My
wife Susan sat in the armchair of our home in southern Maine, leafing
through "Better Homes and Gardens". I sat on the sofa, laptop open,
scanning the online version of "The New York Times". Now and then she
stole a glance at the clock on the wall.
Susan had planned all
the logistics, though I had helped carry out her plans. We had removed
the piles of miscellaneous things that had accumulated in our two kids'
old bedrooms. Now they were spotless, each bed made up with fresh
sheets.
Our son Jason had chosen Caltech over M.I.T., and that
had made all the difference. He felt M.I.T. was too close to home. So
he'd gone to Caltech, made friends in California, put down roots in
California, and was going to stay in California. We occasionally mused
about moving to California ourselves, but our daughter Caroline with
her two sons lived near Albany, so we couldn't live near both children.
We had settled into a pattern where we visited Jason once in the
winter, and he visited us once in the summer.
The big news was
that he had a serious girlfriend, a woman named Melanie. She had one
child from a former marriage, 5-year-old Amy. We knew Jason wanted
children, and we were happy to hear from Jason's email that Melanie
wanted more. It was one thing they had wisely talked about early in
their relationship.
Now we would get to meet Melanie (and Amy) for the first time.
Susan
looked up from her magazine first. At 62 we were both pretty well
preserved, but her hearing was a bit better than mine. A few seconds
later I too heard the distant sound of tires crunching on gravel.
After
stashing the laptop in a safe place, I joined Susan in the doorway in
time to hear the engine of the rental car fall silent. Seconds later
the two front doors opened. The two adults got out and waved, then
Melanie turned to open the back door and release Amy from her car seat.
The little girl bounced up and down on her pink sneakers a few times
and stretched. Melanie was a woman of average body type, with short
brown hair and a pleasant face. Jason was Jason. But little Amy was a
real beauty, with pixie-cut blond hair and blue eyes, wearing today a
knee-length dress with a gray and white checkered pattern. The three of
them approached the porch.
"Hello! Come here, Jason, let me give
you a hug... Mom, dad, this is Melanie... So nice to meet you... Was
the flight OK?... Not bad for a red eye..." And so we wove the
conversation to start a visit. Jason and I exchanged our pro forma hug.
I waited to see what sort of greeting Melanie's body language
suggested, and she zoomed right in for a hug. She seemed genuine and
friendly.
But my eyes were more on Amy than anyone else. She
reminded me of Caroline as a young girl. I calculated that it had been
29 years ago that my daughter had been that age. Her two sons, who we
saw every month or two, were four and eighteen months. But girls are
different. Girls are special.
During the introductions Amy hung back just a bit behind her mother.
"Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, I'd like you to meet Amy. Amy, can you say hello to Jason's parents?"
"Hi."
"Oh, you are such a beautiful little girl, Amy!" said Susan; Amy looked up briefly and gave a shy smile.
I managed nothing beyond a simple, "Hello, Amy."
Suitcases
and miscellaneous parcels were retrieved from the car. Susan gave
Melanie a brief tour of the house, the other three of us tagging along
behind. The two women did most of the talking, with Jason and me making
brief remarks here and there. We showed them the guest rooms and
deposited the bags there. Within a few minutes we were all seated in
the living room.
It seemed only seconds later that Amy was
standing in front of me with her little pink backpack. "You want to see
Samantha?" she asked.
"Amy, now, don't pester Mr. Anderson," put in her mother.
"Oh, it's quite all right," I said to the mother. "Sure, I'd like that very much," I told Amy.
"Are you sure? Amy, the grown-ups are talking now, there'll be time to show Mr. and Mrs. Anderson your toys later."
"Please, call me Susan."
"Yes, and call me Dave."
"OK
-- Susan, Dave. I try not to spoil her, you know." Whatever parenting
strategy she was adopting, it seemed to me to be working splendidly.
Amy produced her American Girl doll.
"Samantha
really is a beautiful girl," I said, quietly so as to let the other
grown-ups talk uninterrupted. "Almost as beautiful as you. Look at her
long brown hair."
