Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  Sometimes pleasant, sometimes not, Pat’s phone calls were as unpredictable as his paychecks had been. When he realized that his yelling and screaming would prompt me to hang up, he became more civil. Although he never tried to visit us while we were at the lake house, his pleas to see the girls continued. It tore me apart. I didn’t want to badmouth Pat to our children or erase him from our lives, but I didn’t know what boundaries to put into place, either.

  “Why don’t you move back into our apartment, and I’ll move out?” he finally suggested. It wasn’t the scenario I had imagined, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to find a decent job while living in such an isolated location. The truth was that I needed to get closer to the city. In the end, I consented to his request, but I had two stipulations: One, he had to find an apartment of his own miles away from us, and two, he couldn’t ever move back in with us.

  The day I returned to our apartment, I knew the shelter had been right.

  Evidence of Pat’s rage was everywhere. Broken dishes. Trampled toys. Overturned furniture. I salvaged what I could and shuddered to think what would have happened had Pat found us sooner. I hoped and prayed that I hadn’t made a mistake by agreeing to Pat’s suggestion, but I also knew that because I had broken the silence about his abuse, there were plenty of people willing to come to my aid if I needed it. And that’s when I finally decided to call my parents and admit to the shambles of my marriage.

  It was a big step, and one that signaled I was finally ready to talk about my fears and failures, at least temporarily. Ever since Dallas’s birth, my parents and I had slowly strengthened our bonds, and I wanted our relationship to deepen. I knew that wasn’t possible unless I told the truth. Although they frowned upon separation and divorce, they never wavered about supporting me. “We never really trusted Pat,” they eventually told me, “because he never asked us for our blessing on your union.” In their eyes, that had told them a lot about his character.

  Why did I waste so much time pushing my parents away? I suppose I had to mature enough to realize that they had made decisions for me based on what they thought was best for me, even if I hadn’t agreed with them. Had I been able to see into the future, I would have seen similar storm clouds hovering above my own family in the years ahead.

  * * *

  Starting over as a single mom was hard. Dallas was ready to turn six and Demi was only eighteen months old, but I finally felt free. When my grandparents graciously offered to babysit, I eagerly set out to find a job. A real job. I still planned to do studio work and sing whenever I could, but my first priority was finding a job with good pay and benefits. The kids were depending on me, and I couldn’t disappoint them.

  My first stop was Westway Ford in Irving, Texas. It was the biggest, most well-known dealership in the area, mostly because of a catchy television commercial that starred the owner, Joe Tighe, who wore a white ten-gallon hat and green money-motif sunglasses as a catchy theme song played in the background. “Bah, bah, Westway Ford … West … Way … Ford!” the rousing lyrics proclaimed, which always made me smile. I had seen the commercials a thousand times and figured I’d see if they needed a receptionist. It was a shot in the dark, but since I had worked at another Ford dealership before Demi was born, I thought I had a chance. Besides, all the commercials made it look like a fun place to work, and I definitely wanted to put more fun back into my life.

  I had called the dealership the day before and was told there wasn’t a job available, but they suggested I stop by and fill out an application anyway. I happily put on my best Goodwill outfit and drove to the dealership while giving myself a pep talk. You can do this, Dianna! There’s a job that’s meant for you. But when I walked into the impressive showroom, I nearly retreated. I had never felt so timid or out of place.

  “Can I help you?” quizzed a woman in her forties, eyeing me from head to toe.

  “I’m here to apply for a receptionist job,” I said, hoping to sound confident.

  She pointed toward an office upstairs, refusing to smile. When I walked through that door, a more cheerful woman called me “honey” and asked the same question. “I’m looking for a receptionist job,” I said again.

  “What?” she exclaimed, her eyebrows jumping toward her forehead. “Well, aren’t you an answer to prayer. I had to let one of my receptionists go this morning. When can you start?”

