Jin insisted Huan (conceived by in vitro fertilization from a Chinese American sperm donor) begin violin lessons at the age of four. Abby wanted him to play T-ball. He still takes violin lessons and practices regularly, even though he’s living away from home. Jin limited his extracurricular activities so he could concentrate on his music and academics. And she has always expected her only child to excel in every class he takes, beginning in nursery school. He graduated from the local public high school as valedictorian, and I have no doubt he’ll graduate from Brown summa cum laude. Of course, the fact that Jin ever allowed her son to even have friends in high school is proof that if she is a Tiger Mom, she isn’t a good one. And never once, as long as I’ve known her, has she belittled or tried to intimidate or shame her son into doing what she wants him to do. That’s not to say she wasn’t or still isn’t above manipulation.
“Miss Minnie’s!” Chloe declares excitedly.
I eye Miss Minnie’s red front door from where I’ve parked on the street in front of her contemporary single-story house. Miss Minnie, with the help of two part-time employees, runs a private daycare for mentally and physically handicapped young adults. The men and women who attend Miss Minnie’s are between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five, or so. There are three who attend every day from nine to five, then another five who, like Chloe, attend a certain number of hours each week. Minnie Wellston is a registered nurse who, when she recognized the need for such a care facility for her Down syndrome son and couldn’t find one, opened one herself. Her Adam died of leukemia eight years ago. I hadn’t known her then, but Minnie had apparently decided that even though her son was gone, this was still her calling.
Minnie had been a lifesaver when Chloe aged out of the public school system at twenty-one. Randall and I had decided not to apply for Social Security for Chloe and kept her out of the state system. By not accepting Social Security’s financial support, we felt we had better control of our daughter’s life. Fortunately, we could afford it. But that had meant finding something to do with Chloe while I taught and held office hours. There had never been any discussion of Randall caring for Chloe. He was busy with his career and his wife, and he did, after all, see Chloe every Tuesday night for dinner.
I tried leaving Chloe home alone one day, just after she “graduated” from high school. Looking back, I wonder what I was thinking. I was going to be away just long enough to get a haircut and a touch-up on the color. I was born a redhead; I’m determined to die one, even if possibly toxic chemicals are necessary.
I think I left Chloe partly because of the pressure I felt from the outside world. Randall, our family therapist, even the girl who checks us out at the grocery store, all thought I was being overprotective. Chloe seems so independent to other people. So capable. And she is capable. She can do so much more than I thought she would ever be able to. More than I could have imagined when those original blood tests came back all those years ago and her genetic disorder was confirmed. Chloe was twenty-one years old, for heaven’s sake. She could certainly be left home alone for two hours.
That morning I gave her tons of instructions: do not go outside, do not answer the phone, do not take a bath, do not use the stove. Instruction piled on instruction, more than she’d ever been able to handle. My fault again, but I was so nervous and excited. I so wanted it to work out. I kept thinking that if she could just stay at home alone for three or four hours a day, I could figure out how to continue to teach my three classes a semester. Honestly, I think I was also looking for a break. Just a little time for myself. And I wanted to feel normal. I wanted my daughter to be normal.
It was a Tuesday morning. It was June. I was gone two hours and three minutes. I didn’t even let my stylist blow-dry my hair. After an hour, I just wanted to get home. I just wanted to know that she was safe.
I saw the fire trucks when I turned down our street. There was no mistake. They were in front of my house. And in my driveway. But my house wasn’t engulfed in flames. I couldn’t see any smoke.
But I could smell it.
I parked my car in the middle of the road. A fireman tried to stop me as I ran across my lawn, but I shoved him aside. I just kept calling Chloe’s name. I’ll admit it. I was frantic. Chloe’s all I have. She’s all I have, I kept thinking.
I found her on the neighbors’ lawn. The Watsons, next door. Both Al and Beth were at work, their two children at a summer play program. Chloe seemed unhurt, but I could tell she’d been crying. Hard. Her eyes were red, her nose was running, and she was taking in great gulps of air. I pulled her into my arms. When I held her, I could smell her familiar scent, tinged with smoke. I’ve heard that a woman can pick out her own baby, blindfolded, going only by smell. I believe it.
