Firefighter's Virgin

“Hi there,” I said.

“Good morning!” she chirped. “Just calling to see if you were bored out of your mind yet! Are you ready to come back to the city?”

“Ha ha,” I said. “Very funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Nice to hear from you, too, Mom,” I said. “And I’ll have you know, that I’m actually still very much enjoying things up here, away from all the noise and the chaos. How is everything with you?”

“It’s fine,” she replied breezily. “Bill says hi.”

My stomach clenched at the sound of his name. My stepfather was movie star handsome, a successful investment banker, and very charismatic, the sort of person that most people wanted to be around; the life of the party. Up until I’d hit puberty, I really liked him, too—but once I started growing breasts, things had changed. At first, I had been flattered. He was paying more attention to me, looking at me in a way that I hadn’t remembered him looking at me before. Of course, this never happened when my mother was around, and I started to think of it as a little secret that Bill and I had between us.

A little benign secret, that would never go past a look across the room, or his hand brushing my arm, his fingertips resting there for a second longer than they might have before.

The benign-ness of it all changed when I turned 15, though.

I didn’t like to think about it.

“That’s nice,” I said, my voice tight.

“I’ll tell him you said hello. We were thinking of maybe driving up there to see you at some point.”

“You were just up here,” I said. “I mean, not that I don’t want to see you, but it’s a drive and everything, and I’m sure that you guys are probably pretty busy.”

“Well, of course we are, but that doesn’t mean that we wouldn’t be able to set aside some time to come up there. I’m sure you’re probably getting bored. Hey, how’s it been going with that neighbor of yours? I suppose you couldn’t get that bored, living next to someone like him.”

I decided not to mention that he had been my doctor; she would want every single last detail and then probably call and make an appointment with him for herself.

“He’s nice,” I finally said. “But I’ve been pretty busy with work and stuff. That’s going well, in case you were interested.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it,” my mother said, though I could hear the distraction in her voice. She had never been able to understand why I’d gone to school and gotten a degree in early childhood education; didn’t I want to do something a little more... meaningful with my life? Yes, she really did ask me that. Of course, she was someone who equated meaning with money. She was right that there certainly wasn’t a lot of money in early childhood education, but I was getting paid decently enough at the Learning Center, and getting to be around 3- and 4-year-olds all day as opposed to adults like her was far better in my book, anyway.

“Bill just got back from his run,” my mom said. “I’m going to put him on to say hi.”

He must’ve been standing right there, because before I even had a chance to say anything, I heard his deep voice.

“Allie,” he said. “How is it going up there?”

I felt frozen, like a deer trapped in the headlights, while at the same time a wave of nausea roiled through me. I gripped the phone so tight my knuckles turned white.

“Things are fine,” I managed to say, trying to keep my voice sounding as normal as possible. Since that night almost 10 years ago, I had had as little to do with him as possible, yet I did not want him to know how traumatized I still felt by it. I had a feeling he would sense it as a weakness, and that would incentivize him, like some sort of predator going in for the kill.

“Did your mother mention that we’d like to come up there for a visit? I know she’s already been up there once, but I wouldn’t mind seeing the place for myself. Maybe this summer.”

“I’m pretty busy,” I said. “In fact, I’ve got to run—will you tell Mom I’ll talk to her later? Thanks, bye!”

I ended the call before he could say anything and put the phone back down on the counter, my palms clammy, my heart racing, and not in a good way.

Thanks a lot, I thought. Thanks for ruining this nice morning that I’d been having. I hated that Bill had the ability to do that, even though I’d moved away, even though almost 10 years had passed since that night he’d tried to come into my bedroom.

I wasn’t going to think about it.

I pushed the thought from my mind and instead went to the hall closet and got the vacuum out. The floors in the cottage were wood, but there were several large braided rugs—one in the living room, one in the small dining room, and another long, thin one in the hallway. I vacuumed the rugs, hearing the little granules of sand as they pinged up the hose. When I was finished, I felt better, and after I put the vacuum away, I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was no longer that skinny 15-year-old that Bill had tried to climb in bed with one night when my mother had been out to dinner with a couple of her girlfriends. Between my sophomore and senior years of high school, I grew almost half a foot, my height finally plateauing at a surprising 5-foot-9 (my mother was short and sprite-like, a mere 5-foot-2, though she was very fond of shoes with four-inch heels or higher). Supposedly, my father had been tall, so I guess that’s where it came from, though I didn’t remember him. He had taken off when I was 18 months old; my mother had just turned 20.

I was brushing my teeth when I heard a knock at the side door.