Chapter 1

The hearth crackled as a log settled, orange glowing embers flitting up the chimney in a fairy-like dance. The scent of burning pine filled the living room, a familiar and comforting aroma. I associated it with cold winter days and cozy interiors, hiding safely from winter’s chill.

In my hand a heavy cut-crystal glass tinkled with the sound of ice cubes hitting the sides when I raised the smoky single malt Oban scotch to my mouth. A gust of wind rattled the dark window as I sipped; cool, smooth, fourteen year old scotch slipping down my throat to blossom into heat in my stomach. It was snowing hard outside, blustery gusts stirring up a storm of white, not quite a blizzard but close. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was there; it had been battering our area all day. The thought of huge snow drifts pleased me. I loved winter storms. Perhaps it was that special feeling of isolation from the world. Or perhaps it was the silence in between gusts that held a muted, deafening quality that made you want to yawn to clear the blocked sensation in your ears. Perhaps it was the incredible white blanket that covered the land in innocent purity; a world restored to peace, free of ugliness and strife, if only for a while.

My mind turned to Sia, my freshly minted fourteen-year-old daughter, now in bed and, hopefully, asleep, not checking up on her friends’ Facebook status on her iPhone - something the young seemed to do every waking moment of the day.

I pictured Sia. That unsettling feeling returned in a flash; a vague discomfort blended with something else, something that quickened my pulse that shouldn’t have. I took another sip of scotch, ice tinkling it’s soothing crystal symphony. Alcohol hit my brain bringing on the first hint of fuzziness, softening my perspective on life. My thoughts drifted like the snowdrifts outside our cozy home.

I wondered if there were invisible porous barriers that, once penetrated, could never be reversed. Did perceptions pass through these ethereal barriers to end up forever changed on the other side? If so, why weren’t there warnings? Signs? Some hint that a barrier had been approached: Beware, beyond this point everything will be different. Think twice before passing?

When does a game change from playful, innocent fun into something more? Something with deeper significance? I didn’t know. But that’s what had happened earlier this evening. A fun game that had been part of our routine since Sia was five years old had changed suddenly and evolved into something very, very different; something surprising, unsettling, and utterly inappropriate.

Sia was my joy. She was the light of my life, filling me with pride and giving me a reason to work hard to provide. In the seven years since Soraya, her mother and my wife, had passed, Sia had filled my life with laughter, frustration at her far too frequent intransigence, delight at her stubbornness, and wonder at her inquisitiveness - her constant discovery of the world around her. She was curious to an extreme, never satisfied with my answers to her endless questions. I was sure she was going to be a scientist - or would if she’d decide school grades were worthy of her attention.

A memory brought a smile.

Sia at five years old sitting on one end of our couch, legs curled to the side. I’d stretched out and claimed the whole couch (as was my right as the male of the house) before she arrived in the living room and, in her typical way, she’d forced herself onto the other end of the couch shoving my legs and feet out of the way. I kicked back trying to push her off. She’d kicked her little feet out shoving my legs away. With a big grin, I’d used my toes to tickle her sides. A burst of giggles had ensued, “Stop, Daddy!”, her legs furiously shoving my feet away.

It happened again a few nights later, this game of ours. But it became special after Soraya had passed away, leaving a huge hole in our lives.

Soraya had been the center of our world, soft-spoken, full of love, kind to a fault, considerate, and a Master Sergeant leveraging a steely voice and firm will to maintain order and discipline between a rambunctious child and an equally rambunctious father. Sia drowned in sorrow when her mother passed. I had too but my focus on caring for my daughter kept depression at bay, only sneaking out when I’d go to bed; a lonely linen desert with a huge hole left by my wife, a warm body missed, comfort, love, sexy snuggling gone from my life.

Sia was three months shy of seven years old, and what seemed to me terminally sad, when the breakthrough happened. She’d quietly sat on one end of the couch and, in my ongoing effort to bring a smile to her pretty face, I’d tried to shove her off with my feet. At first angry, cute frown and all, Sia had shoved back. A war ensued, feet battling for position and access, kicking, thrusting, bodies contorting. Then, in the midst of the mêlée, magic happened. Somewhere in the waging war, my toes found her side and furious giggles erupted; the first giggles since we’d lost such an important member of our family. My heart soared. I attacked with no restraint until my giggling daughter screamed, “Stooop, Daddy!”

While the war was over, while I had a rather dopy smile on my face, while my heart grew with pleasure at the return of my feisty daughter, I used my toes to give small nudges to her feet. Sia grinned silently pretending to ignore me, her attention on the television, and used her feet to deflect my actions.

The game of footsie had officially returned.

At first, the game was an occasional thing, once or twice a week. Sometimes Sia chose to snuggle at my side, warming my soul and relaxing me more than a professional masseuse. Then, when she’d park herself at the other end of the couch, I’d shove her with my feet, earning a smile and a shove with small bare feet in response. But, by the time Sia was nine years old, when the game of footsie was over, our feet and legs would remain in contact, as if a personal connection was needed by us both. Silent communication began, too. Something on the television that warranted attention would be pointed out with a foot poke, or a shove when it was particularly notable.

