Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  “This is Aladdin,” she tells him. “You’ll like Aladdin.”

  “I l . . . like Aladdin,” he echoes.

  It’s an early indication of how their relationship will develop. In the coming weeks and months I learn that Chloe likes bossing people around. She’s always had it in her, apparently. She’d finally found someone she could boss. And, Thomas, it seems, likes being bossed around.

  “Pretzels on the counter,” I call as I walk into the dining room.

  “Thanks!” Chloe hollers, only it comes out more like “fanks.” Diphthongs are tricky.

  “F . . . fanks, D . . . Dr. Richards!” Thomas repeats in his guttural tone.

  I sit down at the end of the dining room table and look at the piles of students’ papers. I’ve got hours of grading to do; I reach for my reading glasses but on impulse, I pick up my cell phone . . . just in case David called.

  I check the screen. He hasn’t. Maybe his cell self-destructed and he lost all his numbers. Right. And maybe the tooth fairy will bring me a new car tomorrow, one without transmission problems.

  I hold the phone in my hand. Chloe’s singing the first words of the opening song of Aladdin. I know the words by heart. I know all the Disney songs.

  “Oh, I come from a land, from a faraway place,” Chloe is singing at the top of her lungs. She can’t carry a tune, but she doesn’t care. She sings her heart out. My Chloe, with her intellectual disabilities, is bold in ways I never will be. She enjoys life in ways I don’t seem to be able to. She takes chances. Thomas is a perfect example.

  I look at the phone again. Then think to myself, What the hell? Why not?

  I dial David. I expect to get his recorded message. I’m contemplating what I should say. Do I pretend it’s not odd that he hasn’t called me since our date five days ago? Do I just flat-out ask him why he didn’t call? Do I ask him if my chubby waist is a turnoff?

  “Hello?” David says.

  I freeze. I know my eyes must be dilating. Do I hang up?

  Of course not. It’s his cell phone. The caller ID popped up. He knows it’s me calling . . .

  “David . . . hi,” I say brightly. I feel like an idiot. If he didn’t want to call, he certainly didn’t want me to call him. “I was just calling to say . . .” I hesitate. “You didn’t have a good time the other night, did you?” I say with a sigh.

  “No, no, it’s not that. I did. I just . . .”

  The silence between us is physically painful.

  “I just think . . . we’re not right for each other,” he finally manages. “I’m sorry.”

  Surprisingly, his words don’t make me feel all that awful. I laugh. “It’s okay,” I say . . . and I realize as the words come out of my mouth that it really is . . . okay. “I just wanted to call. And see.” I pause and then go on. “Truthfully, David, a woman my age doesn’t have the time to sit around and wait for a man to call. You have a good day.”

  “You, too,” he says, not sounding as if he knows exactly what just happened.

  Congratulations, I tell myself. You’ve hit a new low in the world of dating.

  I should be mortified, but I’m not. Why did I expect this to turn out any differently than all the other dates I’ve had in the past decade? It wasn’t as if David was my dream man. He was . . . adequate. How low had I fallen to have been willing to settle for adequate?

  I slide the phone onto the dining room table, put on my reading glasses, and begin grading a pile of essays on the features of Romanticism in Keats. As I read, I hum the catchy song, “Arabian Nights,” from the movie playing in the living room. Instead of being bummed by David’s rejection, I feel . . . exhilarated. Not by the idea that he didn’t like me, but by the idea that he could say so and I wouldn’t be devastated. I tried to have a relationship with him, and I failed. Chloe fails every day. She keeps trying. I need a little bit of her spirit in me, I decide. And tonight’s the night to start.

  After the movie and wading through twenty-five essays, Chloe, Thomas, and I have dinner: salad, homemade baked ziti, and bread. When Chloe sets the table—she always sets the table—she enlists Thomas’s help. She shows him where to place the forks and knives on each side of the plates. When he puts a fork on the right side of a plate, she carefully moves it to the left. As I carry the casserole dish of hot ziti to the table, the two of them are laughing about something. It makes me smile to see her so happy.

  The three of us take our chairs at the kitchen table and Thomas folds his hands in prayer and squeezes his eyes shut.

  “What are you doing?” Chloe demands, taking a piece of bread out of the bread basket and trying to hand the basket to him.

