Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  I know I must be looking at him like a kid looks at her father. There’s an almost pathetic tone to my voice. “Just tell me what to do,” I repeat softly.

  Dr. Tamara smiles. “You know I can’t do that, Alicia.”

  I sit there and stare at him . . . until he starts to look uncomfortable. It’s like we’re playing some kind of bizarre game of Chicken.

  He tents his fingers. “Let’s bring Chloe in and see what she has to say. Shall we?”

  We don’t get cheeseburgers and fries on our way home from Dr. Tamara’s. I want cheeseburgers and fries. Mom says it’s not good healthy. I’m mad at Mom.

  I wouldn’t get in the front of the car. In my seat. I got in back because I don’t want to look at her mean, stupid head.

  I’m really mad. I kick the back of the seat.

  Mom told Dr. Tamara I love Thomas. I’m mad she told. I don’t like Dr. Tamara. I don’t like his nosy head questions. He’s always asking me stupid things. I want to tell him to mind his own bead-wax.

  “Chloe, please don’t kick the seat,” Mom says.

  I stop because I don’t want to make her more mad.

  I want to make Mom more happy. I wonder why she doesn’t want to make me happy. I love Thomas. If she let me and Thomas get married, I’d be real happy.

  15

  I didn’t say yes right away. I told Chloe that maybe she could get married. Someday. I told her it was too soon to decide. That she and Thomas had only been dating a year. But the months passed too quickly. One minute it was January and Thomas and Chloe were blowing out candles on their anniversary cake, the next, it was mid-August. My classes would be starting again soon and Chloe and Thomas had been together a year and a half.

  I took them to the zoo in Washington, D.C., as sort of an “end of the summer” outing. We drove to the New Carrollton Metro station and took the train in. Thomas was very excited. He’d never been on a subway train.

  “Sit next to me! Sit here,” Chloe insists as we board the Metro car. She has a new tube of lip balm, cherry flavored, and she’s rubbing it on her lips.

  An end-of-the-line station, it’s a good place for Thomas’s first exposure because we had a few minutes to get settled before the train moved. Like Chloe, Thomas is slow to adjust to new experiences, even ones he’s looking forward to. Luckily, Chloe has been on the Metro several times a year since she was six or seven, so she’s a veteran. She knows how to insert her ticket and walk through the turnstile, and she’s an ace on the escalator.

  Chloe plops down in a window seat and slaps the seat beside her. “Sit here, Thomas. Mom, you sit there.” She points to the seat behind her. It’s that way with her now. I’ve been permanently downgraded to the backseat of her life.

  “H . . . here?” Thomas asks.

  A young couple squeezes past him in the aisle.

  “Sit here, Thomas,” Chloe repeats with authority. She points with her tube of lip balm to my designated seat. “Mom!”

  “Who put you in charge, Miss Bossy?” I ask, sitting down.

  “Who p . . . put you in ch . . . ch . . . charge, Miss B . . . Bossy?” Thomas repeats in his gruff, guttural voice.

  A woman with two little boys who had taken seats opposite us stares at Thomas and protectively pulls her youngest son onto her lap. She tugs at the other boy’s hand.

  “Thomas?” I say.

  He looks at me and I press my finger to my lips.

  “Too loud, Thomas,” Chloe insists. “Inside voice!”

  Thomas hovers over the seat beside Chloe, but doesn’t sit. She pulls him closer so he’s no longer in the aisle, but he just stands there. He’s wearing a floppy, orange bucket hat. It’s going to be a hot day, so it was good that Margaret sent him with a hat, but I can’t help wondering if it wouldn’t have been better for him to have a hat that would help him blend in. He’s already different from most young men his age; does she have to exacerbate the problem by making him look so different, too?

  I’ve always taken such care to help Chloe look like other girls her age. I know I can’t hide the classic physical characteristics of Down’s: the eye folds, the round face, the small ears. I don’t even know that I want to. But I still think it’s important that I dress her the way I would dress a daughter of average intelligence. Of course, at her age, what girl is still allowing her mother to lay her clothes out on the bed in the morning? I guess it’s the principle of the thing.

