Lifesaving Lessons (17 page)

Rhonny and I both bolted upright and chased the now running Bif around the house trying to see what was on her that she needed to get off. As Bif is very squeamish, I wasn't really all that alarmed that she was freaking out. We finally caught her in the kitchen and I asked, “What?”

Her eyes showed real terror and she held her left elbow in her right hand as she screamed, “A tick! A fucking tick! Get the fucker off me!” (Bif doesn't normally use foul language, which makes it hard to believe she is part of my family.) I squinted at the spot on Bif's upper arm that she was now pointing at.

“I think it's a pimple,” I said.

“It's moving! It's not a fucking pimple! Oh my God, it has legs! Get it ooooofffff!!” Rhonny and I agreed that neither of us could actually see well enough without our reading glasses to determine what tiny spec stuck to Bif's flesh was sending her through the roof. I hustled to find a pair of glasses, donned them, and saw clearly that the spec did indeed have legs that were moving. Rhonny inspected with my glasses and confirmed that it was a tick and that the tick was in the process of burrowing itself into Bif's arm. Bif was now beyond panic and babbled endlessly about Lyme disease and the fact that she could not miss a minute of work for any reason. Rhonny had loads of experience removing ticks from the many dogs she had owned through the years, and suggested burning the tick with a cigarette to get it to back out of Bif's arm or covering it with Vasoline to suffocate it into backing out. Bif was now getting pale and breathing way too hard. “Linny, just please get it off me. NOW!!!!” All we had ever heard about Lyme disease was that it is imperative to get treatment quickly. We knew that if untreated, the disease could be quite debilitating. We assumed that Bif had picked up the tick at the grave site the day before. I ran upstairs and grabbed a pair of tweezers. I squeezed the tick and pulled. It broke in half. I showed Bif the half tick that was now stuck to one end of the tweezers. “Are you fucking kidding? Come on! Let's go to Kate and Steve's. They'll know what to do.”

The three of us marched over to the neighbors' place, where they were busy getting the morning coffee and pastries together for early visitors to the café. We barged through their front door and explained Bif's dilemma. Bif was somewhat quieter now, but had to divert her eyes from the end of the tweezers when I showed Kate and Steve what I had managed to extract. Kate and Steve began by telling me what I had done wrong. Apparently the proper technique was to twist while pulling, sort of like uncorking the embedded tick from flesh. Now that there was nothing of the tick exposed to grab for another try, an incision would be necessary. While we discussed how Bif should see a doctor for this—during which she adamantly refused, citing her need not to miss any work as she had a business to run—Bill and Brenda arrived. Bill likes to toss gasoline on a fire. He never misses an opportunity to tease. His thoughts on the situation added a sense of urgency even though I knew he was kidding. When he spoke of the possibility of tick eggs being laid in the arm, I fought back a laugh. Bif looked as if she might puke.

Before Bill was done talking about Lyme disease, its symptoms, and what Bif's eventual prognosis would be, Bif was right back to screaming profanities. She now insisted that we get a scalpel and perform surgery on her arm immediately. Nancy Calvert, who is a trained nurse, was the logical choice for a surgeon because Simon had left with Mariah early that morning. Steve placed the call and Nancy and Bill Calvert arrived in short order, scalpel and magnifying glass ready. Nancy, Bill, and their dog had all suffered from Lyme disease, so their input was valuable. I'm not sure who suggested vodka shots, but Bif was more than happy to take a couple of belts before Nancy dug in. While she dug at the spot with the tip of the scalpel (after sterilizing it with a lit match), Rhonny and I each slugged down a shot of vodka. It was a sister thing (like shaving your head because someone you love lost hair in chemotherapy). Nancy was trying to be careful, not wanting to hurt Bif. When Bif screamed, “Just fucking do it!” Nancy plucked the remainder of the tick from her arm with a quick, deep thrust and a jerk. The three sisters toasted Nancy with yet another round of vodka that no longer burned going down.

We left Kate and Steve's with two halves of a tick in a baby food jar and strict instructions for Bif to see a doctor when she got back home the next day and that she should send the tick to the state for toxicology. We all knew that neither would happen. But Bif clutched the jar like a prize she had won, placing it on my coffee table for all to see when we relayed the story, which we did several times that day. I had seen a member of my fishing crew with a mako shark latched onto his calf muscle react less than Bif did to the tiny tick. Now that her hysteria had subsided, we could chuckle. The three of us lollygagged on the sofa until bedtime that night, reliving old times and forecasting the future the way middle-aged sisters do. And it seemed we hadn't a care. We were comfortable in our laziness, and didn't mention that we would part ways the next morning not knowing when we'd share another laugh. The tick episode had taken center stage, but the issue of my relationship with Mariah was still waiting in the wings. But I had made a very conscious decision. I did not want to be merely Mariah's guardian. I wanted and would
mother
her, though. Rhonny would go back to Florida, Bif would dive back into her workaholic frenzy in Portland, and I would stay here on the island with the knowledge that my sisters thought I was a good mom for Mariah and with the peace of mind that I would always have their help and support.

