I try, as we drive, to get him to tell me something about his sister, who he seems particularly excited for me to meet. He is closed mouthed and doesn’t share anything. That is not to say that he doesn’t talk; we have a steady stream of easy conversation about everything and nothing at the same time. I glance at him and wonder if he could be the type of man I wouldn’t mind growing quiet with. We drive toward Del Mar, which is only seventeen miles from Poway but takes nearly an hour because of all the traffic. He doesn’t seem to notice the delays, and I don’t mention it. Cici would be mad-wild about waiting for some bottleneck to clear ahead of us. She is so impatient to get everywhere, but I let myself enjoy his conversation and the small pockets of quiet between the words.
Torrey Pines Terrace is the first road inland past the Del Mar Highway that runs along the coast. We turn into the driveway of a house with 209 emblazoned on the stucco wall that closes in the yard. It isn’t a huge house, but it is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is landscaped with such lush vegetation that it brings to mind a rainforest.
The garage door glides up, and I see three other cars already parked in the spaces. “You have a four-car garage,” I say and let the full weight of the comment hang in the air. This garage is bigger than the trailer I grew up in; it is bigger than the condo I share with the other girls. “Who are you?” I ask, laughing.
“It’s not my garage. I just get to park here. Nothing here is mine. I haven’t earned anything yet.” The yet is big; it is the promise that he will earn, and he will earn well. I love the fact that he doesn’t claim this as his. It makes me like him even more—maybe my history will be okay for him. Maybe I don’t have to claim my past because I can build a better future and I am willing to work hard to make that happen.
“Still,” I say.
I try to decide if I should take off my shoes as I step into the house or if I should leave them on. It may be gross for me to go into somebody’s house in bare feet. My stomach flips with a small well of nerves as Trey opens the door and ushers me in, leaving his shoes on. “Mom? Jenny Sue?”
“Out here,” a woman’s voice calls, and I follow him through the kitchen and the living room, my eyes gliding over the ceiling in the living room. It vaults up and away, opening to skylights through the smooth wood. It is so much to take in. The smooth, unmarred wood floors, the wood cabinets, and stone countertops. The wood ceiling vaulting over the cream-colored walls and leather furniture. I feel Trey looking at me, and then his finger touches my chin and he closes my mouth with a click. I let my eyes go wide at him, indicating his luxurious home. He crinkles his nose, and I see just a little hint of embarrassment in him, as if all this opulence is too much. He opens the screen and leads me out onto the deck. I wonder why he wants to bring me here. What does he see in me that he thinks I would belong here?
His mother is small and dark haired. She is sitting on a swing with her arm around the shoulders of a thin, fair-haired girl. They are facing out over the yard, and beyond them I can see the ocean with the waves capping and rolling onto the beach. I swallow. Did I even brush my hair? I wonder, thinking back over the hasty shower, and I know I didn’t.
“You’re back,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
The little girl turns her face fully to us, with her smooth forehead and wide-set eyes. She breaks into a smile and jumps from the swing, running around it and toward us. She stops in from of Trey, reaching up and tugging his sleeve, drawing him down to her level. There is a softness to her features, and a too-young look for the ten-year-old-girl body she lives in. Then I understand. She has Down’s. Trey leans into her and pulls her up into a hug. Her feet come up off the ground, and I smile my best smile at her when she looks at me. She goes pink and turns her face into Trey’s neck. A little flutter rises in my heart, because he is a man who can cherish imperfection. I don’t know how much more perfect he could be.
“She’s pretty,” the girl whispers, and I’m almost certain Trey’s mother, who has come around from the swing to stand in front of us, heard it too. I feel my own face flushing and tear my eyes off Trey and his sister to meet the rather more serious eyes of his mother.
“I think so, too,” Trey says, and I know that everybody heard that. He puts Jenny back on her own feet and puts one hand on my shoulder, “Mom, this is Alison, the girl I told you about.” I put my hand out, and she takes it. We nod to each other: nice to meet you. I do my best not to curtsy, although my muscles are twitching to do just that. “This is my mom Petra and my sister Jenny.” I turn my attention to Jenny, who is staring up at me with abject admiration.
