Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

“I like bowling,” I tell him. “We can go bowling again. The lambs can take us.” I liked riding in the van with the lambs. They didn’t look like sheep to me. Lambs are baby sheep. I have a book about farm animals and there’s a picture of sheep. I can’t read, but Mom reads me the book. I wonder if Thomas will read me my book. He says he can read.

  “I c . . . called you on . . . on f . . . fa f . . . phone,” Thomas says. “I wanted to t . . . tell you some . . . somefing.”

  I sit on my bed. “What?”

  He laughs like he doesn’t want to say it. “You’re m . . . my . . . g . . . girlfriend.”

  He told me when we went bowling that he was my boyfriend. I was his girlfriend. I don’t know exactly what that means. On TV it means you kiss on the lips. Huan kisses his girlfriend on the lips at his house when his mom isn’t there. He puts his hand in her shirt. I’m not supposed to tell. Huan is my friend but not my boyfriend.

  I wonder if Thomas wants to kiss me on my lips. When I think about it, I think maybe I want to kiss his lips. That makes me giggle more.

  “Tell your mom,” I tell him. “I’m your girlfriend. Chloe Richards-Monroe is your girlfriend. That’s my name. Chloe Richards-Monroe.”

  “K . . . Koey Richards is my . . . m . . . my girlfriend,” he says.

  I laugh and he laughs and I wish he came to my house. Then we could watch Aladdin on my bed. “You should come watch Aladdin at my house, Thomas. On my bed,” I tell him.

  “Wh . . . what’s Aladdin?” he asks me.

  “The movie, silly head.” I call him silly head and he laughs.

  Then I hear his voice but I don’t hear his words. I think he’s talking to his mom. He calls her mama. Thomas loves his mama. She loves him. But she’s not his girlfriend. Your mom can’t be your girlfriend. He told me when we went bowling.

  “Mama s . . . says I . . . I can’t watch A . . . Aladdin on . . . on your bed. If . . . if I come to . . . to your house, I . . . I have to sit on f . . . fa . . . the c . . . couch. Nice boys sit . . . sit on f . . . fa couch. But not . . . t . . . tonight. She says not . . . not tonight.”

  “Wednesday?” I ask.

  “W . . . Wednesday,” he says. “Now I have . . . have to take . . . a . . . a sh . . . shower.”

  “Bye,” I tell him. Then I push the button on the phone and then I push the button on the iPad. Aladdin comes on again. I hope Thomas will like Aladdin. On Wednesday.

  “So he’s calling her, now?” Jin asks me when I come down the stairs and into the living room, sans phone.

  I nod, taking my seat across from her. I reach for my wine.

  Jin frowns and creases appear on her forehead. “What do they talk about?”

  I can see that, in my absence, she retrieved another bottle of wine from the rack in my kitchen. She’s opened it to let it breathe. She’s had refrigerator rights for years, which have become wine rack rights. Which isn’t a problem because she buys wine for the rack more often than I do. Jin doesn’t like to drink alone.

  I sip my wine. “I don’t know what they talk about. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want me to hear. She closed her door. Suddenly at the age of twenty-five she wants privacy.”

  “You shouldn’t be angry with her.” Jin shrugs a slender shoulder. “It’s only natural.” Her tone is gentle, and I think to myself that she must be a great partner. I feel bad for her that she doesn’t have someone right now. Me, I guess I’m kind of a loner, but Jin likes being half of a couple. I know she doesn’t like being single.

  “I’m not angry,” I argue.

  “And you shouldn’t be hurt, either.”

  I open my mouth to say I’m not hurt, but instead I finish the last of the wine in the bottom of my glass. I am hurt and I don’t know why.

  Again, I feel like a terrible mother. This is what I’ve wanted for Chloe for so long—for her to have a life beyond me. I’ve always wanted her to have friends. So what if it’s a boy? There’s nothing wrong with that. Thomas can be her friend without being her boyfriend. Chloe doesn’t understand what a boyfriend is. I wonder how I can explain it to her.

  Jin pours wine from the new bottle into my glass. “People with Down syndrome have boyfriends and girlfriends, don’t they?” she asks.

