Rather than remind Mariah that most adults celebrate on New Year’s with other adults, leaving their children home to fend for themselves with frozen fish sticks and French fries, we attempted to tease her out of her pout with the option of dinner and a movie. Mariah reluctantly acquiesced to that, citing sheer boredom as her only motivation. Simon and I were really trying to show her a good time, but were at a loss of how to do so when she just seemed so impossible to please. It was as if she had made a decision not to have fun, no matter what. She didn’t like her meal, and sort of pushed items around the plate with her fork while her upper lip appeared to be frozen in a curl. Conversation was dull. While Simon paid our bill, the waitress (who must have felt our suffering) told us of a “teen skate” at the local ice arena. Mariah had never ice-skated. She said, it sounded “lame.” But as we did have time to kill (and I do mean kill, as in put out of misery), I informed Mariah that we would at least check out the skating rink. She didn’t have to skate. We would just take a look at what was going on.
Mariah reluctantly got out of the car. She followed us into the arena. We stood and watched two hundred teenage kids skate around and around to the beat of loud rap music under disco lights. Just when I was about to ask if she wanted me to rent her a pair of skates, she said, “We better go. We’ll miss the movie.” We left and drove in total silence for about ten minutes before Mariah said, “I’ll skate if you go with me.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes, you. I’ll skate if you’ll skate with me. I’ve never done it. But I’ll try.” Before I could answer in the negative, Simon was wheeling the car around in an illegal U-turn and offering to pay for the skate rentals. I couldn’t possibly refuse. This was the first sign of a desire to do anything in so long! The next thing I knew, Mariah and I were creeping around the perimeter of the arena, arm in arm in men’s hockey skates that were at least five sizes too large. She clung to me like any kid on skates for the first time, threatening to pull me down if she fell. In lap three, I found Simon watching us through the Plexiglas from the sidelines. Our eyes met. His twinkled with glee as I rolled mine in disbelief.
Mariah was a quick study on the ice, and was soon skating independent of the clutch she’d had on my left forearm. I skated beside her and enjoyed being on the ice. When Mariah sped up with confidence, I followed closely behind. When I dared take my eyes off my fledgling, I noticed kids staring at me. Some whispered and pointed. Oh yeah, I thought, I am thirty years older than everyone else here. I felt my face heat up and increased my speed to catch Mariah. I told her that I felt funny skating among teens and was going to join Simon in being a spectator while she continued. “Oh, come on! Skate a little more! Please?” When I suggested that I might be embarrassed and pointed out that too many eyes were on me, she laughed. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have done nothing wrong.” My own words mocking me fell short of putting me at ease. Mariah’s point was well taken. “Besides, these morons will never see you again.” It didn’t matter. I left the ice, returned my skates, and searched for Simon.
I imagined that Simon must have grown dizzy from watching us in our endless loops. He must have retired to the car, where he could listen to some real music instead of that awful noise, I thought. I sat and waited for Mariah to tire, which it seemed she never would. Every time she whizzed past my perch on the stadium seating, she looked to see if I was watching her. I gave her a smile, a thumbs-up, or a clap at each lap. Her ankles finally caught up with mine, and she gave up. We found Simon in the car, where he told us that two security guards had asked him to leave the arena. “They thought I was a pervert!” Simon was clearly shaken by this, much to Mariah’s delight. She cracked up in the backseat while I confessed to Simon that the young girls were going well out of their way to avoid a huge radius of ice surrounding wherever I was. “They probably thought we were working as a team,” Simon moaned in distress. This had to be very upsetting to Simon, who is known by all in the area as the very respected Dr. Holmes. Mariah’s advice that I had nothing to be ashamed of reverberated in my head. But I didn’t bother sharing it with Simon.
Mariah giggled all the way back to Simon’s house. But her joy was short-lived. I refused to stay up and watch the ball drop on TV. So, although I had humiliated myself to please her by participating in “teen skate,” I was instantly back to “lame,” in Mariah’s book.
