Patsy jumped in before I could complete my thought. “What the hell. Shit happens! That’s my motto.”
Without thinking I let out a laugh. I had never heard that expression before. And I picked up on Patsy’s subliminal message of brushing off whatever problems came her way.
During the drive back home, both Patsy and I gabbed nonstop. I had never been with a woman for such an extended time in my life. I didn’t want our time together to end. Late into the evening, at my apartment, I proudly showed off my new home. Patsy was the first person to step into my world. We sat down on the couch, sipping wine while listening to acoustical jazz. My mind swam between saying good night and wanting to talk longer. Without warning, Patsy leaned forward. I flinched as she wrapped her arms around my neck before kissing me. Neither of us had any premonitions. We both seemed surprised that we had fallen for each other.
The next few weeks became a whirlwind. Of all people, I had a girlfriend. I had everything going for me. I was enthralled with my job, and for the first time I had someone who wanted to be with me, someone who cared about me. The sensation of coming home after an exhausting flight to spend time with Patsy was beyond elation. Patsy blew me away when she would cook dinner or leave me notes inside my lunch bag that I’d discover when I’d fly. I adored the attention. I felt complete.
When I had to fly overseas for weeks at a time, Patsy volunteered to watch my place, watering my plants and feeding Chuck, my box turtle. I was slightly apprehensive because I was overly cautious and felt things were happening way too fast. I knew I was caught up with her, and yet I could hardly control myself. I had always been alone. No one had ever wanted me, let alone found me attractive enough to give me the time of day. I gave Patsy an extra key, on the condition that she simply watch over my apartment.
Weeks later when I returned home, Patsy met me at the door. As I unpacked, I noticed my closet space had been taken over by her clothes and the bathroom countertop was filled with her makeup items. As I stood at the entrance to the bedroom, Patsy rushed over, hugging me and crying, “It’s not what you think! I didn’t plan to, but my mom’s driving me crazy! We got into a huge argument. I’m tired of being under her thumb. You know what it’s like. Besides, I’m here almost all the time anyway. I missed you so much. You’re not like the others. What are we waiting for? You know how I feel about you. Please?” she sobbed.
Patsy had never been so emotional before. I wanted to sit her down and calmly, logically explain that we were now considering moving in together. This was no longer a date to the movies, a romantic dinner, or a passionate affair. While overseas, I had told myself to let things cool off between Patsy and me. But as I held her, I was tired of overanalyzing every detail in my life. Looking into her tear-stained eyes, I realized how much I missed her. As her whimpering eased, Patsy kissed me on the neck and face and said, “Sometimes it’s so hard. I’m tired of being put down, always being told what to do. And no matter what I do, it’s never good enough.”
It had always troubled me how Patsy was treated at times. Her mother, Dottie Mae, had seemed overly nice when I first met her, but I could sense how closely she watched Patsy’s every move or corrected her on the slightest thing. When I asked Patsy why her mother acted that way, she waved a hand at me. “It’s her way of watching over me. She’s afraid I’ll blow it and get into trouble again. When I was younger I was pretty wild.”
One time, before I had to fly overseas, Patsy rushed into my apartment, telling me how her mother and siblings were again berating her. Before I could console her, one by one her family barged in, without knocking, screaming at the top of their lungs at Patsy before turning on each other. I even found one person gorging on anything he could from my refrigerator and someone else rummaging through my bureau drawers in my bedroom. Only after I had kicked everyone but Patsy out did I learn how common this sort of outburst was for her family.
I knew how hard Patsy had it in her mother’s cramped two-bedroom apartment. Because Patsy’s mother occupied one bedroom and Patsy’s brother and his girlfriend the other, Patsy slept on the living room couch. Her brother, though, spent his time waterskiing, cruising around in his prized truck he had purchased after winning a legal dispute, or partying. Due to Dottie Mae’s bad hips, Patsy felt she was the only one who had to take care of cleaning the apartment, do all the cooking, and run a multitude of daily errands for her mother. “Now you know why I go out and party,” Patsy once explained to me.
