Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  “Next Wednesday?” I ask. “Today’s Wednesday. Do you mean next Wednesday?”

  She raises the phone. “Wednesday?” she asks Thomas. She lowers the phone after a second. “Saturday,” she says. “Ten o’clock.”

  I can tell Thomas is talking in her ear. “In the morning,” he shouts.

  “In the morning,” Chloe repeats.

  I hesitate. “You want to go bowling? I thought you hated bowling.”

  “I want to go bowling. With Thomas. Wednesday.”

  Chloe talks about doing all sorts of things that aren’t really feasible. Last week, she watched The Rescuers Down Under on DVD and insisted she was going to Australia. On Wednesday.

  “Who else is going bowling?” I ask, amazed that I’m doing this for the first time in my life.

  Chloe goes places with me, Jin, her father, and Miss Minnie, but with no one else. She doesn’t have that kind of relationship with anyone else and she’s not capable of going without one of us to a place like a bowling alley. She’s just not high-functioning enough for that kind of independence.

  “It’s not going to be just Thomas, right?” I ask.

  “Are you going, Thomas?” Chloe asks into the phone. She listens, then looks at me. “Thomas is going.”

  “But who’s going with Thomas? Thomas isn’t going alone with you, right?” I toss the junk mail into the recycling bin near the back door. I met Thomas. He obviously isn’t able to drive. He has to be going with someone. “Is he going with his mother?”

  Chloe speaks to Thomas again, then tells me, “Thomas’s mother doesn’t like bowling.”

  “Can I speak to Thomas’s mother?” I ask. I don’t mind if Chloe goes bowling, if she wants to, but she has to have supervision. Even finding a public restroom can be hard for Chloe.

  Chloe hands me the phone.

  “Hello, again,” the mother says.

  “Margaret, hi,” I say. This feels so weird. “Chloe tells me Thomas has invited her to go bowling.”

  “I’m going bowling,” Chloe announces. She shuffles out of the kitchen.

  “Yes,” Thomas’s mother says. “Saturday at ten. Thomas belongs to a group at St. Mark’s United Methodist Church, downtown. He goes there every Saturday. There’s usually an activity at the church and then they go somewhere: out to lunch, rollerskating, you name it,” she says cheerfully. “This Saturday is bowling Saturday!”

  “So . . . do parents attend?” I ask.

  “Oh no! This is a time for the young adults to get together and have fun. I go to a women’s Bible study at the church. You’re welcome to join me. They’re all really nice at St. Mark’s.”

  “What I’m asking,” I say, ignoring the Bible study invitation, “is . . . what kind of supervision is there? Who drives? Who will be bowling with them? Chloe doesn’t go out alone.” I hesitate, wondering if Margaret has met Chloe. “She has Down syndrome. My Chloe.”

  “No need to worry. It’s well-chaperoned,” Margaret says. The Down syndrome doesn’t seem to faze her. “Just good, clean fun.”

  Chloe walks back into the kitchen. She’s wearing her coat over her pajamas and carrying her canvas library bag. The one with her phone number written inside in permanent marker. I walk over to her and shake my head. “Not tonight, Chloe. You’re not going bowling tonight. It’s almost bedtime. The bowling alley is closed.”

  “I’m going bowling,” Chloe insists. “Me and Thomas.”

  “Sorry,” I say into the phone. “Chloe’s so excited about going that she’s put her coat on.” I turn away from my daughter, who I can tell, by the look on her face, is ready to throw a temper tantrum. “You were saying . . . the chaperones.”

  “Nice people from church! Volunteers. And the associate pastor.”

  I know I can’t allow the fact that it’s a church group sponsoring the outing to affect my decision as to whether or not to let Chloe go. This has to be about Chloe, not about my own personal prejudices. But I’m not sure how to ask if this group is specifically for mentally challenged adults—what experience they’ve had with special-needs people like Chloe.

  I turn back to look at Chloe. She’s trying to zip her coat. She really wants to go. How can I say no? Still, how can I say yes? I don’t know these people who would be taking her. My job, since her birth, has been to protect her. Because she can’t protect herself.