  Thomas is also wearing a green Thomas the Tank Engine tank top, the kind with the big armholes . . . and plaid orange and purple shorts. I had learned from Chloe that the reason Thomas has so many Thomas shirts (I couldn’t imagine who made them in his size) is that his mother made them for him from plain T-shirts and some sort of iron-on graphic kit from the craft store. Thomas has put on weight since we met him, so between his height and his girth and the outfit, it’s hard for people to not stare at him.

  But who am I to judge his mother’s fashion choices?

  I glance at my daughter, who has Thomas’s hand and is pulling him down, making him sit. I laid out a cute pair of navy shorts, sandals, and a blue and white spaghetti-strapped top for Chloe. She put on the shorts, but is wearing an old Ohio State T-shirt that belongs to Thomas. Margaret gave it to her to wear one day when Chloe spilled Coke all over her own shirt. It’s huge on her and goes past her knees. This is the third day in a row she’s worn it. Without washing it. There’s a red Popsicle stain on the front and it doesn’t smell all that fresh, but I couldn’t get her to give it up this morning. Eventually, I gave in because we were going to be late picking up Thomas. Her only concession had been to wear the tank top under it. Maybe if she gets hot enough, she’ll take it off and I can stuff it in my backpack. Then, at least, I can wash it before I give it back to her.

  What’s disturbing about the whole T-shirt thing, more disturbing than the Popsicle stain, is the reason Chloe gave me for not wanting it washed.

  “Mom! It smells like Thomas,” she told me last night when I tried to get her to surrender it.

  She’d rubbed her cheek against the sleeve. “It smells good. Like Thomas,” she’d said.

  All the logic in the world couldn’t change the fact that my daughter really was in love with this man. And they were still talking about getting married. Margaret had been good. She hadn’t called any more powwows on the subject, but she’d mentioned it a couple of times over the last few months. She’d also made a point of suggesting the kids shouldn’t be left alone. She said that she or her husband had always made sure their daughters had chaperones when they were dating and the same rules applied to Thomas. It wasn’t like Thomas and Chloe were driving to the movie theater and making out in the car. But I agreed they would be chaperoned at my house. From what Chloe had to say, the Eldens were far more vigilant than I was, though. I never left the property, of course, but I did work in the yard, talk on the phone, even pop over to see Jin sometimes.

  Things were heating up with her and Abby. Huan caught them having lunch together in Chestertown. There was talk of giving it another try, so there was always something interesting going on at Jin’s. I think I’m beginning to live vicariously through her love life. The fact that her partner is a woman doesn’t matter to me. I like hearing about the romantic dinners, about the little gifts they give each other, about the late-night phone calls that go on for hours. I’ve been on exactly three dates this summer. In two of the cases, I told the guy not to bother to call me. The one guy I wanted to see again, promised to call and never did.

  The train pulls away from the station with a lurch and Thomas and Chloe clutch each other and burst out laughing. He leans down and touches her nose with his. “B . . . baby,” he croons.

  “My honey,” she responds, her voice all gooey and sweet.

  “N . . . knock, knock,” Thomas says.

  “Who’s there?” Chloe responds diligently. No matter how many knock-knock jokes he tells in a day, she still plays along. This is the fourth I’ve heard since we picked
him up at his house this morning.

  “Chugga, ch . . . chugga.”

  “That’s not words,” Chloe argues.

  “Ch . . . chugga, chugga,” Thomas repeats. “Y . . . you h . . . have to s . . . say ‘ch . . . chugga, chugga, wh . . . who’!”

  Chloe makes a face. “Chugga, chugga who?”

  “N . . . knock, n . . . knock,” he says again.

  “Who’s there?” Chloe repeats again.

  “Ch . . . chugga s . . . says the . . . t . . . tank t . . . train engine!” Thomas laughs.

  Chloe looks out the window. “No more knock-knock, Thomas. Look out the window, now.”

  He does as he’s told and I look away from them. I watch out the window as we pick up speed and the suburbs of D.C. whiz by. Seeing Chloe and Thomas this way makes me smile, but it makes me sad, too. I can’t say I’m jealous of Chloe. There’s no animosity. I guess I’m just sad that I have no one in my life to make me feel the way Thomas makes her feel.

  Is that jealousy?

