“Listen, hon, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. About being married.” I press my lips together, wondering why this is so hard. I read up on how to talk to a mentally challenged person about sex. Same rules apply as talking to your kids. Keep it simple and honest. Use the proper anatomical words.
“You know, when a man and a woman get married, they sleep together in the same bed.”
“Thomas is going to sleep in my bed.” She points at her book. “A puppy in a box. Thomas is going to get a puppy when we get married.”
“No puppy!” is on the end of my tongue, but I don’t want to get off track. “Chloe . . . do you know about husbands and wives . . . kissing and touching each other in bed?”
She looks at me, then at the book. “Kissing.” She purses her lips and makes a smacking sound.
“And touching,” I say. “Once you’re married, it’s okay for Thomas to touch you. When you have your clothes off. And you can touch him.”
She giggles and says something under her breath. It sounds like peany.
Against my will, my face gets hot. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
She stares at her book, but I can tell she’s not really looking at it now. She nods over and over again.
“Married people make love, Chloe. It’s a very special—”
“Don’t say it!” She covers her ears and looks away. Her face is red, too, like mine, and she’s giggling.
I take a deep breath and forge forward. It’s only a ten-minute ride to the doctor’s office. I don’t have time to dawdle. “You know that men have different private parts. That women have vaginas and men have—”
“Peanies!” she blurts out. The puppies and kittens book falls to the floor. She’s looking straight ahead. I can’t tell if she’s going to burst into laughter or tears.
I wonder if I should pull over to finish the conversation. But I don’t want this to be a big deal. I don’t want this talk to be traumatic. Sex is part of life. It can be a good part. Now that I’ve gotten used to the whole idea, I want Chloe to have the opportunity to experience the same pleasure any other wife would experience.
“Penises,” I say. “Men have penises.” I can’t help having a quick look at her. “How do you know about penises, Chloe?” Now I’m genuinely curious.
She giggles. “Thomas.”
My eyes get big. “Thomas showed you his penis?”
More giggling. And, thankfully, a shake of her head. “He told me,” she whispers. “But don’t tell his mom. His mom says don’t touch your peany, but he does.” She pressed her finger to her lips. “A secret.”
It takes me a moment to process that tidbit. I clear my throat. I wish I’d grabbed a water bottle on the way out the door. “What else did he tell you about his penis?”
She looks at me then back at the road. “Where it goes. When we’re married.” She points between her legs. And giggles again.
I’m caught between wanting to demand to know exactly what Thomas told my little girl, word for word . . . and being fascinated that they would have a conversation like that. I’m actually proud that my daughter could have a conversation like that . . . anytime.
“So . . . you understand?” I ask. “About sex. It’s called sex.”
She covers her face with her hands. “Privacy.” She giggles. “Me and Thomas, we’re going to have privacy in my bedroom. Me and Thomas. Because he’s my honey.” She peeks at me, obviously tickled with the whole idea. “And you have to knock. On my door.” She points accusingly.
I signal and pull into the parking lot of the medical center where Dr. Ellington’s office is located. I slide into a parking space. Chloe gathers her library bag, containing more books, the kitten and puppy book, and a DVD box she’s brought with her.
I get out of the car. I’m still not entirely sure Chloe understands the exact logistics of intercourse. But then I decide, as I walk around the back of the car, What the hell? She and Thomas will be married. They can do it however they want.
17
So, the sex talk, the talk I was so worried about, goes well. It’s the discussion with her doctor that takes me by surprise.
Chloe and I go into the waiting room. I get the insurance forms to fill out, which annoys me because you would think all the info would be in the computer. Chloe is already a patient and Dr. Ellington is my GYN, too. Nothing has changed: not our insurance information, address, or phone number. I forego bucking the system and fill out the forms. Then the questionnaire. The questions are personal, of course. I just answer as best I can. These aren’t the kind of questions I want to ask Chloe in public. Not after the peany discussion we just had in the car.
