Lifesaving Lessons (13 page)

“Ditto,” was her response, which I chose not to take as a smart-assed statement of how she felt about anything I said (and which I was certain it was).

The next night Mariah shared with me what I would call a recurring nightmare. It sure sounded terrifying, and was certainly haunting her at the expense of solid, restful sleep. That very night I put my head on the pillow, closed my eyes, and drifted off to the horrifying image of a young girl running for her life with something evil on her heels. The girl stopped everyone she passed and begged for help. But the people she approached turned their backs to her. That was certainly an image that would not weather or fade away with time without some help, I thought. When I explained to Mariah that she had quite literally
shared
the bad dream in that I had seen it in reruns, she seemed to appreciate that I was feeling her pain. Mariah was beginning to open up a bit. She spent a night with the Clarks when I had to travel off island. Brenda reported that Mariah had asked for a notebook because she felt like writing. Mariah told Brenda that she could read what she had written, and went off to bed. Brenda read the story of a very young girl whose mother had punished her by sending her to bed with no dinner. The mother's boyfriend came to tuck the girl in. He rubbed her back and consoled the girl. “Things got out of hand, and the whole thing led to
enter
course,” she wrote. Brenda asked Mariah if she was the girl in the story. Mariah said she didn't remember. I vowed to get Mariah any counseling that was available to her for as long as she agreed to it. The calls from the social worker, Gretchen, continued. The state was willing to help if needed. But call it islandish, whether it's resistance to speed limit signs or laws governing our clam flats, we prefer to resolve our issues from within the island bubble.

.   .  .

'Twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the house . . . was the sound of hysterical laughter. The time had come for the cat bath. I cringed when Mariah filled the kitchen sink with warm, soapy water, resisting the urge to scream, “Not in the kitchen!” I bit my tongue when she reached for my kitchen scissors to trim the dingle berries from around Cowgirl's buttocks. (Note to self, I thought, throw away scissors.) The cat, being a cat, did not cotton to the grooming. By the time Mariah turned on the blow-dryer, her forearms were clawed to hell and she was as wet as the cat. The blow-dryer sent Cowgirl into a real tizzy. The cat squirmed, squealed, and clawed some more while Mariah resorted to a towel. A rack of bones with long, angora-like hair, the cat looked quite hideous. Cowgirl was all eyeballs. And the eyes looked at Mariah with confusion as she forcefully towel dried her pet. “Do you suppose Simon will take her?” she asked.

“God, I hope so,” was all I said as I watched the performance from a safe distance on the couch.

“Me, too,” she whispered in the way that people do in front of babies when they don't want them to hear something they might understand. Mariah turned and walked away from the sink with the cat all swaddled in the towel. “She's a pretty kitty now, all clean . . . don't you want to keep her?” And she threw the cat into my lap! Cowgirl was so repulsed that all four legs scrambled and she hit the wood floor running with her tail straight up in the air, giving me a full view of what I imagined was the feline equivalent of flipping me the bird.

“Cowgirl has butt bangs!” It was the funniest thing I had ever seen. And I was laughing so hard that tears rolled.

“Linny!” Mariah screamed as if upset by my commentary on the new hairdo. It was the first time she had called me by my family nickname. It was the first time she referred to me by any name, come to think of it. We laughed together. We really laughed. This was beginning to feel like what I had imagined it might be to have a daughter. We were a small, nontraditional family unit, I thought. But we were a family unit.

.   .  .

The long-awaited day finally came. We had thirty people for turkey, which is the usual for my family Thanksgiving dinner. We had family and friends, including Simon, who had neither interest in nor intention of taking the clean kitty back to Vermont with him. (I knew it would be better if he came to it on his own, and I calculated how to make that happen naturally.) Fortunately, the aroma of roasting turkey overpowered the cat stench that up until now had been remarked about by everyone who had entered since the arrival of Cowgirl.

