Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

  I’m wearing my new black boots that I cleaned up the night before, and a calf-length skirt. The boots, even with their small heels, somehow make me feel stronger. More powerful. They gave me the confidence I needed to march down the hall this morning to Randall’s office.

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  “I have class in an hour. I have papers to grade.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense this morning. You and I both know your TAs grade your papers, Randall. I wouldn’t imagine you’ve actually read a student’s paper in years.” I step up behind him as he slips his key in the door. “So I don’t want to hear your excuses. I need to talk to you about Chloe.”

  He unlocks the door and walks in, briefcase in hand. It’s not until he sheds his coat and sits down behind the big cherry desk that I get a good look at his face. I’m startled by the unexpected realization that Randall is looking older these days. For years, the gray in his beard and dark brown hair was distinguishing, but now . . . it just makes him look old. He turned sixty-six in January. The sixties are supposed to be the new fifties, but Randall’s not going to be a poster child for the idea.

  I frown, sliding his cup of coffee across the desk toward him. “Are you all right, Randall? You look . . . tired.”

  He rubs his temples. “Things at home . . . there have been . . . some . . . difficulties.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. It’s perfect: just the right temperature, just the right sweetness and creaminess. “The usual cycles in a marriage, or difficulties like you’re cheating on your wife with one of your students and she caught you?” I ask.

  Randall looks up. “Alicia, that’s uncalled for,” he deadpans. “I think you should look into seeing a therapist. It’s unhealthy to still be carrying so much anger after all these years.”

  I exhale. “I see a therapist.”

  “You see a family therapist. For you and Chloe.” As he speaks, he moves objects around on his desk. Randall has some OCD tendencies. I’m sure he arranged his letter opener, day diary, and leather cup of pencils last night before he left the office, but now, he moves them out of place and then back into place. Jin insists we all develop small neuroses with age, but Randall’s had his for years. “I mean for yourself,” he says.

  I think about reminding him that I have a right to my deep-seated anger, as do wives number one and three. He cheated on Elaine with me, then on me with Ann, and then on Ann with Kelly; we were all grad students. But I didn’t come here to point out his shortcomings . . . or have him point out mine. I came here to talk about Chloe.

  “Chloe’s met a young man.”

  Randall looks at me for the first time this morning. “Has she now?” He reaches for the coffee I set on his desk. “A mentally challenged young man?”

  “No, Randall,” I say tartly. “A brain surgeon has asked our daughter out.”

  His bushy eyebrows with their little gray spiky hairs knit together, and he takes a sip of the coffee. He used to tweeze them; he needs to tweeze them.

  I exhale, taking one of the two leather chairs positioned just so in front of his desk. I don’t usually sit in his office when he’s sitting because I feel like I have an edge with him if I remain standing. Today that doesn’t seem all that important. I’m not here to win an argument. I’m here because I genuinely want to hear what he thinks. And I know it’s my duty as Chloe’s mother to give her father’s input some consideration.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. That was definitely expressing deeply seated anger I still hold for you.” I take another sip of coffee. “Chloe met a young man at Minnie’s. Thomas is new. He moved here from Ohio with his family. He doesn’t have Down’s. I think he falls under the general retardation category. Chloe really likes him.”

  “How nice for Chloe.”

  “She didn’t mention him to you?”

  They’ve had three Chick-fil-A outings since she first met Thomas. I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything to her father. At the grocery store the night before, she told the woman passing out samples of cheese all about Thomas and the Thomas the Tank Engine socks he had worn to Minnie’s that day.

  Randall smiles, but it’s not a real smile. It’s tight at the corners of his lips. A perfunctory smile. “I’m so pleased Chloe’s found a friend. Aren’t you’re happy for her, Alicia? I know she’s been hoping to make friends.”

  “I’m afraid he’s more than a friend. They locked themselves in the bathroom at Minnie’s and were making out. Chloe decided it should be a secret, because she knew I’d be angry if I found out.”

