Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  As I rise from my chair, looking at him, I realize this is the very first time in my life I’ve ever wanted to say to him that what he did all those years ago was wrong. It’s the first time I’ve ever really admitted it to myself. All these years, I wanted to believe I had been in control . . . that I had teased him, tempted him with my youth and academic aptitude. But the truth is, he took advantage of me. And it was wrong. Somehow, working through this thing with Chloe and Thomas, worrying so much about her being taken advantage of, had made me realize that.

  “Is there going to be something put in my file?”

  “Pardon?”

  I look him eye to eye. “As head of the department, will there be some sort of formal . . . reprimand because I haven’t published, even though it was clear when I was hired that that wasn’t necessary?”

  “No . . . no, of course not,” he huffs, taking a step back. “I simply wanted you to be aware of what was being said.”

  I sit down and pick up my gel pen. “Send the check, Randall.” I slide the student’s paper in front of me and reach for my reading glasses. “If there’s a concern about my lack of publication, have the dean contact me.” I give him a quick smile. “Have a good day, Randall.” And then I lower my gaze and go back to reading a comparison of Keats’s poetry to Shelley’s.

  14

  “I’m so glad you called. Danny said I should call.” Margaret chuckles. “I was going to, but I was nervous.” She looks at me across the table. “About calling.”

  We decided to meet for lunch at a little Tex-Mex place on Main Street. It’s just a five-minute walk from my office. I have a meeting in an hour with a student applying to be my grad assistant next year. I made the date for lunch knowing Thomas and Chloe would be at Minnie’s and knowing I couldn’t stay too long. I suppose I’m as nervous about meeting Margaret alone as she is about meeting me.

  “Why would you be nervous about calling me, Margaret?” I say, taking a chip from the basket on the table between us. “We talk on the phone all the time.” Which is only partially true. We do speak on the phone—about who’s picking Chloe and Thomas up from Minnie’s or when Margaret should come for Thomas—but we don’t talk talk. No one’s feelings or concerns are ever discussed. Nothing more controversial than how late the kids can stay is ever addressed. I dip my chip into the green sauce in a little wooden bowl in front of me.

  Margaret exhales. She’s wearing her hair pulled back tightly at her temples and braided in a single, skinny braid down her back. Her pink sweatshirt says, “Sing to the Lord!” and has musical notes on it. Her skirt has pink and lavender hibiscus flowers on it; I noticed it when she came inside.

  I wait.

  She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “I was nervous about calling because I think it’s time we talked about the kids’ futures.” She folds her hands on the table. “Together.”

  “Their futures together,” I repeat. A little trick I learned from our therapist. He does it all the time. I used to hate it, but I’ve become pretty fond of the conversation technique. It’s a good way for me to delay my own words . . . or feelings.

  She takes a corn chip, but she doesn’t put it in her mouth. “Chloe said she talked to you, but . . .” She stops and starts again. “She wasn’t really sure what your response was.”

  I’m still chewing. “About?” I realize I’m being a jerk. I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s the same thing I came here to talk about, but I’m still avoiding it. I came to talk about this but still, I’m afraid.

  “About them getting married,” Margaret says. She waits for my response. When I don’t answer right away, she says, “Did Chloe talk to you about she and Thomas getting married?”

  I’m tempted to lie. But I came to talk and talk I must. “She mentioned it.” It’s my turn to fold my hands. “Margaret, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to encourage this. I . . . I have concerns.”

  “I think every parent does,” Margaret says gently. “But . . . Chloe and Thomas really love each other.” She nods, surprising me with the sudden firmness in her tone. “And I think it’s time we talk. I think it’s time we consider the kids’ wishes.”

  Realizing what she means, I suddenly feel off balance. Like the world is shifting beneath me.