I find myself chuckling as I fill out the forms. I’m actually laughing inside. All this stress, all this worry, and Chloe’s going to be fine. She knows what sex is; it sounds to me like she wants to have sex. Somehow, my daughter seems more normal than she ever has before. Everything’s going to be fine. Just fine.
At the bottom of the questionnaire, where it asks the reason for the visit, I circle BIRTH CONTROL. I circle it twice for good measure. If I had a red pen, I’d use that, too. I know there are those in the world who would argue that Thomas and Chloe have the same right to reproduce as anyone, but I would wager those people have never come home to a house set on fire by their twenty-one-year-old Down syndrome child. I would bet those people don’t have an adult child who still doesn’t understand that moving cars are dangerous and you can’t just walk in front of them to get something shiny on the street. A person who says the mentally challenged have the right to reproduce has never lain awake all night wondering what will happen to their child if they’re killed in an automobile accident . . . or a freak mud slide.
Of course the chances Chloe could ever conceive, even if Thomas gets it in the right spot, are slim. For various reasons, Down syndrome women have a lower rate of conception. But my daughter can barely take care of herself; she can’t take care of a baby. I can’t leave this up to chance.
I turn in the stack of paperwork and sit there in a waiting room chair and pretend to leaf through a magazine. The room is about half full: an older woman in a business suit; a woman my age whom I vaguely recognize, from where I don’t know; two women with big pregnant bellies, one with a toddler with her. There’s also a young couple sitting very close to each other, hands clasped. They’re happy and giggly. They keep looking at each other as if some miracle has just occurred; I’m guessing they’re pregnant for the first time.
I glance at my daughter, beside me. She’s still looking at her new book, but she’s jiggling her leg. I know she’s nervous.
I rest my hand on her knee. “This will be quick. Quick and easy-peasy,” I assure her. “Then we’ll stop at Taco Hell for dinner.”
She twists her mouth. “That’s a bad word. No bad words, Miss Margaret says. She’ll wash your face. With soap.”
I smile. Chloe really is funny.
Chloe’s name is called. I get up, return the magazine, and look at her. She’s still sitting, but I know she heard her name. I tilt my head. “Our turn,” I say casually.
She shakes her head and looks down at the floor. I recognize the look on her face. Once she gets that look, she quickly becomes difficult to handle.
“You go,” she says. “I sit here. Read my book.” She doesn’t look at me.
I take a step toward her. “Honey, you have to come. It’s your doctor’s appointment.” I put on my happy face. “So you and Thomas can get married.” Because there’s no way in hell she’s getting married without this appointment.
She thrusts out her lower lip. “I don’t want to come.” She whispers, “I don’t want to get naked. I’m cold.” She runs the zipper on her hoodie down a few inches, then up.
It’s a warm October day. My students are still wearing shorts to class. She’s not cold.
“Come on.” I offer my hand. “I’ll stay with you. I promise. First we talk to the doctor in his office. Then
we go in the exam room.” I glance up. People in the waiting room are starting to stare. “A quick exam and we’re out of here. Double crunchy taco meal, here we come.”
I’m supposed to be avoiding fast food. I’m hoping to lose a few pounds before the wedding, but I’ll eat two double crunchy taco meals if that’s what will get us through this.
“Chloe Monroe?” A nurse in peach scrubs sticks her head through the waiting room doorway. She’s holding a chart.
I take Chloe’s hand and pull. She resists. I hold my breath . . . and she slowly rises to her feet. I thank the Gods of Gynecology everywhere.
“This way,” the nurse says with a genuine smile. She gets Chloe’s weight and her blood pressure, and then leads us to Dr. Ellington’s office.
“The doctor will be with you shortly.” She closes the door behind us.
“We sit here.” I take one of the two leather chairs in front of the huge executive desk. It’s a typical physician’s office: cherry furniture, medical textbooks on bookshelves, pictures of Dr. Ellington’s family on the wall. There’s a large bridal portrait; I remember reading in the paper, a year or so ago, that his eldest, a medical student, had married. She’s pretty. Not a great wedding gown, though. Chloe’s is prettier.