  Seeing them like this also worries me. No matter how badly I wanted to ignore the idea of them marrying . . . it isn’t going away. Thomas isn’t going anywhere.

  We have a good day at the zoo; no temper tantrums from Chloe, no accidents with Thomas. (He carries a spare pair of underwear and shorts with him, just in case he gets excited and waits too long to go.) Chloe and Thomas seem to have a blast. They aren’t at all interested in seeing the reptiles or the birds, or even the panda bears, but Chloe is fascinated by the big cats and Thomas could watch the howler monkeys all day long. One howls and he imitates the sound, which delights my daughter so much that he does it over and over again. And again.

  “I . . . I’m g . . . gonna have a . . . a m . . . monkey . . . when we . . . we get our h . . . h . . . house,” he keeps telling Chloe.

  “No monkey!” she tells him. “Monkeys live in the cage. Monkeys don’t live in the house.”

  We check out the monkeys for a while, then the big cats, then we go back to the monkey habitat again. Then we repeat the cycle after lunch. Mid-afternoon, it occurs to me that I should have brought a book. I could have just sat on a bench and read in the shade while they watched the lions or the monkeys.

  It seems like it’s going to be a calm, uneventful day. Then I make the mistake of leaving Chloe and Thomas in a long line to get Italian ices while I run to the restroom. My fifty-plus-year-old bladder just isn’t what it used to be. When I return, I find passersby and people in line staring and pointing at my charges. They’re kissing in full view of everyone, and we’re not talking a peck on the cheek.

  “Chloe!” I holler, wiping my wet hands on my shorts as I hurry toward them. “Chloe Mae Richards-Monroe!” When I reach them, they’re still lip-locked. I’m pretty sure there’s tongue involved. “That’s inappropriate,” I hiss as I grab her by the wrist. I know my face is bright red because I can feel the heat in my cheeks.

  I pull her out of line and march her away. “Thomas!” I call.

  “I w . . . want ice c . . . cream,” Thomas hollers, following us.

  “There’s no kissing in public,” I tell Chloe, leading her away from the Italian ice vendor, looking for a more private place where we can speak. And maybe can’t be seen by everyone who caught a glimpse of a possibly R-rated show. “We talked about this, Chloe.”

  I find myself shaking.

  I think part of the reason I’m upset is that people weren’t just watching, they were laughing. They were snickering; they were making fun of the retards snogging. I’m almost positive I heard someone whisper the word mongoloid.

  My baby. Someone was making fun of my sweet, darling baby.

  You think we live in a modern society, that we’re beyond making fun of people with mental disabilities. As an academic, I tell myself all the time that Americans are thinkers, that we’re beyond such crap. I come to mankind’s defense far more often than I should.

  I’m surprised by the tears that sting my eyelids.

  “K . . . Koey!” Thomas’s backpack has come off one shoulder and is dangling off his elbow. “I w . . . w . . . want ice c . . . cream!”

  I grab Thomas’s arm, too, and march them farther down the paved path. “Listen to me,” I say as I pull them off a path to stand under the canopy of a shade tree.

  But neither will. Thomas is still mumbling about wanting ice cream, and Chloe is trying to make him stand closer to her. When he doesn’t move his feet quickly enough to satisfy her, she starts talking under her breath.

  “Here, Thomas, here. I tell you stand here. Here.”

  “Thomas, Chloe, look at me,” I say.

  I can tell Chloe knows she’s in trouble. She starts wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. As if she can wipe away what she did . . . what she was letting Thomas do.

  I get control of my emotions. “Thomas, do your mother and father kiss like that in front of other people?”

  He stares at me. Blinks. I think he’s a little scared of me, which isn’t my intention.

  I look at Chloe, softening my tone. “Do Mr. and Mrs. Elden kiss in church in front of people?”

  Chloe shakes her head no.

  “They do not,” I say. “It’s not appropriate. Kissing is something private between a man and a woman.”

  Chloe is looking at me, but Thomas seems distracted. He’s rubbing his lips together.

  “Mrs. Elden says no kissing when we watch a movie,” Chloe says. “In the living room.”