  I wonder, not for the first time, if Jin is clairvoyant. I don’t believe in such things, but I wonder how she sometimes knows what I’m thinking. I swirl my wine and watch it swish around the glass, thinking this should be my last one tonight. Otherwise, I’ll have a headache in the morning. “I . . . I don’t know.” I look up at her. “I suppose they do.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” She pours herself more wine. “Chloe loves you. She loves me and Huan. Why couldn’t she love a man?”

  I don’t answer.

  She’s quiet for a moment. The fire pops, and it seems as if the room bursts with the fresh scent of the cherry. I bought a whole cord of cherry wood and had it delivered just before Thanksgiving. It was more expensive than a regular load of mixed hard and soft woods, but it was worth every penny. The smell is glorious.

  “When Chloe was born,” I say slowly, “I was so afraid she would never talk, never tie her own shoes, never be potty trained. I read things like that. People said those things.”

  Jin sits back, tucking her legs under her and pulling the quilt over her legs again. She’s in for the long haul. She’s listening.

  “Do you know that fifty years ago, doctors were still telling parents to institutionalize children born with Down syndrome?” I ask. I draw my finger around the rim of my wineglass. “My pediatrician didn’t say such a thing, of course. He told me that Down syndrome children brought great joy to their parents. He said there was no limit to the possibilities of what Chloe might learn, what she might do.” My eyes fill with tears and I feel silly. I thought I had already shed all the tears I had for Chloe, years ago. “I just want what’s best for her.”

  “She’s not going to be harmed by going to a church youth group or by going bowling with a boy,” Jin says quietly. “He won’t hurt her.” She pauses. “Well . . . he might. But a broken heart is something we all experience at some point in our lives.” Her gaze meets mine. “You have. I have. It’s one of the things that makes us human, Ally.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment; it’s a comfortable silence.

  “And who knows,” Jin continues. “Maybe she’ll fall in love.”

  I smile, close-lipped, and take another sip. The wine is drier than the other bottle and tingles on the tip of my tongue.

  That is what we want for our children, isn’t it? To love and be loved? But I don’t know if Chloe is capable of loving a man in a romantic way. There are so many things she doesn’t understand. Like sarcasm. Like why, after all these years, Randall can still hurt my feelings. “She doesn’t even know what a boyfriend is,” I say dismissively.

  Jin gives me a look.

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Have you talked to her about relationships between men and women? About sex?”

  “Not really. I mean . . . she knows where babies come from. Sort of. She gets the whole period thing.” I reach for my cell phone on the coffee table. I can’t imagine talking about sex with Chloe. It took me almost three years to teach her how to use a tampon. I wouldn’t know where to begin on the subject of sex. I hold up my phone. “No call. No text. From David.” I set the phone down again. “Maybe he’s just super-busy.”

  “Maybe.” Jin sounds hopeful.

  I’m not. This has happened before. It’s why I don’t date much. The losers are the only ones who call back. Guys like David, nice guys . . . they want younger women. Women with fewer responsibilities. Women who are more fun.

  Obviously, there’s nothing I can do about the responsibility part, but I promise myself that the next time a nice guy asks me out, I’ll be more fun.

  Just as soon as I figure out how.

  David doesn’t call or text Sunday, either. But Thomas calls again. Twice. Both times, Chloe takes the phone to a different
room from the one I’m in. She’s so happy that he’s called that I can’t help but be happy for her.

  After she hangs up the second time, I have her bring her dirty laundry from her bedroom to the laundry room. We’re working on learning how to sort lights and darks. I’m hoping she can, eventually, wash her own clothes. Maybe even mine.

  We stand side-by-side. “How’s Thomas?” I ask. “Dark clothes in this basket, light clothes in that one. Whites here.” I indicate three laundry baskets that I’ve lined up on the floor for her.

  The laundry room is on the second floor, next to the bathroom. Originally, it had been a tiny bedroom or parlor or something. When Chloe was a baby, we brought the washer and dryer out of the basement so I could do laundry without having to drag baskets of clothes and Chloe up and down two flights of stairs.

  “He went to church, but no lambs. No lambs today,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She pulls the first item of clothing from her tall wicker basket. It’s a pair of dark blue pants. She throws them in the lights basket.

  I pull them out. “Darks go here.” I toss them into the first basket. “He’s calling often.”

