Just Like Other Daughters

by Colleen Faulkner

  “K . . . Koey!” he shouts. He presses his mouth to the glass and makes it wet. “Koey!”

  “Thomas!” Chloe sees him in the window and lets go of the doorknob so suddenly that I almost fall.

  She moves quicker than I think I’ve ever seen her move. Before I can right myself, she’s running down the wheelchair ramp, ducking under the rail, and leaping into the flower bed under the window. “Thomas!” she cries desperately. “I want to watch the movie! We have to watch the movie!”

  I straighten my coat, slipping the library bag over my shoulder. The air is growing crisp. It smells like snow.

  “Chloe, Thomas can’t come with us. Not today. We didn’t get his mother’s permission to take him home with us.” I walk partway down the wheelchair ramp and eye the flower bed. It rained the night before, then froze, then thawed in the noonday sun. The flower bed is a quagmire.

  I’m wearing my new knee-high leather boots and a skirt. I really don’t want to get my boots muddy, and I certainly don’t want to trample Minnie’s bushes and plants. I’m a college professor, for God’s sake. My behavior should be at least semi-dignified. What if one of my students sees me? I run into them all the time: in the grocery store, at the post office, at the coffee shop. I learned the hard way to never leave my house in my glasses, wearing baggy sweatpants and one of Chloe’s kitten sweatshirts.

  I glance over my shoulder. No cars driving by, no pedestrians. I don’t see anyone in the neighborhood watching, but anyone who heard the commotion would certainly peek out their door.

  “Please, Chloe?” I say calmly. “Can you just get in the car and we can talk about this at home?”

  “I can’t get in the car!” Chloe moans. She is pressing both of her hands to the glass. Her sneakers are muddy, her coat spattered with mud. “Thomas, come out! Thomas!”

  “K . . . Koey,” he echoes. He’s not crying, but I can see tears in his eyes. He’s upset. Chloe is upsetting him. He pushes his way between Alexandra and Ann and hovers, his big bulky self filling the window.

  Chloe makes a fist and strikes the glass.

  I duck under the rail of the wheelchair ramp and jump down into the flower bed. I’ll have to pay for the plants my daughter is trampling. I put my arm around her shoulders and gently lower her hand. Chloe’s super-strong. I’m afraid if she keeps hitting the window, she’ll break the glass and hurt herself.

  She’s done that before . . . hurt herself. There was the broken arm when she jumped out of Randall’s car before he came to a full stop, when she was twelve. Then three trips to the emergency room for stitches due to: a kitchen knife mishap, a temper tantrum in the bathroom involving the mirror, and a jar of pickles she tried to open herself in the picnic aisle of the grocery store. I don’t want to add a plate-glass window injury to the list.

  “Chloe, please,” I say forcefully. “You know you can’t have what you want by acting this way.”

  She looks at me, her face bright red, her cheeks wet with tears, snot running from her nose to her lips. I bet Thomas wouldn’t want to kiss her right now. I pull a tissue from my coat pocket. “You need to come with me, and we’ll talk about having Thomas come over to watch a movie another night.”

  She turns her head to look at me at last and I wipe her nose with the tissue, the same way I did when she was a child. And she still is a child in many ways, but in her face, I see an adult. Maybe an adult trying to escape her child’s mind. The thought brings a lump up in my throat and my eyes blur. I love her so much. I just want her to be safe and happy.

  “Thomas can come watch a movie?” she blubbers.

  “Not today.”

  “Wednesday?” she asks, sniffling.

  Today is Wednesday. Thomas came to our house last Wednesday and Saturday Chloe spent half the day with him with the LoGs. They went to an arcade and I followed the church van there and sat in the parking lot. Like a stalker. I didn’t witness any more lip-kissing, but I didn’t go into the arcade. Because if I didn’t see it, maybe I could pretend it wasn’t happening? Because nowhere on the Internet when I Googled “sex and Down syndrome” did anyone tell me what I should do to protect Chloe. To let her have a life, but still protect her.

  That’s all I really want. It’s what every mother wants, isn’t it?

