Just Like Other Daughters (6 page)

“I want to talk to Thomas!” Chloe shouts.

I hesitate, taking a breath.
Sorry
, I mouth to Mark. I turn to face Chloe. “We can call Thomas back, if you want, but not if you’re rude to me, Chloe. We don’t shout at each other, right?”

Mark looks up at the dripping ceiling. “I’ll just go upstairs,” he says, pointing to the staircase.

“Sure. Thanks.” I look at Chloe as he heads up the stairs.

Chloe’s face is bright red. She stomps her foot. The movement is so childish that she could be two and not twenty-five. She shouts at me, “I want to talk to—”

“That’s enough, Chloe,” I say firmly, barely raising my voice.

“I want to go bowling! I want to talk to Thomas.” She’s half-screeching, half-boo-hooing.

“You can talk to Thomas if you calm down.” I head for the kitchen. I’ve found that not giving Chloe too much attention when she acts like this helps. “And we can talk about bowling.”

“I hate you!” Chloe shouts. “I hate you and I love Thomas.”

Her outburst surprises me so much that I turn around. This is not my sweet Chloe. Even in her worst meltdown, she’s never spoken to me this way. She
hates
me? I didn’t know she even knew the word.

“I hate you,” she repeats, stomping up the steps. She’s still wearing her coat over her pj’s. Still carrying her library bag.

I hear her bedroom door slam a minute later.

 

I shut my bedroom door closed. Really hard. I’m really mad.

I want to go bowling
now
. I want to talk to Thomas. I have to talk to Thomas.

He says I can go bowling with him.

I hang my bag on the bed. That’s where it goes. On the bedpost.

I lay on my back on my bed and I put my feet on the wall by the board head.

I’m so mad at my mom. Mad, mad, mad. I kick the wall. She’s a dummy head. A dummy head. A . . . a meanie head!

She doesn’t understand. I love apple juice and I love Thomas. I have to talk to him because I have to go bowling. I don’t like bowling. It’s hard to roll the big ball down the hall. But I like bowling with Thomas because he likes to bowl.

I’m mad, mad, mad, and I cry and I kick.

Mom doesn’t understand. She doesn’t!

I’m still standing in the foyer when Mark comes down the stairs. He’s left his coat upstairs with his toolbox, but he’s still wearing the ball cap. His shirt is flannel. Plaid. Randall would never be caught dead in a blue flannel shirt.

I kind of like it.

“What do you think?” I ask hopefully.

“The bathroom sink this time. My guess.” He crosses his fingers and holds them up. “I’m going to shut the main water off. I’ll have to cut a small hole in the wall behind the sink. I’ll fix the leak tonight, and get your water back on, but I should come back and add shut-off valves and an access panel.”

“I know, the plumbing in the whole house needs to be brought into the twenty-first century. Guess we’ll do it one sink at a time.” I step on the towel on the floor in the foyer and move it around to mop up more water. I hear a steady banging. It’s Chloe. She’s lying on her bed with both feet on the wall. Pounding. I know, from experience, that she’ll grow bored with it, or tired out, within a few minutes.

Still, I’m embarrassed. My adult daughter is throwing a toddler temper tantrum. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I also know we can’t help how we feel. Maybe it’s because Mark doesn’t know Chloe. Doesn’t know us. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a bad mother.

“Sorry about that,” I say, pointing up toward the source of the racket. Chloe’s small, but she’s strong. She can really stomp when she wants to. “Chloe . . . sometimes she has a hard time dealing with emotions.”

“You don’t have to explain.” He holds up his hand. “My kid brother Abe had Down’s. When we were kids growing up”—he shakes his head—”Abe used to throw the biggest fits over the smallest things. Does Chloe throw things? Abe threw things. At the walls. At us. A book, a banana, anything he could get a hold of.”

He’s smiling. I’m smiling. “At least she doesn’t throw things,” I say, actually feeling fortunate. “Does your brother live with your parents, or is he in a group home?”

Mark looks away for a second, then meets my gaze. “Abe passed away last year. He had a congenital heart defect.”

I’m suddenly light-headed. “I’m so sorry,” I say when I find my voice.

His words put my life in perspective. Suddenly, I realize how very small this thing about Chloe going bowling is. How insignificant the temper tantrum she’s throwing right now is.