  She looks at me. Blinks. I know that face.

  “Often. A lot. He’s called many times,” I explain.

  She throws a navy blue sock in the middle basket. I pluck it out and drop it on top of her pants. “Darks here, lights here, whites there,” I explain again patiently. I take a pair of dirty jeans from my basket and throw them on top of Chloe’s. Then I toss a pair of khaki pants into the middle basket. “See, lights in the middle.” I grab a pair of white panties next and toss them in the whites basket, just so Chloe has an example in each basket.

  “Thomas called me,” Chloe says proudly. She holds up a dark blue sweatshirt and is about to drop it into the middle basket.

  I guide her hand so it’s over the first basket before she lets go of the sweatshirt. “So . . . what do you talk about, you and Thomas?”

  She smiles, almost shyly. “Thomas likes dogs. He had a dog in his other house, but then they came here. Mar-y-land,” she pronounces carefully. It comes out Mair-we-land. “The dog had to live in another house. Me and Thomas are going to get a dog when we get married.”

  “Thomas and I.” I ignore the married part. “Did you tell him about your cat? About Spots?”

  “He likes dogs. Not cats.” She holds a light blue T-shirt in her arms, debating which basket to put it in.

  I point to the one in the middle.

  The phone rings.

  “Thomas!” Chloe digs into her dirty clothes again and giggles.

  “You just talked to Thomas,” I say. “How many times a day is he going to call?” My tone is teasing and Chloe laughs. Chloe’s always had a sense of humor.

  I walk down the hall to grab the phone from beside my bed. Surprise, surprise, it’s Thomas’s number. “Hello, Thomas,” I say, heading out of my bedroom.

  “Hello?” comes a woman’s voice. “This is Margaret, Thomas’s mother.”

  “Oh, hello, Margaret.” I try not to sound surprised, even though I am. I retrace my steps down the hall to the laundry room. “How are you, Margaret?”

  “We had a lovely morning at church, Thomas and I!” I can hear her smiling and I wonder why I can’t smile all the time like her. I bet if she’d gone out with David, he would have called her back. I bet Margaret is a lot more fun than I am.

  In the laundry room, I find that Chloe has added a black sock to the whites basket. “What can I do for you, Margaret?” I throw the sock in the correct basket. Chloe learns best by watching. I know that if I just keep sorting laundry in front of her, eventually she’ll get it.

  “I was calling about Chloe’s invitation.”

  “Chloe’s invitation?” I realize I’ve just repeated what she said and I feel foolish. I’m an English professor, for heaven’s sake. Where is my command of the English language? I snap out of it. I slide the phone away from my mouth. “Chloe, honey, did you invite Thomas . . . somewhere?”

  Chloe continues to sort clothes: a pink sock in the darks, white panties in the darks, the other pink sock in the whites. What are the odds she would get every single article of clothing wrong?

  “Thomas is coming to watch Aladdin. Not in my bed.” Chloe doesn’t look at me. She stares into the laundry basket at her feet. It’s the way she focuses on a task. “On the couch. Wednesday.”

  “Sorry,” I say into the phone. I’m not sure what Chloe’s talking about concerning her bed and Thomas. “Chloe didn’t tell me she had invited Thomas over. But it’s fine. Not a problem,” I add quickly.

  “Does Wednesday suit?” Margaret asks me. Still smiling. I can hear it in her voice.

  I consider explaining Chloe’s whole Wednesday thing, but Wednesday actually works. If Chloe and Thomas are going to be friends, it only makes sense that she should invite him over. This way, I can get to know him better. And keep an eye on them.

  “That would be great. Will Thomas be at Minnie’s Wednesday afternoon? I could pick them both up after my last class,” I tell Margaret. “I teach at Stone. Four thirty?” I continue. “Thomas is welcome to have dinner with us. They can watch the movie and have dinner and then you could come by and pick him up. Eight, maybe?” It feels so strange to be saying this.

  “I’m sure Thomas would enjoy that!” Margaret says.

  “Great.” I grab the pink socks and peach-colored underwear Chloe has distributed evenly in the three baskets and put them all in the middle basket. “If you don’t mind, just let Minnie know he’ll be coming home with us.”

