Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

It wouldn’t be until June 22, 2013, when my tumultuous relationship with Pat finally ended. That’s when Pat’s brother, Francisco, called to let me know that my ex-husband had passed away from a heart attack in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The girls took it especially hard, mostly because they had missed out on making a lot of happy memories with him. For me, the news was mostly relief. Finally, I wouldn’t have to worry about his bizarre behavior. At the same time, I also felt sad. I knew Pat’s life could have meant so much more had he gotten professional help for his issues. To this day, regardless of all our ups and downs, I am forever grateful to him for giving me my amazing daughters Dallas and Demi.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I didn’t push them to be what I never became. It wasn’t like that at all. They wanted to do it. This was now their dream.”

  I tried my best to be the perfect mother. Rising a full two hours before my kids, I still washed and styled my hair and applied makeup each morning like I was stepping on stage. Looking good and being skinny were essential to my self-esteem. Although I felt happy and secure in my new life, I was still tormented by the need to look and be perfect. God might love me as I was, but other people surely wouldn’t.

  While Eddie worked nearly sixty hours a week, I juggled a full-time job, singing gigs on the weekends, and all the extras, such as cooking, cleaning, volunteering at church, and raising my girls to be the most well-behaved children on the planet. You could say I was one of those Stepford Wives—minus the cooking part. I couldn’t—and still can’t—cook a decent meal to save my life, but I made sure the kids got fed each night, though my go-to meal was generally boiled frozen vegetables tossed in butter with grilled-cheese sandwiches.

  I also supervised my girls while they finished their homework and patrolled what they watched on television like I was Mother Teresa. I wanted to be that perfect mom. Most nights I drifted off to sleep in an exhausted haze of satisfaction, pleased that I was keeping everything under control. But the veneer on my ideal world started peeling away one afternoon in the fall of 1997, after a call from the school. “Demi had a little accident today in her kindergarten class and needs a change of clothes,” the nurse explained.

  “What?” I cried in alarm. “She’s never wet her pants before!”

  I left work and rushed home to find Demi another outfit. When the nurse called again the following afternoon, I really panicked. What’s wrong with my baby?

  Anxious and worried, I took Demi to the doctor, but the pediatrician assured me she was fine. Nevertheless, the phone calls continued. Afraid I’d lose my job for leaving so often, I started packing extra clothes in Demi’s school bag, all the while convinced that something was terribly wrong. Almost two weeks after the calls started, Dallas finally set the record straight.

  “Remember that Saturday when we all were watching a movie and you were cleaning?” she asked. I nodded, remembering that I kept looking up at the television in between dusting and vacuuming. There were clowns, balloons, and a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey scene, as I recalled. Looks okay, I had reasoned. “Well,” Dallas stuttered, “that was a Stephen King movie called It, and I think it frightened Demi.”

  “Whaaat?” I exclaimed. “I’d never let you watch something like that!”

  “But you did,” she insisted. Then she told me about the scene where a clown is hidden in the sewer pipes and surprises someone by pulling him down the drain. When I asked Demi about the movie, she admitted that she was fine using the bathroom at our house, but every time she got near the school restroom, she imagined a clown ready to drag her into the pipes and trap her underground. “So I wouldn’t go in,” she said. But holding her bladder all day was impossible.

  We then had a long talk about what was real and what wasn’t, which finally calmed her fears, but I felt awful for weeks knowing that I had stood in the same room with my girls and had failed to protect them. Vowing never to let my kids down again, I silently berated myself for being such a terrible parent. What I failed to see was that my unreal expectations were more damaging than my mistakes.

  * * *

  Ever since my girls were born, they’d watched me perform in bands, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when Demi decided to sing at the school talent show. But her song choice seemed unusually ambitious for a five-year-old.

  “Next, we have Demi Lovato singing Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On,’” announced Coach Allen, the popular physical-education instructor serving as emcee. “Good luck,” he murmured, motioning for Demi to step up to the microphone that rose several inches above her head. No one attempted to adjust it for her.