  I think about my own mom and I wonder what she would do in my place. But she’s been dead so long. So many of my memories of her and of my childhood and teenage years have faded. I desperately wish she was here now to tell me what to do with my own daughter.

  I pull Chloe into my arms. She fights me for a second, but then relaxes a little. She doesn’t hug me, but at least she lets me hug her. When she was little, this was, sometimes, the way I calmed her when she had one of her temper tantrums. I didn’t exactly restrain her, but I wrapped her in my arms. She feels so good close to me. I know she’s getting my coat all snotty, but I don’t care.

  Chloe’s whole body shudders. “I want to see Aladdin again. With Thomas,” she mumbles. The girl doesn’t give in easily, I’ll give her that.

  I stroke her hair, thinking I need to talk to someone, but who? Who can give me advice? Who can help me reason my way through this? Randall? I hold back a bitter laugh. When has he ever been helpful in making decisions about Chloe?

  Maybe our family therapist, Dr. Tamara?

  Is it time to talk to Margaret?

  I don’t want to talk to Margaret. I don’t want my daughter to be with her son, her big, stuttering son whose glasses are always perched crookedly on his nose.

  I kiss the top of Chloe’s head. “Wave good-bye to Thomas and let’s go home.”

  “He can come?” She takes a great shuddering breath and looks up at me with her hooded blue eyes. Blue eyes that can melt my heart. “Thomas can come on Wednesday? So we can watch Aladdin . . . and . . . and The Little Mermaid?”

  “We’ll talk to his mother.”

  “He has a TV.” Chloe allows me to lead her out of the flower bed. The four inside watch from the window. I want to turn around and holler to them that the show is over, but I keep walking. I wonder if Minnie has witnessed the whole incident from another window.

  “I’m sure he does,” I say, giving her a reassuring squeeze. We walk down Minnie’s driveway and head for the curb.

  “But not good movies,” Chloe says. She’s still taking big, shuddering breaths. “He doesn’t have good movies. I can go to his house and take good movies. His mom, she can pick us up.”

  “We’ll see, Chloe.” I fumble for the keys in my pocket and press the UNLOCK button on the fob. The Honda beeps.

  “I can go?” Standing on the sidewalk, she looks up at me.

  I can’t imagine letting my daughter go with strangers. I mean they’re practically strangers, Thomas and his mother . . . and his father. I don’t know his father. What if he’s some kind of pervert who likes girls with IQs below fifty? It’s a terrible thing to think, but how would I know? How does anyone know until their child is molested or raped?

  I know I let her go with the church group, but letting Chloe go to Thomas’s house, that would be different, wouldn’t it? Groups are safer. And I’ve been right there if Chloe needs me—a parking lot away.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.

  We make a quick stop at the grocery store and arrive home without further incident. I let Chloe choose what we have for dinner: fish sticks, mozzarella sticks, and French fries. The white food menu. All unhealthy, all contributing to both of our expanding waistlines, but I let her put the items in the grocery cart anyway.

  We both have to leave our shoes at the front door because they’re so muddy. While I unload the groceries in my stocking feet, Chloe goes upstairs to change her clothes. Apparently, she and Thomas had apple juice again today and she spilled it all over her new sweatshirt, the blue one with the kitten and the pink ball of string on it—Chloe has four or five kitten sweatshirts. I can’t keep them straight, but she can.

  As I turn on the oven, th
e phone rings. It’s Minnie, according to the caller ID. I hesitate, phone in my hand. Minnie rarely calls. No . . . Minnie never calls. I exhale.

  “Hello?”

  “Alicia, hi. It’s Minerva.”

  “Minnie . . . hi.” I stack the fish stick box and the mozzarella stick box on the counter beside the stove. “I’m really sorry about Chloe’s behavior today,” I say, deciding I should be proactive. “I don’t know what got into her. This thing with Thomas—”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she interrupts.

  I like Minnie, but she’s all business. In the beginning, I liked her because she was all business. She helped me handle Chloe and the problem of what to do with her without a great deal of emotion. Without making me feel as if I was making a heart-wrenching decision.

  “I’ll be calling Thomas’s mother next.”

  I rest my hand on the freezer door. This doesn’t sound good. I wait.

