Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (3 page)

I went into the bedroom where my mother was still sleeping. I gently shook her shoulder, then stood back. “Mom,” I whispered. “Mom.”

She opened her eyes and gave me a cold stare. She barely moved. And she didn’t say a word.

“Are you going to come to see me get married?”

“No, Rene,” she said. “I’m too tired. I’ll see you when you come back.” And then she rolled over and said nothing more.

I waited, hoping she would speak again, tell me she loved me, or at least wish me luck. But there was nothing. I turned and walked out of the room, hating myself for what I had done. I’d brought so much pain and embarrassment to my mom and family. No one wanted to be a part of me anymore. No one could bear to see me get married. There was no one but me, and I had to be strong for my baby.

I straightened with determination. I would show everyone they were wrong about us. Domingo had a plan, and maybe if I was good, it would work. It wasn’t much, but it was something I could hold on to.

After my shower, I attempted to eat, but the knots in my stomach wouldn’t allow it. I zipped my dress, curled my hair, and put on my makeup. No matter what our circumstances, I wanted Domingo to be pleased when he saw me. As I went to the full-length mirror to see how I looked, I touched my belly. The life inside me was more apparent than I wanted it to be. This was a day I wanted to conceal my pregnancy, not reveal it. But what else could I do?

A noise in the kitchen lifted my heart. I thought my mom had changed her mind. I slipped on my shoes and went to see her. Instead, it was my sister Billie who was getting ready to go with us. Although I was sad my mom hadn’t changed her mind, I was relieved and thankful Billie was coming.

“Of course I’m coming,” she told me. “I wouldn’t miss the day my sister is getting married.” She looked me over and smiled. “You look beautiful.” And then she hugged me. Oh, how I loved her.

Domingo arrived in his newly painted 1957 Chevy. We could hear the engine rumble as he parked it in the driveway. He came through the front door, looking incredibly handsome in a black suit. He glanced at me and gave me a sweet smile. In the same breath he asked me if I was ready to get married and told me I looked nice. As odd as it seemed, his words gave me a sense of connection. My heart was softening, and the fear inside seemed to be slowly slipping away.

As we drove through the canyon to get to the Malibu courthouse, I was in deep thought. I would be a good wife, cooking, cleaning, and working hard to please my husband.

When we got to the courthouse, the clerk waved us to the justice of the peace’s office. Domingo, Billie, the witnesses, and I stood in line with many other couples, most quiet and not looking around. I kept my eyes down, shuffling forward each time the door opened and closed. I felt like we were on an assembly line.

Domingo grabbed my hand in such an intimate and possessive way that it startled me.
It’s going to be okay
, I thought, trying to reassure myself. At one point, Billie grabbed my other hand and squeezed it, giving me a slight smile. I was so glad she was there with me.

As I walked into the chambers, I looked around and thought again how this was the day I had dreamed of since I was a little girl—but it was so far from what I had imagined. There was no music, no long aisle, no rice throwing, just a quick “I do.” And it was done.

On our way back to the car, a comforting thought rolled through me. I was now a married woman. I no longer had to feel ashamed of the life that was growing inside me. Our present-day society doesn’t understand how different it was back then. Staying pure until you were married was something to be proud of; being unmarried and pregnant brought great shame. Many young girls were sent away when they got pregnant in order to hide that shame. I was lucky. I was with a boy who wanted to marry me and care for his child.

We took our time driving back through Malibu Canyon, getting ice cream along the way. Domingo was in a good mood—something I never expected. He reached over and took my hand again, telling me he was excited about our new life. I didn’t answer because I was so confused. I didn’t know how I felt.

As Domingo turned into the driveway of my house, I thought of how I had left that morning as a girl but was returning a woman. I was now Mrs. Domingo Garcia. I felt a sense of peace and gratification as I thought of my new name.

My dad had gone to work, but my mom was sitting outside with my aunt. I apologized to them for being later than we had planned. Mom looked at me and replied, “I’m no longer responsible for you,
hija
; you’re a married woman now.”

