I took the train after school to Dr. Raymar’s office. When I had called to make the appointment, I wouldn’t tell the receptionist why I wanted to see him, even though she kept prodding for a reason. I had said it was private, and that my mom would be at work and unable to accompany me.

“It’s highly irregular,” the receptionist said, but she scheduled the appointment for me.

It was cold and getting dark when I got off the train. I checked in at the front desk, shivering after walking two blocks, but mostly it was from nerves. Little children in the waiting room peered at me while crawling over their moms’ laps. I sat as far away from them as I could. There was a hole in the pocket of my coat where my Chapstick must have fallen out, but the used piece of tissue was still there. I pulled it out and wiped my nose. When I got up to throw it in the waste basket, I was tempted to walk out the door, but Hugo’s words returned to me. I sat and waited.

Fifteen minutes later the nurse called my name. I followed her down the hallway. The reek of alcohol and bandages in the examining room confirmed that this was a bad idea. It was all too real, far from the comfort of my darkened bedroom and lonely beach walks where my fantasies about Hugo were mine alone. How could I go through with this? Paper kiddy balloons decorated the walls. A sheath of white paper on the examining table crackled under my bottom as I fidgeted.

The nurse held up a thermometer. “Open.” I wanted to say that wasn’t necessary, but then she would start asking questions, so I opened my mouth. The thermometer jabbed the back of my tongue. I tried rolling it to a more comfortable position. A poster of giraffe with lines radiating from a sore red throat and a chimpanzee with an arm in a sling gazed back at me. I was so glad Hugo couldn’t see where I was.

The nurse removed the thermometer, looked at it, gave it two efficient shakes, and placed it in a jar, clapping the silver lid shut with a clatter. She turned to me. “What brings you in today?” The door opened, and Dr. Raymar’s white coat filled the room. The nurse excused herself, looking irritated that she had not gotten the information she and the receptionist desired.

Dr. Raymar walked to the pink sink and washed his hands, then sat on the rolling stool in front of me with his gray hair and large nose. He picked up the clipboard, read it, placed it on the counter, and gave me his full attention. “Now, what’s this all about, dear?”

He looked at me with kind eyes and waited. A nurse’s voice trailed down the hallway, a door closed, a telephone rang in the outer office. I looked at the floor. A lump like the giraffe’s swelled in my throat. Dr. Raymar picked up my chart again, looked at it, looked back at me. “It says here you wouldn’t say why you wanted to come in. Do you want to tell me about it?”

My eyes were stinging. I did not want to cry.  “I…” I tried to swallow, looked at Dr. Raymar’s large veiny hands resting on his knees. Hair grew on the knuckles of his fingers, like Dad’s, only the hair on Dr. Raymar’s hands was grey. “I guess I need birth control,” I said in a voice so soft he had to lean towards me.

Dr. Raymar looked like he was trying not to act surprised. He inhaled long and slow, the air whistling through his nostrils then cleared his throat. “I see. And do you love this boy?” he asked.

The question surprised me, but I was glad for the opportunity to share my feelings. The burden of my knowledge was so heavy. I wanted some sympathy, some understanding. I wanted someone to know my secret. “Yes, I do. Except…”I hesitated. “…he’s…not exactly a boy.”

Dr. Raymar sat up straight and became very still. “Not a boy? What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s more of a man.”

Dr. Raymar closed his eyes and swiped his mouth. “How old is he?”

“He’s…twenty-five.” Saying it out loud for the first time, I realized how very old it sounded.

“Are you having sexual relations with him?” Dr. Raymar asked, not looking at me but at the pen he was holding.

I burst into tears. “Yes. That’s why I need birth control.”

Dr. Raymar placed his hand on top of mine. “Sweetheart, you know this is wrong, yes? You must stop seeing this man. Do you understand? You may think you love him, but whoever this person is, he’s taking advantage of you.”

I shook my head and wondered, is Hugo taking advantage of me? I thought of the back of that woman’s head as she sat at his dining room table but wiped the image from my mind. I loved him. That’s all that mattered. “He’s not,” I said.

“Listen to me, sweeheart.” Dr. Raymar took my hands in his. His hands were scratchy and dry. “I have to tell your parents.”

I snatched my hands away as if his were scalding and burst into tears. “What? No! You can’t tell them!” This was impossible. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? I wished I could take back my words. “Just forget it. I don’t need birth control. I’m sorry I asked.”

 Dr. Raymar handed me several tissues as snot poured from my nose. “If you don’t want me to tell them, then you have to. Tonight. Do you understand?”

I shook my head.

