Rich in Love: When God Rescues Messy People (2 page)

When my fifteenth birthday came close, I could hardly wait. Domingo and I could stop sneaking around! But when I turned fifteen, my dad said he had changed his mind. I fought and argued with him. I yelled at him. And then I shrieked, “I hate you!” and ran to my room, slammed the door, and cried. I was crying because I couldn’t have Domingo over. But I was also devastated because my dad, my hero, had lied to me.

What I didn’t understand was that my dad knew what kind of boy Domingo was—he reminded my father of himself at that age. Like most young teen girls, I had blinders on. I could see Domingo only as the boy of my dreams, while my father was trying to do his job as a father and protect me.

My father began to keep a close eye on me. That meant that, in order to see Domingo, I had to lie about everything. It meant cutting school and going to Domingo’s house. It meant my sister Billie taking us with her when she went places. It meant telling my mom I was babysitting when, in reality, the only person I was “babysitting” was Domingo. To make the whole thing believable, Domingo gave me the money I would have earned had I really babysat. I didn’t care that I had become so deceitful. Domingo had become my whole world. He was popular in school, I was his girlfriend, and nothing else mattered.

A determined spirit is one of Domingo’s strongest character qualities. How he did all he did, I will never know. He was such a hard worker. At fifteen he went to school until noon, then worked at his brother-in-law’s auto shop until after midnight—and he was great at it. He could work on any engine and understood them so well he could modify them to make them better and faster. After work he sometimes hung around with the guys and drank beer, then went home. Several nights a week he’d walk the two and a half miles to my house and rap on my window. I’d let him in, and we’d whisper quietly in my room until my father got home around two. Then Domingo would slip out through the window and walk home.

When we were alone, in the dark of our whispers, Domingo shared his past with me and the heartaches he had endured while growing up in a very difficult environment. It was then I discovered he’d had to be a fighter in order to survive. Throughout his childhood he had learned a lot of things no boy should have to learn, and as a result, he’d made promises to himself that affected his future in positive and negative ways.

But with too much time alone in the dark, two teenagers at the peak of their raging hormones find other things to do besides talk. I was stupid and naive, and not surprisingly, I lost my innocence.

When a girl meets a boy she likes, and she’s old enough, it’s supposed to be fun going on dates and doing things together. But during my time with Domingo there were no fun events or happy dates—just worries about getting caught.

One time Domingo and I had fallen asleep fully clothed on top of my bed when my dad came home and opened my door. I will never forget the sound of the door opening or his face when he saw me with Domingo. Shock. Disappointment. He didn’t yell or get angry; he just quietly handled the situation. He called the police while I sat, quietly crying in the living room, terrified. Domingo sat in the kitchen with his head down, his hands dangling between his legs as he waited for my dad to blow.

The police came and questioned Domingo and looked up his record. I had no idea he had such a long rap sheet. I knew some of the stuff because he’d told me. But there were surprises on that list even for me. I didn’t like what I heard. I’d admired this boy who did so much with so little. His tenacious and creative character that never gave up. No matter what the obstacles, he figured out a way to work through or around them and thrive, not just survive. I loved his kind and giving heart. I loved talking to him and hearing what he thought about things. He was affectionate and seemed happy to care for me.

But I had begun to see a different side of him. He wasn’t always fun and happy—he had a dark and scary side, one that was controlling and angry and very jealous. We had started to fight all the time. I wasn’t so sure I liked him or trusted him to be good to me. That night I realized my dad was right and I was wrong. I decided to break up with Domingo and begin mending my relationship with my dad.

chapter 2

fear and marriage

One day when I was at a friend’s house, her sister commented that I was starting to fill out. It felt like the world froze. Everyone was looking at me. “You look like you’re pregnant,” she said.

“Don’t talk to me like that in front of everybody,” I said, fuming. “It’s not right.” I stomped out of the house. After calming down a little, I tried to remember when my last cycle had been. Since I was irregular, missing one period was not unusual. But a cold chill crept up my back as I tried to think. Fear crawled in and replaced my anger.
What if I really am pregnant?

I was scared but didn’t know what to do, so I kept it to myself. Within a few weeks I knew for sure I was pregnant. At breakfast I would get up from the table to go throw up.

A friend who worked for a doctor’s office told me that when I turned sixteen in a couple of weeks I’d be old enough to come in by myself to see if I was pregnant. (There were no home pregnancy tests back then.) I was never afraid of being a mother, but I was afraid of hurting my family, so I started to look for homes for unwed mothers and began saving my money to run away. What I knew for certain was that I didn’t want any part of Domingo anymore.

So after my sixteenth birthday in June, I went to the doctor to find out what I already knew was the truth. When the doctor told me I was three months along, I was numb. I knew this would shame my whole family, and I wanted to die. But I also knew I had to tell Domingo. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I knew it was the right thing to do. My friend who worked for the doctor had already alerted Domingo to the possibility, and he had been angry that I hadn’t told him. But what would he do when he knew for sure? How would he react?