Huan was with Chloe. “What happened?” I asked, not giving either of them time to answer. “Tell me what happened. You’re not hurt, are you, Chloe?” I looked to Huan. “No one’s hurt?”
Huan was fifteen or sixteen at the time. He looked scared. He had been home that morning because school was out and he hadn’t started his enrichment class yet. I’d checked with Jin the night before. Just in case she has a question, I’d said. Huan has always been good to Chloe. Very understanding. And kind.
“Huan, what happened?” I said, finally calming down. A little.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do. I heard Chloe screaming so I went next door. She was under the kitchen table. The microwave was on fire. There were flames shooting up the cabinets.”
“The microwave caught fire? That doesn’t make sense.” I was talking fast, not sure exactly what I was saying. “We had the whole place rewired. There was faulty wiring?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.” It was obvious he was upset, but he was playing it cool. He was a teenager; cool was important. “It wasn’t the wiring. At least I don’t think so.” He looked at Chloe.
She was hanging on to me for dear life, her face buried in my breasts. She was making a wet spot on my T-shirt with her mouth.
I waited for Huan to go on. That was the day I noticed the tattoo behind his ear. His hair was longish at the time, but when he pushed his hair back out of his face, I saw it. It was some kind of Asian symbol. There would be a huge blowup when Jin saw it, but at that moment, Huan’s tattoo seemed insignificant.
“She was trying to cook something in the microwave. I think she cooked it too long.”
I put my hands on Chloe’s shoulders and pushed her back a little so I could look her in the eyes. “You tried to cook?” I asked.
“I didn’t cook. Didn’t use the stove,” she blubbered. “You said no stove. No stove.”
“You weren’t supposed to cook anything. Not in the stove or the microwave. I left you apples and peanut butter for a snack. You weren’t supposed to cook,” I said again. And if you started a fire, I thought, you were supposed to call 911. You weren’t supposed to crawl under the table and hide.
We’d practiced dialing 911. I’d disconnected the phone and we’d practiced over and over again. How to push the buttons, what the 911 operator would say, what Chloe was supposed to say.
“Chloe, what were you trying to cook?”
Her lower lip trembled. She didn’t answer.
“Chloe?”
About that time a firefighter, in full regalia, walked over to us.
“This your house, ma’am?” He had a handlebar mustache and one of his front teeth was chipped badly. I remember wondering if it had happened while fighting a fire. The firefighters in Port Chapel are all volunteers. This guy, and all of his buddies, risk their lives to save our houses, and possibly our daughters, for free.
“I’m Alicia Richards.” I don’t release Chloe to shake his hand. “Chloe’s my daughter. Huan lives next door in our duplex.”
“That was a smart thing you did there, son,” the fireman says. “Hardly any damage to the house because you were so quick to call.” He hesitated, glancing at Chloe, who was still hanging on to me, her fing
ers bunching my T-shirt. “This young lady’s very lucky she wasn’t hurt.”
Then he looked at me and I could see it plainly on his face. I shouldn’t have left my mentally handicapped daughter at home alone. I was responsible for this fire. I knew Chloe couldn’t handle being left alone. If she hadn’t screamed, if Huan hadn’t heard her—
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Can we go inside?” I asked.
“We had to shut the main circuit breaker off. You need to get an electrician out here to rewire behind the microwave. I wouldn’t recommend popping the electric back on ’til you’ve had it inspected.” He pulled his fireman’s hat off and wiped his damp forehead with a clean white handkerchief he produced from his pocket. It was probably in the mid-seventies that day, but with all that gear, he had to be roasting.
“Would it be okay if I just go in to get a few things?” I asked, thinking that Chloe would need her stuffed bear, Boo Bear, and we would both need a change of clothing in case we ended up having to spend the night at a hotel. Something I didn’t even want to consider. Chloe was already so upset; having to spend even a single night in an unfamiliar hotel room might unhinge her.