Simon and I waited patiently the next morning for Mariah to get out of bed. We had promised to take her skiing. This would be another first for Mariah, and Simon and I were both hoping that she’d like it and take to it as quickly as she had the ice-skating. Simon and I are both avid skiers and wanted to share our love of the sport with Mariah. Fresh snow was falling. The conditions would be perfect! (And on the mountain Simon and I wouldn’t appear as predators.) When the clock struck twelve, and Mariah had not surfaced, we agreed that a half day of skiing for the first time was more than enough.
When Mariah dragged herself to the kitchen, her eyes were still half shut. Simon greeted her pleasantly, to which he received a groan as Mariah pulled a box of cereal from a cupboard. Simon offered to make some of his special French toast for her. She shook her head and poured milk into the cereal bowl. Simon shrugged at me. I whispered that Mariah was not a morning person. He whispered back that it was one o’clock. I told Mariah that we were excited about going skiing and would leave as soon as she inhaled her breakfast. “But it’s snowing,” Mariah said, clearly indicating that this was a problem. “And I’m tired. I stayed up until two. That was the lamest New Year’s ever.”
“Happy New Year,” I said to Simon. We chuckled while Mariah snarled. “We’ll get our stuff packed up and leave you alone. I have to get Mariah back to school tomorrow,” I said, trying not to sound too excited about the back-to-school part.
I did get her back to school. With no witnesses the parting hug was returned. And we fumbled through more holidays, long weekends, and parents’ weekends at Evergreen in similar fashion—an odd threesome that observers grew used to seeing faster than we adjusted to being. Mariah seemed happiest at school. When Mariah referred to “home,” I never knew where she meant—Maine or Tennessee—and that might have had some bearing on why she liked to be at school.
Over the course of two visits west, and too many phone calls from her biological mother, Mariah shared a few things that at first astounded me. The mother and brothers were in and out of a homeless shelter. An uncle was hospitalized after being beaten nearly to death. A second uncle was in jail for attempted bank robbery. The grandmother was tragically killed in a car accident at the hands of an uncle who fell asleep at the wheel. (Mariah’s mom felt compelled to share details of the accident over the long-distance phone line, such as the fact that Grandma’s head had gone through the windshield and her hair was embedded in the glass. Quite a scene ensued at the funeral, according to Mariah, whom I could not deny permission and funding to attend.) A female cousin exactly Mariah’s age was caught sneaking out of the house and beaten so severely by her father (yet another uncle) with an electrical cord that she “couldn’t wear a bathing suit for two weeks.” Mariah’s younger brother confessed to being sexually molested for years by an uncle who happened to be Ken’s brother. Mariah was arrested along with a cousin for shoplifting during her last visit home. And this is all quite literally off the top of my head. If I thought about it, I could add to the list considerably. I would attribute all of this to white trash behavior, but I’m afraid of insulting the members of that group.
Obviously, I became hesitant to answer the phone when the caller ID indicated that Tennessee was on the other end. Mariah continued to communicate with her mother, which did bother me. Mariah was often upset after speaking with her mom. Although she rarely took her mother’s calls in my presence, I occasionally heard their discussions through a wall or a floor. It seemed that Mariah was the mother of the two. Although I tried to convince her that she could not help her family and that she was still just a kid herself,
Mariah had good intentions and a heart of gold where her immediate family was concerned. I had to admire and respect that, and I thought Mariah’s gut instincts were spot on. But the question about nurture or nature loomed. I had endless discussions with myself about terroir, and whether people, like grapes and coffee beans, are products of the soil and environment in which they are raised. Are characteristics bestowed during early development overcome when there is a change in climate? When, if ever, is it too late? I tried not to lecture Mariah. I tried to set a good example and knew that my associations—both friends and family—set great examples. But in light of Isle au Haut’s recent activities, I wondered whether this climate change was conducive to healthy change and growth, which I had always believed it to be.