“But why don’t you get a job, save some money, and move out?” I had replied.
“Job? What jobs? I tried a couple of times, and why bother? The best I could do would be a waitress. Who wants to do that? Besides . . . I have a bad back. My mom gives me money when I need it.” Patsy shrugged, as if it was no big deal.
At the time I couldn’t believe my ears. All my life I had never thought about not working to provide for myself. I had a hard time accepting Patsy’s family dynamics and how they treated her, but, thinking about my own family, who in the hell was I to judge? At least I knew, as Patsy once pointed out to me, “I know at times we’re at each other’s throats, but if someone else messes with either one of us, I tell you what: we’ll kick that person’s ass. Now, that’s how much we love each other.” I thought at the time that maybe Patsy’s family wasn’t so abnormal and that, once again, my standards were too high.
As I held Patsy’s quivering body, she whispered, “If you let me move in, my mom will leave me alone; she’ll have to. And then I can be happy. You’ll see. We’ll be so happy.” My heart ached for Patsy. I knew she deserved better. Maybe, I thought, because of our pasts we had a good chance of making a good couple. We’d be strong enough to weather any storm. Besides, I told myself, no one could ever treat me as well as Patsy.
“Okay,” I said, my voice cracking, “let’s do it. Let’s move in together.”
In her excitement, Patsy nearly crushed my ribs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Finally, now I have a home!” Her eyes again swelled with tears. Patsy swallowed hard before bursting, “I love you, David. I have for the longest time. I really love you. You’re the one, the only one for me.”
I was paralyzed. I couldn’t look at her. All I could do was continue to hold her. Time sped by and I still could not open my mouth. Here was a woman in my arms, now a major part of my life, who had just opened her soul to me and I . . .
I could not say the words. And for that I despised myself. How could I allow someone into my home and not in my heart? I thought after everything Patsy had done for me and all she had been through, she deserved better. “It’s okay,” Patsy sniffed as she wiped away her tears, “I understand, I know, I do. But one day you will, I know it. One day you’ll love me.”
Later, in the early morning hours, I lay wide awake with Patsy snoring beside me. Part of the reason I could not sleep was due to the time-zone changes of flying back from England. But I knew the true reason for my lack of sleep: my guilty conscience eating at me. I was now living with someone, and as I searched my heart, I didn’t know if I could ever have the same strong feelings for Patsy that she seemed to have for me. How could I be so cold when Patsy was filled with joy? Was it because after years of toughening myself to survive, I couldn’t break the pattern? Or was it because I didn’t want to? As much as I struggled, I could not find an answer. I only knew that I was getting myself deeper into something I did not fully understand. All I could do now was follow through with my commitment.
The next afternoon I phoned Alice. After I told her of my overseas trip, the anxiety grew too much for me. “Mom,” I stammered, “Patsy and I, well . . . we decided, we’re living together now. If that’s all right?”
I could hear Mom take a deep breath. “Well, I guess you’ve both given this some serious thought.”
“Oh, yeah,” I broke in, “we ah, we’ve talked a lot.”
“And she has the same feelings for you as you do for her?”
I felt crushed. “Yeah,” I swallowed. “P
atsy, she—she treats me great . . . and she’s had some hard times, too.” I caught myself. I was saying anything I could think of that would make this easier. “I’m sorry, Mom, I know you don’t agree. I just, I just respect you and Pop too much. I didn’t want to live a lie.” I paused, waiting for Alice to lay into me. I didn’t even hear her breathe. “Mom, Mom, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. It’s just . . .” She stopped, and as she did, I hated myself. All I could do was wait for the bomb to drop. “It’s just, well . . . I took Harold to the doctor . . .”
I felt a surge of relief that the subject had shifted away from Patsy and me. “So,” I put in, “it’s the flu, right? And all Pop has to do is stay home and rest for a while?”
“David,” Alice said, “Harold has cancer. He’s scheduled for therapy, but . . . the doctor thinks it’s too advanced. He’s gonna fight it, so for right now all we can do is pray. I’m happy for the two of you, but for now let’s keep this between us.”