I tap the chair next to me. “Right here, Chloe.”
“I have to get naked now?” She clutches her canvas bag to her chest.
“Not yet, honey. Not here. First we talk to Dr. Ellington.” I tap the seat of the chair beside me, again. “Then we go into the exam room and that’s when you take off your clothes and put on the gown. I’ll help you.”
She sits, but she only perches on the edge of the chair. She slides her bag onto her lap. “Wedding girl,” she points out.
“A bride. That’s Dr. Ellington’s daughter.”
She stares at the portrait. “Are you going to get naked?”
I look at her. I’m used to Chloe’s lack of segues, but this one’s a doozy. “Not today. I had my appointment to get naked a few months ago.”
There’s a knock on the door, then it opens. It’s Dr. Ellington. He’s short and round, like Chloe . . . only without the Down’s. Glasses and premature baldness.
“Alicia. Chloe.” He tucks Chloe’s medical record under his arm and shakes my hand. He offers his hand to Chloe, but she clutches her book bag for dear life. She knows how to shake someone’s hand. We’ve practiced. But I don’t push her. We’ve still got the exam to get through.
“So, how are you, Chloe?” He walks around the desk and takes his chair, which is oxblood leather like the ones we’re sitting on, but taller and it swivels. “I hear you’re getting married.”
She keeps her gaze fixed on the front of his desk.
“Chloe,” I say softly. “Dr. Ellington spoke to you.”
“I’m getting married!” she says loudly.
“Congratulations.” He’s smiling. “A very exciting time. Exciting, indeed.” He opens her chart. “So, I see you’re here to discuss birth control methods.” He looks across the desk at her, not me.
I don’t wait long for Chloe to respond because I know from the look that she’s teetering on a tantrum. It happens when she gets scared, or frustrated. “That’s right,” I say.
He glances at me, then Chloe. “You’d like a form of birth control, Chloe?”
She’s jiggling her knee. “I have to go home,” she mutters under her breath. “I forgot to feed my kitty. You have to feed a kitty. It’s a lot of re-spon-ability.”
“Chloe.” I lay my hand on her arm. “Tell Dr. Ellington you’d like birth control.” I look at him. “I’m not sure what’s best. Maybe an IUD? Or Depo-Provera? Chloe’s a brave girl, aren’t you?” I rub her arm. “She’s not afraid of immunizations.”
He’s looking at her, still. “I have to tell you the possible dangers of an intrauterine device, Chloe. IUDs prevent pregnancy by damaging or destroying sperm. There’s the copper type and the type that releases hormones that affect the mucus in the cervix.”
“I have to feed my kitty,” Chloe says again, but her speech is garbled because she’s not concentrating on her pronunciation now.
“Depo-Provera is given every three months, and has been found to be highly—”
Chloe shoots up out of her chair. “Bye!”
Dr. Ellington is obviously startled.
“Chloe, you can’t go yet.” I take her hand and hold her where she is. “Dr. Ellington, Chloe’s very nervous. She’s very uncomfortable. Could we move this along?”
He looks at me, and then my daughter. “Chloe, do you understand why you’re here?”
I get up, but before I can get anything out of my mouth, he goes on.
“Your mother says you want birth control. Do you understand that birth control will prevent you and your husband from conceiving a child?”
“Dr. Ellington, you’re using words Chloe doesn’t—”
“Mrs. Richards,” he says sharply. “I want to be certain my patient comprehends her treatment.” He looks at her again. “Is that what you’re saying, Chloe? You don’t want a baby?”
She looks at me, then in his general direction. “We’re getting a baby. And a puppy.”
“No . . .” I squeeze her hand. “You’re not getting a baby, Chloe. You’re getting married.”
“Mrs. Richards—”
“Thomas is getting a puppy when we get the wedding!” Chloe hollers at me. She’s starting to cry. “And . . . and a baby!” She tries to maneuver around me because I’m standing between her and the door.
“Chloe.” I grab her shoulders and attempt to get her to meet my gaze.