I waved good-bye to my sisters the next morning from the dock as they departed on the mail boat knowing how lucky I was to be one of the three of us. It was unusual that the three of us had shared time alone. Their visit bolstered my confidence that Mariah and I would be fine, and it fortified my resolve to figure out my relationships in general. I was lucky. And, more important, Mariah was lucky.

I arrived home to a new message on my answering machine. The caller ID indicated Evergreen Academy. I wondered what today's ailment was and what pharmaceutical would be recommended. It wasn't a nurse this time. It was an administrator. Mariah was in real trouble and in danger of expulsion.

Fight for It

I
prepared to return the call to Evergreen with an attitude. Really? What had Mariah done now that was
so
awful that it might cost her the privilege of a private school education? Had she had the gall once again to allow a boy to enter her dorm room? Had she been brazen enough to leave school without permission to walk to Dunkin' Donuts? Had she slept through muster, or whatever they called the early morning attendance requirement? Had she hatefully eaten something that didn't belong to her from the group refrigerator? Had she skipped class? Oh, it must be another dress code violation—Mariah liked to make a statement, not so much a fashion statement as a thumbing of her nose at the overly strict policy. For God's sake, the kid is a kid, I thought as I prepared to refuse to go get her for such minor violations of what I had come to regard as militant rule. And so close to the end of the school year! They simply can't kick her out. At times we mothers have to defend our children!

I had resisted, until now, any tendency to sympathize with Mariah when she complained of the strictness and pettiness of some of the school rules. I had been the total opposite at her age. I had loved school and everything about it. My mother had to fight me to stay home when I was sick because I hated to miss a day. I never thought that Evergreen had a conspiracy against Mariah and, of course, I understood that her attitude about it was absolutely typical of a kid her age who seemed a bit rebellious in a harmless way. But now that I had made a decision to be her mother figure, and had admitted to myself that mothering her would be best for us both, I knew the role included knowing when to fight
for
her rather than fighting her. Evergreen needed to cut my kid some slack. Home with me was not an option. She wanted and deserved this education, and I would fight for it.

But when I actually got on the phone with them, my wrath dissolved like lard in a skillet. I don't think I would have been surprised to learn that Mariah had been caught sharing a can of beer with her girlfriends. But it was like a kick in the chest to hear that she had gotten a half gallon of whiskey in the mail. The package, which Mariah had apparently been looking for and asking about daily, was bobbled by the school's mail clerk and smashed into reeking seriousness. The administration had a zero-tolerance policy, and Mariah was already on probation for violating the no-boys-in-girls'-rooms rule. (Her boyfriend, Liam, whom I liked in spite of my dislike of their status, had “accidentally” fallen asleep in Mariah's bed.) The administration was trying to get to the bottom of the booze situation, with little help from my tight-lipped kid. She would take the rap rather than rat out any accomplice. Yeah, right. Bullshit, I thought. If Mariah was going down, I would ensure that it would not be alone. We mothers have a responsibility to seek justice for our kids. I agreed, at the insistence of the school administrator, that I would get to Evergreen as soon as possible. They would have her pack up her things. I would, of course, bring her kicking and screaming home, where she would have more supervision. I understood that hard alcohol was an activity well beyond what the school was willing to take responsibility for. Mariah would soon be officially back to being my problem.

My next and immediate call was to Mariah, who did not pick up. Probably busy packing—or mixing cocktails, I thought angrily. Mariah had told the school administrator only that the booze had been sent by a friend, and that she had no idea what the package contained. The “friend” had told Mariah to be looking for a present. The “friend” was obviously not too bright as she had included her name, Brianna Wilson, and a return address on the package, which she had sent via the U.S. Postal Service. I dialed again. And again. And I kept dialing until I wore her down. She repeated her party line without wavering through my interrogation. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You were sent a bottle of whiskey by a friend of yours in Memphis. And you do not have a phone number for this friend?” This was met with some mumbling and sniffling. “Really? You have a friend who is close enough to send you a gift, but you have no way of getting in touch with her?” More mumbling, which I felt signified untruths. “You are a terrible liar, Mariah. I will find Brianna and thank her for what she has done for you. And I will be in your dorm room tomorrow at noon. Be there!” I hung up and realized that this was the first time in quite a while that I had had a conversation with Mariah in which she had not asked for anything, not a dog, not a prescription, not even forgiveness. I was fuming. I guess I never realized how much being lied to could hurt. Mariah's future was on the line. That was upsetting. Mariah was at the very least
contemplating
drinking whiskey. That sickened me. Being a mother isn't easy.