Mariah and I had our first holiday together at “our” house. I made a point of telling her every chance I got that this was now her home. She didn't need to ask before helping herself to something to eat. She didn't need to ask permission to do laundry. She didn't have to ask to use the phone. She
would
need to ask me for money when necessary, as I had no idea what her financial requirements were. When I needed money at her age, beyond what I could make doing various small jobs, I held my hand out to my parents. If I needed twenty bucks, I asked and usually received. I told Mariah that I expected her to do the same with me, and that I would provide for all her needs and some of her wants—within reason, of course. I knew it would take time for Mariah to believe me and trust me, if she ever would. And I began to have second thoughts about sending her away to school. Our relationship was beginning to resemble something close to a caring parent/child situation. What was more important, her education and healthy social life? Or some semblance of what could be considered a maternal and nurturing family situation? I was torn. Did I really think I could do better by Mariah by keeping her with me? She had great advisers who really cared for and about her at Evergreen. The advisers and the assistant head master had become friends of mine in all of the back-and-forth discussions and negotiations. She would have access to counseling. She would have more and better opportunity all the way around at Evergreen than she would here on the island in winter. But how much of this justification was my selfishness in wanting my old life back? And now that things seemed to be improving on the home front, did I still want my old life back?

The next time Mariah and I were alone, which was Thanksgiving night after everyone had left, we were finishing up washing the mountain of dishes and talking about the fact that Simon had agreed to take Cowgirl to Vermont. It was a warm and civil talk, most of which consisted of our bolstering each other's resolve in making the right decision for Cowgirl. Simon was super nice. He would take good care of the cat. And Simon needed the company, we decided. He must certainly be lonely in Vermont. We were doing Simon a favor. I was relieved that Mariah did not mention that I would soon be alone. I would have had a hard time disguising my elation about my upcoming, much wanted loneliness. I wanted to tell Mariah that she didn't have to go to Evergreen. I should have said that I wanted her to stay home until the next year. She had been pushed away, given away, and signed away too many times in her short life. But I couldn't quite bring myself to say it. I would wait for a better time, though I knew that time was running out to give Mariah the option of staying home with me. I'm not sure what I feared more, another scathing rejection or an acceptance of an invitation that I was nervous about extending.

Sunday came and Mariah was all packed up and ready to make the journey to Norway, Maine. Simon came to collect Cowgirl that morning with a little cage he had borrowed from a friend. I had already packed the litter box, shampoo, and cat food that we had left into a box that sat by the door for a quick exit. When Mariah saw the bag of food, she said, “Geez. Shouldn't we keep the food for when Cowgirl comes back to the island?” I wanted to say that would happen only over my dead body. I didn't want to get into the conversation about Cowgirl's health and that the cat was on her last legs. It was about time for Cowgirl to do the “into the wild” thing. Isn't that what sick cats are supposed to do? But instead of telling Mariah that Cowgirl would be lucky to live long enough to breathe the Vermont air and not expire during the eight-hour ride, I offered that we could visit Cowgirl at Simon's over Christmas break from school, which was only a short time away. (Simon and I had already discussed it and were both excited about spending Christmas and New Year's at his place with our Vermont friends, all of whom, I was sure, would take to Mariah as if she were my own flesh and blood.) And during that break we could all ski together. Wouldn't she like to learn to ski?

“Well, actually, I was talking with my mom. I think I should go home for Christmas. I haven't seen my brothers in a while. Is it okay with you?”

Ouch. You would think I'd have learned by then. Emotional disappointment frequently feels like having a Band-Aid ripped off. Simon glanced at me, shoved the cat into the cage, and left for Vermont. Well, I thought, that answers the question about whether Mariah should stay here rather than go away to school. If she is still calling Memphis home and communicating with “my mom,” I should stick to the original plan. Why complicate things? And of course Christmas is all about family. I am not her mother, and I never will be. I am her guardian and want what's best for her. We should leave it there. Now I can think “good riddance” about both the cat and the kid, and not even feel guilty.