As I drove into the auto-shop parking lot, I took a deep breath. I turned to unlock the door, but my hands were shaking so badly that it took me a moment to be able to pull up the button. I stepped out of the car and tried to gather all my strength. I could hear the whoosh of the air compressor, the clank of tools, the shouts of guys as they bantered back and forth over their work. The strong smell of engine oil, brake fluid, and gas mixed with my fear and made it hard for me to keep my breakfast down. I took in another deep breath, but it didn’t help. I knew all the rosaries wouldn’t save me from what I’d done. What
we’d
done. I bowed my head. I refused to cry. I had too much pride for tears. I’d show everybody, including Domingo, that I had it all under control.

“Hey, Irene.”

I popped my head up. Domingo’s brother-in-law who owned the shop stood there, wiping his hands on a blue shop towel. “Mingo’s in the clean room, building an engine.”

I tried to smile at him, but feeling the shame rise inside me, I quickly turned my head instead. My knees softened and felt as though they wouldn’t hold me up much longer. I looked away and walked through the shop, hoping not to have any eye contact with the guys who were working. I wondered what Domingo had shared with them. What did they know? What did they think about me? My face flamed, and the words I imagined stuck in my belly. Words that made me hate myself. Made me sick. Who was I trying to fool? I wasn’t strong. I didn’t have a plan. I had thought at sixteen I was so mature and knew so much. Really, I was just a lost and confused child.

I stepped into the clean room. “Domingo,” I said to his back. He turned to face me.

“Hey, Irene. What’s up?”

“I’m pregnant.” Humiliation washed over me as I said the words.

Domingo froze. He stared off into space, saying nothing.

I looked down at my black shoes, waiting, bracing myself for the ugly words I knew would come.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Domingo said in his strong, confident voice. “Get married as soon as possible. I will take care of you. You and the baby. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

I was relieved that he accepted I was carrying his child. Then, with a sense of pride, I wondered at this sixteen-year-old boy acting like a grown man. How confident he was. That he promised to take care of us. He put many grown men to shame with his stance.

Then panic seeped in. My heart felt heavy and fearful. A wave of conflicting emotions piled in on top of the others. I didn’t really want to marry him. I didn’t even like him, not anymore. He wasn’t who I had thought he was.

Even so, I felt trapped. Where else could I go? What other options did I have? If I didn’t marry Domingo, my life was doomed. What man would want to take me as his wife after I had committed such a despicable act? There was really nothing I could do but agree with him.

getting permission

Domingo took me home and waited outside for my dad to get home from work. When Dad arrived, he was in a good mood, and I hated knowing I was going to destroy that mood. “Dad,” I said, trembling, “I have to talk to you.”

“What’s wrong, Rene?” He looked concerned.

“I have committed the worst act a young girl can do.” I swallowed, then took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Shock and disbelief took the place where concern had been.

“Domingo’s outside, waiting to talk to you.”

At that, my father erupted. “Tell that boy I don’t want to see him or talk to him.” I walked out of the room to tell Domingo he needed to leave.

“I want to talk to your father,” he said, his anger climbing to the level of my father’s.

“No, Mingo. Please. Please go now.”

Domingo spun on his heels and stormed away to his car.

Telling my mother was no easier. She kept saying, “What did I do to deserve this?”

I wanted to die because I had disgraced her. My parents were cold and distant to me that night. I felt like they were looking at me with disgust and anger. So I retreated to my room and cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, Domingo showed up on the doorstep. He didn’t even wait to be invited in but moved past me toward my father’s bedroom. Then in a strong and defiant voice Domingo said, “I want to talk to your father.”

“No! He doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“I don’t care.” Domingo’s fist pounded on the bedroom door. “I want to talk to you, Manuel. I’m not leaving until we talk.” Again, he didn’t wait to be invited; he stormed in and closed the door behind him.

I paced outside, listening to angry voices rise and fall. Finally, Domingo emerged. He looked me in the eye and said, “We’re getting married.” And then he left.

I couldn’t believe my father had given his permission. He later told me he knew Domingo was a good boy because he fought hard to do the honorable thing, even after my father told him he didn’t have to marry me. Dad told him he would care for me and the baby, but Domingo wouldn’t hear of it. It was his baby, and he was going to marry me no matter what.

Once my dad said we could get married, I felt a sense of excitement, urgency, and panic. Because we both had just turned sixteen, we had to get permission from a doctor, a priest, our parents, and a judge. The doctor tried talking us out of getting married, and the priest told us to give the baby up for adoption or consider other options available to us. We were stunned. I couldn’t believe our priest was telling us to consider an illegal abortion.