“I’m going to call your house tonight at eight o’clock sharp, and I want you to pick up the phone. Make sure the line is free. Can you do that? If you haven’t told them, I will. And if you don’t pick up, I’m coming to your house.” It felt as if the floor had opened beneath me, and I was tumbling into a black pit.

Dr. Raymar gave me a prescription for migraines so that the nurse and receptionist would believe that’s why I came, but I was certain my life was over. This was nothing like admitting to Dad over a year ago that time I smoked cigarettes in the park instead of going to the library or telling David it was me who smoked pot in the house and not some stranger that had snuck in and left a telltale scent. No. I was certain this was what death felt like.

#

That evening, all five of us sat at the dinner table, David making a rare appearance. I was afraid he could see the secret I was hiding, but he had secrets of his own and kept to himself. I felt trapped under a frozen pond, and instead of struggling to get out, preferred to remain unseen beneath the ice. As the appointed hour drew near, I ran in turns between the bathroom and the wall phone in the small TV room. David had gone out. Tiggy was upstairs. The phone rang at precisely eight o’clock. I picked it up on the first ring.

“Did you tell them?” Dr. Raymar asked without preamble.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Do it,” he said. “I’m calling back in ten minutes.”

I entered the living room feeling like I was walking a gangplank, wondering how on earth I had let this situation happen. Dad sat at a corner of the sofa reading. Mom was in the brown lacquered rocking chair. I sat at the opposite end of the sofa from Dad looking at my lap, stalling as the seconds ticked away. Raymar would be calling in a few minutes. I had no choice. “I have to tell you both something,” I blurted.

Dad lowered his book. Mom looked up from her crossword.

I stared at the gold and red patterns in the oriental rug, willing myself to open my mouth. “I think I might be pregnant,” I said.

Mom gripped the armrests of the rocking chair, her knuckles white. “Jesus, Polly. You’re having sex?” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not with Dad here. But I had to.

I nodded.

“Answer me, Polly!”

“Yes!” I said, looking at her, wishing I wasn’t me, hating that I was me.

She stared at me, breathing hard. “When’s the last time you had intercourse?”

“Mom!”

“Don’t play games, Polly. God almighty! How could you be so careless?”

“Penelope, please,” Dad said.

“There’s something else,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Dr. Raymar is going to call.”

“Dr. Raymar? Why?” Mom asked.

“Because I went to see him for birth control, and I told him the age of the guy.”

Dad held his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, the ash growing so long I expected it to fall any second. He hadn’t made eye contact with me yet.

“The guy is twenty-five,” I said.

Mom clutched her chest. “Twenty-five? Jesus, Polly!”

The phone rang.

“That’s him, Dr. Raymar. He wants to make sure I told you.”

“Twenty-five?” Mom said again. “Stay here. I’ll get it.” She stumbled from the room and in a moment her loud lament came from the hallway.

“Hey, baby,” Dad said. I peeked at him from behind my fall of hair and he gave me a rueful smile. “You remember that conversation we had not too long ago about you not wanting to go against me and your mother, and I said you would someday? Well, you sure started a lot sooner than I expected.” Dad was referring to the conversation we’d had the night he caught me smoking cigarettes at the playground when I said I was going to the library. At least, I had thought the man walking by in the dark was Dad. The second I arrived home, and he asked ‘How was the library?’ sarcasm dripping from his voice, I burst into tears, admitting I’d lied, and begged him to forgive me. I followed him into the living room and crawled onto his lap. He obliged, but did not cuddle me, nor reassure me that he loved me. I drenched his shirt with guilty tears because I knew he hated me. I wanted him to forgive me and promised him I would never go against him and Mom again. Dad said I would. And now he was right. Dad squinted at me through the cigarette smoke, not angrily, but more like he was shyly pleased with me. “You know what, baby? I have sympathy for the guy.”

The edges of my vision went black as I dug a hole with my thumb into the tissue wadded in my tight fist. Had I heard him correctly? I forced myself to breathe. Dad had sympathy for the guy? For Hugo? Not for me? I had expected Dad to say he was devastated, or at least disappointed in me, or maybe even disgusted. But that he had sympathy for the guy? What did that mean? Was Dad also attracted to girls? Or to me? Did he mean I was so beautiful he had sympathy for any guy attracted to me no matter how old he was?

Mom returned with a calendar.  “When was your last period?”

“I don’t know. A while ago,” I said, still rocking from what Dad had just said and horrified we were having this conversation.

“Think, Polly, this is serious. Was it here? Or here?” Mom asked, pointing at various dates.

“I don’t know. There, I guess.” I pointed at random.

