Lifesaving Lessons

by Linda Greenlaw

  The idea of an informal town meeting designed to dispel any rumors and set straight any misinformation regarding Ken’s removal from our island and Mariah’s future here seemed logical. The Clarks and I agreed that now that Ken had been arrested and removed from our island, it would be safe and in fact prudent to be forthcoming with the information that we had kept quiet until this time. This was a chance to inform the entire community and begin the healing process. There was little chance that just about everyone had neither seen nor heard about the Coast Guard boat, special agents, and Ken’s farewell in cuffs and immersion suit. So it was only fair to let the community in on the truth rather than let a few facts generate more rumors. Mariah’s counselor, Lesley, graciously agreed at my request to attend the meeting to provide some statistics, her opinion of what would eventually happen with Ken legally, what Mariah might be experiencing emotionally, and how best for us all to cope with the various ways we might be affected. As a rule, islanders clutch their emotional cards particularly close. We are an emotional and passionate people, but outsiders looking in might feel more of a chill. I know the cliché holds that still waters run deep, but trust me, a blank stare from an islander is indicative of nothing. The surface can be dead calm while things roil within.

  With Mariah safely at home on the couch, I chose this particular moment for a meltdown. I stood in front of the town of Isle au Haut (all forty-five of them) thinking it appropriate for me to introduce Lesley and explain why she was there. I didn’t get far. I began to sob uncontrollably and had to sit down and allow someone else to take over. While the story of Ken’s abuse unfolded, I was joined in tears by many. To this day I recall Sue MacDonald weeping and saying, “Both of my girls have spent many nights at that house.” I also recall the veins in her husband’s neck pulsating noticeably as he stared at his feet. Dave Hiltz, also a dad of a young island girl, clenched his jaw and both fists as he listened, staring straight ahead. Yes, it was a good thing word hadn’t gotten out prematurely. Ken would have been taken off in a body bag. By the end of the meeting everyone was frightfully in the know.

  The questions eventually came around to logistics. What would eventually become of Ken, legally and practically? And in the meantime, what would happen with Ken’s lobster traps and skiff? What about his pickup truck and VW Rabbit? What about the house he rented from the town, and could he be evicted? They might seem like petty details, but these were important issues in island life. Nobody had answers even to these more comfortable, less emotional queries. The town’s lawyer would be consulted (right, we didn’t have a cop, but we had a lawyer!). Everything had to be done by the book. And once we had a clear understanding of what the town’s rights were, we assumed that the town would be responsible for cleaning out the house it had rented to Ken now that he had vacated it. I was invited to go through the house to collect whatever might be there in the way of paperwork needed for the pending guardianship, which I assumed would happen quickly and soon. Relieved that I had finally reached the bottom of the well of tears, I was minutes from a clean getaway when someone mentioned Cowgirl.

  All fingers pointed at me. I should have the cat. The cat, everyone reasoned, was all Mariah loved in the world. Nobody else seemed to want the cat. That should have been a warning to me. Even people who themselves owned many cats didn’t step up to the plate for Cowgirl. “What’s one more cat?”—I never heard that from any of the cat people. Cats, to my mind, are innately sneaky, not just in their instinctive hunting and preying type of stealth, which I might otherwise admire, but in their deceit. What other animal hides its own poop? That little trick alone points to a degree of cunning that makes me leery. After making it abundantly clear to all that I was less than enthusiastic about the add-on, I reluctantly agreed to take the cat, expecting Mariah to care for it. I could buy the food. The rest would be up to her. And I thought that was absolutely appropriate as I recalled the same arrangement throughout my childhood of pets, both cats and dogs. I would make it work in spite of my qualms. I don’t remember who volunteered to deliver Cowgirl to my house, and it’s a good thing I don’t. But as promised, the cat arrived at my place the next day, litter box and all.