"It really is OK," said Susan. "Dave's always been a hit with the children. He'd probably rather talk to Amy than us."
I
looked up and shrugged. I used to wonder why little girls always zoomed
over to me in a company of several adults. Apparently the genuine
interest and affection I felt for them showed, and they could easily
distinguish it from the polite or closed-off smiles that others gave.
If a girl wasn't too shy, within fifteen minutes she was usually
talking with me.
And here was Amy, standing right against the
edge of the sofa between my legs, showing me Samantha and telling me
all about her. And I wasn't too surprised when, less than a minute
later, she bounced onto the sofa and sat on my left thigh, still
holding Samantha and telling me about the doll's changes of clothing
that she hadn't brought on the trip.
"Are you sure that's OK, Mr. Anderson?" Melanie asked. "Amy, you should ask before you go crawling over someone."
"Yeah, it's just fine," I said, gently placing my left hand on the girl's left shoulder blade.
She leaned back against it briefly and wiggled before sitting up straight again.
Before
long our living room pow-wow was over and the plans had been made. I
had offered an opinion when asked, but mostly gone along with what they
all suggested. I was in heaven just having energetic little Amy sitting
on my thigh and chattering away at me.
It was time to show our
guests the yard, the woods, the garden and the pool. Amy knew about
gardens and pools, but a grove of pine trees was new to her, and she
was soon scooping up needles and making piles of them.
We all
got ready for a swim and proceeded to our circular backyard pool, just
big enough to get in a couple strokes when going from wall to wall.
With five people it was plenty full. I observed all three of our
guests, marveling again at the strong young man in the prime of life my
son had turned into. Melanie's womanly shape did not escape my male
attention. But naturally it was the spritely little Amy who garnered
the most attention from me and Susan both. Her zest for life was
contagious.
Showers were taken, suits hung up to dry, casual
clothing donned once more. The women put the finishing touches on
dinner while Jason and I caught up in the living room. We were both in
high tech, so our conversation frequently veered in that direction. Amy
sensed that my attention was on my son, and she busied herself looking
through a box of toys. They were mostly some of Caroline and Jason's
favorites that Susan had saved, supplemented with a few more modern
ones suited to younger children. It was the box we brought out when our
grandsons visited.
Susan's delicious roast was enjoyed by all
the adults, while Amy gobbled up her macaroni and cheese. After dinner
I saw the girl checking a few times to see if she could have my
attention, but it was occupied with grown-up things. She did make a
point of planting a goodnight kiss on my cheek with a giggle. She
bounced away before I could return the gesture.
Lying in bed
that night next to Susan, I replayed the day's events. To some extent
it felt like taking up right where I had left off with Caroline and her
girlfriends three decades earlier. Caroline was my daughter, and my
love for her was deep and special -- a parent-child bond. But I
recalled the extra bit of sweetness I had felt for her friends,
especially little Zoe. Amy stirred similar feelings in me. But after 30
years of self-reflection, I now understood myself better. What I had
felt for Zoe wasn't just the protective affection of grownup for child.
Neither were the stronger feelings welling up in me for Amy. I knew
what those feelings were, and what that made me. A pedophile. 'Dave,
you're a pedophile' I said to myself silently, feeling a touch of dread
in my stomach. I did not like the sound of it; it was such a loaded
term. But it was true. It just meant attraction, of course, and nothing
about actions. And I was not a child abuser. No friend of Caroline's
could possibly remember a straying hand or even a peculiar
conversation. Nor would Amy, of course.
I thought of Amy and the
feel of her sitting on my left thigh, the warmth of her body. There was
also her faint smell, her voice, and her little hands. What made my
breath catch most was contemplation of her friendly, affectionate
personality as revealed in her conversation and smile.
Susan lay
on her side, back to me, chest gently rising and falling with each
breath as she slept. Sex between us was pleasant enough. It had become
a monthly affair, if that, when the circumstances were just right --
and the presence of company meant it was not a possibility. Feeling a
bit like a hormone-crazed teen, I crept into the master bathroom and
locked the door. It was OK to think about Amy, I told myself. It really
was. Lust overcame lingering guilt, and I was soon rewarded with
release of the tension. Back in bed, I fell asleep quickly.
