrate the way we would like, but there’s not much we can do about that now.

  I want to thank you for the two years you’ve given me. Though we have been apart for much of them I would not trade them for anything. I would like to say “who knew it would have lasted so long?” but I can’t…I always knew. I wish we were together so I could show you just how much you mean to me. I love you.

  Pat was so open about his feelings for me; he was so open about everything, and that made it easier for me to open up. He was the only one who knew how terrified I was of making new friends, and how nervous I got every time I went down to the dining hall and had to decide who to sit with. It was the first time I’d ever let anyone see so much of the real me. Pat knew me better than anyone, and he made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. He sometimes drew little comic book pictures of the two of us—himself buff, of course, with long hair flowing behind him, and me with big blue eyes. He would clip out newspaper articles he thought I might like, always letting me know that he was thinking about me, or that he valued my opinion.

  Being part of a pair was still relatively new to me, and I took comfort in it. That sense of being connected to someone in the world made it feel less big and lonely. We were in it together, whatever “it” was. Pat leaned on me more and more when he was having a hard time. I knew he valued that he could come to me with anything and I would always approach whatever was bothering him in the same evenhanded way. Our relationship brought stability to his life, which was important to him—especially after his parents divorced during our junior year. It was a consistent theme throughout our relationship. Pat was full of life and energy and chaos and was constantly just out there in the world. But he really needed a calm, consistent home base, and that’s what our relationship was for him. And he gave that same sense of grounding to me, at a time when I was entering the world beyond Almaden and wasn’t sure where the ground even was.

  * * *

  When we weren’t together, we threw ourselves into our schoolwork. We were eager to graduate early, and ultimately, both of us did. In that way, neither of us had the typical college experience, filled with hookups and wild keggers. It was easier to avoid situations that offered temptation, and since we each knew the other was approaching social life the same way, we never had jealousy issues. Well, almost never.

  I was in a sorority, and we frequently gave parties and hosted dances. Most of the time I was happy to go by myself and hang out with girlfriends, but sometimes there were events for which I really needed a date, and I didn’t want to miss out just because my boyfriend couldn’t make it. For one dance, I asked the friend of a friend’s boyfriend, and while it was more a matter of convenience than a date, Pat didn’t like it much. He made sure he was able to visit UC Santa Barbara for our next dance.

  Though I was happy he was coming, I was also nervous. I had two separate worlds—one in Santa Barbara, one in Arizona—and they were going to collide for the weekend. I worried that Pat wouldn’t like my friends or wouldn’t like their boyfriends. I worried they wouldn’t have enough in common, as a lot of my friends dated agriculture majors or surfer types—guys who didn’t have much to say about sports. I feared I’d have to take care of Pat the whole time and make sure he felt comfortable, which was undoubtedly what I’d require of him if our roles were reversed.

  Pat stayed two nights. The first he slept in my room with my roommate and me. Since I lived in a sorority house and not a coed dorm, we weren’t set up for male guests, and I had to sneak him into the bathroom to shower. He was laid back about the situation, completely unfazed
. The second night, we stayed at the hotel in Ventura where our formal was held. Through the dinner, dancing, and partying, Pat handled himself perfectly. True to who he’d been in high school, he was able to talk to anyone; skater, scientist, sorority girls—it didn’t matter. The whole weekend reminded me of the things I loved about him.

  While my Santa Barbara world was all about sorority parties and premed midterms, Pat’s world in Arizona looked very different. As his football career grew more and more successful, he was considered a player in the highest level of college sports. Late in our college life, I visited Arizona the same weekend as an agent he was considering signing with. Pat felt pretty sure he was going to go with him, but wanted to see what I thought. He was growing accustomed to the shiny world of professional sports, with its quirks and characters, and was surrounded by guys who were well versed in its protocol. But Pat liked that I wasn’t. Down to earth even then, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t losing his hold on reality. The whole scene was foreign to me, so my judgment would be pure. On top of that, I had no agenda whatsoever. By this point, Pat had a lot of coaches and agents and people involved in his life talking to him about what he should do, but they all had something to gain in some way or another. My motives were simply whatever made sense for him.

  The agent took us to a pizza parlor and was, above all, very nice and gracious the whole evening. In the mold of his profession, though, he was also kind of slick. He called Pat “Patty,” which I thought was amusing because no one—no one—called him that. At one point the agent brought up the details of a theoretical contract and remarked, “Now that’s not funny money we’re talking about here.” I couldn’t even look at Pat, knowing that if I did, we would both start laughing. Pat was still a kid—we both were—and yet we were navigating a world most adults would think absurd.

  * * *

  After we graduated, we knew Pat had a decent chance of getting drafted to play pro football, although it was by no means a sure thing. My parents had an extra room at the back of their house with a big-screen TV, so both our families watched the draft over at my parents’ house as our future was decided for us. It was a weird experience. With Christine, her boyfriend Alex, the rest of my family, and Pat’s all gathered together, and plenty of food in front of us, it had the makings of a party, but it also wasn’t really appropriate to celebrate when Pat’s name might not be called. But in the second-to-last round, Pat was picked up by the Cardinals. Everyone cheered, and my mom snapped a photo of his name on the screen. I felt really proud, and really happy for Pat. I loved to see his energy and passion on the field. I’d seen him go from a scrappy little corner during freshman year to a really talented defensive player. He dreamed of playing professional football, and everyone was proud and excited to see his dream of being drafted come true.

  And now we could really begin our life together.

  Once Pat felt secure that he’d survive the preseason chopping block with the Cardinals, we decided that I would move to Arizona, and that we would live together. While I had dreamed of exploring a new part of the country and moving someplace a little more metropolitan after college, I was also excited no longer to be long-distance. So I packed my bags and journeyed once more to Arizona, this time to live. Pat and I had built a solid foundation over the previous five years; now we were ready to see each other every day and figure out just how strong it was.

