Just Like Other Daughters (8 page)

“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.

F
our 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 it. 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.

“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.”