ch 3
Warrick
Growing up an orphan is never easy, even when you're blessed with a grandmother who raises you like her own. Being biracial is also no picnic. Add to that being a nerd in a rough neighborhood and you have a childhood that leaves you with the nagging feeling that you don't really fit anywhere. When I finally escaped from high school I had a 3.97 average and a full academic scholarship at LVU, but I still carried with me the pervasive sense of otherness I'd worn my whole life.
I met Karen at the start of my senior year of high school. She sat beside me in one class, behind me in another. She was pretty. Not showgirl-pretty, but that natural, girl-next-door loveliness that doesn't have to rely on cosmetics. Her hair was pale blonde, reaching past her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled when she smiled. She smiled at me often. It was like she was looking through the thick glasses and dorky clothes and gawkiness and seeing something inside me that was worthwhile. I was utterly smitten. I became her friend, her study partner, and later her man.
I was guileless back then, having never been burned, so I fell into love eagerly, with my whole heart. In my mind she was the most amazing woman ever born. She said she loved me too, that she didn't care about the fact that I was black and she was white, but her parents would never let us be together. I didn't like it, but we snuck around, playing the "we're just friends going to the library" card with Mom and Dad. Later she started telling them she was staying at her friend's house. She was staying with a friend, alright. My Grandma would whip me today if she know how many nights Karen snuck through my window and slept in my bed. Other times we'd drive out to our favorite makeout spot and make love in the back of my old car. Afterwards we'd hold each other close and plan our future - we'd go to college, get an apartment together, stop hiding us. When we talked about it it seemed so real, and I began to look forward to the day I could be more than her dirty little secret.
The year wore on, and at last we graduated. We both were accepted by LVU, and I managed to find a tiny apartment within walking distance of campus. I had been working since I was 15, so I put down the deposits and the first month's rent and moved in my bed and chest of drawers, thirteen inch television set, linens, and some dishes and pots my grandmother found at a yard sale. Karen brought a sofa that her friend's mother was getting rid of, a ratty recliner from her bedroom, and a card table with two chairs for our dining room set. With the help of my cousin and his truck, we went from new graduates to a living-together couple in three easy trips. We hit the thrift shop for a lamp and curtains and our little studio apartment became home.
I had never been so happy in my entire life. In Karen's arms I fit perfectly. She never needed to figure out a label for me - to her I was just Warrick, the man she loved. I found the respect in college that I'd too often lacked in my earlier life. I was smart, and the people around me liked that. Even better, they weren't so concerned about classifying me, figuring out "what" I was. I made friends, and Karen and I finally got to socialize as a couple. We belonged.
The first two years of college passed quickly for us. Both of us had part-time jobs, and keeping our grades up took a lot of our time. We made time to be together, but often that time was short. Still, we had each other, and that was everything - well, to me it was.
End of my second year of school she dropped the mother of all bombshells on me: she was pregnant. I was stunned - hell, what twenty-year-old college student wouldn't be? - but a few days later I was excited, happy, ready to deal with the situation. I told her we needed to get her to an obstetrician, needed to get a crib, needed to get MARRIED, but she cut me off. No, she said quietly. No obstetrician, no crib, no wedding. She had an appointment the next week.
An APPOINTMENT. This was mine, too, but she'd decided without even asking me. This child, this wonderful blend of the two of us conceived in love in our own safe home, in our own warm bed, this child would never be. I would never know if his eyes would be green or blue, his skin light or dark, his smile bold or shy. I begged, I who had never begged anyone for anything in all my 20 years pleaded with her, tears running down my cheeks, just to reconsider. No, she said firmly, turning away, her eyes dry. She didn't want it. She didn't want it, she didn't even want ME any more. She wanted to be free.
She kept her appointment, and that afternoon I came home to a note explaining that she wouldn't be back. I saw her on campus some after that, but we never talked. I learned after our breakup that she'd moved out of our place and into the house of a guy from her chemistry class. They'd been seeing each other for months, and I'd never even suspected.
I had more than my heart broken my twentieth year - my trust was fractured as well, perhaps beyond repair. Sometimes I think I've lost the ability to let a woman close. I lost something else as well, or maybe not . I can only tell you that sometimes in my dreams there's a little boy with aqua eyes and toffee skin, and he's laughing as he runs across a meadow. I run after him, but I can't catch him. I get closer, closer, wrap my arms around him, but my arms feel empty and I look and I'm holding just air. I think that's my mind's way of telling me the sweetest dreams can vaporize, just like that, so you can't put any faith in them. I want to, though. You don't know how damn badly I want to.