Hanging up the phone, I turned to Patsy and told her the news. What I did not tell her was how ashamed I felt. That evening I thought of how selfish I had become. My flying, my globe-trotting adventures, my apartment, my live-in girlfriend—me, me, me. The next morning after returning from work, I sat down with Patsy. “I’ve given this some thought, and I think on the weekends I should go down and spend time with my parents.”
“I understand. Remember, I just lost my dad, too,” Patsy responded. I nodded in agreement. “Listen, I’ve got a great idea, I can go with you! I can help out Alice, and this way we can spend time together.”
My answer was not what Patsy had hoped for. “But I barely get to see you now, what about us?” she cried.
“When I lost my dad, he couldn’t even say good-bye. No one was there for him.” I stopped, imagining my father alone in the room, covered in white hospital sheets. “When I first came to the Turnboughs as a foster kid, no one, and I mean no one, would take me in. We’ll have time together, but for now this is something I have to . . . it’s the right thing to do.”
Patsy nodded. “I understand.” She reached out to hug me, but by the time I saw it I had already stood up and walked away.
When I wasn’t overseas flying, I spent nearly every free weekend I could with the Turnboughs, sometimes even showing up after a Friday afternoon mission wearing my sweaty flight suit. Whenever Harold was not taking one of his lengthy naps, we’d sit outside in the closed-in screen porch he had constructed a few months before. For a person who had never spoken to me that much as a teenager, Harold now told me stories of when he served during World War II as a driver for the officers, and upon his return home from Europe how he and other veterans cried when they saw the Statue of Liberty. While some of his army buddies stayed in New York to celebrate, Harold caught the first train back to Missouri so he could get up early at home, grab his box of carpentry tools, and go from door to door to find work. For me it didn’t matter what he said, just as long as we spent time together. It was during those times, while a cool breeze blew in through the screen porch, that Harold and I accomplished something my biological father and I had never done: bond as father and son.
As the months went by, I saw Harold slowly deteriorate. Those times Patsy joined me, she had to hold back her shock at Harold’s appearance. Leaving her with Alice, I’d sit with Harold as he drifted in and out of sleep. We all knew the cancer had spread too far and the chemotherapy wasn’t helping. Harold somehow held on, but his strength, coordination, and eyes were failing him to the point he could no longer drive his truck or do his woodworking. That’s when he knew the end was near.
“I was gonna build that home for Alice, you know, in Nevada,” Harold said during one of my Saturday visits. “Had to wait to retire.”
I nodded my head in agreement. “Yes.”
“No time now.” He paused, rubbing his callused hands. “So . . . what is it you want?”
“Excuse me?” I blurted from embarrassment. In all the years I had known him, Harold had never asked such a probing question. “Well . . .” I stuttered; “I—I like flying. I’ve always wanted a home at the river. Ever since my father passed away, I was kinda hoping you and I could maybe build it together.”
“No!” His voice cracked as he clasped my hands with his. “What is it you really want?”
Our eyes locked, just as my father’s and mine had before he passed away. I bent closer to his ear. “No matter where I’m at, or what I have, or what I’m doing, I just want to be happy.”
“Yes,” Harold said. His grip intensified. “You’ve found it. You make a difference. Do good, do your best, and do it now.”
Suddenly his grip loosened. His head rolled back. For a fleeting moment I panicked. By the time Alice and Patsy raced onto the porch, Harold had regained consciousness, snapped his neck back up, and smiled before drifting off to sleep. I was never able to speak to him again.
Days later, Alice called on the verge of tears to say Harold was near death. Patsy and I jumped into my tiny Toyota Celica, weaving through the Bay Area rush-hour traffic until I came to a screeching halt in front of my old home. As I stepped through the front door, I knew I was too late by the look that was etched on everyone’s face. Alice came over and simply said, “David, I’m sorry . . . he just passed away.”