Ultimately, I ended up paying an electrician time and a half to come out that evening and check the wiring. He had to replace something, but then he gave us the okay to stay in the house. In the following days, I called the claim in to my insurance company and made arrangements for repairs to the walls and cabinets, and splurged on new granite countertops. I argued with Randall over having left Chloe alone. He didn’t remember our conversation two days before discussing the possibility. Selective memory on his part.
And I began looking for someone to stay with Chloe during the day when I had to work. It wasn’t so much the fact that she’d started a fire in the microwave trying to make popcorn (probably by setting it for an hour instead of a minute), but that when the fire started, her response was to hide under the kitchen table. In the same room as the fire.
I told myself that maybe the day would come when Chloe could stay home alone. But that day wasn’t it.
I had the summer off, but when fall came, I found a sitter willing to come to the house. Mrs. Jameson advertised that she sat for the elderly, but when I interviewed her, she said she had no problem with handicapped adults. Chloe disliked Mrs. Jameson from day one. She said Mrs. Jameson smelled funny, which she did. Chloe missed her schoolmates and was bored with Mrs. Jameson and the soaps she watched all afternoon. Chloe threw one fit after another until I did my homework and found Minnie.
Minnie was a godsend. She provided the kind of structured environment Chloe liked and needed. They did crafts, watched movies, played music, and went on field trips. But all activities were on a strict schedule, with plenty of warning, which was perfect for Chloe.
“Mom?”
I glance at Chloe in the passenger seat. She’s pulling on the door handle. “It’s locked,” she says.
I hit the UNLOCK button on my door and start to get out.
“Mom. What are you doing?” Chloe asks me, enunciating her last word very clearly.
I get out of the car. “I thought I’d walk you in. Say hi to Miss Minnie.”
Chloe’s IQ is somewhere around 48. She’s not a smart girl. But that doesn’t mean she’s not intuitive. Particularly when it pertains to me.
“I don’t want you to come,” she says. Her brow creases. “Don’t come.”
It’s cold out. The wind is blowing off the Chesapeake Bay and cuts through my dark green fleece jacket. My office hours start in half an hour. I have a student coming in. I have to scoot. But I can’t help myself. If this Thomas whom Chloe has been babbling about is here, I want to meet him. “I just want to say ‘hi.’” I walk around the front of the Honda, keys in my hand.
Chloe looks at me and slams the door, making no bones about her annoyance with me. There are days when she begs me to walk her to the door. Now, suddenly, she’s Miss Independent. I’m not sure if I like it. I mean, we’ve been working for years on her being comfortable doing things, going places, talking to people, all without me, but the idea that she doesn’t want me to be here hurts my feelings a little. Dr. Tamara, our therapist, says I’m as dependent on Chloe as she is on me. Damn if maybe Dr. Tamara isn’t right.
I hit the remote on my key ring, the car beeps, and I walk up the sidewalk toward Minnie’s front door. After a minute, I hear Chloe tromping behind me. She has a particular gait, sort of a side-to-side lope that is probably a by-product of the way she carries her weight on her small frame. I’d recognize her footsteps anywhere.
I take the steps. Chloe bangs up the metal wheelchair ramp that runs beside the steps.
“I don’t want you to come,” she repeats. “I don’t,” she whispers under her breath angrily.
The door opens and a young man stands in the doorway. He’s very tall, compared to Chloe. Maybe five-foot-nine or five-foot-ten. He has shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes that are framed with glasses. Which sit crooked on his face. Very Scandinavian looking. He doesn’t have the physical characteristics of Trisomy 21, but I can see by his features that he’s mentally challenged.
He spots Chloe and starts to jump up and down and clap. All one hundred and ninety pounds of him. “Ko-ey!” he cries.
Chloe runs up the ramp, pushing past me, her canvas bag from the public library swinging on her chubby arm.
It’s not hard to guess who this is.
