“Okay.” Okay? The one word was toneless. There was no indication of emotion in any direction. Okay that I had spoken to Ken? Okay that I wanted to become her guardian? Okay that it was her choice? Not that I was expecting joy or a three-way hug, but this other extreme forced a tear to pool up in the corner of my eye that threatened to roll down my cheek should I blink, which I did not. I do not cry often, never have. But when I do, it’s a good one that might last for days. I wouldn’t waste a tear or two now. This wasn’t worth it. So I swallowed hard, shrugged, and became the third of the “no evil” monkeys, suddenly fascinated with the view over the bow.
It seemed a strange form of stare-down contest, which struck me as funny (although I didn’t laugh; hell, I didn’t even consider a half grin). Whoever broke the trance first lost. We were more than halfway home. I could gaze empty-eyed with my mind brimming over forever. My thoughts were focused, but I might as well have been totally blind for all that registered in the line of sight. Focused thoughts did not mean organized or clear, just not wandering. I wondered what I had just gotten into with the suggestion that I would take on a teenage girl—and an abused kid at that! I had no idea what Mariah had been through beyond what she had shared so far. But my gut said that there was more to the story.
Yes, I had wanted children. But would I be in over my head beginning with this one? Mariah had been a challenge even at the safe distance I had maintained with her status as temporary houseguest, and I’d been counting the days till she moved out. Making this arrangement legal and permanent was probably a bad idea, I thought. And now it was too late. I had opened my big mouth. There was always a chance that Mariah would not want me to become her guardian. But what other options did she have? Foster care? Would life with me be her consolation prize? I wished I could turn back the clock to just one hour ago. One hour ago I was eagerly waiting to be set free from the burden of responsibility for this girl. I had shot my mouth off first to Ken and then, more important, to Mariah. There was no way I could take it back now. It had to have come from somewhere real inside me, but what did it really mean? Guardianship and all things maternal fit neatly into the category of things about which I am clueless.
Suddenly there was a terrible noise that came from the stern of the boat, and we slowed down dramatically enough to send us all into a lurch toward the forward bulkhead, which we braced ourselves against. I knew immediately that one or both of the propellers had become tangled by pot warp, the line that runs from a lobster trap to the buoy on the surface. Thanks, God, I thought—something I know how to deal with! I told Simon to pull both throttles back to dead idle and knock both engines out of gear while I hustled to the stern and climbed over the transom and onto the swim platform, where I could see a line trailing behind from the starboard propeller. I instructed Simon to shut down the starboard engine and raise the outdrive, bringing the fouled propeller to the surface. Mariah, who had seen this drill a few times aboard the Mattie Belle during the season she had worked for me, grabbed Simon’s boat hook (on a fishing boat it’s called a gaff) and handed it to me. I hooked the line and yanked, but it was too tight for me to pull it to where I could wind it off the propeller. I asked Simon to back down (place the port engine in reverse) so that I could gain some slack with which to work. He did, and I did. The line was clear, and a few seconds later a buoy shot out from under the boat like a missile. Simon lowered the starboard outdrive, restarted the engine, and off we went toward home.
“Thanks, Linny,” Simon called over his shoulder as I sat on the bench seat that straddled the stern.
“No problem,” I answered with a slight wave, wishing that I had no problem. Thirty years of boats and fishing had fine-tuned problem solving of the salty nature. There wasn’t a situation at sea that I wasn’t confident I could remedy. I had made every conceivable mistake that could be made (at least once) and thus had firsthand experience in getting back on track. But this present situation involved emotions and people not in my repertoire. I could fix anything mechanical, weather any storm, persist and endure through poor fishing and low morale, but none of that practical stuff mattered today. The seaworthiness I had always aspired to meant very little now.
The tide was dead low, requiring that Simon pull back both throttles to idle in order to navigate “the ditch.” As we snaked through the narrow thoroughfare between Isle au Haut and Kimball Island, Mariah joined me on the bench seat. She looked at me, I think for the first time since we had met. She didn’t look around me, through me, or over my head. She really looked at me. “How do we do it?” she asked.
This was no time for dramatics or for dodges. I answered honestly. “I have no idea. But I will find out. And if it’s something that you want to happen, it will happen.” She nodded and jumped up to grab the stern line in time to take a couple of wraps around a piling at the town dock. “I’ll help Simon put the boat on the mooring. You can wait in the truck or walk home and I’ll meet you there,” I said, knowing full well that she would not walk.
As Simon pulled the boat up to the dinghy that was tethered to his mooring, I made my way to the bow with the boat hook. I reached down, gaffed the dinghy’s painter, pulled the mooring’s spliced loop out of the water, and placed it over the cleat, securing it with a couple of hitches of smaller line. I untied the dinghy and walked it back around the house and to the transom, where we could easily climb in. While Simon shut down the boat, I sat in the stern of the dinghy, holding the side of Scalawag so that Simon could step right into the middle seat and row us ashore. He placed oars in locks and started pulling smoothly and rhythmically. The beat of the sound of the oars against locks, then water, then air lulled me soothingly, as the sound of good rowing always does. “I hope you know what you are getting yourself into,” Simon advised. “Mariah may be beyond saving. You have no idea what demons she’ll be fighting or for how long.”