  “You do appear to be angry,” Randall points out. The making out part doesn’t seem to have registered.

  I’m tempted to take his coffee back. “You’re missing the point, Randall. I’m concerned. If this boy could convince Chloe that kissing is okay, who knows what could be next?”

  “But you said it was Chloe’s idea to keep the incident a secret. Maybe the kissing was Chloe’s idea, as well.”

  I set my coffee on his desk. “Randall, I don’t care whose idea it was. My concern is that Chloe is locking herself in the bathroom and kissing this man. My concern is that she might allow inappropriate touching.”

  “What does the therapist say?”

  “We have an appointment Friday.”

  He sets his coffee on his desk and tents his fingers, letting a long pause settle between us. Randall does this—pauses for long periods of time. He thinks it makes him appear more cerebral. There was a time when I thought it did. Now it just annoys the crap out of me.

  But I play his game. I wait.

  “Alicia, it’s only natural that Chloe be exploring her sexuality at this point in her life. She’s a young woman with dreams and desires like all women her age. You were married and had a child by the time you were twenty-six.”

  “She has an IQ of 48, Randall.” I’m getting loud. There’s no point in getting loud. There was probably no point in coming here or wasting my money on his cup of coffee, either. I know Randall will have no advice to give me. He never does. I take another sip of coffee.

  He waits to respond. “Can you tell me your concerns in relation to Chloe’s awakening sexuality?”

  I look up at him. “I’m concerned that your daughter doesn’t understand what kissing means or where these feelings she has might lead.”

  “Have you talked to her about sex?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to her about . . . sex, Randall. She can’t put batteries in a flashlight; she can’t remember the difference between red and yellow. She still calls your wife by your previous wife’s name.”

  “I think she does that on purpose,” he says.

  I almost laugh out loud. She probably does. “You understand what I’m saying. You know Chloe. I think sexuality is a subject beyond her comprehension.”

  He adjusts the lid on his coffee. “And I disagree. I think you should talk with her therapist first, but I think we need to accept that our daughter is maturing and she needs to be taught the aspects of adult sexuality.”

  “So, when are you going to explain to your daughter the finer points of male genitalia in relationship to her female genitalia? When are you going to tell her where Thomas would like to put his penis?”

  Randall closes his eyes, then opens them, looking at me as if I’m an idiot for even suggesting such a thing. I wish he’d holler. Maybe throw something. But Randall never loses control. Ever. This is his way of demeaning us, demoralizing us, his women. It’s his way of raising himself high on a pedestal above us.

  I get to my feet. “I didn’t think so.” I make it all the way to his door before he speaks.

  “You’re too controlling,” he says, in his stuffy voice from behind his stuffy desk. “You’re not allowing her to grow up. You’re not allowing her to spread her wings.”

  “That’s not it.” I defend myself, turning to face him. “I want her to be happy. I’m willing to let her spread her wing
s,” I say. “But it’s my job, Randall, to make sure she doesn’t fly too close to the sun.” I walk out the door, leaving Randall to contemplate my reference to Icarus.

  But in my haste to make my literary exit, I leave my coffee, too.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Dr. Tamara,” I say, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair. “But I think I have encouraged Chloe’s independence. She’s attending the church group on Saturdays. That’s a big step . . . for both of us.”

  “But, Alicia, you’re sitting in the parking lot.”

  I study him for a moment. Dr. Anthony Tamara is a small, slender man with dark hair and serious eyes behind wire-framed glasses. He has skinny wrists. I don’t know why, but they’ve always annoyed me. I don’t like men with skinny wrists.

  Dr. Tamara reminds me of a male version of Dr. Malfi, the psychiatrist on The Sopranos. I can’t decide if Jennifer Malfi is just one of the few other psychiatrists I know, or if it’s the Italian psychiatrist connection. Although, technically, Dr. Tamara isn’t a psychiatrist; he has a doctorate in family psychology, specializing in parents of special needs children. I’m not sure Dr. Tamara has been all that helpful over the years, but Chloe and I have visited him monthly because I felt it was the right thing for me to do. It was my duty, as a parent, to see that Chloe got counseling.