The answer to that would come in time. Sure, the island had slipped in a big way. But there was still such an abundance of goodness here that I had to believe the black cloud would give way to light. And there was no place else I wanted to live other than at sea. And continuing my part-time gig at sea was something else I needed to figure out. With my island identity in the balance, I would feel even more of a draw to blue water. Normally I could sling my seabag onto the deck of a boat and head offshore at a moment’s notice. There had been times when I had left for sea without saying good-bye to anyone, and only called my family after the lines had been cast. That nonschedule might be a little tricky with my new acquisition.
I had been struggling for some time with the seemingly contradictory impulses of pulls from the sea and shore, and trying to find the right balance. Mariah’s presence in my life made finding it that much more difficult. I was never so tempted to hop aboard a boat and leave my troubles behind as I always had as I was now. No, I thought, it would be irresponsible to go fishing and leave Mariah to someone else’s watch. Wouldn’t it? But chasing swordfish was my passion. Had pursuing my own happiness been eclipsed when I’d taken charge of Mariah? Was this what mothers everywhere mean when they talk about sacrificing for their children? Was I willing, or even able, to give up my life for the betterment of someone else’s? And who’s to say that my being around was best for Mariah? Maybe she’d be better off with me as an absentee guardian. Maybe someone with prior experience could step in for three months every fall while I went to work offshore. I did need to continue to make a living in order to provide Mariah with what she required. Sure, in the state of Maine guardians are not obligated legally to provide financial support for their wards from their own resources. Although I chose not to go that route, there are ways to get subsidies and health care. I remembered that from our fifteen minutes in court. Sure, the state prefers permanent guardianship, “assuring long-term care that is as nurturing and stable as possible,” to foster care. And all that was required of me as that permanent guardian was to show an “ability to provide nurture, protection, and stability,” which seemed both vague and minimal to me. But I did feel as though I was Mariah’s support, emotionally as well as financially. And I wanted to do my best for her. I understood that the state of Maine had to allow guardians and foster care parents some leniency regarding financial obligations, without which there would be even more unwanted orphans. I understood that I was obligated to keep Mariah fed, housed, and clothed (with no specific standards). But I wanted to provide Mariah with much more. I wanted her to have opportunity, and that sometimes comes with a price tag. Besides, who else would pay the cell phone bill? Sure, a cell phone is not a need, unless you are willing to let your child be a total misfit among peers. I wanted normalcy for Mariah, and was willing to foot the bill for some of what that required.
Funny, I used to laugh when I heard people expressing how having children changed their lives and complicated things. Really? I was so accustomed to dealing with forces so much grander! How much could feeding and changing diapers actually change you? And to what degree could one little person complicate life? I was just beginning to understand. Hell, I didn’t even know how to introduce myself anymore. I guess things have changed. And to think that motherhood was something I had wanted. It was something I thought I had missed out on. Another example of being careful what you wish for, I thought. And there it was. I had to continually check myself. I was not Mariah’s mother. I would never be her mother. This was a temporary situation. My guardianship of Mariah would legally terminate on her eighteenth birthday. If things didn’t improve drastically, it could be a very long three years.
All the while during this temporary interruption to life as I knew and wanted it came snippets of news about the federal government’s case against Ken. These, too, littered that vague span of time from end to end. It was now clear that Ken had gone to great lengths to tamper with Mariah’s head. The hard-drive evidence showed that Cody (the young e-mail friend who had coerced Mariah to pose for and send nude photos), the unnamed women in Texas who forwarded a picture of Ken’s erect penis to Mariah, and Marie (the French cybersex partner of Ken’s who was relentless in abusing Mariah in e-mail correspondence—complete with broken English) were all fabrications of Ken’s. All of this inappropriateness, crudeness, and filth had been generated exclusively by Ken on his computer. All of this further illuminated the psychological perversion of Ken and how he had dedicated his life to ruining Mariah’s.