No one wanted us to get married. Everyone around Domingo encouraged him not to do it. The guys at the shop told Domingo it wasn’t his responsibility. Even most of the counselors at our school told Domingo, “Don’t get married. You have too much of life ahead of you.”

The one person who went to bat for him was Mr. Ferguson, our high school counselor. Because Domingo scored so high on his mechanical aptitude test, Mr. Ferguson felt Domingo’s job at the auto shop was the right fit. He got permission for Domingo to attend night school as a minor so he could continue to work weekdays and go to Saturday continuation school to earn his diploma. Mr. Ferguson was the only person who didn’t criticize; rather, he did all he could to help. Without him, we couldn’t have done it.

I wasn’t paying as much attention to the negative things people were saying. All I could think of was getting this list of things done so I could get married. Then everything would be okay. My sin would be washed away.

Our last permissions hurdle was getting the judge’s approval. We arrived at the courthouse early in the morning. My father had come on my behalf, and Domingo’s mother had come on his. We were all sent to the courtroom and were told the judge would see us during his recess from presiding over divorce court. We sat there in silence, watching all the broken marriages parade by, one couple after another pleading their cases before the judge. It was ugly to see so many couples wanting a divorce. When had their love turned into such hatred?

Fear played in my belly, pulling my thoughts in many directions at once. I wasn’t afraid of getting married, but I was afraid of Domingo.

After at least four hours of waiting, the judge finally summoned us into his chambers. We stood before his massive desk. He looked at our parents and said, “How do you feel about these kids getting married?”

My future mother-in-law looked grim. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“I think they should wait and not get married,” my father said.

The judge addressed Domingo. “How do you feel about all this?”

“I’m ready,” he said proudly. “I’ve rented a room for us, I have a job, and I’m finishing school on Saturdays.”

The judge looked us both over and said, “I’m not going to give permission for you to marry. Come back when you’re eighteen.” He closed the open file folder, his body language dismissing us.

A bomb went off inside of me. It had never occurred to me that he would say no!
Oh, dear God, what will I do now?

Next to me, Domingo fumed. I could tell by the look on his face that he was going to blow up. I felt I was going to be sick. I knew Domingo was determined, strong willed, and defiant. No one was going to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. He might be only sixteen, but he’d been on his own since he was eleven.

“What are you thinking?” the judge asked him, probably seeing the rage in Domingo’s eyes.

Domingo stood up and said, “I don’t care what any of you think or say. It’s my child, and I’m going to take care of it, and no one can keep me from that. I will figure out some way and will run away if I have to, but I will marry Irene.”

Once again, I was amazed at the strength and courage of this young boy. First to stand up to my father and then to the judge. I wanted to feel happy and protected. But I knew better. Still, there was hope in my heart that he would be different when we were married.

The judge gave a small, smug smile and said, “All right. You can get married.” That was it! He had been testing Domingo, and Domingo had passed with flying colors. Many years later my dad shared that the judge had come to him and said, “I don’t know why, but I feel they will never get a divorce. They will stay married forever.”

wedding day

My clock radio went off, startling me awake after I’d barely dozed off. The night had been long as I struggled to get to sleep. I rolled over and turned off the alarm. My dad had given the clock radio to me for my sixteenth birthday. We were both excited as I opened it—he because he had picked it out himself, and me because it was from my dad and we’d finally made peace after a long year of anger and frustration. And it was the only birthday gift I could remember ever receiving. But that didn’t matter because it was so special to get this wonderful gift from my father.

Today was the last day I would wake up in my room. Tomorrow I’d wake up in another home, one I didn’t know very well. At least the radio was mine and I could take it with me to my new home.

This was not at all how I dreamed my wedding day would be. I had imagined myself in a white dress, walking down the aisle of the Catholic church. There had even been a time when I dreamed it would be Domingo waiting for me at the altar, wearing a black tuxedo.

The previous night, Domingo had asked my father if he could take me out on a date. Even though Domingo and I had spent many hours together, we’d never gone on a real date. With my dad’s permission, we went to a movie and got a burger. For a few hours, I could imagine I was a normal girl experiencing a normal date. I was so young. And I was a dreamer, so good at pretending.

As we sat across the table from each other, I asked, “Domingo, are you afraid of getting married?”

He gave me a small smile. “I have been alone for so long. I’m looking forward to taking care of you and our baby.”

That was the first time in a long time I felt hope. Maybe I had judged him wrongly. Maybe he did love me after all.

I threw the light covers back, got out of bed, and took my pink lace dress out of my closet. It wasn’t anything special, but it was my best dress. Domingo had mentioned he liked it, so I felt it would work for the occasion.

There was no excitement surrounding the day. My mom never asked me if I needed money or if I had something special to wear. Really, no one asked. No one seemed to care. My family had planned no celebration. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Instead, I was filled with fear, sadness, and shame. What would happen now? What kind of husband would Domingo be? We were only sixteen and didn’t know as much as we thought we did.