It was so matter-of-fact. Almost like a changing of the guard. I tried not to let my disappointment show. “I’m going to get my things.”

She shrugged and waved her hand dismissively.

Domingo followed me inside to carry out a box that held my few clothes. After he left, I unplugged my clock radio and wound the cord gently around it. I looked around the room, thinking how it would never be mine again. “Good-bye,” I whispered as I closed the door.

Since Domingo was still living with his sister and brother-in-law, the small room he rented from them would now be ours. After we put my few things away, we changed our clothes and went to a party already in full swing at the neighbors’ house. I felt uncomfortable and out of place. Not much of a honeymoon.

When we returned to our little room that night, I really wanted to go home. I missed Billie. I had moved to live with people I didn’t know, in a house I wasn’t familiar with, and with a husband I didn’t love. I was terrified. It was as though I was living someone else’s life. I crawled into bed and faced the wall so Domingo wouldn’t see the tears streaming down my face. I hoped I had paid the penance for my sin and would be forgiven.

Domingo put his arm over me and said good night. It gave me an odd sense of security, and I wondered why he was not afraid. In fact, he had seemed happy the whole day.

the first days

The next morning we arranged our room and talked about his schedule for the following day, when he would need to get up at 4:00 a.m. We talked about my responsibilities and what I would do. He told me this was somebody else’s house, so I needed to be respectful and cautious.

After I made our bed, I went to see how I could help my new sister-in-law. I was excited she had invited the family over for a party to celebrate our marriage. I felt as though they accepted me and wanted to get to know me.

Later that afternoon Domingo’s family began to arrive. They seemed very welcoming. I didn’t know until much later that his family members had made bets on how long we would be married.

I was engaged in conversation with my sister-in-law when the doorbell rang. In swaggered some guys from Domingo’s work, slapping him on the back and saying crude things about his new status. Domingo’s demeanor changed from happy and at ease to dark and withdrawn. He’d been drinking ever since the beer had been set out in coolers filled with ice, and since drinking could change his mood so quickly, I thought maybe that was why he didn’t seem happy to see the guys from work. The doorbell continued to ring, and unfamiliar people continued to stream in. I smiled and greeted everyone politely but felt a little overwhelmed.

Domingo whispered in my ear to follow him to the bedroom. I sensed a difference in his tone, but I wasn’t sure what was wrong. “Mingo, what is it?” I asked when we got inside the room.

“Irene, you need to stay in here and not come out for the rest of the night,” he said.

“What? What’s wrong? Why? I can’t stay in the room. This party is for me, too.” I couldn’t think of anything more rude and disrespectful. “I can’t stay here,” I said in a strong and defiant tone. “I’m going out there.”

I didn’t see it coming. I only felt a sudden, powerful pain on the side of my face where his fist landed. Without another word, he walked out and shut the door behind him. I dropped onto the bed and sobbed, cradling my throbbing cheek.

As I lay on the bed, I ran through my few options. Mom would say I deserved what I got. Dad wouldn’t help me. Billie couldn’t. I would just have to endure this alone. I got angry at myself for letting fear dictate my inaction. Fear that Domingo would hit me again. Fear that everyone would hear us fighting. Fear that people would see what Domingo was really like. Despite everything, I wanted people to see the best in him. And I guess I felt I was a reflection of him. In a weird way I thought being silent was a way to protect my reputation as well.

I finally surrendered to Domingo’s will and got into bed, excluded from my own party. I tried to get to sleep in the midst of the sounds of our celebration. Laughter, music, and shouts just out of reach were another sign that my marriage was not starting out even remotely as I had imagined.

The next morning Domingo, no longer stern or angry, held me and told me in his soft, tender voice that he had wanted and expected to have only his family there. He wanted our party to be special and private. Instead, his sister and brother-in-law invited people he didn’t like and people he didn’t know, turning our celebration into an excuse for them to throw a party for themselves. He wanted to protect me from the guys he did know. In his anger and frustration, he had lashed out at me.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Irene. I want to be married and have my own family. I want it to be just us.”