  The cafeteria was full of kids and parents, some of whom were seated on the floor because all the chairs were taken. As the music began, my heart skipped a beat, especially when I caught two mothers looking at each other with raised eyebrows as if to say, “Really? A five-year-old singing that song?” I could only hope that Demi, adorable in her pigtails and pink ribbons, was oblivious to all of it.

  I couldn’t believe how nervous I was for my daughter. Not because I wanted her to hit every note perfectly but because I wanted her to feel good about the experience. As though my presence could help her, I mouthed the words right along with her. “Every night in my dreams, I see you, I feel you…” But something was wrong. Although Demi’s mouth was moving, there was no sound. Oh, dear! Louder, sweetheart, you need to sing louder! But my mental cues were no help. One little boy in the front row definitely wasn’t impressed. “Your microphone’s not on!” he whined loudly. One giant tear after another rolled down Demi’s cheeks, which broke my heart, but Demi never stopped singing. As I debated whether to whisk her to safety, I suddenly saw Demi’s posture change. Defiantly, she pulled her shoulders back and looked right at that little boy, pouting her lips and tossing her head, as if to say, “In your face—I’ll show you!”

  And she did. It wasn’t an amazing performance, but before the song ended, someone at least turned up the volume on the microphone so we could hear her. Hardly anyone her age had even entered the talent contest, and surely someone with less courage would have run off the stage in humiliation. But my daughter stood her ground, and I couldn’t have been more proud of her.

  By Christmas, a more confident Demi started emerging.

  * * *

  Every December, Fellowship Church put on a children’s Christmas musical that drew huge crowds. It was a professional endeavor, complete with lights, set changes, ornate costumes, and original music. With my former cheerleading experience, I figured I could lend a hand with some of the choreography, especially since I finally had taken Eddie’s advice and quit my job to be a full-time mother. Although Dallas was busy with cheerleading at the time, Demi decided she wanted to be a part of the musical, too. After her audition, she was given the role of Scribe Three, which involved a chorus number with other scribes. It was a small part. Or so we thought.

  During one rehearsal, the scribes practiced their scene, over and over. They alternated between looking at the scrolls in their hands and breaking into song about the messages the scrolls carried as a lofty-looking pharaoh stood nearby. Brecca Preston, the director of the show and someone I had always admired because she had done numerous TV commercials, wasn’t pleased with the pace of the scene. “It’s not working,” she sighed. “It’s too slow.” Everyone went still as Brecca mulled over possible solutions.

  “Demi,” she finally said, “I want you to sing this entire verse alone.” Although Demi was one of the youngest members, she was also the loudest—a fact that hadn’t gone unnoticed. By the time Demi finished belting out her lines, Brecca was smiling and clapping like a cheerleader. “Yes!” Brecca cried. “This scene is no longer about all of the scribes. Now, it’s about one particular scribe.” And that’s how Demi earned her first solo in the spotlight.

  On opening night, Demi, tiny as she was, marched onto that huge stage like she was seven feet tall. Her bobbed hair bounced with every step, and when she looked into the eyes of the audience�
��several thousand of them—there wasn’t a trace of fear on her face. Wearing a mauve, crushed-velvet tunic that my grandma had made, she marched left, turned right, and dramatically waved her arms at all the right times, never missing a beat as she sang her heart out. I was so nervous for her that I couldn’t breathe, but the moment she hit those really high notes of her solo, I knew she had nailed it. The audience knew it, too, and burst into applause. Her little, itty-bitty part had suddenly become a focal point of the show.