  Chloe’s out in the waiting room; the receptionist is keeping an eye on her. I can hear Chloe singing. I brought my iPad for her to watch a movie because I knew Dr. Tamara would want to see me alone. Chloe’s using earbuds, but she forgets that just because the receptionist can’t hear The Lion King, that doesn’t mean Mrs. Marples can’t hear Chloe singing “Hakuna Matata.”

  “Alicia?” Dr. Tamara says. “Do you think you’re truly offering Chloe independence when you drop her off at the church and then follow the van she’s riding in to the arcade?”

  “My job, as her mother”—I touch my hand to my heart—“is to protect Chloe. My most important job, as her mother, as the one who brought her into this world, is to keep her safe.”

  “You said yourself that the pastor and the volunteers at the church have experience with mentally challenged young adults. Didn’t you?”

  I nod. “True.”

  “So why not let them have the responsibility for Chloe’s safety for a few hours . . . the way you do with Minnie?”

  I look at my nails. “And you think I should let her go to Thomas’s house alone, too?”

  “I think that if her relationship with Thomas continues to progress, that would be the next logical step. You said Margaret gave you no reason to believe she would put Chloe’s safety at risk.”

  I clench my hands into fists and slowly relax them. “This just goes against everything I’ve done all these years. I’ve kept her close to me to protect her.”

  “And perhaps to protect yourself?”

  I look at him.

  “You don’t have time for a relationship because work and Chloe take up all of your time.”

  “I have a relationship with Jin,” I defend. “An excellent relationship.”

  “I meant a romantic relationship.”

  I think about the online dating idea. I would like to find a nice guy, just to have someone to go to the movies with. To have someone who cares about me . . . who wants to spend time with me. Is it really time to try it? “How am I using Chloe as a way to keep from having a relationship with a man?”

  “You tell me.”

  I groan. I hate this about therapy. I don’t want to come up with my own conclusions. I want him to tell me what to do! Just once, I don’t want to make all the life-and-death decisions by myself. Okay, so maybe whether or not to let Chloe go for pizza without me isn’t a life-or-death decision, but it certainly feels that way.

  I look at Dr. Tamara. “I spend so much time, so much energy on Chloe that I don’t have time for a romantic relationship,” I say.

  He smiles. “Maybe it’s time for both of you to have a boyfriend.”

  Again I groan. I look away. “You don’t have children,” I say. “You don’t understand what this is like. To know she’ll never be able to live alone. Know she should never even cross the street alone.”

  “I think I do understand. I see many families like yours, Alicia. Dealing with the same issues.”

  I look back at him. “You think I’m being overprotective. You think I should let Chloe date.”

  “I think that if she has the desire, she might have the ability. I think you should let her explore relationships with people beyond you, her father, and Jin. I think you can help her find the tools to be able to have a relationship with Thomas. With other men.”

  Other men? There will be others? I don’t want to contemplate that idea for even a second. Thomas is enough to worry about.

  “The mentally challenged are doing far more, becoming far more than what we thought possible in previous generations. The mentally challenged are holding down jobs, dating, living independently or semi-independently, even having families,” he goes on. “There’s no reason why they can’t do what those of average mentality can do. They just have to do it differently. They just need the support and guidance of their loved ones.”

  I feel as if my brain is about to explode. I can’t think about this anymore. Not today.

  “So my advice to you,” Dr. Tamara is saying as I try to listen again, “is to talk to Chloe about acceptable and unacceptable behavior in public. And about private time. About what’s appropriate when she and Thomas are alone.”

  “You mean talk to her about sex?”

  “If and when you think it’s appropriate.”