  “I had a chat with Chloe and Thomas today, but I think it’s best if you talk with her, too,” Minnie says. “I think this is one of those instances where we need to back each other up.”

  I open the freezer and put a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream in, wondering what the hell my daughter’s done. “Absolutely.”

  “Did she tell you?” Minnie asks.

  I close the freezer. “No. What did she do?”

  “She and Thomas locked themselves in the bathroom,” Minnie tells me, making no attempt to soften the blow. “Together.”

  “They locked themselves in the bathroom? Why did they do that?” I can’t imagine Chloe using the toilet in front of Thomas. Chloe is fairly modest. She doesn’t even pee in front of me anymore. Of course she sees no reason why she can’t barrel into the bathroom when I’m using the toilet . . . or bringing the FedEx man in for a quick look-see. “Were they . . . using the toilet together?” I ask, frowning.

  “No. When they let me in, everyone still had their pants on.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.” I almost chuckle at my sarcasm, but I know I shouldn’t be a smart-ass right now. I don’t want to anger or offend Minnie. Minnie’s one of the most important people in my life right now. Maybe even ahead of the plumber.

  “I think they were kissing,” Minnie says.

  I blink. “Kissing like . . . good-bye?” I try not to recall the two of them at my front door in a lip-lock.

  “No. Not good-bye kissing. It was lunchtime.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “I apologize. We have a one-person-in-the-bathroom-at-a-time rule, even with the girls,” Minnie goes on, “but I was in the kitchen making lunch. I can see I’m going to have to be more vigilant with them . . . my home is not a place for making out.”

  Making out? Chloe was making out with him? “Oh no, of course not.” I grab a cookie sheet from the cabinet and dump the whole box of mozzarella sticks on it. “I . . . I’ll speak to Chloe about this. She shouldn’t be . . . obviously . . .” I’m an English professor but I find myself having a difficult time speaking my native language. “. . . Making out . . . that’s . . . totally inappropriate.” I slide the baking sheet into the oven. “Certainly nothing I’d ever encourage.”

  “Alicia”—Minnie’s tone softens—“this is only natural, you know. She likes Thomas, and he likes her. They’re adults, with the same feelings and desires we have. They just need to figure out when physical displays of affection are appropriate and when they’re not.”

  It’s not ever appropriate! I want to shout at her. I don’t want that man’s tongue in my daughter’s mouth. I don’t want Chloe having feelings and desires. I certainly don’t want Thomas having feelings and desires for my innocent little girl. “I . . . I’ll certainly talk with Chloe,” I manage to tell Minnie.

  “Go easy on her,” Minnie says kindly. “This is her first boyfriend. We all know what that’s like. It’s a very exciting time.”

  She says it as if it’s the most natural and normal of things. I want to respond, but I don’t know what to say. Obviously, Minnie thinks it’s okay that Chloe and Thomas are kissing; she just doesn’t want them doing it in her bathroom.

  I take a deep breath and exhale. “Thank you for calling, Minnie. I’ll certainly speak with Chloe.” I lower the phone to my side. I hear Minnie’s voice—some form of good-bye—but I don’t hear what she’s saying.

  I hang the phone up as Chloe shuffles into the kitchen. She’s changed into flannel pajamas with fluffy kittens all over them and is wearing her baby blue chenille robe. Old houses are always drafty.

  “Did Thomas call me?” Chloe asks, her face bright. All evidence of her tears is gone. “Is the phone Thomas? I heard the phone. It rrrr-ringed,” she says, carefully pronouncing the r.

  “It rang,” I say. “And no, it wasn’t Thomas. But I need to talk to you about Thomas.”

  She shuffles to the refrigerator, opens it, and pulls out the carton of milk, then the plastic squirt bottle of chocolate syrup. She’s not supposed to have chocolate milk for dinner, but I don’t want to muddy the water. And honestly, I’ve got more important things to be concerned about than Chloe’s chocolate consumption.

  “Thomas calls me. I’m going to his house to watch Little Mermaid .” She gets a glass out of the cupboard. “And Aladdin. At his house.”

  “Chloe, that was Miss Minnie who called. Were you in the bathroom with Thomas at Miss Minnie’s today?”

