Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (5 page)

In the course of three weeks I finished cosmetology school, had a baby, took my test, got my license, and landed a job at a decent salon. Then, when we were barely nineteen, we bought our first house—which surprised many family and friends. They couldn’t believe we were able to do something so important when we were still so young.

Staying home and working on our house gave us both a powerful sense of pleasure. Domingo wasn’t going out as much. We now had two beautiful boys who ran around and rode their bikes while Domingo mowed the lawn. Vincent adored being with his dad and seemed to be attached to his hip. In his little admiring eyes, his daddy could do no wrong. There was nothing more heartwarming than watching Domingo interact and play with his boys. When things got rough between us, I reminded myself what an excellent dad he was. I don’t know why this soothed my heart and gave me hope, but it did.

As for me, these two little guys owned my heart. Every day with them was an adventure I looked forward to. They were so well behaved in public, such little gentlemen. But once they were home, their curiosity got them into much mischief. They especially liked to take things apart but weren’t quite as adept at putting them back together.

Life at home could be really good at times. We’d visit family or go to the park. We went to the drive-in movies so the boys could be with us as much as possible. On the outside we looked like a normal, happy family, and there were moments I could almost feel like we were. But I had an odd split inside me. I resented my husband. I really did. And yet my heart melted when we went to the park and I watched him play with our sons. For those brief moments I could believe that we were a good family and Domingo was a good man. During those special times I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was getting really good at pretending. But my little fantasies didn’t last. It wasn’t more than a few days before the results of Domingo’s alcoholism shattered them. No one knew the truth about the violence, but as often as he came after me, he never, ever, laid a hand on his sons. But Domingo’s drinking had become obvious to my family, and our friends saw enough that they wondered how we stayed married.

Eventually Domingo got involved in building engines for the boat-racing circuit and started drinking more heavily. He was gone frequently, including most weekends, usually leaving the boys and me behind. I certainly didn’t mind. I preferred it. It gave me a chance to breathe and have a break from the results of his drinking.

Our fights reminded me of birth pangs—they were getting stronger and closer together and were almost always physical. A rage built inside me, and at times I couldn’t contain it. I was making good money at the salon, which gave me a sense of independence. I started thinking I could make it on my own. As far as I was concerned, it was only a matter of time before I would be out from under him and his controlling ways.

chapter 4

the struggle

When I first started working as a hairstylist, a shampoo and set cost three dollars and fifty cents. Within two years, I moved to a large corporate salon and quickly achieved my goal of becoming a master stylist. At the same time, our country was going through some big changes. The feminist movement began. I learned about women’s rights—that life could be much different from what I had thought. I had choices! Imagine! A woman could do what she wanted without asking her husband! When
Roe v. Wade
was decided, the women in the salon cheered.

I felt as though my vision had cleared. I was no longer a naive sixteen-year-old girl; I was in my twenties, changing, a grown woman. I now knew my marriage was not something to be proud of. I admitted to myself that I was unhappy. I wanted to live a normal, happy life. I didn’t need Domingo anymore. I felt stronger making my own money and receiving constant affirmation in my work. Doing very well in my own world gave me confidence in other areas of my life. I decided to get more education to better serve my clientele—traveling to workshops to learn different techniques—which meant my client list expanded and my books were full. By the time I was twenty-four I was making twenty-five dollars for a simple haircut and doing hair for movie and television stars as well as studio work.

I was on top of the world. But my deepest heart was empty and my soul lacking. And I was searching. For what, I didn’t know. But I was looking to the world in hopes of finding it. My home life was a wreck and getting worse. At times I didn’t care. I knew I was going to get a divorce anyway; I just needed to make more money. My life was going to change; it was just a matter of time.

One morning I didn’t feel well. At the breakfast table, nausea swept through me. I knew I had to be pregnant. I didn’t want another child. I loved my boys, but our life was a mess. All Domingo and I did was fight. So I considered getting an abortion. A week later, I was in the hospital having emergency surgery for a ruptured tubular pregnancy. God not only took my child, but the damage was so great, the resulting surgery guaranteed I would never be able to have another baby. I wish I could say that my heart was broken at the loss. It wasn’t. Inside I was quietly rejoicing.

Domingo continued to drink, and the physical altercations got worse. I was so afraid of him when he got drunk. I did whatever he told me, hoping he wouldn’t get mad and hit me.

I wondered, where was God? Why wasn’t he helping us? I tried to be a good Catholic girl, faithfully attending church and taking Communion. I prayed a lot. In the resulting silence I wondered if my parents had deceived me. Maybe there wasn’t really a God.

I felt stuck in my marriage. My family loved Domingo, and many people admired him. In my pride, I wanted out but didn’t want anyone to know about my imperfect wreck of a life. I felt there was no hope. All the while, the bitterness inside me grew like a cancer, taking over any good thought I might have had about Domingo.

I couldn’t hide my seething hatred and anger from the boys. Besides, they heard us fighting—and I was not quiet about how I felt, so they heard all the ugly, horrible words I spewed at their father.

Domingo was always sorry when he sobered up. It was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The funny thing was, I knew his apologies were sincere, so I forgave him and foolishly believed that this time things had changed. That it would never happen again. Many have asked me, “Why did you stay?” I can only say I really believed he would change. And I believed there was someone special deep down inside.

In that same deep place I felt Domingo loved me. And I didn’t want to hurt him by leaving—he had been hurt so much in his life. What I really wanted was for us to stay married and be happy. In the back of my mind, I thought that if I could show him I could take care of me and the boys, then he would change.

When the boys were about five and seven, I gathered my tiny bit of courage, sucked up my pride, and moved out one weekend while Domingo was away. I’d found a little apartment not too far from work that was perfect for the three of us.