  Almost immediately after I arrived, Pat and I fell into a comfortable, easy life with each other. We settled into a small one-bedroom apartment in Chandler, not far from the Cardinals’ training facility. It was a quiet life; though we saw other NFL couples sometimes, mostly we kept to ourselves. We had a favorite Mexican restaurant we’d eat at all the time, we’d watch movies, and we’d entertain family and friends when they came to watch Pat play. Since Thanksgiving falls in the middle of football season, Pat couldn’t go home to Almaden, so we hosted our families in Arizona. Our first Thanksgiving, we had twenty family members over for dinner. I spent hours preparing the table, making my grandmother’s stuffing and a gravy I was sure the Tillmans would like. Pat was a good sous-chef, following orders and chopping and stirring as the need arose. He and my dad carved the turkey. I was twenty-two and already felt fully domesticated.

  Though the relationship made me happy, the first year in Arizona wasn’t a great one for me. I loved the little details of our daily life and routine, and the fact that we got to see each other every day, but I was lonely. While Pat had team members to hang out with, and a whole group from college, I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t attached to him. And while he was intensely focused on his career and the difficult adjustment to playing in the NFL, I was directionless. I’d rushed to graduate from UCSB with a biology degree, but had second thoughts about medical school. Though a career in medicine seemed practical, it wasn’t what I wanted to do; I still had dreams of working in a creative field, maybe something in the arts. But I didn’t feel I could walk away from it; sensible people surely didn’t throw away perfectly good degrees to go back to school in something else. Pat helped me strip away the “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” so that I could come closer to the answer. “Figure out what it is you love,” he always said, “and do that.” I decided to chuck the biology degree and went back to school in graphic design. I eventually landed a job doing layout for the Arizona Republic, and while it wasn’t my dream job, it felt like a small step in the right direction.

  My overall unhappiness that first year simmered beneath the surface, only to boil over at seemingly random times. One night I was home while Pat went out with teammates, and I watched the early hours of the morning tick away, my fury and frustration building. Here I was, in Arizona for him—away from family and friends, tethered to the demands of his job, walking on eggshells whenever he’d had a bad game—and yet he was out partying while I stayed home. Where was the fairness in that? When he finally came in, I gave him the silent treatment, and was cold the whole next day. It wasn’t until the following day that I had cooled off enough to talk like a mature adult. Pat didn’t feel remorseful about his night out, and by then, I didn’t really want him to. He was twenty-two, doing what normal twenty-two-year-old guys do. And while he could have been more sensitive to what I was going through, the real problem was that I couldn’t find my groove. I had been anxious to graduate from college and start my life, but the real world turned out to be much different from what I had envisioned. I was working in a job that was only mildly fulfilling, living in a city I didn’t really like, and struggling to make friends and find my way. This wasn’t the picture I had for my twenties. While Pat tried to sympathize, he didn’t really see my perspective. He was living his dream and thought we should enjoy his time in the NFL while it lasted. While I felt frustrated with what I saw as a permanent situation, he looked at it as one piece of the journey of our lives together.

  I did have a few tricks to combat my frustration, and the most effective was taking road trips. I loved to explore, to walk or drive with the purpose of reaching a beautiful destination. I was so obsessed with road trips, in fact, that I suggested one almost every weekend of Pat’s off-season. We would pack up the car with a few things and head out to explore some neighboring state or town. I loved the open road, the music, the anticipation of seeing something new. Pat was the ideal traveling partner, always up for an adventure or whatever I wanted to do. And if that wasn’t enough, he would drive, too.

  Having grown up in the mild climate of California, Pat and I had a hard time with the scorching Phoenix summers, and one of our favorite road trips was to the gentler climate of Sedona. With its red rock formations and transfixing beauty, Sedona always left me feeling reenergized after long hot days in the valley. A spiritual Mecca, Sedona has been a sacred place for the Indians for thousands of years, and you can’t help feeling the magic in the air.

  We often hiked the trails extending out for miles around Slide Rock State Park in Oak Creek Canyon. Pat navigated the canyon like he navigated the wor
ld, leaping from rock to rock, never settling for too long in one spot, keeping a playful yet determined pace. I, on the other hand, searched for the least difficult, most efficient path to make my way down without landing a foot directly in the river, all the while anticipating the pool of cool clear water, the prize at the end.

  “The world belongs to the energetic,” Pat often said, quoting one of his favorite writers, Ralph Waldo Emerson. While I lived on the fringe of adventure, drawn to it but timid and scared, Pat lived smack-dab in the middle of it, fearless. It was something I loved most about him, and I secretly hoped that by virtue of proximity it would start to rub off on me.

  * * *

  Time passed easily this way, through weekends in Sedona, Santa Fe, and San Diego, and even a monthlong trip to Europe. By his second season, Pat had begun to feel a little more stable in his position with the Cardinals, and bought a small three-bedroom house so we could spread out and create a real home for ourselves. Soon after moving in, we took a trip back to San Jose. As had become our routine when visiting home, we dropped our bags and said hello to our families and then headed to Santa Cruz. We missed the ocean.

  On this trip, we had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, then decided to walk along the beach and the rocks that jutted out to the ocean from the shore. It was the same spot Pat had taken me on our first date, and over the years we had gone back there many times. I remembered how young and nervous we had both been on that first date, but now there was an easy, comfortable flow to our relationship, an unspoken connection and bond that had developed over eight years together. I knew exactly who I was when I was with Pat. Sitting on the rocks with him was one of my favorite places to be.