Just Like Other Daughters (7 page)

Jin pours herself more wine and grabs a cracker off a plate. Chloe had wanted fish sticks and macaroni and cheese for dinner. I hate fish sticks and my waistline hates macaroni and cheese. I made a fruit, cheese and cracker plate, to share with Jin.

“But he kissed you good-bye?” Jin tucks her cute little brown, bare feet beneath her. She is one of those women who always has a pedicure, and walks around barefoot just to shame the rest of us.

I’m wearing shearling slippers over dry, ugly winter feet. My feet aren’t as sexy as hers, but mine are warm. “Yes, he kissed me.” I take a sip of the wine, which is cool and soothing on my tongue. “And not just a peck on the cheek,” I tell my friend.

“With tongue?” she asks.

I feel my cheeks grow warm. I’m embarrassed to be fifty years old and having this conversation. But it’s also a little fun. And freeing. “With tongue,” I dare.

“And?” she asks.

“And?” I say.

She throws half a cracker at me. “Was it good?”

I catch it and pop it in my mouth. “Yeah.” I think about it for a minute. “It was . . . nice.”

“Nice? Just
nice?
” She groans and sits back on the couch, pulling a quilt over her skinny legs. “Be glad he didn’t call.”

“But I like him.”

“If he’s a bad kisser, you’ve got no future.” Jin gives a wave and takes a drink from her glass.

“I didn’t say he was bad.” I’m still a little embarrassed to be talking about such a thing, even just with Jin. I even feel a little guilty to be kissing and telling. I like David. He
is
nice.

But Jin isn’t buying it. She’s frowning. “Did he get you all hot and bothered?”

When I don’t answer, she shakes her head. “You deserve better, Ally.”

I glance at the fire in the fireplace. It’s a beautiful fireplace, framed in oak, with a marble mantle. Jin has a matching one in her living room. The two rooms, before we split the house in half, had been twin parlors.

I wish I had romantic reasons to light a fire.

For years after Randall left, after I kicked him out on his tweed ass, I wasn’t interested in finding another partner. I wasn’t even interested in dating. My every waking hour revolved around Chloe and my job at the university. In my ex’s department. But things have gotten easier as Chloe has gotten older, and the fact of the matter is . . . I’m lonely.

I glance at Jin and smile. “Like you have room to talk. What about Mandolin? That crazy musician you were dating who named herself after an instrument?”

“She wasn’t crazy,” Jin defended. “She had . . . issues.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t we all? But she was crazy. The way she always lined up your shoes in your closet while you were sleeping?”

“And don’t forget the condiments.” Jin pointed and laughed before taking another sip of wine.

“In descending alphabetical order in your refrigerator door.” I point back at her. “And that’s not crazy?”

Jin shrugs. “So she had a little OCD. I certainly do. Don’t all women our age?”

I give her a look. “But she only ate certain color foods on certain days. Come on.”

Jin laughs. “I should have known better. I should have walked away the minute she told me her name.”

I laugh with her. “Okay. What about the one who called you after every date to tell you why she didn’t like you? Then she’d invite you out again.”

“Jasmine,” Jin recalled. “Jasmine was a great kisser.”

“But she didn’t like you and she told you so on a regular basis.”

Jin shook her head, laughing. “I think we’re going to need another bottle of wine.”

I grab a cracker and a piece of cheese. “Admit it. Abby was the most normal woman you ever dated.”

“Abby. Abigail. My little Adams.”

It was a personal joke between them . . .

Jin sighs and gazes at the fire.

Jin and Abby had been together fifteen years when they split. Abby is Huan’s other mother. She’s an attorney. She lives in Baltimore now. They’d broken up for all the reasons that heterosexual couples do after that long of a relationship. Jin felt neglected. Abby felt Jin didn’t appreciate the financial security she offered the family in exchange for her long hours at the office. Their parenting styles were different. What it came down to was that their relationship had lost its spark; they were bored with each other. The breakup had been amiable, and though Huan lived with Jin, he saw Abby all the time.

I study Jin’s face for a moment. She seems sad at my mention of Abby. Wistful. I sometimes think that the two of them still aren’t done. I think Jin still loves her, though Jin would be the last one to admit it.

“So, have you talked to her recently?”

“Who?” Jin’s still in a far-off place.

“You know
who
. Abby.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Yesterday.”

I wait.

“We’re still friends.” Jin takes a defensive tone. “I called her about our life insurance policies. There was some kind of option on them. You know me, I don’t understand that kind of stuff.” She looks into her glass of wine. “So we talked.”

“About more than just life insurance policies?” I smile slyly when I say it.