I
had taken time off work for Jason's visit. The plan for each day
included sightseeing. On Wednesday we saw the White Mountains, driving
the Kancamagus to Franconia Notch and looping back through Crawford. On
Thursday we got up bright and early and walked part of the Freedom
Trail in Boston. After an early supper, we took a brief excursion along
the rocky Maine coast.
On Friday the three Californians took off
for a day to visit one of Jason's high school friends and his family in
Connecticut while Susan and I restocked the house, cleaned, and rested.
Susan discussed Melanie's every word and mannerism at great length. She
thought Melanie would make a fine wife for our son, and I agreed. I
noted that Jason was kind to his prospective stepdaughter and she
seemed to like him well enough.
That brought us to Saturday.
There was a special exhibit at the MFA in Boston that Melanie was dying
to see. Susan wanted to be wherever Jason and Melanie were. Young Amy
was not going to be a happy camper at the MFA, and it was plain that
all the grown-ups would enjoy the exhibit much more if the girl was
somewhere else. I would have enjoyed the exhibit, but I knew I would
enjoy Amy's company more, and by then the other grown-ups did too.
Having seen Amy and me having fun in the odd half-hour here and there
over the several preceding days, Melanie was comfortable leaving her
with me for the day.
And so it happened that Jason, Melanie, and
Susan took off in the rental car for Boston at 9:30 on Saturday
morning, while I was left with the sweetest 5-year-old girl in the
world.
Amy
waved goodbye to her mother, but before the car had turned off the
gravel of the long driveway onto the paved highway, she was pulling me
by the hand to the living room to play once more a modern version of
"Go Fish".
After a couple rounds of that, I suggested we play
owner and doggy. Her Labradoodle was staying with Melanie's friends
back in L.A. I offered to be the doggy, and she trained me. I sat, lay
down, and shook hands as commanded. She didn't know about the 'speak'
command, and I explained it. After getting most of her commands at
first, I sprawled on my side when told to sit. She got the silliness at
once and started laughing. I offered to shake hands when told to lie
down. When told to speak, I replied with a muffled 'Hi, Amy'. When told
to stay, I rolled onto my back, exposing my belly and half-barking,
'Rub tummy!' She did, and I responded with the canine's patented
twitching leg. Her amusement turned to hilarity at that, and in a fit
of giggles she collapsed onto my stomach, wriggling and laughing.
So
here we were, I reflected. We were alone. She liked and trusted me to
the point of initiating hugs and more. And I had the pedophilic
impulse, I realized with the faintest twinge of nausea in the pit of my
stomach. It was the classic pedophile setup.
If we had been in
an erotic story for pedophiles, I'd start kissing her on the lips,
she'd kiss me back, I'd get an erection, she'd notice, one thing would
lead to another ... and we'd be having lots of happy sex all day long.
Yeah, right.
If it were a horror story of evil pedophiles, I'd
lure her from one grope to another with ice cream and candy, a cynical
leer creeping onto my face from time to time. I'd make the confused,
disheartened thing perform oral sex on me, and would be sure to fondle
and stroke all of her intimate anatomy, surely penetrating her with a
finger if not worse. This would all be followed by dire threats not to
tell anyone, leaving her deeply troubled for life.
But it wasn't
either of those situations. I was a pedophile who was determined to do
nothing sexual with Amy. I was determined that she should never know I
was a pedophile, even recalling our visit later in life.
I
adored the smell of her hair, I loved feeling her warm body against me,
feasted on the sight of her small limbs flailing about, and above all
on her giggles that told me I had created an environment where she was
happy. Had I enjoyed all those things with Caroline, decades earlier?
Yes, I thought I had. They were more intense today because I hadn't
hugged a girl lately, while Caroline had been a day-in, day-out fixture
of life. Was that the only reason they were more intense? No, not at
all.