  “Chloe’s not used to this sort of thing. Going out without me,” I explain. “Do you think it would be okay if I go with her? With them?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Margaret says, not sounding keen on the idea.

  “Great. So ten o’clock on Saturday at St. Mark’s?”

  “In the community hall!” She’s so damned cheery. “That’s where they meet.”

  “Great. Thanks. We’ll see you . . . Thomas, then.”

  “Thomas will see Chloe tomorrow, won’t he?” Margaret says.

  The doorbell rings. It’s got to be Mark-the-Plumber. “That he will.” I nod and force a smile. I want to like Margaret, I do. But there’s something in her tone of voice—she’s way too positive. Or maybe it’s the way her son hugged my daughter today. “Thanks, Margaret.”

  “You have a blessed evening!” Margaret tells me.

  I hang up as I head for the door.

  “I want to talk to Thomas.” Chloe follows me, still in her coat, still carrying her canvas bag. It says “Go For It @ Your Public Library!” She got it free two years ago when we went to a book fair at the library. Chloe loves books. Picture books. She has a whole shelf of them in her bedroom. Her canvas bag has become a security blanket of sorts. She carries it everywhere.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “I want to talk to Thomas! Thomas called me!” Chloe’s voice is taking on an edge.

  “Hang on a minute, Chloe,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm. I learned long ago that losing my temper with my daughter gets me nowhere. The less control I exhibit, the less control she exhibits. I hope she’s not going to have a meltdown in front of the plumber. When Chloe loses it, sometimes spit and fists are involved.

  Mark is standing in the vestibule. He’s wearing jeans, an L.L.Bean jacket, and a ball cap. He’s carrying a toolbox. When he sees me through the door, he waves. Mark isn’t much taller than I am. He’s not really my type. I’ve always been a white-collar kind of girl, but he’s nice-looking. And he’s been super nice to me since he moved into our neighborhood in September.

  “Hi,” I say, unlocking and opening the door.

  Jin comes up the steps behind him; she has a Wednesday evening class. She’s got her cell phone to her ear. She’s wearing a bright pink down jacket and a knit cap with earflaps. Although we’re the same age, she looks so young and hip. I look like my grandmother when I go to class. I wonder if I should buy one of those hats with the earflaps.

  Jin eyes Mark as she puts her key in the doorknob next door. “Another leak?”

  I step out of the way to let him in. “Thanks for coming, Mark. This late in the day. Feel free to charge me extra.”

  “It’s no problem to come.” He drags one foot and then the other over the mat at the door, wiping his boots before stepping into the foyer. “Of course I’m not going to charge you extra.”

  “I want to talk to Thomas!” Chloe shouts.

  I hesitate, taking a breath. Sorry, I mouth to Mark. I turn to face Chloe. “We can call Thomas back, if you want, but not if you’re rude to me, Chloe. We don’t shout at each other, right?”

  Mark looks up at the dripping ceiling. “I’ll just go upstairs,” he says, pointing to the staircase.

  “Sure. Thanks.” I look at Chloe as he heads up the stairs.

  Chloe’s face is bright red. She stomps her foot. The movement is so childish that she could be two and not twenty-five. She shouts at me, “I want to talk to—”

  “That’s enough, Chloe,” I say firmly, barely raising my voice.

  “I want to go bowling! I want to talk to Thomas.” She’s half-screeching, hal
f-boo-hooing.

  “You can talk to Thomas if you calm down.” I head for the kitchen. I’ve found that not giving Chloe too much attention when she acts like this helps. “And we can talk about bowling.”

  “I hate you!” Chloe shouts. “I hate you and I love Thomas.”

  Her outburst surprises me so much that I turn around. This is not my sweet Chloe. Even in her worst meltdown, she’s never spoken to me this way. She hates me? I didn’t know she even knew the word.

  “I hate you,” she repeats, stomping up the steps. She’s still wearing her coat over her pj’s. Still carrying her library bag.

  I hear her bedroom door slam a minute later.

  I shut my bedroom door closed. Really hard. I’m really mad.

  I want to go bowling now. I want to talk to Thomas. I have to talk to Thomas.