“We were talking about you and David. Not about me.” She shrugs. “I say that if he doesn’t call you, it’s his loss.”

I glance at my phone lying on the coffee table in front of me. The only text I’ve gotten today is an advertisement from my cell phone carrier. My only call was a wrong number.

“You think I should text him again . . . in case he didn’t get it?”

“No.” Jin empties the last of the wine into her glass. “I think you need to get us another.” She shakes the bottle at me.

I’m just getting up when my phone rings. My house phone. I look at Jin.

She raises her eyebrows.

I frown. “It’s not him.”

“It might be him.”

I snatch the phone off the end table. I have caller ID, but it doesn’t work on this phone. I need to replace it. “It’s not him,” I say. “It’s not him because he only has my cell number.” I hit the TALK button. It’s probably a wrong number. “Hello?”

“C . . . Can I . . . I talk . . . talk to K . . . Koey?” a male voice booms.

M
om knocks on my bedroom door and comes in. “The phone is for you,” she says. She doesn’t sound happy. I don’t like it when Mom isn’t happy. It makes me sad.

I’m in my bed in my pj’s. They’re warm and snuggly and they have flowers on them. Blue. Me and my kitty are watching
Aladdin
on Mom’s iPad. I like
Aladdin
. “Prince Ali turned out to be Ali Ababwa.” I can sing the words.

I look at her, surprise on my face because I’m surprised. No one calls me on the phone. “Who’s talking on the phone?” I say. I try to make the movie stop singing. Mom showed me how to make them be quiet. I touch the button, but they keep singing.

“I think it’s Thomas,” my mom whispers. I don’t know why she’s whispering. Is it a secret?

But when she says his name I feel funny in my belly. But a good funny. Not like when I eat too much candy and I have to throw up. I like his name. I say it over and over again when I’m by myself.
Thomas. Thomas.
I whisper it now. “Thomas.”

Mom walks over to my bed. Kitty Spots jumps off my bed and runs away. I call her that because she has spots on her fur. She runs out the door. Mom holds the phone out to me. I take it, but I don’t talk to Thomas. I want Mom to leave. I want to talk to Thomas by myself. I don’t want to share him.

“I’m gonna talk to Thomas,” I tell my mom. “You leave.”

She looks sad for a minute, but she makes Aladdin stop singing and then she goes out of my room. But she doesn’t close my door.

“Thomas.” I say his name to him on the phone.

“K . . . Koey,” Thomas says. He says my name wrong, but it doesn’t make me mad. I like Thomas. A lot. I love him. Me and him, we’re going to get married. He told me.

“This is . . . is T . . . Thomas,” Thomas says on the phone.

I laugh. “I know,” I tell him. I don’t know why I laugh again, but I do. “You called me.”

I get out of my bed. Mom’s in the hallway. I look at her. She’s a nosy head. I close the door.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say on the phone to Thomas. I guess he doesn’t know what to say either, because he doesn’t talk. He just says “K . . . Koey,” again.

Then I hear his mom talk. Then Thomas talks.

“We . . . w . . . went bowling, you . . . you a . . . and me,” he says. He has a hard time saying words, but it’s okay. I don’t laugh. It’s not funny when you can’t say something. A boy laughed at Thomas at the bowling alley when he tried to get us a soda, but Pastor Cliff talked to him quiet and the boy didn’t laugh anymore.

“We went bowling,” I tell Thomas. I remember when we went bowling and I say, “It was fun. We roll the ball. It’s really heavy. Pow!” I pretend I’m rolling the bowling ball in my bedroom. That’s silly because I’m wearing my pj’s. I don’t go to the bowling alley in my pj’s! Thomas makes me feel silly. Good silly.

I didn’t like bowling before. My dad took me. He read his newspaper and told me to bowl by myself. My dad doesn’t like me very much. That makes me sad, but I don’t tell Mom because she will be sad. Dad takes me to dinner at Chick Filly. I love Chick Filly, except when he gets me the salad so I don’t get fat. I don’t like the salad. I like the chicken nuggets and the French fries and lemonade. And milk shake.

“K . . . Koey,” Thomas says.

“I like bowling,” I tell him. “We can go bowling again. The lambs can take us.” I liked riding in the van with the lambs. They didn’t look like sheep to me. Lambs are baby sheep. I have a book about farm animals and there’s a picture of sheep. I can’t read, but Mom reads me the book. I wonder if Thomas will read me my book. He says he can read.

“I c . . . called you on . . . on f . . . fa f . . . phone,” Thomas says. “I wanted to t . . . tell you some . . . somefing.”