  “P . . . praying,” he booms, eyes still shut. “Thank You, J . . . Jesus, for this foo . . . food!” He’s so loud. Louder than Chloe, whom I’m always telling to turn down the volume. “Amen!”

  Chloe looks at me and I’m not sure what to say. We never say grace at our table. I’m not sure why. I always did, growing up. Actually, my family didn’t say grace. In the Quaker tradition of my mother, also a born Quaker, we observed a moment of silence to give thanks privately. I think about her and how much she would have enjoyed having dinner with us tonight. I know she would have understood the significance of tonight, and would have been proud of Chloe.

  “Mom,” Chloe says. Her hands are folded in a prayer death-grip. “Can we pray?”

  Thomas opens his eyes. They’re both looking at me.

  Chloe doesn’t know what praying means. Or much about who God is. I’ve brought her up in a household of intellect. Or so I’ve told myself. I clasp my hands. “When I was a little girl, we didn’t speak out loud. We closed our eyes”—I close mine—“and thanked God for our food and for each other. Silently.”

  “You talk in your head but not in your lips?” Chloe asks.

  I nod and smile, my eyes still closed.

  Then I’m quiet for a moment, we’re all quiet, and I’m surprised at how good it feels, this silence. I open my eyes to see Thomas holding the bread basket and staring at me. Chloe still has her hands clasped, her eyes squeezed shut. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Thomas and I regard each other for a moment. Then he bites off a big hunk of bread. His chewing is sloppy. Chloe opens her eyes and grabs his plate, giving him a heaping serving of ziti.

  I actually enjoy dinner, maybe just because the change is nice. I ask Thomas some questions about his recent move. Chloe keeps interrupting and answering for Thomas.

  “His dad got a new job!” Chloe practically shouts across the table to me. “In Mary-land.”

  “So it’s just you and your mom and dad, Thomas? Do you have brothers and sisters?” I ask.

  “I . . . I have t . . . two sisters,” he tells me, painfully trying to pronounce each word correctly. He blinks when he talks. “They . . . they live in . . . in Hi-O! R . . . Rooffy and K . . . K . . . Kaf-ar-in. Girls. Sisters are girls.”

  “We’re going to Hi-O to see his sisters,” Chloe tells me. “Me and Thomas. On Wednesday.”

  I nod. I’ve learned long ago that sometimes it’s better to just let Chloe say what she’s thinking and not always put her on the defensive. She forgets half of the stuff she says, anyway.

  We’re finishing up sherbet for dessert when the doorbell rings. I glance at the clock on the stove. It’s 7:55.

  “It’s your mom,” Chloe says, bringing her face inches from Thomas’s.

  “It’s my . . . my m . . . mom,” he repeats, managing to wedge his spoon between the two of them, practically knocking Chloe in the nose with it, to take another bite.

  “I’ll get it!” Chloe almost knocks her chair over getting to her feet.

  Thomas stands, his spoon still in his mouth.

  “It’s okay. Chloe can let your mom in. Finish your sherbet,” I tell him, waving him down.

  He hovers over his chair as Chloe runs out of the kitchen.

  I follow Chloe’s lead. “Sit down, Thomas. Finish your sherbet.”

 
He sits, seeming relieved to be told what to do.

  I hear Chloe at the front door.

  “Check to see who it is before you open the door,” I call. Her first impulse is to let anyone and everyone in. We’re working on that. Thanksgiving week, she led the FedEx guy upstairs to find me. Luckily, I had closed the bathroom door.

  “It’s Thomas’s mom!” Chloe shouts.

  I hear her open the door, and then I hear Chloe and Margaret exchanging greetings. Chloe leads Margaret to the kitchen.

  “Hi. We’re just finishing up,” I say cheerfully as I stand.

  Margaret is wearing an ankle-length skirt or dress under her wool coat; the skirt looks homemade. Her hair is long and thin and graying and pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing no jewelry except for a gold wedding band, no makeup. I guess she’s at least ten years older than me. I doubt she was ever attractive, but age and gravity haven’t been good to her. She’s not really heavy, just . . . lumpy.

  I make a silent vow to dig my pilates DVDs out and actually start using them.

