Luckily my hands are hidden under my bedspread and I quickly jump up, startled, trying to act as if everything is normal. But my mom is onto me.
“Elizabeth Jane! What in the…”
Her eyes are pointed into two beady dots staring right in my direction. I know she’s about to give me a lecture about purity and hell. I try to defend myself.
“What, me?” I exclaim. “I’m just sitting here. How about what you? You just barged right in without knocking!”
“This is my house and I have every right to walk into any room I want to walk into,” she said. “Plus, the reason I came back was that I needed to grab a sweater. It’s gotten chilly outside. I decided to come ask you if I could borrow that cute pink one I bought for you at T.J. Maxx. And then I started thinking about how much I’d really like for you to come with me, to the grocery store and then afterwards we could go shopping at T.J. Maxx again.”
I try to resist rolling my eyes. My mom really needs to make another friend aside from me.
“I didn’t mean to leave you out just because you have to study,” she continues. “I realized I could have helped you with your homework and then we could hurry and go afterwards. As soon as I drove off I was just kicking myself, knowing it was rude of me, so I came back to offer.”
She says this in her normal tone, which is always full of martyrdom (and as usual, she says things like “homework” instead of “studying,” that make me sound like I’m younger than I am). She knows I don’t like to shop with her— or do much of anything with her these days— so I’m sure she just came in to check up on me. She’s always suspicious that I’m up to something.
And this time she sure found out what I’m up to, all right. She’s always waiting to pounce on me for “sinning,” no matter what I do, and I’ve never even done anything very wrong.
“Young lady,” she says, sitting daintily down on the side of my bed as if it’s infested with cooties. “I can’t believe what I just saw here. I thought you told me you were pure.”
“I am, Mom! I promise.”
An image flashes through my mind. It’s one of being fingered in front of a small group of friends sitting in a circle. It slightly turns me on, which is inconvenient timing. But it also makes me worry that somehow my mother will find out that I’m impure because of this one incident.
“What I just witnessed was not the action of a pure young lady,” my mother chastises.
I’m mortified that she’s caught me masturbating, but I still want to roll my eyes.
What does she think a college-aged woman does if she’s not allowed to have sex? I think.
I want to tell her she should be glad I was only thinking impure thoughts and not acting on them, or at least not with another person.
But then she drops a bombshell on me.
“That’s it, Elizabeth Jane. You don’t listen to a word I say anymore. I really think something’s wrong with you. I’m scheduling you for an appointment with Dr. Monroe.”
“Dr. Monroe?” I repeat, squirming underneath my comforter.
What does he have to do with anything, other than being the reason that I’m dripping wet down there right now? I wonder.
“I’m going to have him examine you to make sure you’re still pure.”
“You can’t do that, Mom! I’m nineteen years old!”
I’m so mad at her that I want to leave the house and never come back. I would do it too, if I had anywhere else to go, or any money to get me there.
How embarrassing.
“If you want to remain under this roof, you’ll agree to the examination,” my mom says, her mind made up.
This is another one of her reminders that I have to keep living with her unless I want to drop out of college and be homeless.
“I want Dr. Monroe to report back to me with his findings,” she says resolutely.
“Report back to you…”
I’m speechless. Then I get mad. I know I have rights, even if she doesn’t want to think so.
“Clearly what you’re suggesting would violate HIPAA law, Mom.”
“I don’t know what that law is, and I don’t care about it at all,” she says, still authoritatively defiant. “I only care about God’s law. Which you’re breaking. There is obviously something wrong with a young woman who can’t wait until she’s married to experiment properly, with her husband. Maybe Dr. Monroe can examine your mental state too, and tell me if there’s something wrong with you psychologically.”
She juts out her chin in that stubborn manner she has, as if it’s her final word on the subject.
“That makes no sense, Mom,” I protest. “Dr. Monroe is a family practitioner. I doubt he knows anything about mental health or even about conducting purity examinations and reporting to mothers the results of whether their adult daughters have broken God’s laws.”
He’s going to laugh you right out of his office, I think. I really hope that he will.
Except first I want to see him. Just to get a peek of his handsome face and muscular body. Seeing him in person again will really be helpful for the next time I need “inspiration” for my fantasies.
With a mixture of dread and excitement I wait while my mom goes to her room and makes the call to schedule my appointment. I feel like a naughty eight-year-old who has just gotten caught trying to steal cookies from the cookie jar.
But part of me hopes that Dr. Monroe will be as happy to see me as I know that I will be to see him. It’s been awhile since I was in his office— the last time had been for my field hockey physical, senior year, to be precise— and I could have sworn he had flirted with me.
At the time, I had just chalked it up to the fact that he has a very outgoing and charming personality. But now I can’t help but hope it’s because he actually finds me as attractive as I find him.
A few minutes later, my mother pops her head back into my room, again without knocking— she never does.
“Good news,” she announces cheerfully. “Dr. Monroe had an opening tomorrow.”
That was quick, I think. I remember it taking forever to schedule non-urgent appointments, because Dr. Monroe owns the best family practice clinic in town.
I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad news that his office had been able to schedule me in so quickly. I’m just anxious to see Dr. Monroe— and to get my mom off my back— as quickly as possible.