Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  We certainly weren’t trying to have a baby, but I was elated. So was Pat, and he valiantly tried to pull himself together. Every morning, he’d pepper me with sweet talk and offer to make breakfast, but by evening, another Pat appeared—the one who was cussing and scrounging for a fix. Booze, pot, cocaine—they were all on his shopping list. By the next day, he was repentant and doting on my every need. His Jekyll and Hyde moods confounded me, but my number-one concern was to protect my unborn baby. I started eating again, stopped using substances, and tried my hardest to dodge my husband’s mood swings.

  Sometimes I’d catch Pat staring into space, completely unaware that I was in the room. I often wondered if those episodes had anything to do with a terrible accident that had occurred during one of his construction projects, when a gas line exploded and an entire family was killed. He was cleared of all wrongdoing, but I suspected he drank to blot out the pain of those haunting memories. Had I known then what I know now, I’d have rushed him to a mental-health clinic, but post-traumatic stress disorder and bipolar disorder, two afflictions he most likely suffered from, weren’t openly talked about. In fact, the term mental illness was reserved for those who were psychotic and needed to be placed in a mental ward because they were a threat to themselves or others. Hard as I tried, neither hope nor love seemed to cure him.

  As my belly swelled, so did my courage. One afternoon while Pat was out of the house, I discovered a fifth of vodka tucked away in one of his boots and promptly poured it down the drain. When Pat returned, he exploded. His barrage of foul language and hatred made me shudder; yet I excused him like I always did. Marriage is forever, I reasoned. Once our baby arrives, our lives will turn around.

  It all was a lie, but I wasn’t ready to see the truth. Or talk about it. It was far more natural to pretend that everything was fine. We were two lost souls, miserable and isolated, who just kept running from one mistake to the next. And I do mean running. It turned out that Pat had a knack for scamming landlords, which meant signing a lease one day and running for our lives thirty days later when the rent was due. Our situation grew more desperate by the day. I reached a new low one afternoon while at the grocery store. “That’s forty-five dollars and fifty cents,” the cashier said. I smiled and handed her a check, knowing full well that our account was empty.

  That same week, I pawned my wedding ring. It was a risky move, because I did it without asking Pat. And it was no ordinary ring. One evening before Pat had proposed, the two of us were simply holding hands and talking about the future. “What kind of ring have you always wanted?” he casually asked. In those days when Pat looked into my eyes, all I saw was goodness. He nodded and listened as I revealed every detail of my imaginary ring.

  “It would be a gold filigree band encrusted in diamonds and rubies,” I told him, “because rubies are my favorite gemstone, but the most amazing part would be the centerpiece—a large heart-shaped diamond.”

  He secretly gave those instructions to a jeweler and a few weeks later slipped that “perfect” ring on my finger. Afterward, we laughed, hugged, and celebrated for days. It was one of the most precious things I’d ever owned. Not only was it beautiful, it also was a reminder of those early days in our relationship, when Pat had been so kind and ambitious. Now it was gone.

  The pawnshop only offered me a few hundred dollars for my ring. “If you can’t pay back the loan plus interest,” the shopkeeper had explained, “you lose it, and we can sell it.” I wasn’t sure if I should agree to the deal, but I knew I had to eat to have a healthy baby, and that required money. I could have reached out for help, but that was a foreign concept, especially considering that I wanted my life to appear perfect. Besides, how could I ask my parents for money when we were barely communicating? I took the pawn shop’s offer and marched straight to the grocery store. When I told Pat about what I had done, I expected the worst, but he didn’t get angry. In fact, he responded like any concerned husband, telling me, “Don’t worry, we’ll get it back.”

  Just as promised, Pat found contracting work the next month and managed to earn the three hundred dollars I needed to get my ring back. I rushed over to the pawnshop and laid my money on the counter. “Your ticket?” the man behind the counter growled. When I handed him the wrinkled receipt, he peered over his reading glasses and said, “Looks like you’re a day late.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “That can’t be right!”

  He pointed to the date at the bottom of the slip, and my heart sank. It was yesterday’s date. “Can I still get it?” I asked.

  “Sorry, honey,” he said. “We sold it this morning. One of our employees had his eyes on it from the moment it came in. You missed it by a day.”