“Mrs. Richards, perhaps it would be better if—”
“Let go of me!” Chloe demands, flailing her arms.
She doesn’t hit me on purpose, but as she struggles, she catches me on the chin with the back of her hand. It smarts.
“Mom! Mom! I want to go home! I don’t want to get naked!” She’s crying hard now; her nose is running. She’s slowly bulldozing her way to the door.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Richards.” Dr. Ellington rises from behind his desk. “I won’t be able to see Chloe—”
“Could you just give us a minute?” I’m physically holding my daughter back while trying to look like I’m not. “She’s upset. If you could just give us a minute.”
“I won’t treat Chloe. She clearly doesn’t understand what she’s consenting to.” He stands beside his desk looking completely awkward. It’s obvious he just wants to get us out of there.
There’s a knock on the door. “Dr. Ellington?” a female voice calls.
“It’s fine! We’re fine.” He looks at me again. “I will not provide birth control to a young woman who doesn’t understand what she’s consenting to.”
“Which is why I, as her mother and legal guardian, am giving my consent to have you provide her with birth control.” I say it calmly, even though I want to scream at him.
Chloe isn’t fighting me anymore. Now she’s hanging on to me. Slobbering on me. My light blue cotton sweater is wet with her tears and snot. I pull her against me and smooth her messy hair. “It’s okay, honey. Shhhh. It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Richards, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
I look at him, my gaze meeting his. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I say. “Do you have any idea how catastrophic it would be for my daughter to get pregnant? Do you know the statistics on the outcome, should my daughter get pregnant? By her mentally handicapped husband?”
“Down syndrome men are rarely able to father—”
“Her fiancé doesn’t have Down syndrome! He’s GR. If my Chloe gets pregnant, she has about a seventy percent chance that her child will not be born of average intelligence!”
“The statistics aren’t cl—”
“Dr. Ellington,” I interrupt. “Do you have any idea—”
The door opens behind me. “Dr. Ellington.”
“Meg
an, could you help Mrs. Richards out,” Dr. Ellington says stiffly.
I put my arm around Chloe and guide her toward the open door. “It’s Doctor Richards,” I say.
“Pardon?” he calls after me.
“It’s not Mrs. Richards, Dr. Ellington. It’s Dr. Richards.” I walk out the door with my melting mass of daughter in my arms. “Have a nice day.”
Statistics say chances are slim Chloe and Thomas could conceive and have a child. Chloe and Thomas aren’t the ones who are worried.
Jin meets me for a cup of coffee in the student center a couple of days after the scene Chloe and I cause in Dr. Ellington’s office. Jin and I are both between classes. Jin already knows the story. I just need her to help me think through my next step. We both get lattes and take a small table against the wall. The student center is busy and loud, offering a certain amount of privacy.
“Maybe you need to talk to Margaret and Denny.”
“Danny,” I say.
Jin sips her latte. I dump a yellow packet into my cup.
“Maybe Danny needs to teach his son how to use condoms.”
I sigh, take a sip of my coffee, and rip open another yellow packet. “Then that’s depending on Thomas. I don’t know if I can do that. Chloe’s my daughter. If she gets pregnant, that baby is my responsibility.”
“I did my Internet research, too.” Jin unties a cute scarf from around her neck. It’s autumn-brisk outside, but it’s warm in the student center. “Chloe’s not going to get pregnant.” She lowers her voice and leans forward. “For all you know, he’s going to put it in her ear.”
She’s trying to make me laugh. I don’t. I rip open another packet of sweetener. “My responsibility. Another mentally handicapped child, Jin. I’m fifty-three. Can I raise another child at my age . . . when I’ll already have two big kids in my house?”
She sips her latte and lets me go on. Jin’s such a good listener. I need to remember to ask her later about how her date went last night with Abby. The romance is heating up, and I haven’t gotten any of the juicy details. It seems like I’m always in crisis mode these days. I need to remember to take the time to listen to what’s going on in Jin’s life. Officially dating her ex and the mother of her son is a big deal.
Just Like Other Daughters Page 18
