We crossed the street; they crossed the street. We went into a store; they waited outside. We went into a park off the main street and sat down on a bench by a large pond; they sat down on the other side of it. They pretended to coax a swan on the pond to carry a note to us; we laughed. Then they tried to get a kid to bring it over. No go. So they left, and Sio and I went to get the note. "I want the brunette," said Sio. "Oh really?" I replied.

I have no recollection of what it said, but while we were reading the note they came back. As they were heading back, I grinned at Sio and said, "You can have the brunette; I want the blond."

Jesus Murphy he was cute. Tall, angular cheekbones with big dark blue eyes, broad shoulders, muscular, medium gold-blond hair cut short, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and he walked with the hint of a confident swagger. I'd put up his picture, but it would ruin the anonymity factor. You will just have to take my word for it; he was beautiful.

Of course, being young women mindful of our limited German skills and presence in a foreign country, we did the safe and prudent thing; we hopped in their truck and went sightseeing all over the countryside. We saw great little castles tucked in corners in small villages and a few old churches; one I remember had as its distinguishing characteristic the tallest staircase for some distance around. I can remember huffing and puffing climbing it, a great view on top, lots of pictures taken at the summit, then First teasing me about my method of going down the stairs. I stuck my tongue out at him.

He and his friend, The Brunette, were notable in our experience of young German boys especially in one respect: neither of them spoke any english. If you have ever visited Germany, you will know how rare that is. So communication was difficult and possible only thorugh the extensive use of our german-english dictionary. But we had a great time that night, returning to my host family's house very late to find it in a state of mild uproar (I guess they'd come to expect scandalous behaviour of me. I found out some years after I'd returned home that they'd made a desperate long-distance phone call to my parents imploring them to "do something." "What do you want us to do?" they'd replied. "We're in Canada. We can't control her even when we're in the same country." There was one time I'd returned very late from being out with First to find the front door locked, everyone in bed, and I'd forgotten my key. I spent the night outside in the shed, and walked through the kitchen door as soon as someone woke up to open it in the morning. "Where have you been?" my host-mother asked. "I forgot my key so I spent the night in the shed." They never believed me, especially not my host-father, and shortly after this little escapade I got the "we have AIDS in Germany too, you know" talk).

Much against my host family's wishes, I began seeing First. And of course, given the cultural differences, language barriers and class differences (he was a trucker), we did the sensible and natural thing; we fell very quickly in love. I spent all my spare time with him, and some time that really ought not to have been free. I saw almost all of the local countryside and lots of the nearby city with him, far more than I ever would have covered with my host family; and it was great for my German comprehension, since he didn't speak any english and couldn't 'rescue' me that way. Clearly I remember many sunny afternoons spent making out in a local park or a dusty caved-in room of a long-abandoned castle.

It was extremely romantic, of course, and I was 17 and susceptible to that kind of thing. The tragedy of having to cram an entire relationship into six weeks! (I met him halfway through the exchange.) Whatever would I do when I went home? And so on. I'm sure you can see how this would appeal to a very sensitive and angsty teenaged girl.

But it wasn't just that. We genuinely had a great time together. No fights, hardly any disagreements, lots of fun. And he started studying English so he could move to be with me in Canada one day, taking night-classes during the week. He practiced on me all the time. It was terrible, but sweet. Have I mentioned that he was 21? I don't think I did.

By now you're all nodding your heads and saying, "Oh, so that's why you've nicknamed him 'First'!" Yup. Only my daughter is going to read this someday and I'm sure she doesn't want all the gory details, so *ahem* pardon me for not sharing everything. But I will say that still being a devout christian at the time, I repented of my horrible misdeed and vowed never to repeat it. Much to First's chagrin.

There was a time in my last month just before I left when First disappeared. For two weeks I didn't hear from him; then when I did, he was driving a small car instead of his old truck and didn't look in great shape. He told me he'd been in a car accident, in the hospital in a coma. "Look," he said, in German; "Here's where they attached the wires." He pointed to spots on his arm and chest that did look like where someone had removed circular bandages and wires, so I believed him. And for the rest of my stay there it was back to the same--all of our time together, everywhere we get to while I was still there.

I hated the thought of leaving him behind, even though at the time we thought it was temporary.