Chloe throws herself into his arms and he hugs her, lifting her tiny sneakered feet off the ground.
It’s on my tongue to remind her that we don’t hug strangers, but obviously this isn’t a stranger.
“N . . . Knock, n . . . knock,” the young man says.
Chloe looks at me. “You’re supposed to say ‘who’s there?’ ” She looks at him. “Who’s there?” she hollers.
“B . . . banana.”
Again she turns to me. “You say ‘banana, who?’ ” She looks up at him. “Banana, who?”
Thomas bursts out laughing and then Chloe laughs.
No punch line? I smile. “Are you Thomas?” I ask. “I’m Chloe’s mom.”
“K . . . koey’s mom,” he repeats. He speaks fairly clearly, despite his stutter, in a hoarse voice. He’s a nice-looking young man, but his eyes are too close together and his mouth hangs open. There’s a little drool in one corner of his mouth.
When Chloe was growing up, I was very diligent about teaching her how to keep her mouth closed. I knew my daughter would always look different from the other girls her age, but I felt there were certain ways she could fit in better socially. I taught her no burping or farting in public . . . and no drooling.
Thomas still has his big hands around my Chloe, though he’s at least put her down. She’s resting her cheek on his plaid flannel shirt. The look on her face startles me. She looks so . . . so . . . enamored.
“Alicia.” Minnie appears in the doorway and smiles. “Good to see you.” She looks at my daughter in this man’s arms. “Chloe, we’ve been waiting for you. We’re starting art class in the sunroom.” Minnie looks back at me.
She’s as tall as I am, a slender woman whose age I couldn’t guess, but she has to be every bit of seventy. She wears her gray hair long, pulled back in a ponytail. Most days, she’s in a chambray shirt and jeans. She reminds me of Jane Goodall, who came to speak at the college the previous year about her Roots & Shoots Foundation.
“Would you like to come in?” Minnie asks me. “See what we’re up to today?”
I hold up my hand. “Thanks, but I can’t. I have office hours shortly.” I give a little laugh. I’d been so eager to see Thomas and now that he’s standing in front of me, I just want to get in my car and go.
Minnie must see the discomfort on my face because she gives Thomas a tap on the arm. “Enough with the hugs, you two. Chloe, hang up your coat and put your bag in your cubby. Then show Thomas where to find the smocks we use when we paint.”
I like the way Minnie talks to my daughte
r. She keeps her requests short and to the point, but she speaks to her as if she’s an adult and not a child. It’s obvious she respects Chloe. And cares for her. Chloe isn’t always treated with respect. Or even common courtesy. Especially not in public. She looks so . . . damaged that many people make certain assumptions. Either they talk loudly to her, as if she’s deaf, or they totally ignore her. Minnie never ignores Chloe.
Thomas and Chloe go into the house. Chloe doesn’t even say good-bye to me.
Minnie smiles at me again. Her hand is on the door. She’s telling me, without saying, “In or Out.”
I take a step back. “Thomas is new?”
“He’s been coming a few weeks. His mother wanted him to ease into our program. First just Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, but this week, we’re increasing his hours. He and Chloe hit it off right away yesterday. As you can see,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder then back at me.
“I can see.” I look up at her from where I stand on the sidewalk. I feel like I need to say something else, but I don’t know what. I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling that I need to protect my daughter. From what? Watercolor painting? This man/boy? This urge to run inside, grab Chloe’s hand, and take her home is irrational. It’s silly. I force a smile. “Well, have a good day. See you this afternoon.”
“You have a good day, too,” Minnie calls cheerfully.
She closes the door, and I walk slowly back to the car. I unlock it and get in. I’m upset and I don’t know why. Chloe wants so badly to have friends. To have a life. Why am I not happier for her?
I mean, I am happy for her, but . . . somehow my feelings are hurt. And something else, a feeling I can’t quite define. Again, as if life is changing and I don’t see it, I don’t hear it, I don’t smell it. But I feel it in my bones. In my gut. In my heart.
Just Like Other Daughters Page 3