  I look out the window, half-expecting the street to be tilting at a crazy angle. It’s the first week of April. It’s a mild day and there are students everywhere, enjoying the warmer-than-usual temperature. I recognize a girl from one of my classes. She’s walking with a tall boy who’s wearing a gray knit beanie pulled down over his head, to his eyebrows. They’re holding hands, and I can tell by the way they’re looking at each other that they’re in love. Chloe and Thomas look at each other the same way.

  “I . . . I don’t know if it’s even feasible,” I tell Margaret. “I mean . . . just the logistics. Where would they live? Obviously they can’t have their own apartment.”

  “We’d have to talk about that.”

  No exclamation point. She sounds so calm. I sound calm, but my heart is pounding. I wonder if hers is, too, but I don’t think so. I get the idea from what little I know of Margaret that this is what she wants, what she’s always wanted for Thomas.

  Margaret’s smiling when she looks at me. “I always hoped Thomas would meet a nice girl. Chloe’s such a sweetheart. We already love her like a daughter.”

  “Marriage?” I say. “Marriage?”

  The waitress appears at our table with two oval plates. She puts chicken tacos on a bed of shredded lettuce in front of me and cheese and onion enchiladas with sides of beans and rice in front of Margaret. It’s funny how the mind works. I’m thinking about the absurd idea of Chloe getting married, and at the same time, I’m jealous of a Mexican dish. Margaret’s lunch smells and looks so much better than mine. I can’t imagine how many calories must be in the huge plate of steamy, cheesy gooeyness, but I want it. I wish I’d had the guts to order it.

  Is that the case with Chloe and Thomas, too? Can I not imagine the possibility of Chloe marrying because I don’t have the guts? Is Margaret the smarter person here? Is she the better parent?

  “You really think they want to get married?” I ask.

  “I really do.” Margaret unrolls her silverware from a white paper napkin. “And why shouldn’t they? I mean, honestly? Two people in love, they should marry. It’s what God intended.”

  I don’t know how I feel about the whole what God intends so I skip over that and move on to the more tangible. Margaret doesn’t say anything about mentally challenged people having the same rights as those of average intelligence. Even if she doesn’t recognize Thomas’s shortcomings, surely she knows Chloe’s. You just have to look at Chloe to know she has Down syndrome. But if Margaret isn’t going to go there, I’m not going to go there. Not right now, at least.

  I gingerly pick up one dry taco. “And how does Danny feel about the idea?” I stuff some lettuce inside the hard shell to try and make it more appealing.

  “He’s talked to Thomas and to Chloe. He thinks they understand the seriousness of this kind of commitment.” She chuckles. “Well, as well as any of us do before we actually get married. Heaven knows, I didn’t understand my vows when I made them! Danny was twenty-one. I was twenty.”

  I bite into my taco. My mind is racing. I don’t know what my next move is. I guess I need to go home and Google marriage and Down syndrome. I need to make an appointment with Dr. Tamara. I guess I need to talk to Randall. I almost groan out loud.

  I take another bite of taco.

  Chloe and Thomas married? This is a bad idea. It’s such a bad idea. It’s an impending disaster of catastrophic proportions. Everything in my gut tells me it will be a debacle. But it’s just emotions, feelings. I don’t have substantiating evidence.

  “Alicia, I’m just going to come out and say this, and I hope you won’t be offended.” Margaret holds her fork poised over her plate. It has a piece of soft corn tortilla, a sliver of onion, and long strings of
white cheese hanging off it. “The kids have been together long enough, they’ve been a couple long enough that . . . I think they’re beginning to experience certain feelings. Physical feelings for each other. Which . . . is only natural. It’s what God intended. Within marriage. Which is why I think we need to listen to what they’re saying.”

  I realize halfway through her speech that she’s talking about sex. She’s telling me her son wants to have sex with my daughter. It makes me . . . uncomfortable . . . to think of them naked in bed. To think of them touching each other. I won’t allow my mind to go any further.

  But once again, I admire Margaret. I don’t want to, but I do. I admire her for her guts and for her conviction. Religious or whatever.