  The presence of Cowgirl did make Mariah smile. And I suppose that in and of itself eased the otherwise painful experience of Cowgirl as a housemate. But the smiles were fleeting. Mariah was genuinely unhappy, and she verbalized this unhappiness mostly about her school situation. The daily boat rides back and forth prevented Mariah from having school friends and activity outside of class. She had absolutely no social life beyond dinner with me (I happen to think that I am excellent company, but apparently I am not everyone’s cup of tea). All of the island girls Mariah’s age were off at boarding schools, so she had nobody to hang out with on weekends (other than me). At first, our home was a bit happier when Simon was around. But soon Mariah stopped putting on her nice face for him, and he experienced our more typical unpleasantness. Mariah and I had many short conversations that all began to sound alike. “Can’t you make some friends who have kids my age?” Mariah asked pleadingly.

  “Can’t you make your own friends?” I asked.

  “Right. And where would I find these potential friends?”

  “Gee. Let me think … where would you find kids your age? I know! How about school?” I had learned some of this sarcasm from Mariah herself.

  “At Stonington High School?” Mariah’s tone now indicated that I had pissed her off by not agreeing to somehow cultivate new friendships with people who had teenage kids. And her opinion of her classmates was, I thought, unjustifiably low. How could I have the audacity to suggest that she become chums with the likes of them? When I saw Mariah begin to withdraw into the couch cushions, I should have let it go. But sometimes it takes awhile for me to learn how best to handle certain emotional situations. I mean, Mariah hadn’t exactly come with an owner’s manual.

  “No. Not Stonington. Are you kidding? I know! Let’s place a personal ad for you. ‘Teenage girl seeks teenage girls for friendship. Likes: Cats. Dislikes: Everything but cats. Interests: None. Residents of Stonington need not apply.’ That ought to get some action.” Now Mariah put a pillow over her head and I knew she was weeping. I learned the hard way that Mariah could dish, but she couldn’t take. Whenever I got drawn into this immature banter, I was sure that I ended up feeling worse than she did. I sincerely wanted to be a good guardian, but she just seemed so ridiculous at times.

  I was much more sympathetic toward Mariah’s complaints about her education than I was toward her social life. Mariah was taking classes at Stonington that she had already had her freshman year at Evergreen. So “bored,” “lame,” “stupid,” and “hate” made up the vast majority of Mariah’s vocabulary. She wanted to go back to Evergreen as badly as I wanted it. Yes, it would be a better education for her. Yes, it would be a healthier social situation for her. Yes, she was making me miserable and I couldn’t wait to get her out of the house. I promised Mariah to make it my sole mission in life.

  Just as I was opening the lines of communication with the administration at Evergreen Academy, I became Mariah’s legal guardian. It was a painless and almost scarily simple process. The paperwork was in order. We were met by Mariah’s attorney in Rockland, where the county courthouse is. We sat before a judge who asked both Mariah and me to say yes at the appropriate times, which we did. I was asked to sign a legal document, which I did. We drove home locked into a new relationship that would terminate legally and automatically on Mariah’s eighteenth birthday. “Well,” I said after an unusually long silence even for us, “I guess we’re stuck with each other for the next three years.” I smiled to indicate that I was making a joke even though I wasn’t really.

  “Oh boy,” Mariah said in her most monotone sarcasm ever. So I guessed the joke was on me. When our friends, family, and neighbors congratulated us on achieving our new guardianship/ward status, Mariah’s response was “yeah, whatever.” Although I was glad to hear something other than �
�lame,” I couldn’t ignore the way two words from this kid could suck the life out of me. The best part—Did I really say best? That might indicate some number of good parts—okay, the only positive note about being granted legal guardianship was my upgraded standing with Evergreen Academy in negotiating Mariah’s matriculation. Mariah was so seldom fun to be around that I became driven to get her off to school. I was like a pit bull. Just when I was feeling particularly guilty about the selfish reasons for my doggedness in getting Mariah what she wanted, and feeling twice as bad about becoming her guardian and certain that it was the single biggest mistake of my life, a news story on the local channel floored me as I was making dinner that Mariah would surely not like.

  There was a mug shot of Ken. He had been arraigned on charges of trafficking and possession of child pornography. The police had discovered more than a thousand images of children on his computer, some as young as four years old and some engaged in bestiality. The news described Ken as a fisherman from Isle au Haut. That hurt. The inclusion of this creep in my two most treasured identities killed me. Mariah was horrified. Her face turned scarlet and she began to cry. I spent an hour consoling her and trying to convince her that she had nothing to be ashamed of. Why did doing what I assumed was the right thing feel so awkward?