I worked quickly, suspecting that Mariah would be on the phone giving Brianna a heads-up. Now an expert on shutting off her phone service, I did so. That would piss off Mariah. I knew that she had other ways to communicate, but texting was her lifeline to her world. I would make it difficult for her to cover her tracks. I searched my phone's history of caller IDs, looking for any 812 area code that would lead me to Tennessee. Although I usually avoided speaking with Mariah's mother, she did make an occasional attempt to communicate. I scrolled down through the list of numbers until I found one that started with the dreaded 812. Mariah's mother answered. “I don't know if you are aware of what is going on, but Mariah is in trouble at school,” I began.

“Well, she called me this morning, but I was busy and couldn't talk. I told her I would call back, but when I did it seemed her phone isn't working. Again.” This woman's tone of voice bothered me. It was downtrodden and complaint ridden. And I had grown to dislike her accent, which amplified the whining tone. Call me a Yankee, but there's a fine line between a southern drawl and a whimper. And nearly everything she said was preceded or followed by a blessing of someone's heart. I didn't bother explaining what Mariah's trouble was. I asked if the mother knew Brianna Wilson. “No, that name doesn't mean anything to me.” I asked her to do some research and find a phone number for me. “Well, I'll try.” I insisted that I needed the information and urged her to put forth some effort. She promised to call me if she was able to turn up anything. It felt sort of icky teaming up with this woman whom I had previously classified as a loser. But I had a purpose, and that was more important than any standards I might have. (I do have standards—they are low, but I have them.) I was compelled to learn the truth. We mothers have to be part sleuth, I realized.

I waited for the phone to ring from 812 all night. It never did, leading me to believe that Brianna Wilson was a made-up name, and I suspected that the return address was bogus, too. The package had been postmarked from Memphis, but that was the only real evidence I had. I would need Mariah to squeal if I was to ever learn the truth. Yes, the booze had no doubt been sent from a friend who was also a minor. But somewhere along the sleazy chain an adult had to have purchased the whiskey. I wanted to know who. But, I surmised, some kid could have stolen the jug from parents unbeknownst to them. Exasperated, I squirmed in bed until daylight searching for comfort that seemed frustratingly just beyond my reach. In times like these, we mothers lose a lot of sleep, I realized.

The few people with whom I shared the morning mail boat asked where I was off to. I fumbled around with an answer that would not divulge anything. I was embarrassed to think that Mariah was being expelled from school for such poor judgment. I never thought her actions would have any effect on me, but I was wrong. I was taking some ownership of her, for sure. But when I returned with Mariah—bags and all—our friends would have to be told. And soon the entire island would know and be equally disappointed in her. But it was her story to tell at this point, not mine. Again, I wasn't sure what I was protecting, and whether what needed protecting was mine, hers, or ours. I am a true heart-on-sleever, so my face was surely less than poker. I stuck my head into the newspaper that was folded open to the daily crossword puzzle and attempted to finish what someone else had started. It's never much fun to jump into a puzzle someone else has given up on. All of the easy clues are filled in, leaving the ones that are impossible. On the other hand, you do feel pretty smart when you get a word or two that the last guy couldn't. The problem is, the last guy might have made some mistakes, totally throwing off your chances of satisfactory completion. And the puzzle solvers who use ink pens create a real mess for the next person, who might want to make corrections. When I realized that Mariah had a lot in common with the puzzle, I put it down and stared out the window until the boat kissed the dock.