I’m surprised to find tears filling my eyes. I’m not a crier and I wonder where this is coming from. Another symptom of menopause?
As if the hot flashes and forgetfulness weren’t enough?
“How old was Abe?”

“Thirty-nine.”

We’re silent for a moment, but it’s not an awkward silence.

Then Mark hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to go shut the water off.” He heads for the utility room. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

Mark goes to shut off the water and I go upstairs to tell my daughter, who was thankfully not born with a heart defect, as close to 50 percent of all Down syndrome people are, that she can go bowling with Thomas on Saturday, if she wants. I’ll make it happen.

She can go to the moon with him, if she wants. I just want her to be safe and happy. I’m her mother. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

S
ometimes I think back to that moment . . . when I was standing in the foyer with Mark with the puddle of water on the floor between us. I think about the minutes afterward when I went upstairs and calmed Chloe down. When I helped her take her coat off and tucked her into bed. I remember how her face lit up when I told her she could go bowling with Thomas. That my only concern was her safety and that I would do whatever needed to be done to make sure she could go, and still be safe. I remember sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her hair while she rested her head on my shoulder. She’d always been a physically demonstrative person, Down’s people are, but in the months leading up to that point, she’d been struggling to find her independence from me, and had been stingy with her affection. Her hug that night made me want to do anything, everything, in my power to make her happy.

It was one of those turning points in my life, in both our lives. A turning point I didn’t recognize. But isn’t it usually that way? Only in retrospect do we see the defining moments of our existence.

Sometimes I think, what if I had said
no
? What if I’d redirected her; she was always so easy to redirect. What if I’d offered to take her to Build-A-Bear instead? What if Chloe had never gone bowling that day?

Standing here alone in Chloe’s bedroom, I feel the cold glass of the windowpane on my fingertips. I remember the feel of her warm breath on my cheek when she hugged me that night. And for a split second, I feel like it’s not just my heart seizing, but my whole body. I remember the tale of Medusa and how her victims turned to stone. The same with the Basilisk in the Harry Potter books. It’s a common occurrence in literature. I feel like I’m turning to stone.

I can’t do this.

I’ve never felt as alone as I feel right now, standing at this window, looking out on my dead lawn.

But Chloe was so happy that day. That Saturday, when we walked into St. Mark’s church hall, she was beaming. She was wearing her favorite blue sweatshirt. It had kittens playing with a ball of yarn on the front. She’d waited patiently in front of the dryer for twenty minutes that morning until it was dry enough to wear.

“Thomas! Thomas!”

I close my eyes and I hear her voice. I see her as she was that first bowling day.

She bolts from me at the door and runs to Thomas, her canvas bag dangling from her elbow.

The group gathering in the church hall is a mix of average and obviously mentally handicapped young adults. From the way the group of a dozen or so young people is interacting, I can tell that those running the show are familiar with working with men and women like Chloe and Thomas. I exhale with relief. Chloe will be safe, at least, even if she doesn’t have a good time. I see another girl with Down syndrome who looks a year or two younger than Chloe. I think to myself,
Maybe they can be friends
.

I’m surprised that Chloe joins the group so eagerly. She usually takes a while to warm up to any new situation. She doesn’t like it if we can’t park in the same parking spot at the market.

A man in his early thirties wearing jeans and a red polo shirt sees me in the doorway and walks toward me. His hair is military-short and bristly on top. His shirt is embroidered at the breast pocket with the symbol of the United Methodist Church: flames and a cross.

“Good morning. I’m Cliff Jackson, associate pastor here at St. Mark’s.” He offers his hand.

I shake it. “Alicia Richards. Chloe’s mom.” I point to her. Thomas has his hand around her waist and they’re talking between themselves. I wonder what they’re talking about. Chloe’s world is pretty small. What
could
they be talking about?

I drag my gaze from my daughter and the man with his arm around her. And he is just that, a man: one who shaves and stands when he pees. I don’t know what that has to do with anything; it’s just what goes through my mind as I watch them. I guess what I’m considering is how innocent and childlike Chloe is. She doesn’t know anything about
men
. She doesn’t even know any men, except for her father. Men have sexual desires. I’ve always tried to protect Chloe from men out of fear that someone might take advantage of her. But it’s “normal” men I’ve always been careful about. Honestly, it never occurred to me that a mentally handicapped man might be interested in her.