  And having nothing to be ashamed of was my mantra in working with the folks at Evergreen Academy. Although some of her peers’ computers had been confiscated by the police—and because kids talk, most of the school community knew a bit of the ugly story—it was a huge step for Mariah to want to return there. But as she had nothing to be ashamed of, why not? Mariah had done nothing wrong. Why shouldn’t she go back with her head held high? The only glitch was that when Ken refused to let her return at the beginning of the sophomore year, Evergreen had given the twenty-five thousand dollars in scholarship money awarded to Mariah to another student who was waiting in the wings for funding. So, Evergreen reasoned, if I could pay, she could return. Not that it wouldn’t have been worth it just to have my happy house back, but I didn’t have that kind of money sitting in my checking account. After all, the stork had dropped this bundle of joy on my doorstep just a few weeks earlier. I hadn’t had years to save and plan for the little darling’s education.

  Evergreen listened to my pleadings for Mariah and what was best for her. They listened as I used their own mission statement to convince them. Mariah may not have filled the bill in their “academically motivated” department, but she was the poster child for needing “help to become an independent, ethical citizen who would lead a life of purpose, action, excellence, and compassion.” At the end of all discussions, the bottom line was that I would show up at Evergreen with Mariah after Thanksgiving break. I would leave her there. They would have a room for her. She would be enrolled in appropriate classes. And I would not pay. I had stepped up. And now the fine school would do the same.

  I wondered whether I would make it to Thanksgiving without shooting myself in the head. Honestly, although Cowgirl had been exiled to Mariah’s bedroom and bath, my entire house smelled like cat shit. I argued with Mariah on a daily basis about emptying the litter box. Why couldn’t the cat shit outside? Oh, because Cowgirl is not an outdoor cat. She might get eaten by a coyote. I should be so lucky! And when Mariah did empty the full litter box, she did so nearly on the doorstep. I made the mistake of wandering into Mariah’s bathroom while she was out one day (which was an anomaly in itself as she seldom left the couch unless it was begrudgingly to go to school ) in search of the stench that was oozing from under her door and into my kitchen. To this day I am still wondering how the cat managed to shit on the wall. Thanksgiving could not come soon enough! Of course I would need a steam cleaner beforehand. Dingle berries are something I normally equate with the ass of a donkey. Not anymore. Cowgirl had permanent balls of shit all tangled up in her hair in her behind area. Really? Aren’t cats the only things on planet Earth other than an oven that are truly self-cleaning?

  Mariah did love that cat. And she looked at me as if I were a monster when I informed her that I would not keep Cowgirl when she went away to school. Sadly, I wasn’t sure which of them I would be happier to be rid of, and I was immediately ashamed of the thought. Mariah didn’t have shit in her hair. And she didn’t stink. But her personality did. Some of her personal habits were socially frowned upon—like brushing her hair at the kitchen table—just little things we are taught when we are young, things Mariah had missed in her upbringing and that I felt responsible for teaching even if my efforts were not well received. It seemed to piss off Mariah when I scolded her or advised her about anything. She made me feel as if I were picking on her when my advice was too frequent. I didn’t like nagging, but I did take my responsibility as her guardian seriously.

  She really got her hackles up when I told her that she was inappropriate with men. When she wanted to get a man’s attention, she always did it physically, like running her hands through a dinner guest’s hair. I was relieved when Bill Clark pushed her out of his lap when she climbed in to say hi. I assumed that the way Mariah related to adults had been learned mostly from Ken. I fretted about how to help her unlearn what she didn’t think was wrong in the first place, and I might have been overly cautious in trying not to offend her or hurt her feelings. One day when I witnessed her hugging the mail boat captain—a full-on embrace from chest to knees—I wanted to peel her off him. Instead, I waited until we got home so as not to embarrass her. “Hey, kiddo,” I began, trying to lure her attention from the TV set that automatically switched on the second Mariah entered the house.

  “Huh?” Mariah searched the guide for something to amuse her while she waited for dinner.