“Jesus. You’re pregnant. You must be.” She wiped her mouth, her lips white with rage. “This man. It’s Hugo, isn’t it?” I nodded. I couldn’t look at Dad. “Well, you’re not seeing him again, and he’d better get a lawyer.”

“What do you mean get a lawyer? You can’t keep me from seeing him.”

“If he’s in jail I can.”

“No, Mom, you can’t do that!”

“It’s statutory rape. Of course I can. And Dr. Raymar wants you to see a psychologist. I agree. Donald?”

Dad stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and sighed. “Yes, Penelope.”

Mom stared at me with wounded eyes. “History repeats itself. I never told you I got pregnant when I was eighteen and had to give the baby up for adoption. Well, maybe I should have told you. Good God, Polly. Fourteen.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She shook her head and started sobbing. Neither one of them asked me how I felt or how I was doing, or if I was okay.

Later that night, I called Hugo’s house for the very first time. I’d always just walked to his house.  

“What do you mean you spilled the beans?” Hugo asked.

“I mean I told my pediatrician how old you are.”

“You did what?” Hugo yelled. “Why would you go to your pediatrician? I thought you were going to Planned Parenthood.”

I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t know what Planned Parenthood was.

“I could go to jail for this!” After a pause, Hugo said, “If they ask, you have to say you instigated sex.”

“I instigated it?”

“Yes, you started it. It was consensual. I can’t go to jail!”

The thought of Hugo in jail intrigued me. I thought of him in a cell without his nebulizer or books or hash brownies or stereo. How would he live? The thought was a bit thrilling, but also horrifying. Did I have power to change one person’s life that much?

#

It was cold and dreary the afternoon my parents and I went to see the psychologist. Dad drove, Mom sat in front alternately muttering, crying, and sighing. I sat in the backseat, rubbing the silver upholstery buttons on the fake black leather interior. It was a Chevy convertible and freezing cold in winter, but I didn’t ask Dad to turn up the heat. I didn’t feel I had the right to ask for anything.

I waited while my parents talked with the psychologist, and then it was my turn. He sat behind his desk and peered at me through black frame glasses. “Do you feel damaged by your relationship with this man?” he asked.

I thought about my lost virginity but assumed that wasn’t what he was talking about. I supposed he meant was I psychologically damaged, was I traumatized.

“No, not at all,” I said, putting on my best calm and collected look, wondering if this psychologist was attracted to me.

“Do you feel this man gets in the way of your schoolwork?” he asked.

“Hugo helps me with my schoolwork,” I said, certain the psychologist was indeed attracted to me and that I had him wrapped around my little finger. “He’s introduced me to all kinds of poetry. We listen to classical music, like Shostakovich and Penderecki.” I bet the psychologist had no idea who I was talking about. “Penderecki is a modernist,” I added, “avant-garde. I love it.” I kept my tone self-assured. Convince everyone you are fine, and they’ll leave you alone, otherwise, there’s trouble.

When I was eight, I had a heart condition called tachycardia. My heartbeat was so rapid and violent it could bump a book right off my chest as I lay in bed. Mom took me to the doctor who, trying to slow down my racing heart rate, pressed the blades of his hands against my neck until I couldn’t breathe, and when that didn’t work, had me lie on my back and pressed his thumb into my eyeball until I saw shooting stars and screamed. I ended up in the emergency room next to a little girl who was having her stomach pumped for eating a bottle of aspirin for the third time. She screeched unendingly, which only caused my heart rate to escalate further until I was admitted into a private room. When the adults in my life tried to help, my situation got worse. I decided to act untroubled by my experience with Hugo and pretend he was good for me.

The psychologist tented his hands. “You appear to be fine and well-adjusted. I fear it is your mother who needs counseling.”

Hugo was prepared to defend himself. He’d consulted with one of the Chicago Seven lawyers, or so he claimed, saying he had once met social anarchist Abby Hoffman, one of the seven on trial for instigating the National Democratic Convention riots. However, in the end, Hugo needed no attorney because Mom and Dad did not press charges. Perhaps the psychologist advised them against taking Hugo to court. Perhaps he said it would drag the whole affair into the open and would be too painful and traumatic for me. But I believed it was my convincing behavior that had swayed everyone. Even though I was only fourteen, I was mature for my age. I had watched my parents and their theater friends closely for years and believed I knew how to handle myself as if nothing bothered me, as if I was capable of having an adult relationship. I convinced everyone I was fine. The adults did nothing. I stayed away from Hugo’s house, but not for long. In a matter of weeks, I was back there, back with the gang. Hugo’s last lady love long gone, he smiled when I walked in, knowing he was safe, took my hand, kissed it, and led me upstairs.