  His words haunted me for a long time. I knew that I had just lost one of the most beautiful things I’d ever owned in my life. Without that symbol of hope on my finger, the days grew bleaker.

  The only bright spot was that for the first time in years I wasn’t starving myself. Caring for my unborn baby was a priority. Living honestly, though, seemed completely out of reach. Running out of options, we moved into a friend’s house and signed up for Medicaid and food stamps, even though Pat kept insisting that a small fortune from investments was due any day.

  Why did I stay? Mostly because I wasn’t a quitter. And, even if my marriage was in shambles, I wanted to pretend that everything was perfect. Nobody likes a loser, I told myself. Besides, I loved him, and I firmly believed that Pat would come to his senses once the baby arrived. I also prayed that my baby’s impending birth, predicted to be on January 12, 1988, would heal the strained relationship between my parents and me. The very fact that they had driven all the way from Alaska to be back in Texas for the Christmas holiday and had chosen to spend their days visiting me made my spirit soar. I had no intention of spoiling their trip or ruining my expectations of reconciliation by sharing the sordid details of our finances or marital problems. Hope and optimism ruled my days.

  But as my due date came and went, my mother’s cheerfulness faded. “We can only stay a few days longer,” she tearfully told me one afternoon. Days later, Momma and I hugged fiercely, both of us a puddle of tears as we said good-bye. “I wanted to be here for the birth of my first grandbaby,” Momma sobbed before leaving. The moment touched me deeply, because I knew without a doubt that my parents loved me and that they cared what happened to me. I suspect that had I shared something about the problems Pat and I were facing in our marriage, they would have offered their help. But I didn’t. It just wasn’t the right time.

  * * *

  Late one night in early February, three weeks after my due date, pain exploded like a bomb in my belly.

  “It’s time to go,” I shouted, shaking Pat awake.

  “Go where?” he mumbled.

  I grabbed my stomach as another contraction hit, a frantic moan filling the space between us. “Oh, you mean it’s time,” he cried, jumping out of bed and running toward the door.

  “Slow down,” I laughed. “Put some clothes on.”

  I called my two best friends from high school, Lorna and Melody, and told them to meet us at the hospital. Finally, we’d find out whether I was having a boy or a girl. Knowing ahead of time, I had decided, was like opening Christmas presents a week early, which left nothing to look forward to on Christmas morning. “I know it’s gonna be a girl,” I told everyone. “Well, it better be—what am I going to do with a boy?”

  Hours later, my contractions weren’t progressing. The fun and excitement were gone, and I was exhausted. My doctor’s furrowed brow told me something was wrong. “Your baby’s heart rate is dropping,” he explained. “Think we need to do a C-section.” Pat, his face flushed and full of concern, ran alongside the gurney as they wheeled me into surgery. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, clutching my arm. “The doctor says everything is going to be just fine.”

  I wasn’t so sure. God, if things go wrong, please save my baby! I’ll gladly give up my life for hers.

&n
bsp; When I pulled myself from the haze of anesthesia, a nurse handed me a beautiful baby girl. She was chubby and charming with no wrinkles and no red marks. She was perfect in every way, from her round head to her rosy cheeks to her pudgy little legs. “There’s a tiny, pink tutu dress that’s going to look fabulous on you,” I told her, having spied the outfit earlier in one of the ritzy shops in Highland Park. It was definitely out of my price range, but in that moment, I wanted only the best for my daughter—beautiful clothes, great opportunities, and supportive parents. The future suddenly looked more amazing than it ever had before. I had no plans to stop singing, but I also knew that if singing didn’t work out, motherhood would be enough to make my life complete.

  The revolving door of visitors never stopped. Grandparents, aunts, cousins, uncles, and friends paraded in and out of my room from morning to night. All the “oohs” and “aahs” made me feel like a rock star, but eventually, it just wore me out. I even got a bit testy when my aunt Jeanette questioned my name choice.

  “Why’d you name your baby after a city?” she scoffed.

  “I named her after a cute baby I met at the doctor’s office,” I explained. “Besides, the name fits.” Then—perhaps it was the pain meds kicking in—I did something totally uncharacteristic. I told them, “If y’all don’t like it, you can suck it!”