I feel the muscles in my mouth tighten as I force an artificial smile. Why is this so difficult for me? This is typical behavior for a girl Chloe’s age. She’d certainly be considered a
late bloomer
by today’s standards. Haven’t I spent her entire lifetime attempting to make her like everyone else? I should be glad for her . . . should be, but it’s all I can manage to keep from grabbing her hand and taking her straight home.

“We’re so glad Chloe could join our friends here at LoGs today.”

“Logs?” I ask. Even my voice sounds stilted. I can imagine what this pastor must think of me. “The new girl, Chloe,” he might say later to his wife or a co-worker. “Very sweet. Well-mannered, a delight to have with us. But that mother . . . Ouch. It’s a wonder the daughter is as normal as she is.”

“Lambs of God. We call ourselves LoGs,” he explains with humor in his voice. “Capital
L
, lowercase
o
, capital
G
, lowercase
s
. Thomas is super excited. He had his mom drop him off half an hour early. He’s in charge of turning the lights on and off in the hall when we meet. He wanted to be sure the lights were on when Chloe arrived.”

I drag my gaze from Chloe and Thomas to the young pastor standing in front of me.

“Chloe’s very excited to be here, too,” I say. “It was nice of Thomas to invite her. She . . . she’s not used to going anywhere without me. Just to her daycare. I was wondering . . . thinking maybe I should stick around. At least for today,” I add quickly.

“Looks like she’s doing just fine.” He glances at them again, then back at me. “We hope we’re offering the opportunity for these young folks to have some independence, but I understand your concern. You’re welcome to stay. There’s coffee and juice.” He points to a table set up on the far side of the hall, near what looks like a kitchen door. “We usually do something here and then head to our destination.”

I nod. “And how do you get there?”

“We have a fifteen-passenger van. I drive. I don’t have any speeding tickets and the church ran a background check before they hired me, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

I chuckle with him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound like a paranoid parent, it’s just . . .” I let my voice trail into silence, not sure how I should word my fears. It’s not that I think this nice young man—or any of the others here—would take advantage of my Chloe. Or abuse her. But it happens.

So I suppose I am a little paranoid. Having someone take advantage of Chloe’s innocence is my worst nightmare. But I muster through, pasting on my smiling mask and trying to seem agreeable.

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t seem offended. “I’m not a parent myself yet. Newlywed.” He shows me a shiny gold band on his left hand. “But I read the newspapers. Many parents aren’t as careful as they should be. People like Chloe are a special gift from God, and we all have to be good caretakers. All of us.”

The group begins to move toward two long tables that have been set up for an activity. Thomas leads Chloe by her hand.

“This morning we’re making a craft with pieces of broken tile.” The pastor checks his wristwatch. “We’ll leave here in about an hour to go bowling. We’ll have pizza there and be back here for pickup by two. Feel free to tag along. It looks like we’ve got room for you in the van.”

“Chloe would kill me,” I confess. “I’ll take my own car and follow you over. In the meantime, I’ll grab that cup of coffee.” I see Chloe waving at me . . . more like waving me off. She made it clear in the car ride over that she didn’t want me to stay.

“I’d better give them a hand. Let me know if you need anything.”

He walks away and I watch him go. He seems very nice. Very pleasant. And he didn’t overuse the words
Jesus
or
God
in the two minutes he stood here and talked to me. I hate the way some people feel as if they need to insert God or Christ’s presence into every sentence. “I’m feeling much better today, praise Jesus!” or “Thank God they have strawberry yogurt today!” As if, by using the words often enough, they’ll be able to impart their beliefs on the listener. On me, more specifically.

Ignoring Chloe, who’s now gesturing wildly for me to leave, I go to the table sporting the big stainless-steel coffeepot. I pour myself a cup and add plenty of milk. As I stir my coffee with one hand, I fish my cell phone out of my bag with the other. I’m hoping maybe I’ve missed a call from David.

There’s no missed call.