At the funeral, I received the American flag, then walked over to present it to Alice. Standing above her, I stated, “Of all the men I have known, Harold’s had the most profound effect on me.” During the eulogy I tried to remain strong, but completely lost control after Harold’s light oak casket was lowered. As scores of people shuffled back to their cars, I found myself standing alone filled with rage. My body shuddered as I looked up at the deep blue sky. All I could think of was: why? Why Harold? He was a man who had spent a lifetime living the theme of a “good day’s work for a good day’s pay,” was so close to retiring, to just lose it all? While someone like my mother, a cold, vindictive person who hated everyone and everything, whose passion seemed to be destroying anything close to her as if it were some kind of sport, lived on while never having to lift a finger. This was beyond any form of reasoning for me. Harold didn’t drink, he wasn’t abusive, he never even raised his voice. He led a clean life; he took in kids that other families turned away. Why? As I felt myself slump to my knees, Alice’s son-in-law, Del, a man I highly respected, embraced me until my anger dissipated.
Weeks after Harold’s passing, I still made a point of calling Alice several times a week. Whenever possible during the weekends, I’d make the trip down to see her. I felt drawn to Alice and wanted to be there for her. We spent time strolling through malls, or when I took her to dinner I’d make her laugh by confessing some of my wild stories she had never known while I was a teenager under her care. My motives weren’t entirely altruistic, though. Being there for Alice was a way for me to hide from some of my own problems.
“You look tired,” Alice said, rubbing my head during one visit. “Are you losing weight?”
“It’s the flying. It’s dehydration,” I lied. “Sometimes it’s just hard for me to get some rest before a flight, that’s all.”
“And how are things with you and Patsy?” Alice pressed.
“Fine,” I nodded, “just fine.”
“You’ve been with someone for . . . not even a year and things are just fine? I’m not so sure of that,” she replied.
While she was still mourning the loss of her husband, there was no way I could tell her that during that time I had discovered how vastly different Patsy and I were. Even after eleven months together, I didn’t feel for her what she did me. For the life of me, I could not understand why I felt closed in. Part of me didn’t trust her as much as I thought I should. I found myself becoming irritated over the smallest things. Yet when I was overseas for weeks at a time, I longed for Patsy. The question was, did I miss her for the right reasons?
Whenever I came home from my extended assignments, the first couple of days were great. We
’d go out to dinner, have a few beers at her favorite bar, or see the latest movie. But within a week the elation wore off and frustrations grew. While I was away, Patsy always claimed to have just gotten a job. Yet upon my return Patsy not only “suddenly lost her job” for no apparent reason, but was never paid. I was never able to find out what was happening with her jobs. Several times when I offered to assist Patsy by approaching her employers about the money owed to her, she somehow forgot who her employers were, or if she did remember, they had somehow fled the area. Once, when I persisted in trying to find where she had worked, Patsy broke down in tears and we had an argument.
The pattern always seemed to repeat itself. Patsy seemed surprised that I recalled her continual crises that she had forgotten over the short period of time. It seemed like an obvious lie, but I could not understand why she would concoct such elaborate stories. And I couldn’t get myself to confront Patsy. Part of the reason was I so desperately wanted to believe her. I knew deep inside Patsy was a terrific person. But every time I tried to trust her, some bizarre situation would come between us.
Sometimes we’d clash because I didn’t go out enough. I understood that Patsy liked to go out and party, but, as I tried to explain to her, the night life just wasn’t for me. At times the disagreements ended with Patsy storming from the apartment, only to return drunk hours later. She’d stumble into the bathroom to throw up. As I tried to get her to lie down in bed, Patsy would wail that no one loved her, or that everyone was trying to take advantage of her. Several times before she passed out from the booze and exhaustion, she clutched my hand, sobbing, “Don’t leave me, please. Everybody else does . . . don’t you leave me, too.”
Because I was worried, I always stood over Patsy until I was sure she was asleep. At times, because of the hour, I wouldn’t get any sleep. All I could do was take a shower, zip on my flight suit, and drive off to report for a flight, praying I didn’t lose my focus and make a critical mistake during a mission.