  “Mmmm,” my aunt sniffed. I never was clear whether she was rolling her eyes at Dallas’s name or my directive to “suck it” because right at that moment, in walked a nurse. “Mind if we borrow your baby?” she said. “There’s a siblings class on the second floor where we teach young children about their new baby brothers and sisters, and we’d like Dallas to be our model since she’s the cutest!”

  “Of course not, I’m honored,” I said, knowing it was a confirmation of what I was already thinking: My baby’s gonna be a star!

  With Dallas out of my arms, exhaustion devoured me. Another nurse shooed everyone away and boldly wrote on a piece of paper: NO MORE VISITORS AT THIS TIME. The note stayed on my door the entire next day, which gave me plenty of time to dream about my daughter’s future and how I could somehow get the money for that tutu!

  * * *

  When Dallas was a few months old, Pat sprang the news on me like we had won the lottery. “We’re moving into a huge home in Plano,” he said. Our meager possessions barely filled one room, but at twenty-six, I was eager to set down roots and rebuild our lives. Motherhood had its appeal, but my dream of stardom wasn’t gone. My first priority, I decided, was to lose those extra pounds I had gained. The more I restricted my diet, the more pounds I shed. And there was no reason to feel guilty, because I was no longer breastfeeding Dallas.

  Family life seemed to be off to a good start. Pat, who had left the construction business, was now home all day with us, and he wasn’t sitting around brooding or drinking. Often, he tended to things that needed to be repaired or played silly games with Dallas. He also spent a good deal of time on the phone doing what he called “investment banking.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I hoped it would guarantee a steady income.

  My hopes were dashed before the year was over. Tired of us not paying rent, the landlord eventually booted us out, and off we went to Grand Prairie. I was devastated. With our credit in ruins, we had to resettle in a tiny rental home that some poor soul was so desperate to lease, he skipped the usual background checks. The contrast between what we had left behind and what we now occupied was disheartening. Pat, never one to admit defeat, insisted we wouldn’t be there long because “a big payout was due any day.” A new normal ensued. While Pat worked on his “investments,” Dallas and I spent hours watching Great American Country (GAC) on television, which featured twenty-four-hour country-music videos. I loved singing along, and on occasion, I’d pick up my baby and twirl her around to the most popular songs.

  Dallas, who was approaching eighteen months, started pointing at the TV one day, saying, “Kint back, mommy! Kint back!” Over and over, she’d repeat the phrase, growing more and more adamant. I had no idea what Dallas was trying to say until Clint Black appeared on-screen, and she started grinning and waving her arms. Lord, she had a crush on him! And Pat thought it was adorable. When Pat learned that Clint was coming to the Dallas State Fairgrounds to perform that spring, he couldn’t resist buying tickets to make his little girl happy.

  The concert fell on one of the hottest nights on record, but we happily wiped the sweat from our faces because we had front-row seats, just inches from the edge of the stage. I didn’t know how Pat had scored such great seats, but Dallas was so excited that I didn’t care. As the music began, Pat hoisted Dallas up on his shoulders, where she giggled and bounced to every note. The only stitch of clothing she had on was a diaper, and the heat was causing the sticky flaps to come undone. Every few seconds, I’d stand on my tiptoes and slap the adhesive strips back into place, but they kept coming loose. All the while, Clint kept singing and waving at Dallas. Every now and then, he’d laugh at us. As the song went on, Clint’s drummer eventually walked over and handed us two pieces of duct tape. Presto! Our problem was solved.

  * * *

  A few months later, we were evicted again. This time we didn’t have anywhere to go.

  I couldn’t help but notice that all the moves and poverty of my childhood seemed to be replaying on a scarier, grander scale. When Patrick suggested we move to Albuquerque, New Mexico, for a few years to develop some of his family’s land, I balked at the idea. “It’s too far from my relatives,” I pleaded. But in the end, living in a one-room house at the back of his parents’ property was better than trying to survive on the streets of Texas.

  “I’m happy to be here with you,” I told Pat’s parents, Frank and Vangie, as I jostled Dallas in my arms. Although my heart ached to be back in Texas, I knew we needed to make the best of things to keep our family together. It’s only temporary, I reminded myself.