  I was speechless. In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine that I—the ex-wife of a drunk, a failed country-music star, and the mother of two kids without a plan for the future—was the answer to anyone’s prayers. The very thought made me soar with joy. Finally, we’d have insurance and food in the fridge. I actually had to restrain myself from skipping out of the office. As I bounced down the stairs, I barely noticed the handsome young man passing by me as he headed up the stairs. I’d later learn his name was Eddie De La Garza, who, instead of returning to his desk, raced into the main office to see if I had been hired. The stars above were already aligning to bring romance back into my life.

  * * *

  The hardest thing about going back to work was not being there for Dallas after school or for Demi, who spent her days at day care. Both were issues I had grappled with when I contemplated leaving Pat. I was especially nervous about Demi, because numerous reports were suddenly circulating about abuse at day-care centers across the country.

  Mornings weren’t easy. Day after day, I’d drive away from the day-care center in a pile of tears because I knew that I had always been there for both my babies … every second … every minute … and every time they had called my name. Now I had to trust strangers to do my job, and that reality pulled the plug on my emotions. Every morning, I’d bawl for a good fifteen minutes after I left the day-care center. Then I’d straighten my face and drive to work, all the while telling myself that I was doing the right thing. This is how it’s got to be. You’re starting a new life now! Be strong! But if a sad country song came on the radio, I’d be sobbing in seconds. The staff at Westway Ford must have looked at me most mornings and wondered why they had hired me.

  A few weeks after I started working, I took a personal day and headed to the courthouse to get a divorce. If there was one thing I was adamant about, it was that Pat and I were never getting back together. Even his sporadic visits with the kids made me jumpy. For weeks, I’d been asking for advice from my friend Lorna, who had done the paperwork for her own divorce. “Oh, honey,” she assured me, “I got this.” She sent me her divorce paperwork with all the personal information covered over with Wite-Out and told me to “fill in the blanks.” The judge couldn’t have cared less about the sloppiness of my papers, but he adamantly refused to sign off on the measly five hundred dollars I had suggested for child support. “Way too little,” he insisted. But I knew I’d be lucky if I got that much considering Pat’s erratic work history. The more I pleaded that it was fine, the angrier the judge became. In frustration, he finally dismissed me with a wave of his hand. My court appearance was officially over.

  I tearfully ran back to one of the secretaries. “If I don’t get this done today,” I wailed, “I won’t have another personal day for weeks, and I’m afraid my husband’s going to hunt us down and hurt me.” With that news, she grabbed my papers, typed in the larger dollar amount, and marched back into the courtroom, boldly demanding the judge’s signature. Thanks to that woman’s help, I was finally and legally divorced. I couldn’t have been happier. Life slowly righted itself, allowing our lives to regain a nice, steady rhythm. I even started going out in the evenings with my coworkers, and my girls seemed better off, too, quickly becoming social butterflies.

  With my emotions on a more even keel, there was room for music to reenter my life. At first, I only attempted karaoke at the Big Apple, a local bar. A few coworkers went with me the first time, but eventually, I started drawing a following. Soon after, I joined a band called Starfire that played at weddings and corporate events to bring in a little extra money. And I continued to do studio
work and sing backup whenever opportunities appeared. I knew I wasn’t ever going to make the Top 100 list, but singing made me feel like I was sprouting wings and learning to fly again.

  Even little details seemed to fall into place. Lisa Morris, a close friend from my Six Flags days who had worked behind the scenes operating the lights for another show at the theme park, reentered my life and volunteered to babysit when I needed help. Without her assistance, I never would have been able to keep singing. Little did I know that years down the road, she’d be the one to lend me a hand when the girls got busy with auditions and performances of their own. But the biggest surprise of all was when Pat finally started sending me child-care payments. That extra bonus made me feel like I had just won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes!