  “I’m Alicia.” I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Margaret.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Her hand is warm.

  “Thomas, would you like some more sherbet?” I ask.

  He’s licking his spoon.

  Chloe takes her chair beside him to finish off the last bite in her bowl. “No more ice cream. Ice cream makes Thomas fat.” She pats her own belly.

  Margaret and I look at each other and chuckle.

  “Chloe, you shouldn’t answer for Thomas,” I say.

  “Oh, he might as well get used to it,” Margaret tells me jovially. “Someday he’ll have a wife telling him what to do, won’t he?” She laughs.

  A wife? I smile, wondering if she’s serious. I’ve only spent a little time with Thomas, but my mom/educator experience tells me that Thomas is not as high-functioning as Chloe. I grab a couple of dirty plates off the table and carry them to the sink. “We’re glad you could come, Thomas.”

  “Darling, wipe your mouth,” his mother instructs, motioning.

  He starts to use the back of his hand, but Chloe pushes a napkin into his hand. “Use a napkin,” she instructs. “Always wipe your mouth with a napkin.”

  “F . . . fank you, d . . . darling . . . darling,” he says, swiping the napkin across his lips.

  His use of the same endearment his mother just used doesn’t go unnoticed by me. He’s obviously just mimicking.

  When Thomas gets up, I see little bits of napkin sticking to his five o’clock shadow. Chloe reaches up to pick the pieces off his face. I find the intimate moment disturbing.

  Chloe really likes this boy, I think to myself as I run hot water over the plates. The idea that she doesn’t like him just as a friend hovers in my mind and I don’t know what to do with it.

  “We should go, Thomas,” Margaret says.

  I dry my hands on a dish towel and walk them to the front door. “We’re so glad you could come, Thomas.”

  “Glad you could come,” Chloe says, hopping up and down on the balls of her feet. She throws her arms around Thomas, and Margaret takes a step back.

  “Oh my! Oh my goodness,” Margaret says, sounding flustered.

  “Chloe’s a hugger,” I explain, reaching for Thomas’s parka on the coatrack. “Chloe,” I say. I’m going to tell her to take a step back. Maybe Thomas doesn’t like to be hugged. (Of course I already know that’s not true; I’ve already seen several lingering hugs.) But before I get the words out, Chloe plants a big, wet kiss on Thomas’s mouth.

  Now I’m the one who’s flustered. I hold Thomas’s coat against my chest. The moment turns even more uncomfortable when Thomas kisses her back. Mouth open. I actually feel my face get hot.

  “Thomas, darling.” Margaret grabs his hand, her voice sweet and singsongy. “Remember, we talked about mouth kissing?”

  I must have been holding my breath because I exhale in relief. Margaret’s going to handle this. I don’t have to.

  “Private moments, Thomas. Right? Kissing is for private moments.” She tugs, and my daughter and this mentally retarded man break suction.

  Retarded. There’s that word again. This time I’m too upset by the mini make-out session in my front hall to be disturbed by my mental word choice again.

  At that moment, Jin appears in the doorway that opens into the vestibule. “Sorry! Didn’t know you had company. Just wanted to let you know that my kitchen faucet is spewing water again. I’m Jin. I rent the duplex next door from Alicia.” She comes in. She’s barefoot in Victoria’s Secret sweatpants and a tight pink wifebeater. No bra.

  Margaret, in her homemade skirt, shrinks back, her hand still on her son’s. I can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t approve of Jin’s choice of ensemble. And she must have gaydar because I can also tell by the look on her face that she likes lesbians in wifebeaters even less than the tank tops themselves. Maybe she’s frightened of Asians.

  “This is Margaret,” I introduce with a nervous laugh. “Chloe’s friend Thomas’s mother.”

  “This is Thomas, Aunt Jin,” Chloe introduces. Her cheeks are pink. “He’s a good kisser,” she says. “On the mouth.” She pats her lips.

  Jin looks at me and arches her eyebrows. I can just imagine all the things she wants to say. “Nice to meet you both,” she calls with a wave. “Talk to you later, Ally.”

  Jin disappears next door as I hand Thomas his coat.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Chloe is saying, bouncing on her feet again. “Wednesday.”