“Yeah,” I said, “sure. If you want to go to Memphis for a visit, that's fine with me. Let's talk about it later. We're going to miss the boat if we don't hurry.” I guessed I would be visiting Cowgirl in Vermont by myself. No possibility of hurt feelings in that relationship.

Strings Attached

I
thought that dropping Mariah at school would be just that and nothing more. She was armed with the usual accoutrements: new cell phone, computer, and a bit of spending money, all complete with what I considered necessary warnings, or as Mariah might put it, “strings attached.” Evergreen Academy had a strict 10:00 p.m. lights-out policy, so the phone and computer had to be shut off at that time. I requested that she not use the phone during class, and suspected that it was forbidden by the school also. While we unloaded the car, a group of three girls came over to greet Mariah and offered to help schlep suitcases, boxes, and bags to her room. Once the hugs and giggles subsided, we all stood at the back of my Jeep and stared at one another. I was waiting for Mariah to make introductions, and I suspected her girlfriends were, too. (In hindsight, I know that they were more interested in my leaving than who I was.)

Realizing that I was the adult, and the one setting an example of good manners for Mariah, I forced the introduction. I stuck my hand out to the girl closest to me and said, “Hi. I'm . . .” And I couldn't complete the sentence. Who was I? Should I introduce myself as Mariah's legal guardian? That is so sterile, I thought. I was not her mother. I was not her friend. I stuttered. “I'm Linda,” I finally blurted out. The girl shook my hand as if doing so was quite foreign to her. She never offered her name, so I didn't attempt anything formal with the other two girls, and simply nodded and smiled a cheesy take-the-picture smile. I had never felt so out of touch with a generation in my life. I had always prided myself in being comfortable with anyone of any age, any background, any ethnicity, gender preference, religion, economic situation . . . But these girls were like aliens. They were subhuman, I thought. They were poised for me to leave, so it was clear I should make my exit.

Unsure how to leave with any grace or dignity, I opened my arms for Mariah to step in with a good-bye hug. She recoiled and shrank. One or both of us would now be totally humiliated, I thought. If I drop my arms and leave, I'll be there alone. If I hug her, and she's clearly mortified, we'll be abashed in unison. Three Dog Night was surely onto something, I thought as I attempted a hug. Two
can
be the loneliest number since the number one. I have now read the thesaurus in its entirety, and there is no adjective that describes the one-way nonhug. As I let go of Mariah's tensed shoulders, she did whisper, “Awkward,” which not only summed it up, but was also evidence that she had increased her vocabulary by 20 percent. Wow! And she hadn't even started classes yet.

I hadn't even left the Evergreen campus when I remembered a painful snapshot from my own teen years. My father and I were crossing a busy street in Brunswick, Maine; I was about fifteen years old, and he had had the audacity to take my arm. I broke his hold by jerking my arm out of his hand and gasping in disgust. What if someone had seen my father touch my arm? Although he never said anything, I had hurt my father's feelings. And Dad was never the oversensitive sort. I hadn't given that a thought in more than thirty years. But the memory was like salve on the new wound, and my mood brightened. Strangely, it seemed that the score had now been settled. Chalk one up for Mariah. Who knew that having a teenager could be so hurtful? Anyone who has ever survived one, I supposed. As I mindlessly drove the winding roads, enjoying some much needed windshield time, I was confused only by the fact that I was equating my relationship to Mariah with one that had always been a healthy, loving parental connection. Probably just my stunted maternal instincts run amok, I thought. The feelings might be natural, but the situation was anything but. I had always wanted children. And now that I had gone from zero to fifteen with the stroke of a pen, I had to work to shrug off second thoughts.
C'est la vie.