  I look at her plate. I admire her for her choice in lunch, too.

  “So, where did you leave it?” Jin asks me.

  It’s Friday night. Chloe went to Thomas’s for dinner after her day at Minnie’s, and I picked her up at eight. She’s in the kitchen making chocolate milk. She’s singing a song from The Princess and the Frog. It’s her new favorite movie. She’s off-key and she can’t remember the words correctly, but she sounds so happy. The happiness in her voice makes me want to cry. I could never make her this happy. It’s Thomas who makes her feel this way, Thomas the big oaf with his glasses that never sit straight on his face and his ridiculous size double-X Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirts . . . and his sweet, lopsided grin.

  “I don’t know where we left it.”

  Jin tucks her bare feet up under her and pours us both large glasses of pinot grigio. She’s wearing one of those crazy sweaters that has the long corners front and back. She’s done some creative thing, tying the front corners and putting the knot at the nape of her neck. I tried one of them on recently in a department store. No matter how I tied it, it looked like a big, bulky, sloppy mess on me.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know where you left it?” Jin asks.

  I fill my cheeks with air and exhale, blowing it out slowly. “I don’t know.” I lower my voice. “Margaret thinks they’re in love.”

  Jin shrugs. “So do I. Don’t you?”

  “Margaret thinks they have certain physical feelings for each other.” I use her words.

  Jin shrugs again. “That’s pretty normal, isn’t it? I mean, Chloe’s twenty-seven. Thomas is, what? Thirty-one? People who are in love want to have sex, Ally.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I say. I take my glass, swirl the wine, and bring the rim to my lips, but I don’t drink. “Margaret thinks they should get married because of these feelings.”

  “She thinks they should get married so they can have sex?”

  I cut my eyes at Jin and then cock my head to indicate Chloe in the kitchen. There’s no way Chloe’s listening, though. She’s singing so loudly that she couldn’t hear us if we were jet engines.

  Jin raises her glass as if in a toast. “Sounds like as good a reason to me as any to get married. Maybe if Abby and I had gotten married when we wanted to have sex, and made that permanent commitment, we’d still be together.”

  “Same-sex marriage wasn’t legal in those days,” I point out.

  Jin frowns. I thought she was going to be on my side on this thing. She isn’t. I can see it in her face. She’s trying to be supportive, but she thinks I’m being overprotective. She thinks I’m keeping Chloe from being as normal as she could be. She thinks I should let my daughter marry that retarded guy. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be me. To be Chloe’s mom. She can’t possibly. Her son’s freakin’ brilliant.

  I sip my wine.

  “You’re angry,” she says.

  “I’m scared.” I dare to look up at her over the rim of my wineglass. “What if she really, really wants to get married, Jin?”

  “What if that’s what will make her really, really happy?”

  “The sheer logistics of a marriage,” I point out, using my best Dr. Richards voice. “Where would they live? How would they live?”

  Dr. Tamara tents his fingers in midair in front of him. “They have plenty of options. The world is changing how it looks on its mentally challenged citizens. There are assisted-living apartments, residential homes—”

  “Absolutely not. Chloe couldn’t function in a place like that. You and I have talked about this before. Chloe belongs with me. I’m her mother. She’ll always live with me.”

  “Long-term, that may not be feasible. As you and I have discussed. Parents grow old,” he continues. “They become ill. They die. But let’s deal with one issue at a time. You don’t think Chloe and Thomas should marry because you don’t know where or how they would live? You just said Chloe belongs with you. There’s no reason why she and her husband couldn’t live with you, is there? Or with his parents?”

  “Chloe wouldn’t like living with the Eldens. You know how she is about her things. About how she likes to keep her bathroom. She’s very fastidious. The Eldens are . . . not as fastidious. I’m not saying their house is dirty or anything, but Chloe likes order.”

  “So maybe they could live with you. Do you think his parents would be open to that option?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Thomas . . . he has rituals. I’m not sure I would know how to accommodate him.”