The first few months we were married were difficult for both of us, even as life settled into a routine. Domingo got up and went to work every day, leaving at 5:00 a.m. At 5:00 p.m., the racers would start coming to the shop with six-packs of beer, ready to check out the engines that were being built. They would all drink, and sometimes Domingo would work until early morning. I don’t think anyone realized how old Domingo was—either that, or they didn’t care that they were providing alcohol to a minor.

When Domingo wasn’t drinking, life was reasonably okay. But on the nights when he stayed at the shop and drank, he would come home late and in a foul mood. He would start in on me, saying awful things, often lashing out physically. My only defense was my words, and I used them to strike back. Oh, how I hated him then. I wanted out of our marriage, but good girls didn’t get divorced—especially pregnant ones.

Even sober, Domingo wanted to control everything I did. And he did a good job.

One morning my father came to the door and asked me to go to breakfast with him. “I have to ask Domingo first,” I told him, excited he had come for me.

“Of course, that’s fine.”

I called Domingo at work and told him my dad was there and asked him if I could go out to breakfast.

“No,” Domingo said, and that was it. No explanation. Nothing.

Shocked, I wanted to understand why he said no, but I didn’t dare ask. As I hung up, I knew I had two choices: to go with my dad and deal with the consequences or to please Domingo and hurt my dad. I was ashamed that once again I let fear dictate my decision. Embarrassed, I went to tell my father. “I’m sorry, Dad. Domingo said I can’t go.”

“That’s okay, Rene. You do what your husband tells you to.” He turned and walked away, leaving me to feel incredibly sad that I couldn’t spend time with my own father.

I really didn’t know if marriage was supposed to be like that because no one except Domingo had ever told me what my role as a wife should be. My dad was easygoing and let my mom do pretty much whatever she wanted. Domingo’s dad had been possessive and didn’t let his mom do anything or go anywhere. Her job had been to stay home.

I soon learned what was expected of me. I was to clean my sister-in-law’s house every morning, then go to my room for the rest of the day. In the evening I cooked dinner. I loved cooking because it brought me great satisfaction, and it felt good when Domingo praised it in front of everyone.

Domingo worked hard. Even though he often didn’t get home until 10:00 p.m. or later, he never complained. This boy had so much stamina, and he liked providing for his new family. The automotive shop where he worked was a good, clean shop with a great reputation.

We were so very different from each other. I’d had a strict upbringing, and he’d done whatever he wanted. I was naive; he was street-smart. I was a dreamer; he was a planner. The differences between us didn’t matter to me. I was determined to make my marriage work no matter what. I would prove to everyone who had laughed at us that we would never get a divorce. That would be tough for two sixteen-year-old kids each doing what they felt was right in their own eyes, considering themselves more important than the other.

There was much about Domingo I didn’t know. At night he sometimes shared stories about growing up. As a result of his childhood of neglect, he promised me he would never let his child go without food, clothing, and shelter. These stories chiseled the hardness of my heart away.

I looked forward to him coming home on the nights he didn’t drink, when it seemed like I was the most important person in the world to him. During these times, my heart would draw close to him, and I thought things would be okay. And some weekends were wonderful—those when we went to visit his family or mine. My mother loved my husband and not only treated him as special but kissed and hugged him as his face grew bright red. But on other weekends, reality would yank me back to the place of anguish and pain. To the boy I didn’t understand and was afraid of. The problem was, he was never able to have just one drink, so when he drank, he got drunk. Many times we got through the night without incident. But if I did something wrong or said something he didn’t like, there would be consequences.

Domingo always apologized the following morning. He was sorry and promised it would never happen again. But I didn’t let it go or forgive him. Instead, I used my words like weapons. I wanted to wound him. I wanted him to feel the pain I had felt the night before. I’m not excusing his behavior, but I was not completely innocent either.

And I did pray that things would change. I begged God to make Domingo the nice boy I knew he could be when he wasn’t drinking.

But the truth was, I hated my husband. Hated him.