  After the final curtain call of the weekend, Kelly Fuller, a teacher from school, stopped by to congratulate Demi. “That’s it,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re going to be a star someday.” My own mind was looping in the same direction. My aunt Jan, standing next to Brecca, nodded in agreement. “You know,” she said, her eyes lighting with excitement, “Demi is so talented, and Dallas looks like a young Natalie Wood—have you ever considered entering the girls in Cinderella pageants?” Brecca got so excited about Aunt Jan’s idea that she chimed in, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  My heart leaped as well because as a child I had longed to do beauty pageants, but we simply couldn’t afford them. Could we now? I wondered as my girls twirled in joy over the idea. Poor Eddie, though, didn’t know what to make of our excitement. All the details about entry fees, costumes, and weekend trips made his eyes glaze over. In the end, though, he knew that entering Cinderella pageants would make us happy, so he gave us his blessing. “But please,” he cautioned, “don’t spend too much money!” As the girls and I hugged and cheered, Eddie grinned at our enthusiasm, but he had no idea that our lives were about to veer in a direction that was so far removed from his male-dominated car kingdom that it would make his head spin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Lord, if you don’t think we need to win this year, then that’s okay with me.”

  I thought Cinderella pageants would be the bridge my girls needed to break into show business—you know, impress the right judge who’d have the influence to get them a movie or television contract. But over the years, I began to realize that the pageant world was its own entity with no overlap into the entertainment world. It was hardly wasted time, though, especially considering everything we learned about showmanship and how we bonded as a family during those years.

  My cousins Pam and Gina helped us prepare because they had competed when they were young. Their mother, my aunt Jan, helped as well, which seemed only fitting because throughout my childhood, I had enviously watched her drive all over Texas so my cousins could compete in pageants, audition for commercials, and work modeling jobs. Now that she was excited to work with my girls, it felt like life had come full circle.

  “Cinderella isn’t just about looking good and wearing fancy outfits,” Pam said, pacing back and forth like an NFL coach on game day. “Qualities like poise, confidence, character, and humility are just as important.”

  Demi and Dallas both nodded their heads.

  “You’ll have to learn to stand in front of a panel of judges with clipboards in their hands as they ask random questions and listen to your answers,” Gina piped in, “and you’ll have to learn to walk like a model.”

  “Cool,” Dallas grinned.

  “There’s a talent portion, too,” Pam added.

  “Thank God,” I interjected, knowing my girls were never going to be six-foot-tall models and talent would give them a leg up against the competition.

  The first preliminary pageant wasn’t until the fall, but Pam insisted we start preparing right away. There were outfits to buy, techniques to learn, and regulations—like finding ankle socks with the perfect width of lace—to understand. Talent, which could be anything from dancing to singing to lyrical ballet routines, had to be showcased in less than three minutes or contestants were disqualified. It would take months to sort it all out. What I didn’t expect was how much fun we’d have in the process.

  “Let’s start by learning to master the Cinderella modeling technique,” Pam said one afternoon. From then on, all of us would meet in someone’s living room after school, and we’d mark four giant Xs with masking tape along an imaginary T-shaped runway. Each X represented the spot where contestants needed to demonstrate a modeling stance known as “pretty feet,” which is best described as placing the right ankle in front of the left as the left foot points toward ten o’clock and the right points toward noon. We all toppled over like drunken flamingoes on our first attempts, but eventually, we got the hang of it.

  To improve timing, I even ordered music that had the appropriate dings and buzzes to signal when each girl should start and finish. I figured it was the best way to train my girls to get their bodies and brains comfortable with the system. Although it was a lot of work, they loved every minute of it. “Look what I can do!” Dallas, then eleven, boasted after she mastered her “pretty feet.” Demi, not yet seven, immediately insisted on another turn, refusing to be outdone by her sister.

  Pam, always trying to keep the mood festive, often ended our work sessions by delighting my girls with a few back handsprings from her Junior Olympic gymnastic days. Aunt Jan supplied a different kind of joy by turning our shopping trips into scavenger hunts. “Let’s go,” she’d cheer as we jumped into the car and raced to all the thrift stores around Dallas, searching for the perfect competition-worthy dresses, shoes, socks, and matching hair barrettes.

  “Would you look at this,” Aunt Jan exclaimed one day as she held up a frilly white dress. “It’s perfect for Demi.” But all I saw was the bright red stain on the front. “Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Aunt Jan scoffed. “Just needs a little OxiClean.” And it did. That four-dollar dress from The Salvation Army turned out to be Demi’s most-winning Partywear dress, and not even Eddie could complain about the price.