I thought David might call this morning because we had a date the previous night. Chloe stayed with Jin, and not only did I go to the movie, I stayed out long enough to have a glass of wine and share an appetizer with David. I had a good time. I thought he did. We kissed before I got out of his car. Actually . . . we made out a little. Thinking about it makes me smile again and then I look up, feeling guilty, afraid someone is looking at me and knows my secret.

I glance in Chloe’s direction. She’s taken a chair beside Thomas at the craft table. A young woman in pigtails is giving instructions on how to glue the mosaic tiles on a small, hinged cardboard box. Chloe’s still conversing with Thomas; it looks like she’s the one doing most of the talking. He’s mostly just bobbing his head up and down enthusiastically.

Carrying my cup of coffee, I go through the swinging doors, into the hallway to give Chloe a little space. Holding my phone in my hand, I debate whether or not I should call David. I mean, why not? Why should the man be expected to make all the advances in a relationship? Wasn’t that being sexist?

But what if he didn’t have a good time? What if he doesn’t think we really hit it off and he didn’t call me because he doesn’t want to go out again?

But he kissed me. He wouldn’t have initiated the kissing if he hadn’t liked me a little . . . would he? The thought that he hadn’t liked the way I kiss lingers in the corner of my mind.

Or maybe it’s just the whole package he doesn’t like. Maybe he’s another one of these guys who secretly yearns to date someone young enough to be his daughter. Even with my extra weight, my figure isn’t bad, but no one’s going to take me for thirty.

I groan. I hate feeling this way. Like I’m in the eighth grade and have my first crush.

Maybe a text?

I look at the phone again. That would give him an out, wouldn’t it? If he didn’t like me, he could just text back something noncommittal.

I find a chair in the hallway and have a seat. I text David.

Had fun last night

Thanks

Talk to you soon?

I wonder if it’s too pushy. I send it before I chicken out. Then I check my e-mail. Several of my students have questions, want to turn an assignment in late, or want to complain about their grades. Before I know it, an hour has passed and
the lambs
are pouring into the hallway. Everyone is laughing and talking.

I feel a moment of panic when I don’t see Chloe. The pastor must recognize the look on my face because he holds the door open, pointing inside the hall. “She’s right there. She’s helping Thomas shut off all the lights.”

I peek inside. Sure enough, Chloe’s on the other side of the hall, watching as Thomas carefully flips one switch after another on a panel on the wall. The overhead lights go off one after the other. When they’re all off, Thomas turns to Chloe, towering over her.

“L . . . lights, off!” Thomas declares. Then he offers his hand.

My daughter takes this man’s hand and together they walk across the hall and out the double doors where I wait. The only acknowledgment I get from Chloe is a frown of displeasure at the sight of my continued presence, and then her gaze is on Thomas again.

 

“And you never heard from him all day?” Jin asks. She snatches up the bottle of wine on the coffee table between us. She’s on one couch, I’m on the other. It’s Saturday night. Another exciting Saturday night in the Richardses’ household.

The living room is so big that I ended up buying two couches. Brown leather. Even though the house is Victorian, I didn’t decorate it in Victorian style—too much lace and ornate froufrou to suit me. My style is more Pottery Barn meets T.J.Maxx. The leather couches were an expensive purchase, but I’m still tickled with them after five years.

Jin pours more wine into my glass. It’s a pinot noir. I don’t know a lot about wine; Randall was always that department head. He liked to talk about the
bouquet
and such. He always ordered my wine for me at a restaurant, or bought the bottles for home at the grocery store. He said I didn’t know what I liked. He always spent too much money on wine; it was nothing for him to spend fifty dollars on a single bottle. I don’t know whom he was trying to impress. Certainly not me. The waitress? The clerk at the store?

Now I buy my own wine and I choose it by the picture on the label. And I know what I like. I like this bottle of pinot. It has a picture of a wolf howling at the moon on it. It was twelve bucks.

I let Jin fill my glass. Chloe’s upstairs, already in bed, watching a movie on my iPad. I’m thinking about getting her an iPad for her birthday in March. There are some simple apps to download and it would be nice to make her movies so portable.

“Not a word from him,” I tell Jin. “He didn’t even answer my text.”

I can laugh now. I wasn’t laughing about it earlier when I called her to come over. Jin is between girlfriends; when she’s single, we often get together evenings to commiserate. Saturday nights have become our
date night
.