“She needs me,” I said. “And I need her. I have lived a very selfish life so far. I need to be responsible for someone other than myself for a change.”
“But legal guardianship? Do you really want to take that on? You know I am always here for you in moral support, but I would never be part of any binding legal paperwork.”
“Who asked you to?” Even I was surprised by my swift response. This was the only instance in the eight years of our best-friend-and-companion relationship that I had felt truly disconcerted. Yes, the truth was that I had been squirming to terminate any real involvement with Simon beyond a round of golf or a day on the slopes for nearly a year now. But since Mariah had moved in with me, I had had second thoughts. So perhaps what I felt was not for Simon but for me. Whether it was adult company or a sympathetic ear or just plain help with jobs around the house and a boat that takes two people, I had allowed us to slip back into what I had struggled emotionally to be done with. While I appreciated Simon’s honesty, the reality was that he would not “be there” for me or Mariah. I just knew from my experience with him that when the going gets tough, Simon disappears. He just does not deal well with drama. And I suppose that my independence and general low maintenance and lack of neediness had been part of my appeal. While I battled my own second thoughts and dreads, I didn’t need any negative input from him. I was capable of providing that all by myself. Now that I was sure that I had injured Simon’s feelings, and being extremely nonconfrontational, I asked, “Want to have dinner with us? I won’t make you sign anything tonight.”
Before dinner I walked down to my parents’ house, knowing that I had better bring them into the loop before someone else did. Their reaction to the news that I was pursuing guardianship of Mariah was predictable. My mother and father, being good parents, were compelled to protect me. I have often felt like the slightly retarded daughter when my mother warns me about being taken advantage of. It wasn’t all that long ago, I recalled, that my mother had advised me to “look in the mirror and practice saying no.” So it was no surprise when my folks shared their opinion that I could be making a huge mistake
and that there might be nothing I could do for Mariah beyond what I had already done. “Linny, you have no idea what that girl has been through. She needs professional help. You’re not equipped to deal with this.” After assuring Mom and Dad that I did indeed have a clue as to what I was undertaking, that it was too late to back out, and that I wanted to assume guardianship, they did reluctantly agree to support my decision even though they believed it was a bad one.
So the next day I started researching the how-to part of legal guardianship. I Googled and made phone calls until my brain was saturated. Adoption seemed absurd because Mariah was already fifteen. I found a female attorney in Portland who specialized in family law and made an appointment. I don’t know who was more nervous going into the meeting, Mariah or me. We sat silently in the stark waiting room at Pine Tree Legal Services. Although there was nothing left of her nails to bite, Mariah chewed the ends of her fingers relentlessly and jiggled her legs up and down, bouncing on the balls of her feet rapidly. When the end table began to vibrate, rattling the lamp it held, I placed a hand on Mariah’s knee and said, “Stop. You’re driving me nuts.”
“Sorry. I can’t help it. Why are we here so early?” Mariah looked at her cell phone. “Our appointment isn’t for another ten minutes!”
“Sorry. I can’t help it. I am a chronic early bird.”
“Geez. I could have slept another hour.”
“I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Neither did I. Can we get something to eat when we get out of here?” The base of the lamp continued to keep the beat to Mariah’s drumming and was accompanied by an occasional loud sigh signifying that impatience was joining her nerves. She gnawed her cuticles relentlessly.
“Yup. You seem to be hungry,” I said with a degree of sarcasm that didn’t stop the nail biting. I sat stock-still, arms crossed at my chest as I bit my lower lip. My lips were slightly chapped and rather than search for my ChapStick, I occupied the waiting time chewing tiny pieces of skin from them until I managed to draw blood.
Mariah handed me a Kleenex and said, “You must be hungry, too.” I couldn’t help but smile, and acknowledging the nerves seemed to sooth them. I wasn’t sure what was causing the conspicuous disquiet in Mariah, but imagined it could have been the possibility of having to repeat her embarrassing past yet again to a stranger. On the other hand, I was acutely aware of why I was anxious: I was taking another step toward something I was so unsure about, that I had no confidence. If the guardianship turned out badly, there would sure be a lot of people who could claim to have told me so.
Our meeting was somewhat impersonal and quick, much to our shared relief. Mariah and I learned together at this first and only meeting with the attorney that it was Mariah whom she would represent in the guardianship case (I would have to get my own lawyer, and did). The law required that the ward petition the court for a change in guardianship. When questioned by the attorney, Mariah looked at me for the answer, as if seeking assurance. I assumed that I should not lead Mariah in any direction, so I just nodded each time she looked at me. I certainly didn’t want this to appear to have been all my idea just because it was. Finally, the attorney began spoon-feeding Mariah by making each inquiry a simple yes or no question. Did Mariah agree that a change in guardianship was necessary? Yes. Did Mariah want to terminate her ward status with Ken? Yes. Did Mariah understand that she could nominate a new guardian for consideration? Yes. Did Mariah want to nominate Linda Greenlaw for her guardianship? Yes. And that was the first and only indication from Mariah that she wanted to go through with my suggestion. I tried not to listen to my own conscience telling me that Mariah had no other option.