The closer I got to hopping aboard my boat and heading home, the more distant Mariah's emotional snubbing of me became. I wouldn't have to deal with her again until Christmas, I thought, and even then she might go to Memphis. That, we had finally agreed, would be her call. If she wanted to spend the holidays with her biological family, I would buy her plane tickets and transport her to and from the airport. We had discussed the options at length, and had left it swaying in the breeze when Mariah couldn't decide what to do. I told her that if she had been five years old and asked my opinion of a trip west, I would have forbidden it, but at fifteen, Mariah could decide for herself what was best for her. And I had vowed never to keep her from her family or to interject too much of my poor opinion of her mother. I had never met the woman. She might be fine. I had chosen to keep our correspondence to a minimum since her dreadful reaction to why her daughter was at my house. I suspected that Mariah's mother was also a victim of abuse, knowing what I did about its being a learned behavior and a cycle that is difficult to break out of. All I knew about Mariah's biological mother was that she sometimes worked as a chambermaid but more often did not work. Mariah had lived in a hotel room, her aunt's basement, with her grandmother, in a house supplied by the church, and in a homeless shelter. She seemed to have a relatively close relationship with a grandmother and an aunt and uncle. Family is important, I knew. And no matter how much my family was welcoming and accepting of our new situation, Mariah would always have her real folks, however many really bad decisions they'd made about her or however much they'd let her down and screwed her up, et cetera. Blood ties were still important.

Home sans kid or Cowgirl . . . Being alone in my house was something I had never taken for granted, and I had now developed a real longing for it. As I slipped through the stillness in that direction, I was tempted to push the
Mattie Belle
's throttle up to full to hasten toward the feeling of home. But it was such a dark and silent night, and the water was so calm for that time of year, that I knocked the engine out of gear and shut it down in midtransit instead. Drifting just beyond Merchant's Island—just far enough along to be perfectly positioned to see lights neither from Stonington nor Isle au Haut—I sat on the stern transom dangling my feet over the deck and breathed a sigh of relief. So much had happened in such a relatively short time. Ken was in a local jail waiting, as we all were, to learn his fate. Mariah was at a wonderful school where she would receive opportunities that she deserved. And I was on track to have my “normal” life back.

Blackness had fallen like an anchor out of a hawse pipe with the turning off of the radar and chart plotter. When my eyes adjusted to it, the darkness warmed to a degree that allowed shadows of the surrounding islands to emerge like giant whales from the inky bay. The moonless night liberated the stars in a way that can be witnessed only from a vessel floating silently at sea. Whether I was totally empty-headed or contemplating life as I knew it, it didn't matter. I could have stayed there forever. But a boat ride back to reality was imminent. I cranked the engine back up, flipped on the electronics, and headed home, carving a groove in the surface that quickly filled behind me, leaving no trace. And tomorrow morning at first light, when the bay would swell with boats buzzing around yanking traps from the bottom and splashing them back in, no one would be the wiser.

I secured the
Mattie Belle
to the mooring and zipped ashore in my skiff. My truck refused to start, requiring me to walk home, which didn't bother me because I enjoy a walk from time to time. I crawled between cool sheets knowing happiness. The next day was spectacular. And if asked how so, I'm not sure I could say. And maybe that's what was so special about it. There's just something magical about this place—so steeped in the past, so unchanging that it truly is the rock we refer to it as. This feeling I so often experience and can so seldom articulate may be one that is inherent in the place we call home. But I tend to think that it is more about what I am doing while here than the island itself. When I am at my happiest, I feel like Thoreau when he took to the woods to “live life deliberately.” That deliberate, simple lifestyle suits me as well. I guess that is part of what I cherish so much in being at sea. Then it hit me: This happiness that I have while home is something that I want to share with Mariah. It is probably something she has never had. Sure, she'll always have a connection to Memphis, but the island will be her physical (and, I hoped, emotional) home until she is eighteen. And after that, she will be free to do as she pleases. Until then, I vowed that she would have my unconditional care and guardianship. I fell asleep embraced by the maternal part of the island that holds, consoles, and encourages good thoughts in those lucky enough to be open to it. And I prayed that Mariah would find openness to what it and I had to offer her.