But I still didn’t have birth control. So instead, we kissed and cuddled on the bed and watched Hugo’s favorite television show, “The Prisoner.” I appreciated the weirdness of the show, but the plot and dialogue were too much like the way Hugo talked with veiled messages and hidden meanings. I pretended to understand while feeling clueless. All the characters, except the prisoner played by Patrick McGoohan, were unlikeable, like the fat guy with the big nose and wild hair who was controlling and manipulative. Poor Patrick could never get away, and just when he thought he was finally free of that creepy seaside village where he was being held, there would come this enormous bouncing ball threatening to swallow him whole, and so the resigned prisoner compliantly returned to the village, despairing that he would never escape.

Mom and Dad never asked where I was going, or if they did, I said I was going out with friends. I had made some friends in the art department at school, and hung out with them sometimes, but felt like an outsider. I told one girl about Hugo, describing him as a cool guy in the neighborhood, but didn’t say I had sex with him. That was my closely held secret. I didn’t think anyone would understand why I would want to have sex with a twenty-five-year-old man.

One weekend night Hugo and I were in his bedroom, dressed and cuddling on his bed. I had a cold, and my nose was stuffed up, so we didn’t kiss. He rubbed my back. I lay with my head on his chest, my cheek nestled against his soft flannel shirt. He stroked my hair, massaged my scalp. I closed my eyes, feeling drowsy and warm, grateful just to be held. But then I noticed my cheek was sliding ever so slowly over his shirt buttons. I kept my eyes closed. He kept massaging my scalp. I felt the softness of his belly rising and falling with each breath. I took a peek.  My cheek was resting below Hugo’s belly button. An image came racing out of the dark. A black and white photo of a naked man lying on his back, hands behind his head, looking down at a woman who had his penis in her mouth. I had found the card in my brother’s top dresser drawer and at first thought it was a baseball trading card. I was eight or nine at the time and didn’t understand what I was seeing. No one could do such a thing. I had dropped the card in disgust, feeling contaminated as my brother laughed at me, no doubt knowing what I had found as he sat on his bed watching my reaction. Surely not, I thought as I heard Hugo unzip his corduroys. A musky odor filled my one clear nostril. I kept my lips clamped shut as I felt the unmistakable silky softness of his penis.

“Please!” Hugo gasped, holding my head. He fumbled for my nose and pressed closed the one nostril I could breathe through; his clairvoyance as to which one to pinch convinced me he had god-like powers. Forced to open my mouth to breathe, he shoved his way in, thrusting while I gagged.

“Use your lips!” He gasped as I pushed against his hand. “No teeth!” he panted.

I tasted something acrid and wanted to spit it out, but he was holding my head. I swallowed. He let go, gathered me in his arms, and resumed stroking my hair.

“How you doing, champ?”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and swiped away tears he didn’t see. But I was a champ. “Okay,” I said, clearing my throat.

“What did you do with the super juice?” he asked.

My lips felt numb. The taste had been revolting, but the aftertaste was oddly tingly like menthol.

“I swallowed it.” I said. I didn’t say, ‘You gave me no choice, You were holding my head.’ I didn’t slap him, or kick him or spit on him.

“Cool,” he said, admiringly.

And just like that, I had become that woman in the black and white photo on that card. Changed forever, someone I hardly recognized, but with whom Hugo was pleased.

Over the ensuing weeks, Hugo tutored me — too tight, too loose, too fast, too slow, like this, like that. And yet, my efforts were never good enough. He always took over, and used Bain de Solei suntan lotion as lubricant, its scent making me nauseous. Afterward, he’d reach for his nebulizer. It chugged medicinal mist into his lungs sounding like repetitive soft sneezes. He’d hawk into a tissue, toss it to the floor, and pull me into his arms, saving me from the bouncing ball of loneliness that threatened to engulf me, the compliant prisoner.

The pain of loving Hugo ignited a growing belief. I was a valuable provider of pleasure. If that was my only worth, I’d make sure I was damn good at it.

Polly Hansen is the winner of Memoir Magazine’s 2022 Memoir Book Prize in the coming-of-age category for her unpublished memoir NASTY GIRL. She is a writer/producer of two nationally syndicated radio programs Radio Health Journal and Viewpoints, and has a master’s degree in flute performance. Her work is forthcoming in 45th Parallel and the Off-Campus Writers Workshop anthology, Meaningful Conflict. She blogs about self-love and intimacy at pollyhansen.com. You can also find her on Twitter @9ofPentacles.