I sit on my bed. “What?”

He laughs like he doesn’t want to say it. “You’re m . . . my . . . g . . . girlfriend.”

He told me when we went bowling that he was my boyfriend. I was his girlfriend. I don’t know exactly what that means. On TV it means you kiss on the lips. Huan kisses his girlfriend on the lips at his house when his mom isn’t there. He puts his hand in her shirt. I’m not supposed to tell. Huan is my friend but not my boyfriend.

I wonder if Thomas wants to kiss me on my lips. When I think about it, I think maybe I want to kiss his lips. That makes me giggle more.

“Tell your mom,” I tell him. “I’m your girlfriend. Chloe Richards-Monroe is your girlfriend. That’s my name. Chloe Richards-Monroe.”

“K . . . Koey Richards is my . . . m . . . my girlfriend,” he says.

I laugh and he laughs and I wish he came to my house. Then we could watch
Aladdin
on my bed. “You should come watch
Aladdin
at my house, Thomas. On my bed,” I tell him.

“Wh . . . what’s
Aladdin
?” he asks me.

“The movie, silly head.” I call him silly head and he laughs.

Then I hear his voice but I don’t hear his words. I think he’s talking to his mom. He calls her mama. Thomas loves his mama. She loves him. But she’s not his girlfriend. Your mom can’t be your girlfriend. He told me when we went bowling.

“Mama s . . . says I . . . I can’t watch
A . . . Aladdin
on . . . on your bed. If . . . if I come to . . . to your house, I . . . I have to sit on f . . . fa . . . the c . . . couch. Nice boys sit . . . sit on f . . . fa couch. But not . . . t . . . tonight. She says not . . . not tonight.”

“Wednesday?” I ask.

“W . . . Wednesday,” he says. “Now I have . . . have to take . . . a . . . a sh . . . shower.”

“Bye,” I tell him. Then I push the button on the phone and then I push the button on the iPad.
Aladdin
comes on again. I hope Thomas will like
Aladdin
. On Wednesday.

 

“So he’s calling her, now?” Jin asks me when I come down the stairs and into the living room, sans phone.

I nod, taking my seat across from her. I reach for my wine.

Jin frowns and creases appear on her forehead. “What do they talk about?”

I can see that, in my absence, she retrieved another bottle of wine from the rack in my kitchen. She’s opened it to let it breathe. She’s had refrigerator rights for years, which have become wine rack rights. Which isn’t a problem because she buys wine for the rack more often than I do. Jin doesn’t like to drink alone.

I sip my wine. “I don’t know what they talk about. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want me to hear. She closed her door. Suddenly at the age of twenty-five she wants privacy.”

“You shouldn’t be angry with her.” Jin shrugs a slender shoulder. “It’s only natural.” Her tone is gentle, and I think to myself that she must be a great partner. I feel bad for her that she doesn’t have someone right now. Me, I guess I’m kind of a loner, but Jin likes being half of a couple. I know she doesn’t like being single.

“I’m not angry,” I argue.

“And you shouldn’t be hurt, either.”

I open my mouth to say I’m not hurt, but instead I finish the last of the wine in the bottom of my glass. I
am
hurt and I don’t know why.

Again, I feel like a terrible mother. This is what I’ve wanted for Chloe for so long—for her to have a life beyond me. I’ve always wanted her to have friends. So what if it’s a boy? There’s nothing wrong with that. Thomas can be her friend without being her boyfriend. Chloe doesn’t understand what a boyfriend is. I wonder how I can explain it to her.

Jin pours wine from the new bottle into my glass. “People with Down syndrome have boyfriends and girlfriends, don’t they?” she asks.

I wonder, not for the first time, if Jin is clairvoyant. I don’t believe in such things, but I wonder how she sometimes knows what I’m thinking. I swirl my wine and watch it swish around the glass, thinking this should be my last one tonight. Otherwise, I’ll have a headache in the morning. “I . . . I don’t know.” I look up at her. “I suppose they do.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” She pours herself more wine. “Chloe loves you. She loves me and Huan. Why couldn’t she love a man?”

I don’t answer.

She’s quiet for a moment. The fire pops, and it seems as if the room bursts with the fresh scent of the cherry. I bought a whole cord of cherry wood and had it delivered just before Thanksgiving. It was more expensive than a regular load of mixed hard and soft woods, but it was worth every penny. The smell is glorious.

“When Chloe was born,” I say slowly, “I was so afraid she would never talk, never tie her own shoes, never be potty trained. I read things like that. People said those things.”

Jin sits back, tucking her legs under her and pulling the quilt over her legs again. She’s in for the long haul. She’s listening.