Sometimes life slaps you in the face. Like the nondescript stretch of road that lulls you into heedlessness until you are suddenly at your destination with no idea or recollection of how you got there, a period of time elapsed, leaving me with glimpses of landmark events but no concept of the passage of days or weeks. I literally woke up one day struggling for all my heartfelt beliefs, idealism, optimism, and life philosophies. Someone or something had pulled a weight-bearing stone from my island's foundation and things were caving. An outside force had found a chink in the island's armor and was working at it, exposing weakness. Sure, even the most virtuous among us are capable of indiscretion, but the events that littered this passage of time went beyond scandalous. I was thankful that Mariah was away at school so much of the time in the way that any guardian wants to protect her ward.

There is a surprisingly fine line separating being responsibly concerned and minding one's own business. With the Ken situation so fresh, we all questioned things when we might otherwise have just shrugged, looked the other way, or drawn the blinds. Many of us were in shock that abuse had gone on undetected and unsuspected right under our noses for so long. And then we started looking for signs of trouble everywhere. My sister Bif anguished over what she
thought
she was seeing developing in an inappropriate relationship with some underage island girls and a middle-aged man who had moved to Isle au Haut to work for the electric company. Bif
thought
she was doing the right thing by approaching the girls' mothers with her observations and concern. The mothers were by and large insulted by what my sister suggested. Her concerns were unwelcome and denied, leaving Bif questioning her own judgment and wishing she had buried her head in the sand rather than perhaps falsely accuse. Bif was still feeling the sting of the women's wrath when the electric worker allegedly committed suicide.

The authenticity of the suicide was questioned. There was a note. There was a drifting kayak. There was a wallet found precisely where the note had indicated it would be. But there was no body. And there was rumor of a sighting of the electric worker alive and well and wearing a kayak skirt on the mainland. It was all so seemingly staged, and officials didn't appear to spend much time searching. But there was an obituary. In my mind, it didn't really matter whether the man was dead or not. He was gone. He took with him some secret that would never be divulged, and one that made it impossible for him to remain here on the island. Either way, he had been a coward, to my thinking, and had taken the easy way out.

Plunging the murkiness into a shade darker was the sudden and shocking arrest of yet another island male. This one, a lifelong resident, was charged with unlawful sexual contact with a minor. Some of us wondered whether island residents were now hunting witches or whether we actually had perverts under every stone. The overfriendly uncle was hauled off to jail. But he wasn't there long before an unrelated island resident bailed him out and housed him for a short time while he waited for the legal chips to fall, causing even the most demure among us to ask, “What the fuck?”

It was during this same span of time that a photograph surfaced via e-mail to me and most everyone I knew on the island with a computer. The picture was of Mariah, Ken, and Howard Blatchford. They were all aboard Howard's boat and had clearly been hauling traps because the focus of the photo was a very large lobster. The caption read “Island Daycare.” I am certain that people distanced from the situation found some humor in this, but it sickened me. And it also raised the question again of whether we had an epidemic or whether our awareness of abuse had been recently heightened. Up until just recently Howard Blatchford was the only sex offender among us, or so we thought. He had made a mistake, had served his time, and now went about his business of fishing and living mostly as a partial exile. Howard had been ostracized by the community for good reason. Nobody wanted him around their children. But Isle au Haut being Isle au Haut, Howard did fish among island lobstermen, although he had been blackballed by our Lobster Association. I had always had a cordial relationship with Howard. I enjoyed an occasional conversation with him. He was a savvy fisherman. He was clever and appeared to make do with very little. I recalled how hard he worked in fighting a house fire that had threatened to total a summer home. He had nearly been in tears. But this perspective was now tainted. Seeing Mariah in this picture standing between these two men nauseated me. And it brought on a whole new onslaught of questions.

The realization that we now had three sexual offenders of children living within a scant population that had diminished to well below fifty was disheartening. When I expressed my dismay to a respected friend, his reply did nothing to make me feel better, although I know it was intended to. “We are right at the national average. It just seems like a lot because we all know one another. Most people living in other places don't
know
the child molester next door.” Information like that tends to make you look at everyone differently.