  “I think you could learn.”

  I look past him, to the bookshelf on the far wall. I’m tired. I’m not sleeping well. I have another forty-two papers to read for my Brit Lit 1789 to the Present class. “It’s not just the living options,” I say.

  “Okay. What are your concerns?”

  I look at him. I’ve got that weird have I fallen down the rabbit hole? feeling. Here, of all places, you wouldn’t think I would have to say this. “My primary concern is that my daughter has Down syndrome. That she is a beautiful, amazing woman who has limitations. Severe limitations that could prevent her from being someone’s wife.”

  “Do you think her cognitive limitations extend to her ability to love and be loved?”

  “Yes!”

  His face never changes . . . which is somehow worse than him negatively reacting to my politically incorrect comment.

  “No,” I say softly. I fiddle with the cuff of my sleeve. “I guess not. I don’t know. Obviously, I don’t know.” I gesture wildly with my hands. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be agonizing over this. She loves me . . . sometimes I think more deeply than I love her. She’s nonjudgmental. She’s kind. She’s giving. She loves so simply that there’s no complications to her love.”

  “Do you think she could be those things with a husband?”

  I avoid eye contact with him. “Certainly. Why not, right?” I raise my hands and let them fall. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that . . .” Dr. Tamara repeats.

  “Marriage is incredibly hard between two people of average intelligence. And you know it.” I say that because I know he’s recently divorced.

  He’s quiet for a moment. I swear, I spend half of our sessions in silence, waiting for him to speak.

  “Do you think your divorce, your inability to remain in your own marriage, is influencing your view on Chloe getting married?”

  “Of course it is!” I hate the sound of my voice: tense, exasperated, barely in control of my emotions. “Of course my failed marriage makes me question Chloe’s ability to have a successful marriage,” I say, taking my volume down a notch. “Randall and I were two smart, independent people who didn’t have to be reminded to use toilet paper. We loved each other. At least to begin with. And still, we couldn’t make it work.”

  “Chloe and Thomas lead a simpler life. One I think we all envy sometimes. I know I do,” he says. “What if they’re better suited to marriage than we are?”

  I think on that for a moment and then look at him with his perfectly creased trousers and skinny wrists. “I talked to Randall yesterday about this. Briefly.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . he says that he thinks Chloe is much happier since she met Thomas. When they
meet for dinner on Tuesdays, Thomas is all she talks about now, apparently. Randall thinks we have no choice but to let her get married if she wants to.” I think about the conversation we had in the hall outside his office. “He and his wife have separated.”

  “Have they?” He subtly checks the big clock on the wall behind me. “And how do you feel about that?”

  “How do I feel? Honestly, I don’t care. Not a bit. I feel . . . absolutely nothing.”

  “No sense of satisfaction? Maybe just the tiniest bit? Because you said this marriage wouldn’t last.”

  “Nothing,” I repeat. “I feel absolutely nothing. I’ve got all of my feelings wrapped up in Chloe. I’ve got nothing left for Randall.”

  Again, the silence.

  I think, then I speak again. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. When I was talking to Randall yesterday, I found myself . . . feeling sorry for him.”

  “Did you? And what do you think prompted that response?” Dr. Tamara tents his fingers again, and I wonder if he learned that in one of the recent conferences he attended. It’s a new gesture. He’s given up tugging on his earlobe and replaced it with this finger-tenting thing. I can’t decide which one annoys me more.

  “I don’t want to talk about Randall or how I feel about him or the fact that he’s ruined another marriage with his infidelities,” I say, with no maliciousness in my voice. “I want to talk about Chloe. About what I should do about her wanting to marry Thomas.” I hold up my hand. “And I know we don’t usually do things this way, but Anthony, I need you to tell me what to do. I don’t want to talk it through, think it through, I don’t want to do any more Internet research.” I find myself striking my palm with my fist. “I just want someone to tell me what to do. Do I let Chloe marry Thomas?”