  Margaret is helping her son into his coat. “Thank you again for having Thomas.”

  I hold the door open to usher them out. Chloe follows them.

  “Honey, it’s cold out,” I warn. “Come back inside.”

  Chloe waves furiously at Thomas as they exit through the outer door of the vestibule Jin and I share.

  “Bye!” Chloe calls.

  “B . . . bye, K . . . Koey,” Thomas answers.

  Chloe closes the door behind them and bounces back into the house and heads for the kitchen. I just stand there. Jin must be on the other side of her door, waiting for them to go, because the minute their car door slams, she steps out into the vestibule.

  “Chloe’s Thomas is cute.”

  I cut my eyes at her. “He’s intellectually disabled.”

  She offers a quick smile as she cuts from her door to mine. “I got news. So is your daughter. Is that spaghetti I smell? Did you save some for me? All I had for dinner was a cold bean burrito. I think it was like a week old.”

  I follow her, closing the door behind me. I talk in a stage whisper. “Jin, they kissed when they said good-bye. On the lips.”

  Jin is headed for the kitchen. “So Chloe told me,” she calls over her shoulder. “My turn to call the hunky plumber, or yours?”

  8

  Thomas kissed me with his big lips on my lips. It tickled and it felt funny. Warm and squishy. He tasted like my mom’s ziti, but it wasn’t yucky. It tickled my belly, which was weird because he didn’t touch my belly, just my lips.

  I stand on my tiptoes and look at my face in the bathroom mirror. I do it a lot. Sometimes I make faces, but not tonight.

  When I look at my face I look the same, but I feel different. Like when Thomas came to Minnie’s the first time.

  I liked it when Thomas kissed me. It felt good. Not like when Mom kisses me good. Different good. Like in my private parts good.

  I swish my mouth with water, then I spit. Then I drink more water, but I don’t swallow it. I spit more. I look at my teeth. Clean. I wash my toothbrush: wash, wash, wash. Then I turn off the water and shake, shake my toothbrush. I put it in the Dumbo toothbrush holder. It goes in the hole by Dumbo’s trunk. Never by his tail.

  I make straight my towel on my towel rack and then I get a wipe out of the tub of wipes under the sink and I clean my sink. I always clean my sink before I go to bed. I don’t like spit in my sink. If your spit has toothpaste in it, it makes
your sink all white and dirty. I throw the dirty wipe in my princess trash can and I shut off my bathroom light. I always shut the light off. Electricity costs money. That’s what my mom says. I don’t know how much. Maybe like as much as a million-jillion dollars.

  I get in my bed and I get the book I’m going to read. I don’t really read, but I remember most of the words because Mom can read. She’s a teacher at college. Different college than Miss Minnie’s. Mom has to read so she can read papers people give her. I mostly look at the pictures in books.

  I wiggle under the covers and lay on my pillow. I read some pages of my book, but it’s not a good book tonight. Sometimes it’s a good book. It’s the one about the bird that gets lost from its mother. It asks a bulldozer, “Are you my mother?” That’s funny and it makes me laugh. Birds don’t have bulldozer moms. They have bird moms.

  But the book doesn’t make me laugh tonight. I try to think about the bird that can’t find his mother, but I can’t because I’m thinking about Thomas.

  When we were watching Aladdin, I had to keep telling him who Prince Ali and Princess Jasmine were. And the bad guy, Jafar. Jafar’s scary but not as scary as Scar. Scar’s in Lion King. Thomas never did watch Lion King, either. Him and his mom watch Veggie Tales. They’re stupid head but I didn’t tell him because that would make him sad. When he comes to watch Lion King at my house, I will tell him who Simba is.

  Tonight Thomas kept asking me what a genie is. When I told him it was a guy in a lamp, he said I was very smart.

  No one ever told me I was very smart before.

  I close the book because I’m not reading it.

  I keep thinking about Thomas saying I’m smart. I’m not smart. I’m a dummy head because I can’t read Are You My Mother? for real. Thomas can read. He’s smarter than me.

  At the bowling alley, he said we had to have one dollar and twenty-five cents to get a soda. He had money in his pocket. We didn’t know how much one dollar and twenty-five cents was, but Thomas is smart because he could read that sign.