“Do you know that fifty years ago, doctors were still telling parents to institutionalize children born with Down syndrome?” I ask. I draw my finger around the rim of my wineglass. “My pediatrician didn’t say such a thing, of course. He told me that Down syndrome children brought great joy to their parents. He said there was no limit to the possibilities of what Chloe might learn, what she might do.” My eyes fill with tears and I feel silly. I thought I had already shed all the tears I had for Chloe, years ago. “I just want what’s best for her.”

“She’s not going to be harmed by going to a church youth group or by going bowling with a boy,” Jin says quietly. “He won’t hurt her.” She pauses. “Well . . . he might. But a broken heart is something we all experience at some point in our lives.” Her gaze meets mine. “You have. I have. It’s one of the things that makes us human, Ally.”

We’re both quiet for a moment; it’s a comfortable silence.

“And who knows,” Jin continues. “Maybe she’ll fall in love.”

I smile, close-lipped, and take another sip. The wine is drier than the other bottle and tingles on the tip of my tongue.

That is what we want for our children, isn’t it? To love and be loved? But I don’t know if Chloe is capable of loving a man in a romantic way. There are so many things she doesn’t understand. Like sarcasm. Like why, after all these years, Randall can still hurt my feelings. “She doesn’t even know what a boyfriend is,” I say dismissively.

Jin gives me a look.

“She doesn’t.”

“Have you talked to her about relationships between men and women? About sex?”

“Not really. I mean . . . she knows where babies come from. Sort of. She gets the whole period thing.” I reach for my cell phone on the coffee table. I can’t imagine talking about sex with Chloe. It took me almost three years to teach her how to use a tampon. I wouldn’t know where to begin on the subject of sex. I hold up my phone. “No call. No text. From David.” I set the phone down again. “Maybe he’s just super-busy.”

“Maybe.” Jin sounds hopeful.

I’m not. This has happened before. It’s why I don’t date much. The losers are the only ones who call back. Guys like David, nice guys . . . they want younger women. Women with fewer responsibilities. Women who are more fun.

Obviously, there’s nothing I can do about the responsibility part, but I promise myself that the next time a nice guy asks me out, I’ll be more fun.

Just as soon as I figure out how.

 

David doesn’t call or text Sunday, either. But Thomas calls again. Twice. Both times, Chloe takes the phone to a different room from the one I’m in. She’s so happy that he’s called that I can’t help but be happy for her.

After she hangs up the second time, I have her bring her dirty laundry from her bedroom to the laundry room. We’re working on learning how to sort lights and darks. I’m hoping she can, eventually, wash her own clothes. Maybe even mine.

We stand side-by-side. “How’s Thomas?” I ask. “Dark clothes in this basket, light clothes in that one. Whites here.” I indicate three laundry baskets that I’ve lined up on the floor for her.

The laundry room is on the second floor, next to the bathroom. Originally, it had been a tiny bedroom or parlor or something. When Chloe was a baby, we brought the washer and dryer out of the basement so I could do laundry without having to drag baskets of clothes and Chloe up and down two flights of stairs.

“He went to church, but no lambs. No lambs today,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She pulls the first item of clothing from her tall wicker basket. It’s a pair of dark blue pants. She throws them in the lights basket.

I pull them out. “Darks go here.” I toss them into the first basket. “He’s calling often.”

She looks at me. Blinks. I know that face.

“
Often
. A lot. He’s called many times,” I explain.

She throws a navy blue sock in the middle basket. I pluck it out and drop it on top of her pants. “Darks here, lights here, whites there,” I explain again patiently. I take a pair of dirty jeans from my basket and throw them on top of Chloe’s. Then I toss a pair of khaki pants into the middle basket. “See, lights in the middle.” I grab a pair of white panties next and toss them in the whites basket, just so Chloe has an example in each basket.

“Thomas called me,” Chloe says proudly. She holds up a dark blue sweatshirt and is about to drop it into the middle basket.

I guide her hand so it’s over the first basket before she lets go of the sweatshirt. “So . . . what do you talk about, you and Thomas?”

She smiles, almost shyly. “Thomas likes dogs. He had a dog in his other house, but then they came here. Mar-y-land,” she pronounces carefully. It comes out Mair-we-land. “The dog had to live in another house. Me and Thomas are going to get a dog when we get married.”

“Thomas and I.” I ignore the
married
part. “Did you tell him about your cat? About Spots?”

“He likes dogs. Not cats.” She holds a light blue T-shirt in her arms, debating which basket to put it in.

I point to the one in the middle.

The phone rings.