I wanted to enfold Amy and cover her with kisses as a small
token of the love I felt for her -- not love, really, but infatuation:
That feeling of being in love, the kind that makes you feel faint. As a
teen or young man with a female of my age, that feeling was always
conditional on the young woman accepting it. She would know what I
felt, and would reject my offered embrace if she didn't feel the same
way, but she just might -- oh, please, please let it turn out this way
-- kiss me back, recognizing the love I offered, accepting it, and
matching it with her own.
What would Amy do? Probably accept it,
because she liked me a lot and kissing is fun. But she wouldn't know
what I felt; it wouldn't be mutual. It might feel a little strange to
her, something a little different. She'd file it away and in some
distant future wonder what it meant. It might be an uneasy reflection.
I
rested my hand lightly on her shoulder blade and patted. She looked at
me briefly and we shared a smile. Then she rested her head on my chest
and sighed. I gently brought up my other hand to rest on the small of
her back. Oh, if only Amy could live with me and we could do this every
day. This would be just the innocent beginning of caresses that would
gradually become more and more intimate. Sigh. No, of course not. We
lay in that position for approximately three seconds before she
wriggled off and stood up, insistently chortling that I needed to work
more on learning to sit and stay.
When we tired of that game, I
suggested a sort of puppet show. Sitting on the floor behind the sofa,
I raised Samantha and a little stuffed bear so they just showed above
the back to act and speak to each other. Amy laughed out loud and
climbed right up over the sofa. On the way over, for a few brief
moments, I had a view up under that same checkered dress she'd worn on
the day of their arrival, a view between her thighs to her white
panties.
It was a classically erotic view, the sort that teens
and women make sure you never get -- unless they want you to think
erotic thoughts. It's erotic because of what is partly revealed while
so much remains covered. The erotic potential is there even in young
girls, who are trained not to let themselves be seen in that way. But
Amy hadn't quite mastered all the fine points of modesty yet, and a
small gap revealed itself as she climbed over a sofa to someone she
trusted.
I confess I did feel the faintest glow between my legs,
imagining Amy sharing those parts of herself with me. I imagined
feeling the satin of her thigh beneath my fingers, the cloth of her
panties, and gently intruding my fingers into the slightly damp cavity
between panties and private parts. I imagined Amy knowing of those
parts, of what they were for and how they would affect me, of how her
own pleasure was just waiting as a natural outcome of the interplay of
our two bodies... but it was just imagination. She knew only that that
was where she peed from, that it was different from boys, and that she
was to keep it private. None of the rest would make any sense to her at
all. And that was all just the first obstacle; the more profound one
was that even if she was somehow totally with me in the moment, it
might well cause her delayed harm. The fantasy and its demolition
lasted all of three seconds.
Joining me behind the sofa, Amy
unceremoniously snatched Samantha from me and we continued the puppet
show, now each of us having our own puppet to control.
When the
energy for such active play faded, I suggested reading her a book. As I
settled onto the sofa, she plopped into my lap. Susan had started
reading "Little House on the Prairie" to Amy the night before, one book
we had saved from Caroline's youth. Amy had been captivated by the
story and was eager for me to continue.
The girl sitting on my
lap was warm and cuddly. Her bottom rested on my upper thighs. Although
intervening layers of cloth provided modesty, our sex organs were in
fact only inches apart. I imagined sliding my hand up under her dress,
cupping her warm mound through her panties and massaging oh so gently.
I imagined her gradually squirming and pressing against me, turning to
me in passion born of lust and kissing me... Total fabrication. However
much affection she had for me, she could never love me in that way.
So on the story went, with Laura and Pa and Mary. My hand that wasn't holding the book rested on the sofa, touching nothing.
Amy's
lunch was peanut butter and jelly on white bread with milk to drink. I
had exactly the same thing, to her delight. Maybe I enjoyed in my mind
returning to a time when I might have insisted on exactly that kind of
meal myself.
Early afternoon, the warmest part of the day, was
swimming time. I found Amy's dry one-piece suit on the line outside and
brought it in. It was light blue, with ruffles and a picture on the
front of some make-believe princess unheard of in Caroline's childhood.