  “Oh, Thomas can tell her. He’s a big boy, aren’t you, Tommy?”

  “Big b . . . boy,” I hear Thomas repeat. His speech is so gruff and guttural. I wonder if he’s had speech therapy. He sounds so . . . retarded is the only word that comes to mind and I feel my cheeks grow warm. That’s not a word that’s used anymore. Certainly not a word I would use. I’m ashamed of myself. I know better.

  “Well,” I say, feeling awkward. Any time Chloe’s schedule changes, I tell Minnie myself. I can’t imagine relying on Chloe. “We’ll see Thomas . . . and you, Wednesday.”

  “See you then!”

  “Wednesday,” Chloe says, throwing a black T-shirt in the whites basket. “Thomas and me are going to watch Aladdin on Wednesday.”

  She’s grinning from ear to ear.

  7

  Four phone calls from Thomas later, and none from David, not so much as a text, and Thomas is plopped on our couch to watch Aladdin with Chloe. On Wednesday.

  Chloe is standing in front of the TV armoire beside the fireplace. “I can do it,” she tells me, taking the remote from my hand. She points it at the TV and pushes a button with great flourish.

  It took her so long to get dressed this morning that I was late to class. Just like any young girl getting ready to go on a first date, she tried on and discarded multiple outfits, all involving sweatshirts with graphic prints of animals. In the end, she chose a light blue one with a white polar bear on the front.

  I glance at the TV, which is not responding. “You have to tell the TV that you want to use the DVD player,” I tell her patiently.

  Thomas is sitting on the couch in a Mr. Rogers–type navy cardigan; his hair is slicked to one side and glued down with a serious helping of hair gel. Today he’s wearing new wire-framed glasses, which make him seem even older than thirty—information I gleaned from a conversation with Miss Minnie this morning. He moved here with his parents from Ohio three months ago. His father was laid off and found a new job with a local tool and die company.

  Fancy that . . . an intact family with a handicapped child. It’s such a rarity, they should put the Eldens in People magazine or at least give them their own reality show. Mr. Elden certainly wasn’t cut from the same bolt of cloth as Randall. When Randall realized what a challenge raising Chloe would be, he hadn’t been able to run fast enough.

  I taste my bitterness in my mouth and swallow against i
t. This wasn’t who I wanted to be. It was better for Chloe that Randall had gone when he had, before she’d known enough to understand that while he still paid child support, he’d abandoned her. And what kind of life would we have had with him if he’d stayed? Would I have had to be checking his pockets every night for students’ numbers and eavesdropping on his phone calls?

  I’m better off without him, I tell myself. Chloe is better off. I have to believe that, don’t I?

  I look back at Thomas. He’s wiggling in his seat and clasping his hands in his lap, obviously nervous to be here.

  Chloe hits several random buttons on the remote, sending the TV shooting off into a cable television alternate universe. I’m not annoyed that Chloe can’t operate the remote (I had to read the instruction manual myself three times), only that she won’t let me help. We do this dance at least twice a week.

  “You have to hit the little black button on the right. There,” I say, daring to put my finger on the remote in her hand. I step back quickly as she snatches it away from me.

  Chloe holds her tongue between her teeth so that it protrudes from her lips, in obvious concentration. The TV screen changes from scrambled black-and-white images to a screen showing various input options.

  “You have to use the arrow key.”

  “I know!” She glances at Thomas, then back at the TV. “I can do it!” She hits several buttons, none of them the arrow key, and the screen shoots off into space again.

  Now the TV is waiting for instructions from the Wii. We don’t have a Wii.

  “First the black button,” I say quietly.

  She sets her jaw, obviously annoyed with my interference. She hits the black button.

  “Perfect. Now the arrow key.” Again, I reach over and touch it.

  Again, she pulls the remote back, but this time, she hits the arrow key. It only takes her two tries to get it to stop on the correct video input.

  “Now hit the ENTER key,” I say.

  She hesitates.

  I reach over and press the button. The video pops on the TV. “There you go. I’ll be in the dining room grading papers if you need me. There are Cokes in the fridge.” As I walk out of the living room, I catch a quick glimpse of Chloe as she sits down on the couch so close to Thomas that she’s practically in his lap.