Three hours later, I was pulling into Norway, Maine. It was a stellar day. The sun shined brightly on the snow-capped White Mountains that appeared to hem Evergreen Academy's western campus, cupping the lush, liquidlike grounds. Stark, masculine brick buildings supported by strong, white pillars were like islands emerging from giant green puddles. I parked in front of Eustis Hall, within which Mariah lived under a steeple and viewed the world outside through arched windows that must soften the sight of even the most wicked weather. A boy on a skateboard pumped past me, dipping one leg oarlike into pristine blacktop. The athletic field below the dormitory had a scattering of kids cradling lacrosse sticks and seemingly loving just being outside. Scholars with books under arms and packs on backs hustled purposefully between buildings. These young people are so lucky, I thought. This school had so much to offer. The enrichment courses beyond harsh academics were extraordinary. Mariah had learned silversmithing this year and was involved in a farm and forest program that was second to none; there was actually a working farm right on campus. She was enrolled in an academic skills program where she could get one-on-one tutoring in any subject. Her grades were lukewarm but improving. I have never thought that grades are a true indication of what value a student is gaining from education. As long as Mariah was putting forth her best effort and behaving, I had no complaints. How could Mariah have blown this opportunity? Mothering is frustrating.

I gave one knock on Mariah's dorm room door and entered. Mariah sat crossed-legged on the floor crying, surrounded by half-packed boxes and duffel bags. Her roommate was sitting on the edge of her bed, there for what I assumed was moral support. Mariah looked as though she had not slept. It didn't appear that lying was treating her very well. “I am only going to ask this once. You'll have to live with the answer for a long time,” I said. “Who sent the booze?”

“My mother.” Honesty this brutal sucked the life out of the room and left a silence so pronounced that I thought I heard the tears as they streamed down Mariah's agony-filled face. This was so far from what I had expected to hear that I was stunned and at a loss for what to say. My anger with Mariah quickly morphed into pity. There was no sense berating her mother, was there? It must now be quite clear without my rubbing her nose in it, I thought. “She begged me not to tell.” I'll bet she did, I thought to myself. Sending a half gallon of whiskey to your daughter and asking her to take the full brunt of the consequences when the scheme went amok spoke volumes about Mom's makeup. Not that I didn't already have a pretty good read of her. “And now I'm going to be kicked out of school.” More tears and uncontrollable sobbing . . .

“Get yourself together. We have a meeting with the assistant head of school in ten minutes,” I said sternly. “Do you want to go home with me or do you want to finish the school year here?” Mariah stated between gasps for breath that she wanted to remain at Evergreen but that she would no doubt be expelled for this most recent stunt because she was already on probation. “Get a grip. Let's go. I am on your side at this meeting as long as you tell the truth.” Even though I felt like choking Mariah, we mothers have to be united with our daughters in fights like the one I anticipated.

The walk across campus was long and quiet. Every student we passed gave Mariah a knowing look, and I sensed a shared grief for her troubles. Evergreen, like Isle au Haut, is a small, close community. Word had spread quickly.

I held the door, forcing Mariah to enter the assistant dean's office ahead of me. Eleanor Pratt was a nice woman who had been very supportive of my work to get Mariah back to Evergreen after her former guardian had pulled the plug. Now Eleanor was in the awkward position of enforcing a rule that would expel the one student who would perhaps benefit most from being at Evergreen. Mariah and I sat in wooden chairs across the desk from the assistant dean. After a warm greeting between Eleanor and me, Mariah spoke nervously. “I am sorry I lied to you both. Mrs. Pratt, my mother sent me the whiskey. It was stupid. And I am sorry.” After Eleanor Pratt got over the shock of what she had been told, she explained that a disciplinary hearing would tell the fate of Mariah, and that the meeting was scheduled for the next day. She thanked Mariah for coming clean but reminded her that because she was already on probation, there was little hope that she would be allowed to finish the year. Mariah and I both acknowledged that we understood the situation.

“Should you be in class?” I asked Mariah.

“Math. But what's the point?”

“You haven't been expelled yet. Get to class and I'll talk to you later.” Mariah hurried out of the office relieved and, I assume, confused, leaving Eleanor and me alone to hash things over.

“I have been at Evergreen for a very long time. I thought I had seen it all. Wow.” Eleanor is a genuinely caring person for all of her students, but had special warmth for Mariah, I thought. “I am sorry that there is no way around this.”

“Technically, Mariah never had the booze in her possession,” I said suddenly. “My understanding is that the bottle was broken by the mail room clerk before Mariah picked it up.” I thought for a minute before continuing. “And I am not hanging around here until tomorrow for the disciplinary board to do the right thing, which I am confident it will.” Eleanor sat quietly, nodding her head in what I thought could have been agreement. “If the disciplinary board wants to press charges against Mariah's mother, I'll gladly come back to collect my kid, as it is clear to me that she solicited the booze shipment and then lied. But if her mother is not held accountable, Mariah should not be punished.” Eleanor promised to pass all of this along to the board and to call me with their decision. We mothers have to be part attorney, I decided.