Maybe it wasn’t quite as simple as I remember it. But that is honestly what I recall. I don’t remember any conversation about what had happened with Ken or her biological mother, or about any of the other traumatic events of her childhood leading up to our appearance together in that room, or anything actually personal. I’ve heard of more complicated arrangements to adopt a dog from a shelter. The attorney explained what would come next. Paperwork would be filled out and filed with the state, and a copy would be mailed to Ken asking that he sign away his legal responsibility and return the signed document to the attorney within two weeks. If he refused, then steps would be taken to force him to give up his charge. So the ball was in motion and soon to be on Ken’s side of the net. The attorney also explained that Mariah’s biological mother would also have to sign a document, as she had when Ken took charge of her daughter, relinquishing any parental control or responsibility. Eventually, and whether Ken and the mother signed off—willingly or not—our case would go before a judge and guardianship would probably be granted. The attorney would handle all of this, and free of charge because she was representing a minor. Mariah and I both shook the attorney’s hand, thanked her, and left the building feeling a little lighter. We climbed into opposite sides of the Jeep, slammed doors simultaneously, clicked seat belts, and exhaled in perfect harmony. “Can we eat? I’m starving,” Mariah said.
“Me, too. What do you feel like?” Of course I meant this only in reference to what she might like to have for lunch, and not at all metaphysically. The last thing I wanted to do right now was probe inside either of our brains or souls.
The following week was agonizing. Because the accusations made against Ken involved child pornography and crossing state lines, the charges, when and if they were ever in place, would be federal. The result of this seemed to be that more time was needed. The extenuating circumstance seemed to be that we live on an island. Logistically this was somewhat new territory for the agencies involved. We waited to hear when Ken would be arrested, and hoped that he would sign off on guardianship before that happened. It’s hard to believe that Ken wandered around as free as a bird during this period or, in his case, as free as a caged bird because he’d chosen to remain a hermit. I was feeling a lot of things; on the top of the list was helplessness. I continued to lock my house every night. I lived with a knot in my gut that squeezed bitterness into my throat perpetually. The phone calls and morning meetings for coffee at my kitchen table were ongoing. Everyone, whether fully in the loop or just partially, wanted to be up to speed on what was happening, and everyone had fingers crossed that things would go as well as they could. I had daily calls from island women lending support, both emotional and physical. I received cards and notes and e-mail from people who wanted to help me do the right thing with respect to this new relationship. The offers were refreshing and much appreciated. Mariah went off to school every day on the boat, and we were fed dinner by friends and neighbors any night we accepted an invitation. Some friends called just to say they were thinking of us and were willing and available to do anything to help.
Simon was in and out between Vermont and the island, and fulfilled his role of providing moral support well. We were back to “normal,” and I appreciated his friendship now more than ever. The timing was bad for any other significant change in our lives, Mariah’s or mine. When he was around, he and Mariah clicked. She joked with him about recent events in the news, or at least the happenings that she found noteworthy. Because she got such a kick out of Simon’s ignorance of tabloid news, Simon began doing his homework and questioning her about Brad and J Lo and whatever rapper had beaten his girlfriend. By the same token, Mariah had to bone up on current events less interesting to her by watching CNN and Fox News. We watched Jeopardy every night before dinner and with the three of us working as a team, we didn’t miss many. Weirdly, I started thinking of us as a little family, so I put more effort into meals than I otherwise would have just for me. Even though this was a nervous and miserable time in my life, I felt very much a part of the island community in that everyone shared equally in the misery and waiting. I felt united with Simon and Mariah. At no point did I ever feel alone.
Mariah now greeted me with the same two questions every day after she slammed the door of the truck. “Did he sign?” and “When are they coming?” My cousin
, Dianne, is responsible for carrying the mail between the post office and the mail boat. Although I am sure it is not legal to riffle through the mail bag to look for a certain Priority Mail envelope addressed to a certain attorney in Portland, she somehow managed to give me a thumbs-down every morning when I dropped Mariah at the boat. I was very worried that Ken would not sign. And if he hadn’t signed by the time he was arrested, there was a big, terrifying question mark regarding where Mariah would end up. Ken and I engaged in a short e-mail correspondence in which I encouraged him to resign guardianship because it would be the best thing for Mariah. And we all wanted what was best for her. Ken dragged his feet. He just couldn’t do it yet, he said. I also worried that he would dump all incriminating evidence into the ocean before it could be confiscated. Although we had done well about keeping tight-lipped, Ken would eventually figure out that Mariah had probably told us, or the social worker, about what really had gone on in their house. I worried that in his unstable state, he might come unglued and attempt bodily harm to himself, or worse, Mariah. The calls from the Department of Health and Human Services continued, mostly from Gretchen, the social worker assigned to our case. She always asked if I needed anything. No, I didn’t need money or professional help with coping. Or at least I didn’t think so.
Lifesaving Lessons Page 11