  Life was good. There was no yelling, no name-calling, and no violent tantrums. My self-esteem was gaining momentum, spurred on, in part, by the fact that I had quickly become “the face” of Westway Ford. My station was located right inside the main entrance, and it was my job to welcome everyone who entered, as well as to answer calls and make connections on the switchboard. Everyone seemed to appreciate how cheerful I was. I guess all that good karma opened my heart a bit, because one morning the other secretaries at work caught me staring at the cute, young guy in Finance, the same one I had seen on the stairs on my first visit.

  His office was located directly across from my desk. That morning when Eddie stepped out of his office, standing with his hands on his waist and chin slightly elevated, he reminded me of a Greek god surveying his kingdom. I instantly fell in love with his broad shoulders, his perfectly groomed black hair, and his mysterious dark eyes. When he placed a pencil in his mouth and started gnawing on it, I had to suppress a giggle. It seemed everything about the man made me smile.

  “Don’t even think about it,” my coworkers said in unison.

  “Huh?” I said, finally looking away.

  “He’s bad news,” said one woman. Another chimed in, “He’ll ask a girl out, then break her heart.” “Just forget about it,” affirmed the older secretary who seemed wary of everyone.

  Oh, well, I thought, I’m divorced with two kids, and that’s the last thing anyone wants. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for another relationship.

  But it seemed like our paths always crossed. Eddie frequently stopped by my desk, and one day he invited me to lunch. “I’m going to the country club,” he said. “Want to come along?” Another secretary also joined us, which I’d later learn was nothing more than a ploy to silence any rumors, because dating coworkers wasn’t tolerated at the dealership. So excited about the possibility of going to a fancy country club, I jumped into the backseat of Eddie’s car without hesitation. Halfway there, I looked down at my outfit and my heart sank. Another Goodwill purchase! To make matters worse, I noticed a run in my stockings that stretched from my knee halfway to my ankle. My cheery disposition suddenly failed me. There’s no way I deserve to be in his company, I scolded myself. I can’t even afford a decent outfit. Eddie, though, never seemed to notice. In fact, shortly after that lunch together, he even came to hear me sing.

  Soon after, Eddie started pestering me about my car. “Let me help you buy a new one,” he repeatedly suggested, a gesture that made my heart melt. I was flattered that he cared, but I simply couldn’t bear to part with my 1982 Cadillac DeVille, otherwise known as “the ocean liner.” It was the same set of wheels I had inherited after I married Pat. For nine steady years, through good times and bad, we had stayed together. Parting ways after traveling two hundred and fifty thousand miles together seemed like a betrayal.

  But Eddie was persistent. “How about a brand-new, affordable Kia,” he suggested. When I finally agreed, he quickly exiled the Cadillac to the back lot of the dealership, a sure sign it was destined to go to auction. It tortured me to see it there, so discarded and lonesome. My throat tightened, and my eyes sprang leaks every time I passed by. Then one morning, it suddenly was gone. My sadness didn’t disappear overnight, but the more I drove my new car, the more I started to let go of the past. And the more I let go, the more I started to give myself permission to have a wonderful, new life. Slowly, my heart started to mend.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, Eddie made it clear one night at karaoke that my fantasies of a blossoming romance were going nowhere. “I’m not interested in settling down,” he explained. “Besides, having kids is serious.” It broke my heart that he wasn’t ready to welcome my family into his life, but I figured if we stayed friends, he might change his mind someday.

  The girls at work saw his remarks as the perfect opportunity to keep my options open. “You have plans on Sunday morning?” they asked, flashing the biggest smiles I’d ever seen. “Why?” I wanted to know. Turned out rumors were flying that Troy Aikman, star quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, was attending Fellowship Church, which at the time was a newly formed group of believers meeting in an old movie theater in Irving. We all agreed that attending church would do us good, though our motives were clearly tied to Troy’s single status!

  It would have been cool just to lay eyes on Troy, but it never happened. What did happen was my daughters fell in love with Fellowship Church and kept asking, “Can we please go back?” Although we didn’t go steadily, I took the girls when I could and even attended events like their annual Easter egg hunt. Eventually, the growing church moved its services into MacArthur High School. Each visit drew us in a little more until we suddenly started calling it “our church.”