My last night in Germany I met his sister and her husband; she was the only member of his family I ever met. We spent part of the evening at her house and a very stilted and uncomfortable conversation it was, too.

Later on, late at night at my host family's house, we said our tearful and passionate goodbye's at the front gate. I did not want to let go. We promised to write and call all the time, and he would continue taking english, and then someday we would be together again. He'd get a job in Canada and move. How hard could it be?

But I stood there and held him and cried.

"Don't cry," he said, in German. "It will be all right. Shh. Sh. How do you say 'us'?"

I told him.

In English he said, "We see us soon."

The next day I went home.

And he was as good as his word. I got a letter every week, and a phonecall every Tuesday evening. I don't even want to think about what time it must have been in Germany when he made those calls. I spoke as much German as I could and he spoke as much English as he could. I wrote a bit every day and mailed the letters off once a week. He was as regular as clockwork and our letters and conversations were as close as they'd ever been in Germany. He was still taking english classes, looking into jobs in Canada and the immigration process.

On one of our regular Tuesday phonecalls in July, he told me he was taking a two-week trip to Switzerland. "I'll send you a postcard," he said, "and I'll call you next week."

"I can't wait," I said.

"Don't worry, hey," he said. And then in English. "I love you. We see us again soon."

That was the last I ever heard from him.

What happened?

I don't know.

At the time, I told myself he died. He must have died. What else could explain it? One moment he was there, faithful and loving; the next he was gone.

I continued writing letters and mailing them faithfully for months. "Where are you?" I would write. "If I don't hear from you soon, you'll break my heart. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?" I tried calling his sister but could never get through.

I stopped showering and never left my room, except to check the mailbox--three times a day--just in case. I told anyone who asked how we were doing that he had died. It was the only answer I could bear to be true. I didn't want him dead, but I couldn't stand the thought that he might have abandoned me, just left me hanging like that, no rhyme or reason.

In mid-August, when I started leaving my room again, I was diagnosed with diabetes. I think what happened to First was the trigger.

And now, thirteen years later, what do I think happened?

I have no idea. I think back to our relationship and I still can't believe that he just dumped me like that without any clue or warning sign. It wasn't like him. So maybe he is dead, maybe his motorcycle crashed on the way to Switzerland on the autobahn.

But there are other things I wonder now, too. After six weeks, how well do you know someone?

Well enough to know that he wouldn't just disappear; yes. But well enough to know why he'd disappear; maybe not.

One thing my host-father said to me about First has stuck in my mind. "I know he told you he was born in x, but it can't be true. He has a russian accent." At the time I dismissed it. Why would I care where he was born? There could be any number of explanations. And what do I know of accents in German?

I wonder who he really was? I wonder if he really was a trucker? Maybe he didn't get into a car accident--maybe he was hurt some other way. Could he have been a criminal?

I'll never know. I've tried Googling him but his German name is so common it turns up thousands of matches, and I'm not sure he's the internet type. Besides--let's say he didn't die--by now he would be thirty-four. How much would he have changed in thirteen years? I'm not sure I'd want to know if he's now a staid, married, pot-bellied balding father of two. It's almost better to leave him in my memory as the beautiful boy I met and loved in Germany thirteen years ago.

So you see, Frances, your mother really was an interesting person once upont a time.

And girl-child, I promise that I will try to remember this when you are a teenager: I will try to remember that once upon a time, I took foolish risks, skipped school, did silly things, didn't have my priorities straight, and that somehow everything turned out ok. Here I am, a boring, married, mother with a house in the suburbs and a family sedan and a government job. I will try to remember to trust you and let you take risks, spread your wings and enjoy yourself before you have to grow up.

You know, this is the first time I've ever discussed publicly that maybe he didn't die. Rachel is right. I do keep a lot of things close to my chest.

ETA: I just remembered. Did you know I never told my parents about him, until I was having a fight with my parents about something else a few years later? And that August, I think just before my diagnosis, I actually volunteered to be a leader at a Vacation Bible School. Doesn't that sound like fun? But that's me: Having recently had my heart trampled and being sick with an undiagnosed chronic illness is no reason to give up on one's commitments. That was my definition of "being strong" back then--but I guess it actually was pretty strong, eh?