  “So what do you girls want to do for talent?” Pam finally asked.

  “That’s easy,” Demi piped up. “I want to sing.”

  “Of course, you do.” Pam smiled. “I saw you at your Christmas play—but Dallas, what do you want to do?”

  Dallas paused for a beat, then chimed in, “I can sing, too.”

  The room grew eerily quiet. Pam cocked her head before speaking, “Really?” she said. “Can you sing something now?”

  “Sure,” Dallas answered. “I’ll do ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’”

  I was stunned. Dallas had stopped singing when she was five years old, during a very volatile time with Pat. Ever since, I had wondered if fear or bad memories had prompted her to go silent.

  “Some … where … over the rain … bow,” she started, sounding a bit shaky. When I glanced at Pam, she was as rigid as a statue. “There’s a land that I’ve heard of,” she continued, gaining momentum. The more she sang, the stronger she got. That’s it, Dallas! I silently cheered. Just let it come from your heart. As she gave her song a big Broadway finish, we all jumped to our feet, cheering and clapping. Not because it was perfect, but because she had found the courage to do it.

  “Where have you been hiding that voice?” Pam exclaimed, causing Dallas to get a bit bashful. “Whew,” Pam added, “thought I was going to have to choreograph a cheerleading routine or something.”

  Well, what do you know? I mused. I have two really good singers in the family!

  * * *

  By the time September rolled around, we were more than ready for the one-day preliminary competition held in Garland, Texas. With less than twenty girls competing, I figured that both my girls had a good shot at winning. And there were lots of opportunities to win something. Cinderella awarded titles for everything from Beauty to Personality to Talent, but every girl hoped to be the Overall Winner, who was then expected to compete in the five-day state pageant held in June.

  Before the competition, Dallas was so nervous that she wouldn’t even let me in the room while she practiced. I even caught her writing the lyrics to her song on her hand, only to watch those words melt in the heat onstage. Yet, she managed to sing just as beauti
fully as her younger sister did. Watching them both gave me such a rush of pride and emotion that tears filled my eyes. Proud as I was, though, I didn’t expect them to win top honors on their first try. But they did! Demi was crowned Cinderella Miniature Miss and Dallas walked away with the Cinderella Miss title. The very next week, we started planning for the five-day state competition in June.

  I didn’t leave empty-handed, either. Although college scholarships, cash prizes, and trophies were the coveted prizes, Cinderella organizers also encouraged parents and contestants to network and develop friendships. The term Cinderella family was taken very seriously. Not exactly a church mouse, I jumped into the fray with both feet and became fast friends with Kris Smalling, whose daughter, Ashton, competed and won the Cinderella Tot division that same day.

  A tall blonde, exuding beauty and calmness, Kris was a walking encyclopedia about pageants because she had competed years ago with my cousin Pam. She also had a bit of experience with show business, as her son, Ayden, was already working in the entertainment industry and her daughter was busy auditioning. I was impressed to learn that both children were signed with Kim Dawson Agency, the largest and best talent agency in Dallas. With all that experience behind her, I peppered Kris with questions faster than a sneeze through a screen door!

  “What kinds of songs do the judges like best?” “How much makeup is too much?” “What’s your advice about doing interviews?” My questions were endless. After all, it was a competition, and I wanted my girls to have a good shot at winning. Kris always tried to calm my craziness with her devil-may-care attitude. “We just come here for the fun and camaraderie,” she always said. “I simply throw things together last-minute and get in the car and go.” When I looked at her skeptically, she said, “Really, Dianna. I don’t let it ruin my life.”

  But hard as I tried, I still got a bit neurotic about everything, even losing sleep over silly details such as how to pack our suitcases without getting anything wrinkled. Kris’s attitude was certainly healthier, but I was wired completely differently. Being competitive was in my blood, which is why I listened to Kris’s suggestion that we seek out Ms. Gayle Burkett at the state pageant. “She’s legendary for helping contestants with hair and makeup,” she said.