  I nod. “Okay, that’s a rule in her house. A rule for when you’re with her. My rule is no kissing while you’re waiting to buy Italian ice. No kissing in front of other people. It makes people uncomfortable, Chloe.”

  “You . . . you t . . . taste good, K . . . Koey. L . . . like s . . . strawberries!” Thomas blurts out.

  “Not strawberries. Cherries,” she insists. She pulls her ChapStick out of the pocket of her shorts. “See?”

  I catch her hand, taking the tube of lip balm. “Chloe, I need you to listen to me.”

  She slowly turns her head until she’s looking at me. “No kissing,” she says, with obvious resentment in her voice.

  “Where did you learn that?” I ask, unable to help myself. I hand her back the ChapStick. “Who taught you to kiss that way?”

  “No kissing in the living room,” Chloe says. “No kissing at the zoo. No kissing at the bowling alley. No kissing at Miss Minnie’s.” She sets her chin the way she does when she’s about to become obstinate. “When is the kissing?”

  Her question . . . her ability to extrapolate to the point of being able to ask the question floors me.

  Chloe’s gaze meets mine. “When can I kiss Thomas?” she repeats stubbornly.

  I think I knew then that I would cave. I think I knew then that I had lost my battle.

  That night, Chloe sealed the deal. It was late. We were both sunburned and tired and she’d gone to bed while I was still downstairs responding to a few student e-mails. When I walked upstairs, shutting off lights as I went, I thought I heard her cat crying.

  “Kitty, kitty?” I call. “Kitty?”

  At the top of the stairs, I realize the sound I’m hearing is coming from behind Chloe’s door. It isn’t the cat crying. It’s Chloe. I knock and go in. It’s dark in her room, except for the band of light that shines from the bottom of the lamp on her nightstand—a nightlight for an adult.

  “Chloe . . . honey?”

  She sniffles. “Leave.”

  I hesitate. Do I respect her request for privacy? I take a step toward her and step on one of her sandals. She undressed just inside her door, leaving her shoes and clothes to lie where they hit the floor.

  “Want to talk?”

  She takes a great, shuddering breath.

  “Didn’t you have a good day at the zoo, sweetie? I had a good day.” I walk to her bed and look at her.

  Chloe’s curled on her side, hugging one of her pillows. She’s still wearing Thomas’s dirty T-shirt. Her hair is a mess, some of it stil
l in the elastic of her ponytail, but most of it sticking out all over the place. I smell her cherry lip balm as I cautiously ease myself onto her bed. And the suntan lotion I slathered all over her this morning. She has fair skin; she burns easily. Like her mother.

  “Can you tell me?” I ask, unable to resist brushing a lock of red hair off her cheek.

  She takes another ragged breath. “I miss him.”

  I pluck a tissue from the box on her nightstand. There’s enough light coming from the lamp that I can see her cheeks are wet with tears.

  “You miss . . . Thomas?” I ask.

  That night, I remember that her pain felt so strong that I imagined a crack slowly making its way across my heart. That was before I understood what it truly meant to be heartsick. What the cold seizing of my heart would feel like.

  “I . . . I miss him,” she moans. And fresh tears run down her cheeks.

  “Oh Chloe,” I murmur, closing my arms around her. I rest my cheek on her shoulder and breathe deeply, remembering what it felt like to hold her in my arms when she was a child.

  “My arms miss him,” she cries, clutching the pillow. “They hurt.”

  I feel like my heart is lodged in my throat. “You really do love him, don’t you?”

  She nods.

  “And you want to marry him?”

  “Married means you . . . you can sleep together,” she manages. “And kiss,” she adds. She hiccups. “Right? If we get married, we can kiss. Like Ariel and Eric? In the end of the movie?”

  I close my eyes and remember the final kiss in The Little Mermaid . It’s a wedding scene. My girl knows her Disney. “Yes, you can kiss when you get married,” I say softly. “But only in your room. No kissing at the zoo, okay?”

  She snuggles against me. “No kissing at the zoo.”

  And for the briefest moment, we’re both content.

  16

  The night I agreed that Chloe could marry Thomas was certainly a significant moment in my life. That one, I felt when it hit. For a second, I’m alone at Chloe’s window, in the present, my fingers on her fingerprints on the cold pane of glass.