  About the same time, I finally secured another apartment—one that wasn’t tied to the turmoil of the past and one that I could pay for on my own, even though it wasn’t in the best part of town. Nevertheless, I was happy to have our own place. Hoping to work my way up the Ford food chain, I figured we could eventually move somewhere else. Then, right before Christmas, after two years of steady employment and promotions, I got laid off.

  My self-esteem plummeted and so did my resources. If losing my paycheck wasn’t enough, Pat suddenly stopped sending child support, too. Christmas wasn’t going to be so merry after all. All the expectations I had for my life seemed to be in tatters. I started wondering if I wasn’t worthy of success … wasn’t meant to be happy … didn’t deserve a second chance. But I also knew I couldn’t sit and marinate in self-pity, so I went straight to Kelly Services, a placement agency for temporary jobs. In a matter of days, I went from the aftermarket department at the car dealership to the switchboard at J.C. Penney. It wasn’t exactly fulfilling work, especially because I would only be there for a few weeks. And my temporary status seemed to make me invisible to all the other employees. Loneliness crushed my spirit.

  One afternoon as I watched everyone head to a holiday party that I clearly wasn’t invited to, I felt so ostracized that I went to the parking lot and sobbed. There—in my car, surrounded by crumpled tissues—I had an epiphany: I was depressed! For the first time in my life, I not only recognized the feelings of bleakness and isolation running through me, but I named those feelings. And I understood where the feelings were coming from. Yes, I was suffering. Yes, I felt like I had lost out on something in life. But I also felt empowered by my own awareness. For once, I hadn’t pushed my feelings away or tried to ignore them. A short time later, a few friends offered to help me pay the rent and supplied some hand-me-down gifts for the kids, which helped my bleak feelings to trail away like smoke in the wind. What I failed to see was that barely eating had become an unconscious habit.

  There was one bright spot about my job at J.C. Penney. It was the time of year when the store put their spring catalogue together, and as I manned the switchboard, mothers kept asking me for directions to the photo-shoot area. Day after day, I’d linger at the door watching all those kids parade around in their cute little outfits. It unleashed a bubble of envy inside me that grew stronger by the day. I couldn’t help but wonder if my own adorable children could do the same thing. Cute clothes. Bright lights. The g
lamour of being in a magazine. What could be more wonderful or exciting than that? And I knew just the person to help me.

  I called my cousin Pam, whose own children were in the modeling business at the time. “Finding representation is important,” she said. So, I dished out the money for a photo shoot, put packets together with my kids’ pictures and all the important stats—height, weight, and age—written on the back, and mailed everything to the top modeling agencies in Dallas. Surely someone would love my daughters enough to offer us a contract!

  But no one ever did, at least not then. Although my first attempt to get my girls into the modeling business hadn’t worked out the way I had planned, it wasn’t enough to stop me—or my young girls—from dreaming about the future. “There will be other opportunities,” I told them. And I firmly believed it.

  * * *

  After Christmas, Kelly Services sent me to work for Texas Commerce Bank in Richardson, and they also suggested I take classes to upgrade my computer skills so I could secure a better-paying job. I took the job and their advice, which resulted in a better-paying position—administrative assistant to the head of training, at the downtown office.

  My confidence returned and so did Eddie. He finally seemed to be warming to the idea of getting closer to my girls. Sometimes I’d spend the weekend at his house, and sometimes after he finished his shift at work, he’d swing by my apartment.

  “Dianna,” he asked one night, “don’t you think your neighborhood is a bit sketchy?” I laughed and brushed away his concerns, knowing full well that I had witnessed a robbery once from my own balcony. “It’s all we got,” I told him, “and we’re making the best of it.” His concern for me, as well as for my girls, proved his heart was opening a bit further. One night, he even tiptoed into the girls’ bedroom while they were sleeping and drew a cartoonlike dog’s face on their blackboard and signed his name. The gesture touched me deeply.