  Of course, living with Pat’s parents had its benefits, especially since their zest for life was so refreshing. Frank, one of the last surviving men from the Bataan Death March during World War II, quickly became our resident storyteller. Most evenings we’d gather around, fascinated by his tales. It was like learning about history without opening a book. Sometimes he even whipped out his harmonica, playing tunes like “You Are My Sunshine” and encouraging Dallas to sing along. It was in those quiet moments of tenderness that I began to believe our little family would survive.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “The Good Lord knows I tried to keep going on that tour—I prayed and prayed, asking for His protection and loving hand to keep me and the baby safe until we could get home.”

  Weeks after we moved to New Mexico, I learned that Pat’s grand plans had once again fallen through. There would be no development of his family’s land. Not that it surprised me. I’d had my doubts all along, but I never stopped hoping things would change. Pat once again searched for a job every morning, and came home empty-handed every evening. Somewhere between leaving the front door and returning, he always managed to find a bar. The only saving grace about our situation was Pat’s parents. Without their assistance, we would have fallen apart.

  As Pat’s failures reached the breaking point, he devised one final plan to put us back on our feet. “Let me be your manager,” he begged. “I’ll put your career back on the path to success.” I figured it was worth a try. Lord knows we need the money.

  We made a few phone calls and discovered that the guys from Charley Pride’s old band, White Buffalo, were interested in teaming up with me. “Sounds perfect,” I said. Nearly everyone was from Dallas, and we had played together off and on over the years. Rick Webb, the bass player, was someone I really liked, and his friendship on tour would prove to be invaluable. The only non-Dallas member was Harold, a fiddle player from Oklahoma who shared lead vocals with me.

  A few weeks before the start of spring in 1991, we hit the road on a wave of excitement, but the condition of our tour bus clearly portrayed o
ur less-than-ideal circumstances. It was the oldest, most dilapidated, sorriest-looking, decomposing-dog-poop-white RV you’ve ever seen. And it was embarrassingly massive in size. Every time we chugged up a mountainside, we wondered if we’d have to hop out and give the old gal a push. One snowy evening when the RV slid off the highway around Helena, Montana, we found ourselves tipping sideways in a ditch as bears roamed around outside. I figured we’d all be dead by morning. When the AAA tow-truck driver finally showed up after daybreak, we greeted him like he was a beloved relative. With our enthusiasm rekindled, we clapped and cheered as the bus once again started chugging down the highway. I snuggled closer to Pat and whispered, “It feels so good to be back in a band.”

  Our tour—put together by Pat and a newly found booking agency—included cities in the United States and Canada. Some of our stops were at the nicest and biggest clubs around, and we saw amazing sights like Mount Rushmore, the snow-capped Canadian Rockies, and the neon flashes of the Northern Lights. Pointing such things out to three-year-old Dallas was exhilarating.

  We even passed the time like normal families do—playing cards, telling stories, and listening to Dallas sing the same songs by day that I sang at night. I guess all those hours of listening to me practice were bound to rub off on her. Most clubs wouldn’t even let Dallas enter the building, though there were two exceptions. In Texas, she was usually allowed to enter with Pat, and in Canada she was welcomed with open arms. In fact, they loved my little girl.

  One night when we were in western Canada, my band took a fifteen-minute break between sets. It was a brisk night, so no one wanted to go outside, where snow still clung to the ground. Dallas, in a long-sleeved, one-piece denim jumpsuit and tennis shoes, was beside me listening to the DJ spinning songs. Like a mannequin come to life, she suddenly felt the beat of the music and started to dance. Everyone in the room started cheering her on. When a young, lanky cowboy sporting a big belt buckle loped by, he stopped and placed his ten-gallon black hat on Dallas’s tiny head, causing the gigantic brim to obscure her eyes. But she never stopped grinning or moving. Like a pro, she flipped that hat into her hand and extended her arm to the audience. Every clink of coin that fell inside made her dance even faster. At the end of the song, she bowed to the gleeful crowd and returned the hat to its rightful owner—but not before she fished out the equivalent of about twenty-five US dollars. Of course, I promptly borrowed that money to buy groceries the following morning, though I got her plenty of candy to sweeten the deal.