  He says I can go bowling with him.

  I hang my bag on the bed. That’s where it goes. On the bedpost.

  I lay on my back on my bed and I put my feet on the wall by the board head.

  I’m so mad at my mom. Mad, mad, mad. I kick the wall. She’s a dummy head. A dummy head. A . . . a meanie head!

  She doesn’t understand. I love apple juice and I love Thomas. I have to talk to him because I have to go bowling. I don’t like bowling. It’s hard to roll the big ball down the hall. But I like bowling with Thomas because he likes to bowl.

  I’m mad, mad, mad, and I cry and I kick.

  Mom doesn’t understand. She doesn’t!

  I’m still standing in the foyer when Mark comes down the stairs. He’s left his coat upstairs with his toolbox, but he’s still wearing the ball cap. His shirt is flannel. Plaid. Randall would never be caught dead in a blue flannel shirt.

  I kind of like it.

  “What do you think?” I ask hopefully.

  “The bathroom sink this time. My guess.” He crosses his fingers and holds them up. “I’m going to shut the main water off. I’ll have to cut a small hole in the wall behind the sink. I’ll fix the leak tonight, and get your water back on, but I should come back and add shut-off valves and an access panel.”

  “I know, the plumbing in the whole house needs to be brought into the twenty-first century. Guess we’ll do it one sink at a time.” I step on the towel on the floor in the foyer and move it around to mop up more water. I hear a steady banging. It’s Chloe. She’s lying on her bed with both feet on the wall. Pounding. I know, from experience, that she’ll grow bored with it, or tired out, within a few minutes.

  Still, I’m embarrassed. My adult daughter is throwing a toddler temper tantrum. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I also know we can’t help how we feel. Maybe it’s because Mark doesn’t know Chloe. Doesn’t know us. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a bad mother.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, pointing up toward the source of the racket. Chloe’s small, but she’s strong. She can really stomp when she wants to. “Chloe . . . sometimes she has a hard time dealing with emotions.”

  “You don’t have to explain.” He holds up his hand. “My kid brother Abe had Down’s. When we were kids growing up”—he shakes his head—”Abe used to throw the biggest fits over the smallest things. Does Chloe throw things? Abe threw things. At the walls. At us. A book, a banana, anything he could get a hold of.”

  He’s smiling. I’m smiling. “At least she doesn’t throw things,” I say, actually feeling fortunate. “Does your brother live with your parents, or is he in a group home?”

  Mark looks away for a second, then meets my gaze. “Abe passed away last year. He had a congenital heart defect.”

  I’m suddenly light-headed. “I’m so sorry,” I say when I find my voice.

  His words put my life in perspective. Suddenly, I realize how very small this thing about Chloe going bowling is. How insignificant the temper tantrum she’s throwing right now is.

  I’m surprised to find tears filling my eyes. I’m not a crier and I wonder where this is coming from. Another symptom of menopause? As if the hot flashes and forgetfulness weren’t enough? “How old was Abe?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  We’re silent for a moment, but it’s not an awkward silence.

  Then Mark hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to go shut the water off.” He heads for the utility room. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  Mark goes to shut off the water and I go upstairs to tell my daughter, who was thankfully not born with a heart defect, as close to 50 percent of all Down syndrome people are, that she can go bowling with Thomas on Saturday, if she wants. I’ll make it happen.

  She can go to the moon with him, if she wants. I just want her to be safe and happy. I’m her mother. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  5

  Sometimes I think back to that moment . . . when I was standing in the foyer with Mark with the puddle of water on the floor between us. I think about the minutes afterward when I went upstairs and calmed Chloe down. When I helped her take her coat off and tucked her into bed. I remember how her face lit up when I told her she could go bowling with Thomas. That my only concern was her safety and that I would do whatever needed to be done to make sure she could go, and still be safe. I remember sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her hair while she rested her head on my shoulder. She’d always been a physically demonstrative person, Down’s people are, but in the months leading up to that point, she’d been struggling to find her independence from me, and had been stingy with her affection. Her hug that night made me want to do anything, everything, in my power to make her happy.