I lean forward so I am eye level with her. “I am so pleased to meet you, Jenny.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” she says. I notice the slight speech impediment that sometimes comes from not hearing well, and I wonder about it. Maybe it is just a Down’s trait, because she seems to hear me just fine. There was a boy in my high school who had Down’s, and he was maybe the most loved person in the school. He graduated when I was a freshman, and during the last week of school, his locker had been decorated by everybody who knew him, with cards and banners. “How old are you?” I ask.
“I’m ten. How old are you?” she asks, and my heart pulls toward her and I want to wrap her in my arms in the craziest way.
“I’m eighteen,” I say and put my hand out. She takes my hand, barely touching fingertips to mine, and squeals, spinning out of my grasp and back to her mom, almost like there was a jolt of electricity passing through our fingers. I rise up, still smiling, letting the happy of her stay with me for a moment longer so I don’t have to be nervous about the mother, who is still staring at me, as if she is none too impressed. “What a beautiful view, and home.” I take a deep breath, and the wind passes, catching my hair in a flurry.
“Thank you,” Petra says. “Trey tells me you’re from Kansas.”
I laugh. “Well, Illinois actually.”
“We have family in Chicago. Schaumburg. Are you familiar?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I grew up downstate, sort of Central Illinois, I guess.”
“Oh, what’s there?” she asks, and I’m not really sure what she means.
“Nothing, really. It’s farm country.”
“Oh, so you’re a farm girl?” I get the feeling it is very important for her to have the right label for me.
“No, just a small-town girl, I guess.” Trailer trash, dirt poor, fatherless, motherless, I think. These are the best labels for me.
“Oh, I grew up in a small town, too. Half Moon Bay. It’s up the coast a piece.”
I suspect that her small town and my small town are not quite the same sort of small towns, but I recognize the pass she is offering, so I smile and nod.
“I’m reading this book.” Jenny is back, holding a book up to me, and my heart clinches because the cover is so familiar—the image of a girl on a black pony, looking off into the trees with a blue sky above.
“Oh my gosh, Jenny,” I say, taking the book in my hands and squatting down in front of her. “I know this book. You know, my best friend growing up gave me this book for my birthday when I was about your age.” Dylan. He is here with me, and I feel him as the breeze passes by.
“Want to read with me?” she asks.
I nod because I cannot speak, and there are tears in my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s hormones from the baby or if something has simply changed in me. I feel on the verge of crying so quickly these days.
If she notices my weepy eyes, she doesn’t act like it. She takes my hand and leads me past her mother and to the swing they had been sitting on. She settles, and I sit next to her, letting my leg rest alongside hers. She takes the book, opening it where they had left off, and I let the words carry me back. She reads well, which I wasn’t expecting, and I feel badly for judging her. I don’t know much of anything about Down’s syndrome, except for some vague perception of “different.” Really, though, aren’t we all just that? Different?
“Let me check on dinner,” Petra says.
“I’ll help.” Trey drops a kiss on Jenny’s head, and then one on mine, before heading inside to help his mother. I glance through the window and see them in the kitchen, talking. She laughs at something he has said, and I turn back to Jenny.
We are nearly at the end of a page when Petra opens the slide. “Dinner’s ready. Jenny, go wash up.” Jenny closes her book and bounds off the swing, drawing me across the deck with her hand in mine. Petra steps aside to let us pass.
“I’m sorry Franklin couldn’t be here; he was looking forward to meeting you.”
“Another time.” I smile, feeling light and happy. Whatever conversation has passed between her and Trey while they finished dinner preparations, it served to put her hackles down. The smile she gives me is genuine and kind.
“Thank you for reading with Jenny.”
“Oh, I enjoyed it. She’s a very good reader.”
Petra slides the door closed behind me. “She enjoys it.”
“Thank you for having me,” I say, trying to infuse the sincerity of my meaning into the words. It is so nice to be amongst a family again. It feels nostalgic, reminiscent of all the many meals I ate with Dylan’s family when I was growing up.
“I had to meet you. Trey can’t stop talking about you.”
My blood sings.
All through dinner my blood sings to see his dark eyes landing on me, to feel his foot touching mine, under the table.