  She turns her back to me—her way of ignoring the conversation. She thinks if she ignores me, the subject matter will magically disappear. Which means . . . she’s guilty. I feel my heart tumble a little further.

  But did I really think Minnie had made the whole thing up?

  “Chloe?”

  She pours three-quarters of a glass of milk and then tips the bottle of syrup and gives it a squirt.

  “What were you doing in the bathroom with Thomas . . . with the door locked?”

  She gives the chocolate bottle another squeeze.

  “Were you kissing Thomas?”

  More chocolate.

  I reach over and gently take the bottle from her. “Chloe, I need you to tell me what happened in the bathroom today with Thomas.”

  “You’re gonna be mad.” She shakes her head, keeping her eyes downcast, and opens the utensil drawer and takes out a spoon. She keeps shaking her head. “Mad. Don’t tell. Don’t tell.” She puts her finger to her lips. “A secret,” she whispers.

  I raise my voice. “Thomas told you not to tell?” Now my heart is beating faster. This is just what I was afraid of. This man taking advantage of my daughter because she doesn’t know any better. “Chloe, what did Thomas tell you not to tell me?”

  She slides the drawer closed and drops the spoon into her glass. The metal spoon clinks on the sides as she stirs. “Don’t tell. Don’t tell.” Then she giggles into the glass of milk. “I told Thomas my mom will be mad about kissing.” Satisfied by the number of times she’s stirred the milk, she puts the spoon in the sink and carries her glass to the table. I follow her.

  “You want chocolate milk?” she asks me as she sets her glass down in front of her place at the table. “I can make you chocolate milk. It’s good.” She takes a big slurp.

  “No, thank you. I don’t want chocolate milk.” I look at her round face and beautiful almond-shaped eyes. I use the mommy voice. “Chloe, whose idea was the kissing? Thomas’s?”

  She smiles and puts her finger to her lips again. “A secret.”

  “Not a secret! Absolutely not.” I follow her to the cabinet where she takes out two paper napkins. “We don’t keep secrets. Right? No secrets between you and me.”

  She folds one of the napkins carefully in half. Now she won’t look at me.

  “Did Thomas tell you not to tell that he kissed you in the bathroom?” I ask firmly.

  She shakes her head and then carefully puts the napkin down at my seat. She’s still not looking at me.

  “Chloe, please don’t lie to me. If Thomas told y
ou not to tell, you’re not in trouble.” Now I’m shaking my head. “Kissing is not a nice secret.”

  She begins folding her own napkin. She looks up at me, moving her mouth from side to side, thinking. Despite her stubborn streak, Chloe wants to please people. She wants to please me. “I told,” she whispers.

  “You told what?”

  She looks down at the napkin. “I told Thomas not to tell about the kissing,” she says, half-whispering. Her eyes immediately tear up. “That’s why I told him not to tell. Because you would get mad at me.”

  I guess I should be relieved. If it was Chloe’s idea not to tell, Thomas isn’t a predator. “Did Thomas lock the bathroom door?”

  She sets the napkin in its place and then lines it up just right. “I told him, ‘Lock the door, Thomas. Pri-vas-see. Kissing.’ ” She dares a giggle and I know very well we’re not talking about kissing a cheek.

  “Chloe, honey.” I sit down, pressing my hands to the oak table. “You’re not supposed to be kissing Thomas in Minnie’s bathroom. You’re not supposed to be kissing Thomas at all.”

  “Because we’re not married.” Chloe is still trying to line the napkin up just right.

  “Because you’re not married,” I agree, thinking that’s as good an explanation as any.

  Chloe nods with me. “Because we’re not married,” she repeats. It comes out mar-wied.

  I smile. “I’m glad you understand. It’s okay to be friends with Thomas, but you can’t kiss him.”

  “That’s what I told Thomas.” Chloe plops into her chair and begins to stir her chocolate milk again. “We have to get married.”

  10

  The next morning, I’m waiting for Randall at his office door, two cups of coffee in my hands, when he arrives. I stopped at the coffee shop and got them, his with cream, but no sugar, mine with plenty of artificial sweetener and enough half-and-half to make it a latte.