In her room, Amy stripped out of her clothes and bounced up and down
eagerly. She stopped bouncing long enough to aim her left foot into the
leg hole I was holding open with my hands. A quick glance to the side
showed me her naked little girl parts, simple, smooth, and
unremarkable. But what a yearning lurked in me just below the surface.
Perhaps if you saw enough little girl parts, you'd learn to distinguish
the details that differ from girl to girl. I had seen Caroline's
plenty, of course, and occasionally one of her friends. But it was what
they had in common that tugged at my innards -- more a yank than a tug,
actually.
All that was a mere second's thought based on a
millisecond's glance. Her aim was true, the foot plunging through to
the floor. Our teamwork was just as flawless with the other foot. I
pulled the fabric up until the crotch of the suit rested loosely
against her own crotch. Oh, what a lucky piece of cloth! Getting her
arms through the shoulder straps was even easier than the legs, and we
were all done within seconds.
I had previously changed, and I
will note that the bulge in my trunks was no bigger than the mere
presence of male anatomy required.
We proceeded out to the pool
to splash and play. She donned her water wings. When she swam up to me,
treading water, face brimming with enthusiasm, it was impossible for me
not to love this little dear. Susan and Melanie did -- I'd seen it
during swim time on other days. As a loving mother, Melanie's heart
melted in one way that no one else's did; I'd felt something like that
for Caroline. But Amy made mine melt in a different way. A pedophilic
sort of way, I reflected -- and swallowed.
The sun shone on the
back of her head, illuminating her wet hair and making the stray
strands glow. Drops of water dotted her face, a few running slowly down
her cheek as I watched. If only my tongue could trace the path of the
water droplet. If only she could understand why I'd want to do that and
what it would mean... But she couldn't understand, so it was out of the
question.
My feet touched bottom, while hers didn't, so she
threw her arms around me and hung on to my front, giggling and smiling,
using me as a safe place to rest -- but not for long. She splashed
backward away from me and continued to frolic.
Later I offered
her rides on my back, which she accepted with glee. I swam a lazy
breast stroke in a circle, her arms around my neck. Occasionally her
wet bathing suit bumped against me long enough that I could feel the
heat of her body. I was intensely aware of the sound of her breath in
my ear and the occasional giggles and bursts of enthusiastic chatter.
After
an hour I'd had enough. I'd seen her argue briefly with her mother
every day when told to get out of the pool, but she didn't argue with
me.
It was then time for a bath to rinse off the pool chemicals.
She managed to peel her suit off all by herself, leaving me with the
task of returning the sodden knot to the shape of a bathing suit. I
didn't mind in the least.
When the tub was full, I washed her
hair. She was old enough to recline and hold her head way back so both
suds and rinse water stayed out of her eyes. With eyes scrunched shut,
her face wasn't all that appealing, but I had a beautiful view of her
neck from the underside of her chin down over her chest. With her eyes
shut I took several extra milliseconds to look at her tiny nipples. I
could imagine sucking them fervently, imagine her moaning in
pleasure... Forget about it. She wouldn't feel pleasure. It would just
be weird, something to make her uneasy for its novelty, something to be
recalled with horror years later. No, it was not to be. She was
incapable of that sort of relationship.
She splashed in the bath
for some time while I supervised, enjoying the sight of her playing
with the few water toys Susan and I still had.
When it was time
to get out, I offered my hands, and little Miss Amy took them as she
stepped out and onto the bathmat. There in front of me, dripping wet,
was the girl, the whole girl, and nothing but the girl. It was my job
to pat the towel over every part of her body, drying each in turn. It
included of course a brief pat between her legs. After a gentle tug to
get her to lift one leg a bit, my towel-covered hand reached in to pat
each inner thigh and then her little girl juncture. The entire motion
for that last touch lasted less than a second, but for me time slowed
and then froze. Recorded in my mind was the instant when my hand
pressed the cloth against her private parts. I might later replay the
instant in fantasy, imagining a magical version of Amy, imagining the
absence of the cloth, and imagining different things following. But
what actually happened was a brief moment of towel pressed against
labia, a totally unremarkable moment.