After I’d put a deposit on the apartment, I told my parents, but very little, still feeling the need to protect Domingo. They loved him, but I think they knew what was going on.

When Domingo came home and found a partially empty house, he was outraged. He got my new number from my mom and called me right away, wanting to come over. I could tell he had been drinking, so I told him no. I felt a sense of freedom I’d never had. It felt good to be a working adult, on my own, in my own place. For the first time in years, I was not afraid. Every night I could go to bed without fearing I’d be awakened by an angry man. I didn’t feel the ocean of anger pushing at me to say things I was ashamed of. As I drove to work, I knew for the first time that I was Irene Garcia and I was in charge of my life. I was capable of taking care of my boys.

Then one day Domingo came over and I let him in. He stomped in and demanded I come home. Instead of being afraid, I felt sorry for him. For once, I didn’t say awful things back to him. His voice softened, and he told me he would no longer hurt me. I asked him to leave and told him that if he wanted to see us, he had to come sober.

Domingo honored my request. We had some really good times in my apartment. In fact, he went a long time without drinking. Yet I knew it was hard for him, especially when we went out on a date; he would have to drop me off and go home to a house without his family.

After six months of being separated, thinking that starting over might help, we decided to sell our house and buy another one. Domingo promised not to drink and hurt me anymore. We made money on the sale of our house, so we had extra funds to do fun things with the boys. Over the next two years we went to amusement parks, Hawaii, and Acapulco. I now looked forward to the weekends when Domingo was home rather than dreading them. I stopped working Saturdays so we could have concentrated family time. It finally seemed as though we were going to make it.

broken nose

One Sunday afternoon, when we were getting ready to go to a family barbecue, I noticed that Domingo had already started drinking. I wanted so badly not to say a word and keep quiet, but rage and anger took over and the fight began. In my stupid thinking, I felt it would be wrong to go down without a fight. Besides, I was determined to become stronger and not continue to be the weak person I hated.

“I hate your guts!”
I screamed at him, then added a few cuss words. “I’m so embarrassed of you. I don’t want you to go with us. I’m going with the boys without you.”

The next moment I saw stars. Pain surged through my face, and blood was everywhere. As Domingo pressed towels against my face, the taste of blood went down my throat. When my vision cleared, I saw a look of panic on Domingo’s face. When I looked in the mirror, I knew why. Panic filled me as well. All I could think was,
How am I going to explain this one?

As we silently sat side by side in the emergency room, I ran ideas through my head. If I told the doctor what really happened, he would call the police to arrest Domingo. I looked over at Domingo and felt sorry for him as he sat there, slumped over, looking devastated, even though I was the one bleeding. Misery consumed him.

When they took me in and asked what happened, I told them I was playing softball and got hit in the nose. My nose had been broken in three places. It needed immediate attention, so they scheduled surgery for the next morning.

When I woke up from the anesthesia, the doctor told me that he had discovered I also had an old break that had left scar tissue and that he had tended to that as well. He didn’t ask when the other break had happened, and I was glad. I had no idea since it could have been any number of times. And would he have believed the same story twice? I doubt it.

Domingo sat next to me, still looking miserable. I knew he was sorry. I could see it on his face and throughout his entire body. We never talked about some of those things, the times when he hurt me worse than others. When I screamed horrible things at him, I attacked his character and mocked him, but I never threw at him the things he had done to me—because I was fearful he would do them again.

I was so stupid. As scared as I was of him hurting me, you’d think I would have kept my mouth shut. Somehow, I guess I thought yelling at him would put up a protective wall between us—that I could hurt him with my words as much as he hurt me with his fists.

And I did hurt him. Deeply. And sometimes my words were what triggered his fists and his rage. My words sometimes simmered inside him when he was sober. Adding alcohol to the thoughts brought out his physical attacks. We had a vicious cycle neither of us was willing to break. One would hurt the other, and the other would lash back. Today, neither of us excuses our behavior back then. There was no excuse for what we did to each other.

a mystery

One night, after I’d covered Domingo’s untouched dinner and put it in the refrigerator, I went to bed, knowing it was shaping up to be a bad night. He usually called me before he left the shop so I could either prepare his dinner or get it reheated. When he didn’t call or didn’t show up when he said he’d be home, I’d either put his dinner in a warm oven or in the refrigerator, knowing he was most likely drinking and wouldn’t be home until the middle of the night. I dreaded those nights. And the later it got, the worse I knew it would be.

On nights like those, I knew his rage would be at the surface, so I tried not to speak a word when he got home. I usually ignored him, pretending to sleep. If I did speak, I’d pay for it.

Things had gotten much worse in our marriage. Domingo had moved from beer to hard liquor. This seemed to bring a deeper, meaner drunk out in him. When he came home like that, his face, especially his eyes, making him look like a man possessed by some sort of pure evil. It didn’t take much to throw him into a rage. A shoe left out. A boy’s bike outside the garage. His dinner not prepared.

I can almost taste and feel that day. I’d been thinking about our marriage, wondering why he was mad at me all the time. I was dumbfounded. It seemed as though nothing I ever did made him happy. There were so many times when it didn’t make sense for him to be angry with me. Why was he mad when we went somewhere for a fun gathering with family? Or at the park with the boys? What about when we went on trips? I could pretend to be happy, so why couldn’t he? I fed him, washed his clothes, took care of our boys, worked hard at an outside job.

I really loved my role as wife and mother. I didn’t love
him
, but I loved my role. Cooking and caring for my family brought me great pleasure.

There was an overwhelming tension growing between us that I knew was a sign of bad things to come. This night Domingo had promised to come home early enough to spend time with us. But he never showed. He’d called and told me he’d be home at seven for dinner. By eight, we knew he wasn’t coming. And by nine, I knew the night wasn’t going to end well. Unless I could pretend I was asleep.