By the time Sia was eleven years old I’d started using the contact to communicate affection, my love, an emotion that continued to strengthen much to my surprise. I thought I loved Sia endlessly, but as she grew, maturity peeking out to show the promise of the young lady inside her, my love intensified, as did my pride. When a flush of love would hit me I’d caress her thigh or calf with my foot, a silent comment to her, and she’d respond with an acknowledging foot caressing my leg.

It became routine for us to have our legs touching when watching TV in the evenings. Sometimes tickling would ensue when I’d want a reaction from her; other times, Sia would shove at my legs with outrage, “Daddy!”, her response to one of my dumb comments or observations on a television show she was watching.

Like her mother, Soraya, Sia was a slight girl with a zany side to her personality that she inherited from me. I probably encouraged it, too. She ate voraciously, burned through carbs with her endless energy, and started growing like spring wheat at twelve years old. Soraya had been a willowy lady with a spine of titanium. Much to her constant disappointment, she’d never grown beyond a size zero dress and hated it when I’d hug her and rest my chin on the top of her head. It never stopped her from snuggling into me, though, or turning her face up for a kiss.

A sudden hard gust of wind rattled the dark window. The house creaked as if struggling to shrug off nature’s aggression. I took another sip of scotch and watched the fireplace, logs slowly subsiding into glowing embers that cast a flickering yellow-orange light into the living room, softening it and making it look even cozier. The scotch unlocked my mind and let it roam along the hallways of my memories.

Skinny Sia, not yet thirteen years old and sitting at the kitchen table dressed for school in jeans, a pale green T-shirt, black and pink Nikes, with a serious expression on her face as she toyed with a bowl of Frosted Rice Krispies, studying her iPhone on the table to the side...

“Dad?”

“Mmmm-hmmm?” I responded, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, absorbed in the morning newspaper.

“Did you know that puberty starts at ten and a half?”

A lurch of discomfort hit me. I’d avoided the talk with Sia out of embarrassment and rationalized my avoidance by believing it was too soon; she was too small. Talk of sex and boys had yet to happen. Clearly, I was too late.

“Ten and a half, huh?” I mumbled.

“That’s right. When did Mom start puberty?”

“I dunno,” I mumbled, eying my daughter for signs of physical changes. As far as I could see, aside from a startling growth spurt, there were none. Perhaps the T-shirt was hiding it. Glancing up from Sia’s chest, I studied her face.

Too often, gradual changes go unnoticed when in daily contact. Sia had changed from the sweet daughter I still held onto. While still a young girl, emerging maturity was beginning to displace childhood: cheek bones more prominent with pale freckles dusting them; slender nose; sculpted chin; lips that had lost their cuteness and become fuller; and a mouth that could smile and light the darkest night.

And then, there were her eyes.

Sia was born with heterochromia iridis - different colored eyes - the left one pale blue, the right rich hazel brown. It was a bit disorienting when first confronted with them but I’d grown to love them. They were expressive perfection, sometimes twinkling brown and blue in amusement, sometimes the hazel eye darkening and the blue becoming icy accompanied by a frown of displeasure. I could study her eyes and tell what mood she was in even when she tried to hide it.

With very dark brown hair - a mess of thick waves that fell to well below her shoulder blades - and her unusual features, to me, Sia was simply gorgeous. She had a special quality with those eyes, mystical, captivating, magical.

With some trepidation, I asked, “Have you started puberty?”

Sia snorted. “Not really. That’s what I’m talking about. How come? All my friends have.”

“Maybe it’ll skip you by,” I suggested with a smile, and somehow wished it could actually happen.

Sia frowned at me, eyebrows scrunched. “You don’t want me to grow up. You want me to be a kid forever,” she accused.

“So sue me,” I responded. “I’ve invested a lot of time into you. The least you could do is stay my sweet little girl for another ten years or so. Is that so unreasonable?”

“Typical!” Sia muttered, shoving her empty bowl of cereal away and grabbing her iPhone. “I’m going to school.”

Of course, once the subject had been opened awareness of it stayed with me. I was a single child. I’d never experienced a girl going through puberty and hadn’t expected to have to handle it. I’d assumed Soraya would guide Sia through the changes. But, despite my nervousness and sweaty palms, when I’d suggested to my daughter we should have a chat about puberty and sex, she’d laughed.

“Honestly, Dad, this isn’t the twentieth century anymore. I’ve read all about it online.”

“But honey, Facebook is not an authoritative source,” I’d suggested.

Sia had looked at me as if I was stupid. “I used the medical dictionary and Mayo Clinic for info. Jeeez, you really are clueless!”

Thus, no discussion of puberty was tolerated. No discussion of sex was accepted. My daughter had it all figured out and would shudder when I mentioned anything about it.

However, not six months later, my daughter blushed (a very rare event) as she stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Dad, can you take me shopping on Saturday?”

“You don’t need new sneakers,” I automatically responded.

“It’s not for sneakers,” Sia replied.

I paused peeling carrots at the sink and looked behind me. Sia was leaning against the door jamb and looking down.

“Then what do you need?” I inquired. “New jeans? Tops? A dress? Don’t you have a closet full of those?”

That’s when the blush blossomed on her cheeks making the dusting of pale freckles stand out. I turned and leaned back against the sink.