I spent more time on her
hair, getting it dry enough so it wouldn't drip too much. Then it was
time for her to step back into her panties, leg holes held open just as
for the suit. I pulled the panties loosely into position, one choice
part kissing against her one and only part of distinctively girlish
anatomy. Though it was slightly stained from previous contacts, it was
an even luckier patch of cloth than the one in her suit. Her dress went
back on. And there she was, a decent little girl once more, presentable
to company, looking at me with her usual friendly curiosity -- What
next? What next?
I read more of "Little House on the Prairie" as
she snuggled against my left side. Her damp hair against my shoulder
wasn't our most exciting interaction, but I treasured every touch of
this little creature.
Between the excitement of our morning's
play and the time frolicking in the pool, she was tired, and I could
see her fading. I asked if I should maybe read to her in her bed, and
she nodded once. I lifted the sweet bundle, left arm under her upper
back, right arm under her knees, as her sleepy head tilted slightly,
her half-shut eyes lazily scanning over nothing in particular. I
treasured the moment, trying to memorize her weight and just how it was
distributed. I lay her on the bed, and she turned onto her side facing
me, wriggling to get comfortable. I pulled down the shades, turned on
the bedside table light, and pulled a light blanket over her. I then
sat in front of her on the bed, my feet on the floor, and took out
"Little House" once more. I read, and her eyes drifted almost shut
before she opened them with the slightest twitch, keeping herself
awake. At the end of the third page, I thought she was out. When I
stopped reading, she didn't stir, so I reached down to set the book on
the floor.
As I sat on the bed with her behind me, I relaxed.
Now I could without any potential ill effect feast my eyes on every
curl of hair, every shape formed by her smooth, tight skin. I could
memorize the curve of cheek, lip, and nose. Looking over my shoulder
just a bit more, I could see the blanket rise and fall slightly with
her every breath.
I supposed I could gently lie down behind her,
spooning against her back. She probably wouldn't wake up. If she did
awaken and note it, what would she think in years to come? If she
reported it, what would her mother think? I wasn't sure, but I didn't
want to find out. What would be the point, anyway? In the distant past,
Caroline and Jason both had spooned back against me as we slept. I knew
what it felt like. I spooned against Susan's adult back all the time.
What would make it different? Just the fact that it was Amy, who took
my breath away? Amy, who I would spend forever with if I could, trying
to make her happy in every way, just to see her smile?
After a few last glances, burning the picture into my memory, I slowly rose, turned out the light, and left.
I
could have retreated to my bedroom for sexual release behind a locked
door, but I wasn't in the mood, not then. I wanted to stay close to
Amy's understanding of what happened between us. Sure, in my mind I had
followed my own thoughts, but I didn't feel like making it real with my
body, even in private. Not then.
I tried to read in the living
room but couldn't concentrate, and found myself drowsing on the sofa.
When I woke and looked at the clock, I realized I'd been asleep 45
minutes. After rising and stretching I decided to look in on Amy.
Standing
in the doorway, I saw she was still asleep, but she'd kicked the
blanket off. She had also scissored her legs, left knee raised and
bent, so the dress rode up and there was a clear view of her panty
crotch.
There she was, a sleeping girl in an unchaste position.
I could sit below her on the bed and study that intriguing part of her.
I could lower my head and stare at it from inches away. I could place
my fingers right above the cloth close enough to just barely feel the
fabric, to sense the heat of her private parts through the cloth.
I
could probably even touch, maybe even inside; I could fashion some
excuse in case she awoke. I could furtively stroke myself as I watched,
and I felt a glow between my legs as blood surged into my organ.
But
why? Why would I do that? The blood started draining away. Amy had no
desire for me to attend to her private parts, no way to understand what
it would mean to me, no way to accept it freely. I imagined the most
daring fantasy I could -- actually ejaculating onto her lovely bare leg
as she slept, then hurriedly cleaning it off before she woke up. How
tawdry. It was Amy's body. Even if she wanted to, even if she was
awake, she couldn't freely offer it to me in that way because she
couldn't understand.
