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The first time, she was six. We were in Walmart. Then she was gone. I have never been so terrified in my life. Until today, maybe. You imagine all the possibilities.
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You know a pervert has kidnapped her. You hear your tearful interview on the local news, begging the perv to bring her home, unharmed. We all know one of those. If you have a headache, she has a migraine. But losing Chloe in that Walmart was worse than the usual lost-child-announced-over-the-public-address-system situation.
Not even her first name. All she knew was that we lived in a red house.
The house has always been yellow. Financially, the house was too good a deal to pass up; we used the inheritance from my grandmother to make a hefty down payment. The location was ideal, just on the edge of the college campus where my husband, the literature professor, taught.
He could walk to work in his tweed blazer and wool cap. I digress. Back to the yellow house. I wanted to paint it white. Randall and I agreed the day we went to puty slim down tea review to paint the rambling Victorian white with green shutters. I was at an OB appointment when Randall met with the painters. It was mild for late January and he was in a hurry to have the peeling paint tidied up before there was snow.
And when I arrived home, the painters were painting it yellow. I called Randall at puty slim down tea review office. He called me back two hours later. It was too late, he said. The paint had been bought.
It was nonrefundable. The house would look better yellow than white anyway, he told me. Until I was older.
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At least, wiser to him. So I always wished it was white. But it was yellow. And Chloe could never remember the difference between yellow and red, so she called it our red house. I walk to the window and gaze out. Just dead leaves, dead branches.
The same deadness I feel inside. I think about that day in Walmart when Chloe was six. But that day, my emotions were lodged in my throat, threatening to spill out between the aisles in hardware. Cleanup on aisle twenty-two. I found her within two minutes, three tops.
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Or maybe the boxes of puty slim down tea review beside them. She was all smiles.
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That perfectly round, flat face, almond-shaped eyes, putty nose, and tiny rosebud lips. All telltale signs. When I close my eyes, I still see her as she was that day.
Small and round. Red-blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, blue corduroy pants, a light blue shirt, blue sneakers with sparkles on them. She loved blue.
Blue like her eyes. Chloe, my precious daughter, was officially diagnosed with Down puty slim down tea review, or Trisomy 21, at eleven days of age. I knew puty slim down tea review seconds of her birth. When I was pregnant, my OB had said it was common for mothers to worry about the possibility of birth defects, and that I should relax and anticipate a healthy baby.
I refuse to ever look at my child that way.
And she was healthy. But she would never be what Randall had wanted.
What he wanted most, what he dreamed of, was a scholar, a son or daughter to attend his alma mater, Princeton. What he wanted was all the things Chloe would never be. I lean so close to the window that my breath fogs the cold glass. In literary analogies of a broken heart, images of fragmentation are often used.
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I hear her husky giggle. When I close my eyes, I can smell her still, here in this room. Her room. Does a mother ever forget the scent of her child? I fight the tears that sting the backs of my eyelids.
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I see myself in the reflection in the window. I watch myself walk around her bedroom, the walls painted a pale blue, picking up dirty clothes: panties, socks, her pj top. Really, a cami would do, but she likes wearing a puty slim down tea review.
It makes her feel like a woman, I think, instead of the child she will always be. Lined up side-by-side, parallel to each other, perpendicular to the edge of the sink. So, why is it okay for her to leave dirty underwear on the floor? Late, late. I have a doctorate in Comparative Literature. The having a mom part. I wish I had a mom to put in a retirement center. Ovarian cancer. Dad lives in Boca Raton with his second wife, Gloria.
Put your jeans on. Chloe has moved from fingerprints to handprints on the glass pane. She seems utterly enchanted by the phenomenon. I understand her perfectly. Other people. Everything is laid out on her bed. Shoot for the laundry hamper. She thrusts out her lower lip.
Not put up a fight. I pick up the sock next to the laundry hamper and drop it in. I fight the urge to help her.
His weekly date with Chloe at Chick-fil-A. He picks her up here in his silly little fluorescent yellow smart car; he takes her to the fast food place; they have chicken sandwiches, fries, and diet lemonade; and he returns her by six thirty. Less than two hours a week.
And now it will be three hours, because of the change in my schedule. With him. With Chloe. With my students. With everyone, these days. I feel like I need a change.
Because I was bored with my life. And I thought teaching an extra class would help? Or maybe it was the idea that I might have time to meet David after class for coffee.