  “Hey, can you turn that off for a minute so we can talk?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She hit the off button and turned to face me. “What?”

  This was difficult, I thought. Although I had rehearsed my opening line in the truck, I was now unsure of how to broach the subject of appropriate physical contact. It would be easier to turn the other way and not open what I assumed would be a can of worms. “I know that you really like Captain Martin, but the hug you gave him on the dock could be seen as inappropriate and might have put him in an awkward position.” This was met with wide, disbelieving eyes. Maybe I should have left it at that, but as Mariah didn’t respond I added, “You are a beautiful girl. You just need to be a little more careful about how you physically demonstrate feelings. I don’t want someone to take advantage of your vulnerability because of what I know is innocent affection.”

  I watched Mariah shrink. It was as if I had beaten her and she was now cowering, looking as though she might flinch if I made any sudden moves. She kept her eyes on me as she backed into her bedroom and closed the door gently. I figured that she might be crying. God, I hoped that I hadn’t read too much into her hug! What if I was paranoid and her physical actions with men were actually fine? What if I was the one who was inappropriately cold and nonphysical? My doubts were quelled the next morning when Captain Martin expressed to me his discomfort with the hug. I told him that I thought I had handled it, and asked that he simply push her away in the future and thanked him in advance for doing so. I expressed my opinion that Mariah’s embrace had been totally innocuous and that she genuinely liked him. He agreed.

  The biggest obstacle in our relationship, from my perspective, was that Mariah didn’t appear to like herself. My mother always told me that if you don’t like yourself, nobody else will either. I never fully understood what Mom intended for me to do with that message—still don’t—but I think it was apropos in the context of Mariah. The dislike, though tolerant (because there was no other option mode), seemed to be mutual, which oddly enough eased my guilty feelings slightly. My friends and family tried to convince me that my feelings (those I dared share) were perfectly normal. I knew differently. Would I ever like Mariah?

  I was advised by friends that I needed to have the birth control talk with Mariah. I dreaded it, but I knew it ha
d to be done before she left for Evergreen. The memory of her reaction to my advice on appropriate hugs acted as a shock collar around my vocal cords. Each time I approached the electric fence that circled Mariah’s sexuality, I got a jolt that put me back on my heels. Bif reminded me daily that Mariah might want birth control and pushed me to encourage and in fact facilitate if needed. “But don’t they cover that at school? I don’t remember Mom having that talk with me,” I said in defense of my negative reply to my sister’s question.

  “You weren’t sexually active at fifteen. Times have changed. Get on it!” And I knew that Bif and my friends were right. I just wanted to find the right time for a conversation that I knew would be as uncomfortable for me as it would be for Mariah.

  The right time, predictably, was nearly the last minute. I don’t recall why Mariah and I were aboard the Mattie Belle and heading to Stonington, but I knew that this trip was a good opportunity to talk because Mariah genuinely loved a boat ride. The weather was unseasonably warm, coaxing Mariah to sit on the bow with her back pressed against the windshield. Her hair seemed to love the freedom of salt air blowing through it as much as the girl did. She sang along loudly to whatever song streamed through her earphones. I chuckled at her lack of vocal ability and enjoyed her momentary, conditional happiness. When we approached the dock, she climbed around the boat’s cabin and hopped down to the deck where she grabbed the stern line, ready to lasso a cleat. After we secured the boat, Mariah stepped onto the dock and offered me a hand, as she always did. It was now or never, I thought. Once we got into the Jeep she’d be absorbed in her music and texting, or napping. I grabbed her hand, let her pull me across the gap between boat and wharf, and asked, “Do we need to talk about birth control?” Mariah looked at me, puzzled, and did not answer. “Do you need to get some form of birth control?” I rephrased. “Because unless you plan to abstain, or are already using birth control, I think we need to take care of you.” Now she at least looked as if she wanted to answer, but for some reason she couldn’t. I understood how uncomfortable it was for her to discuss something so personal with someone with whom the relationship was not so personal, especially in light of the advice she had received from her last guardian. Ours was a fairly perfunctory and pragmatic relationship that did not welcome talk of caring. I reminded myself daily that I was all she had. “If you need it, we will get it.” I emphasized “we.”