Yes, I wanted to possess Amy in every way,
but even the fantasy was based on her enthusiastic consent, at the very
least her desire to make me happy while understanding what it meant to
me. But that could never be. If that obstacle were somehow magically
overcome, I would need to know that the memory of our little encounter
would not harm her in the future -- and neither I nor anyone else could
ever be sure of that.
Later, after Amy, Melanie and Jason were
safely back in California, I could spin all the fantasies I wanted,
without guilt. But not with the real Amy, a real little girl who loved
her mommy's boyfriend's daddy because he was so kind to her and
understood her and kept thinking of new and exciting games. She loved
him as a caring grown-up, one trusted to watch out at all times for her
best interests and to shield her from dangers, including ones she might
not understand.
From the doorway, seven feet away, I stared at
her scissored thighs and the strip of panties covering her private
parts. After perhaps ten seconds, I turned and left.
"It
was so nice you could come visit!... Oh, I hope we can see you in
California before long... You could move out there, you know -- the
winters here are so depressing... We've had a wonderful time..."
The grown-up conversation of parting flowed in typical fashion.
Amy
was fastened into her car seat, Jason in the driver's seat ready to go.
Melanie stood behind the open passenger door, her hand on its top,
sharing final thoughts with Susan.
"Dave!" came the voice from the back seat. "I didn't get to hug Dave!"
I leaned into the open back window. "We did this morning, right?"
"Not really." And in a louder voice to her mother, "I want to hug Dave!"
Melanie
turned her attention from Susan. "You want to hug Dave? You've really
enjoyed Jason's daddy, huh? Would you like it if he came to see us some
time?"
"Yeah! And I wanna give him a hug!"
"Well, OK, I guess we can do that."
I heard Jason give a faint sigh from the driver's seat.
"You sure?" I said over my shoulder to Melanie.
"Sure, if she wants."
I
opened the door, reached in and found the buttons to free Amy from her
contraption. I leaned down, intending to hug her as she knelt on the
seat. But the scrambling girl had other ideas.
She pushed me back away from the car and leapt up at me.
I
had no choice but to catch her, right hand under her bottom and left
behind her back as she wrapped her legs around me, plastering herself
to my front and squeezing me tightly before leaning back a little and
grinning at me, her face inches from mine. She gave me three quick
kisses on the cheek, and I gave her three in return. She gave me two on
the other cheek, and I gave her two. She gave me four on the first
cheek.
"OK, Amy, you've had your hug," said Melanie. "You're going to hurt Dave's back."
I got in two final cheek kisses as I lowered Amy to the ground.
I
was dimly aware of Amy crawling back into her seat, Melanie fastening
her in, the final goodbyes, the turn of the motor, and the sight of the
car retreating down the long drive. But mostly I was reliving that hug,
because it was another moment from the visit that I wanted to remember
forever.
"Aww, Dave!" said Susan. "That's not like you to cry."
That was an exaggeration, though my eyes were wet. "She's so nice,
don't you think?"
"Yes, very nice."
"I hope Jason's
finally ready to settle down. And isn't that Amy something? Well, she
sure took a shine to you. You always were good with the girls. She
reminds me a little of Caroline."
"Yes, a little."
"Do you miss our little kids? Our Caroline? Is that why you're sad?"
I
hesitated for a brief moment. Despite our long and happy marriage,
there were some things I could not share with my wife. "Yeah, that must
be it. She reminds me of Caroline."
Jason and Melanie broke up, and I never saw Amy again.
But
I never forgot her, either. Our time together played in my mind -- so
many images, over and over again. Often I played the scenarios out,
assuming a different little girl, a girl who could love me back in just
the way I wanted to love her. My memories of her were mine to weave
into any fantasy I wanted. She herself grew up, of course, but my
memories were always of the 5-year-old. The fantasies were not chaste,
and I achieved release, over and over again, week after week, year
after year. It was the closest I could ever come to realizing the love
I felt for the real little girl Amy -- or any girl like her.
But Amy had nothing to remember but a fun day alone with a fun old man.