  It was one of those turning points in my life, in both our lives. A turning point I didn’t recognize. But isn’t it usually that way? Only in retrospect do we see the defining moments of our existence.

  Sometimes I think, what if I had said no? What if I’d redirected her; she was always so easy to redirect. What if I’d offered to take her to Build-A-Bear instead? What if Chloe had never gone bowling that day?

  Standing here alone in Chloe’s bedroom, I feel the cold glass of the windowpane on my fingertips. I remember the feel of her warm breath on my cheek when she hugged me that night. And for a split second, I feel like it’s not just my heart seizing, but my whole body. I remember the tale of Medusa and how her victims turned to stone. The same with the Basilisk in the Harry Potter books. It’s a common occurrence in literature. I feel like I’m turning to stone.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t do this.

  I’ve never felt as alone as I feel right now, standing at this window, looking out on my dead lawn.

  But Chloe was so happy that day. That Saturday, when we walked into St. Mark’s church hall, she was beaming. She was wearing her favorite blue sweatshirt. It had kittens playing with a ball of yarn on the front. She’d waited patiently in front of the dryer for twenty minutes that morning until it was dry enough to wear.

  “Thomas! Thomas!”

  I close my eyes and I hear her voice. I see her as she was that first bowling day.

  She bolts from me at the door and runs to Thomas, her canvas bag dangling from her elbow.

  The group gathering in the church hall is a mix of average and obviously mentally handicapped young adults. From the way the group of a dozen or so young people is interacting, I can tell that those running the show are familiar with working with men and women like Chloe and Thomas. I exhale with relief. Chloe will be safe, at least, even if she doesn’t have a good time. I see another girl with Down syndrome who looks a year or two younger than Chloe. I think to myself, Maybe they can be friends.

  I’m surprised that Chloe joins the group so eagerly. She usually takes a while to warm up to any new situation. She doesn’t like it if we can’t park in the same parking spot at the market.

  A man in his early thirties wearing jeans and a red polo shirt sees me in the doorway and walks toward me. His hair is military-short and bristly on top. His shirt is embroidered at the breast pocket with the symbol of the United Methodist Church:
flames and a cross.

  “Good morning. I’m Cliff Jackson, associate pastor here at St. Mark’s.” He offers his hand.

  I shake it. “Alicia Richards. Chloe’s mom.” I point to her. Thomas has his hand around her waist and they’re talking between themselves. I wonder what they’re talking about. Chloe’s world is pretty small. What could they be talking about?

  I drag my gaze from my daughter and the man with his arm around her. And he is just that, a man: one who shaves and stands when he pees. I don’t know what that has to do with anything; it’s just what goes through my mind as I watch them. I guess what I’m considering is how innocent and childlike Chloe is. She doesn’t know anything about men. She doesn’t even know any men, except for her father. Men have sexual desires. I’ve always tried to protect Chloe from men out of fear that someone might take advantage of her. But it’s “normal” men I’ve always been careful about. Honestly, it never occurred to me that a mentally handicapped man might be interested in her.

  I feel the muscles in my mouth tighten as I force an artificial smile. Why is this so difficult for me? This is typical behavior for a girl Chloe’s age. She’d certainly be considered a late bloomer by today’s standards. Haven’t I spent her entire lifetime attempting to make her like everyone else? I should be glad for her . . . should be, but it’s all I can manage to keep from grabbing her hand and taking her straight home.

  “We’re so glad Chloe could join our friends here at LoGs today.”

  “Logs?” I ask. Even my voice sounds stilted. I can imagine what this pastor must think of me. “The new girl, Chloe,” he might say later to his wife or a co-worker. “Very sweet. Well-mannered, a delight to have with us. But that mother . . . Ouch. It’s a wonder the daughter is as normal as she is.”

  “Lambs of God. We call ourselves LoGs,” he explains with humor in his voice. “Capital L, lowercase o, capital G, lowercase s. Thomas is super excited. He had his mom drop him off half an hour early. He’s in charge of turning the lights on and off in the hall when we meet. He wanted to be sure the lights were on when Chloe arrived.”