With a court-appointed attorney, Ken tested every legal avenue available to him for release from jail while awaiting trial. We were notified each time he had a hearing. My sister Bif attended many of the hearings and reported back to me that each attempt had failed. He even asked a judge to release him to a third party! I was extremely nervous about who might vouch for and be responsible for this creep. I prayed it wasn’t anyone Mariah and I knew. I prayed that the judge would not allow his release. A convicted felon in a wheelchair was the best that Ken could suggest as a third-party custodian. His final hearing for bail was denied. When I relayed that good news to Mariah, she suggested that perhaps now her nightmares about his sudden appearance at Evergreen might subside.
The volcano of events that had erupted beginning with Ken had certainly been belching a putrid breath. Sometimes the stench had come in a gale of wind from Memphis, and sometimes it was more indigenous. Mariah and I did begin to bond in our shared resolve to simply endure the stinking times. During that obscure passage of time (studded with explicitness best marked by promises and threats related to cell phone use) I became Mariah’s conduit to the legal process and proceedings. Like a buffer, I absorbed happenings and relayed what I thought she should or needed to know. I held some things back for her emotional protection. And I was forthright in telling Mariah that I would not share things I felt needn’t be. She was good with that. I told Mariah that I really wanted to take care of her. I think I talked a pretty good game. I kept second thoughts, which were becoming less frequent, to myself. Outwardly I was being a parental figure, perhaps the only one she had ever had. I assured Mariah that my job as guardian was to take care of everything, and that her only job was to behave and do her best at school. Tenure was not in the cards for either of us.
CHAPTER 10
A Package Deal
With a characteristic total lack of pageantry, Cowgirl simply died. A far cry from the cats of my childhood that got dramatically caught in the car’s fan belt or the spokes of a speeding bicycle (which didn’t do a lot for the rider’s knees and elbows), Cowgirl had something in common with March: out like a lamb. There was none of the high-volume screeching that an injured-in-combat and soon-to-be-dead cat emits. There was no dramatic hanging on by the claws from the edge of death or heroic attempts to resuscitate. No, Cowgirl’s exit was more of a silent riding off into the sunset, unnoticed. As Simon hadn’t actually witnessed the cat’s exit from the stage of life, the thought crossed our minds that she might have been stolen. Then I recalled her appearance and nearly fell out of my chair laughing. More than likely, Cowgirl had simply slinked off into the woods surrounding Simon’s house in Vermont, never to return.
It wasn’t that Simon hadn’t put forth major ef
fort in keeping Mariah’s cat alive. In fact, at last tally Simon reported spending in excess of $1,200 in health care for the cat. Maybe it had something to do with the Hippocratic oath taken by Dr. Holmes so many years ago, but I just couldn’t get my head around his willingness to pay the enormous vet bills. I understand that it was indeed humane of Simon to deworm and de-flea Cowgirl. And it was kind of him to experiment with different types of kitty litter (all purporting to eliminate odors), and it was certainly within reason to serve a variety of high-end cat foods until finding one that suited Cowgirl’s discerning palate. But it’s quite another thing to have the cat receive every shot she’d never had, knowing that she was clearly on shaky ground in a “not long for this world” type of way. And I would have drawn the line well before collecting and delivering a stool sample. The diagnosis resulting from a myriad of tests was hyperthyroidism, which required Dr. Holmes to administer to Cowgirl some oral medicine. The pills were not well received, and when Simon’s hands were scratched and bitten to pieces, he went back to the veterinarian for an alternative treatment (for the cat). The vet recommended some medicated ointment. (This part is hard for me to believe, but Simon had no reason to exaggerate.) He had to administer the ointment to one of Cowgirl’s ears daily, alternating ears. Simon kept track of left or right on his desk calendar. It was suggested that Simon was more attentive to Cowgirl than I was to Mariah. To that I took offense.
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