  I don’t want to think about Thomas touching Chloe intimately. I can’t. “I have strong feelings about sex between unmarried couples,” I say. And that’s true. Sort of. If I hadn’t had sex with Randall while he was still married to Elaine, I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant by a married man, then I wouldn’t have had the abortion. I’d say that’s a pretty good argument against sex outside of marriage.

  “Then tell Chloe that,” he says. “But really, ultimately, sex is a personal decision. You and I have the right to decide how we’ll share our bodies . . . and so does Chloe.”

  Suddenly I feel exhausted. Depleted. I really can’t think about this anymore. Not today. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say, getting to my feet.

  “I know it’s overwhelming, but give yourself some time. Give Chloe some time. Treat her as you would any young girl in her first relationship. There’s no reason there can’t be boundaries. I’m not saying there shouldn’t be. I’m just saying it’s time that you consider the idea that Chloe is growing up . . . to be the beautiful, amazing woman you always wanted her to be.”

  I nod because I’m not sure I have any words left in me today. Between the conversation with Randall, and the conversation with my co-worker’s sister, who works in an adult living facility for mentally handicapped adults (she proceeded to tell me that the residents did better when they had a special someone), and now Dr. Tamara, I’m just talked out. I’m reasoned out. And I’m certainly emotionally wrung out.

  “If you’d like to schedule some extra sessions, to get you and Chloe over this bump in the road,” Dr. Tamara says, rising to his feet to walk me to the door, “just let Jeanie know. And Alicia . . .” He rests his hand on my shoulder.

  I look at his skinny wrist.

  “Relax,” he says.

  11

  Relax. Relax. That’s what I keep telling myself. I try to relax. Friday night, Chloe and I make cookies from scratch: chocolate chip. Very relaxing. We talk about her upcoming birthday. We talk a little bit about the word intimacy. The talk goes better than I expect, although there’s a lot of giggling on her part. I don’t bring up any of the physical aspects of a relationship between a man and a woman, beyond kissing, but we do talk about the word appropriate and what it means. I explain to her that it’s not appropriate for her and Thomas to kiss in Minnie’s bathro
om. I’m not sure that she understands what I’m trying to tell her, but at least she agrees to not do it anymore.

  And I relax a little. Maybe Chloe’s relationship with Thomas is going to be a good thing. Maybe I really can relax, as Dr. Tamara suggested.

  I’m reading on the couch in my pajamas Saturday night when my cell phone rings, startling me. It’s nine thirty-five. Jin. Abby was supposed to be coming for their mysterious talk, then Abby had to postpone, at the last minute. I’d assumed Jin and I would have our standing date, but then she said she had a thing, so she’d go to that. I assumed it was an art thing. She’s always attending some art thing: a show, a cocktail party, a meet-and-greet the artist.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone.

  “Ally?”

  She sounds like she’s crying. I sit up and all the relaxation evaporates from my body. Her art things didn’t usually involve crying. “You okay?”

  I hear a sniffle. She’s definitely crying. “I think she’s getting married.”

  I almost ask who? Luckily, I catch myself. I get up off the couch and begin to pace in front of the fireplace. “Wait. Abby told you she’s getting married? I thought you weren’t seeing her tonight.” I grip my phone. “Does Huan know?”

  “Abby was so nice when she called. She said she had been so looking forward to seeing me.” Jin was talking fast . . . and beginning to cry again. “She said she was sorry she had to postpone our date . . . not a date. You know what I mean.”

  “Jin, where are you?”

  She takes a shuddering breath. “Abby’s.”

  I can feel the frown lines on my forehead tighten. “She’s with you?”

  “No. I’m in my car sitting in front of Abby’s house. She . . . she’s inside. With . . . with her.”

  “With the ex?” I ask.

  “Elise,” Jin says bitterly. “Huan never liked her. She was snarky with him behind Abby’s back, but then all sweet and nice in front of her. Oh Ally, what am I going to do? She can’t marry her.” Now she’s sobbing. “She can’t marry that snarky woman.”