The problem to my mind was not that the cat had passed, but how and when and who would tell Mariah. This was something that Simon and I agreed might send Mariah into hysteria as we shared an opinion that she was quite fragile emotionally. We fretted about sharing this sad news for weeks, avoiding any conversation that might lead to her asking, “How is Cowgirl?” Avoiding conversation altogether was most manageable from my perspective, as I had not yet turned Mariah’s cell phone back on after her most recent abuse of use and coinciding gigantic overage bill. So now it appeared that Simon had gotten the better part of that deal. Simon had paid his last vet bill. His obligations of responsibility were done. Mine were ongoing. Not that I would equate child rearing with pet responsibility. But there are similarities that come to mind when I think about it in the shallows of my pool of thoughts. I was pretty happy to have a healthy kid! Well, fairly healthy anyway (healthy by everyone’s standards but her own).
I wouldn’t say that Mariah was a hypochondriac, but she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with the nurses at Evergreen Academy. I received calls from the school clinic, biweekly at a minimum, for anything from a cough to chest pain. Mariah saw a doctor when the nurses deemed it appropriate, and also had a weekly appointment with a counselor off campus. In addition to the school’s health care professionals, I spoke on a regular basis with Mariah’s advisers, who were good about, well, advising. So my communication with Mariah was through a conduit, and rarely between the two of us.
I did try to call Mariah on her room phone, mostly to no avail. I figured that she refused to answer, in case it might be me, in an attempt to frustrate me to the point of turning her cell phone back on. She eventually won this contest because I was starting to feel bad about talking about her rather than with her. I reconnected her cell service and dialed the number prepared to tell her about the passing of her beloved Cowgirl. Mariah picked up the phone on the first ring. Amazing, I thought, because the phone had been shut off for several weeks. “Oh, Hiiiiii,” she said in what I might have mistaken as sarcasm, but it could have been genuine delight not in hearing my voice but rather in the knowledge that she could now text her brains out until the next billing cycle. I asked how she was, to which she responded in great length and detail about her many physical ailments, including the pain in her chest that her counselor attributed to anxiety because the doctor had ruled out any biological cause. “But,” she continued, “I am feeling lots better now that my phone is back on.” Yeah, right, I thought, nothing short of a miracle. Carpal tunnel syndrome is preferable to anxiety-driven chest pain. She told me that the doctor had recommended some prescription medicine for her anxiety, and for that she needed my permission.
This is where I stalled. I wasn’t sure about prescription medicines for anxiety and/or mood swings at the age of fifteen. Aren’t girls that age naturally anxious and moody? Every time I had mentioned what I considered extreme symptoms displayed by Mariah to the girlfriends in my new island advisory committee, they had unanimously responded that all was quite normal. Even when I chose to argue that Mariah exhibited behaviors I considered deep in the abnormal realm, they laughed and confided that it could and probably would get worse, citing examples of the atrocities they’d experienced at the hands of their daughters. Of course we all shared concern about the extent of damage years of abuse by Ken might have caused. But for now I had to stick with the plan of getting on with things, moving forward in a positive manner with shades of Frank Sinatra: “Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race. That’s life …”
Was medicine a cop-out? Didn’t Mariah need to ride the bronco into adulthood unadulterated? But I also knew that pain from anxiety is real, and perhaps Mariah was suffering unduly and medicine was appropriate. She couldn’t put her finger on what was bothering her or what she might be stressing about. There was no doubt in my mind that her anguish was a direct result of what she had endured at the hands of Ken, and that it would be something she would deal with for a very long time with the help of the professional counseling I was happy to provide for as long as she wanted. I juggled options for a minute and finally went with my gut. I suggested that Mariah wait a bit before starting on medication. I shared my opinion that drugs were the easy way out and that perhaps coping skills could not be developed if symptoms were masked rather than dealt with and overcome. I reminded her that she claimed to like and benefit from her sessions with her counselor and encouraged her to continue these and even increase the frequency of visits if she wanted. Mariah sounded a little disappointed that I would not give permission for the prescription at this time and mentioned some number of friends who had prescription mood levelers, which did nothing to sway me. I agreed that we would revisit the topic when she came home for her next break and that I would certainly set up an appointment with a doctor for a second opinion at that time if she still felt a need.
When we hung up, I realized that it would have been much easier to permit drugs to be prescribed. I wouldn’t need to deal with it again. I found solace in knowing that if Mariah were my own flesh and blood, I would have responded in the same way. So here I was again acting like the mom that I wasn’t. I was relieved to have had a legitimate excuse not to mention Cowgirl. No sense fueling the anxiety, I reasoned. Inwardly I believed that the death of this cat was ultimately a good thing in that it was a reminder of a nasty past. But I am not an animal lover. Mariah is. In fact, the only time I had seen real joy in Mariah was when she was petting a dog or ogling newborn kittens. I wouldn’t lie to Mariah. If she asked, I’d tell her that Cowgirl was gone. But otherwise I would wait for a better time. The question did arise in my mind about whether I was protecting Mariah or myself from her reaction. I decided to give myself the benefit of the doubt this time.
The next phone call wasn’t the right opportunity either. This conversation was another plea for medication. The chest pain had subsided, but now Mariah had stomach issues. She had indigestion or something like it. “Stuff” was coming up in her throat and gagging her. She even threw up! She needed prescription medicine, she said. I suggested that she should try Tums first. I was afraid that Mariah would think I wasn’t taking her ailments seriously, so I made an appointment for her to see a GI specialist, a friend of Simon’s who agreed to squeeze her in for a work-up during a long weekend at home she had coming soon. Mariah seemed to be growing increasingly annoyed with my refusals to allow her to start popping pills. I was growing increasingly nervous about the amount of time that was passing since the death of her cat and my not telling her. Each time I saw her name on my caller ID, I quickly vowed to spill the beans. But I always hung up without doing so. The longer my silence on the topic persisted, the more difficult it became to bridge the gap between living cat and dead cat. The next call was a complaint of sleeplessness, which could be remedied by sleeping pills if I could be so kind as to agree. No way.
During this time of phone off and phone on and calls from the school nurses, the island was relatively quiet, as it usually is in late March. I had learned long ago that happenings on Isle au Haut were somewhat episodic in that they came in waves (not in threes!). We seemed to be in a trough right now. Other than the usual gripes and grudges, there were no new surges of good or bad—all was copacetic. Oh sure, there were minor disturbances that rose from the ashes of longtime disputes. And those served to keep life interesting. One ember that was fanned to a small flame involved me, indirectly.
I was off island to do a speaking event when my sister Bif called to inform me that she had just spoken with a friend on the island who had told her of the good deed he had done on my behalf. It had snowed about a foot and a half of wet, heavy flakes and the weather was predicted to get very cold. The friend had taken it upon himself to shovel out my truck, which awaited my return in the town parking lot. If he hadn’t cleared the snow from on and around my vehicle, he thought it might just stay put until spring in the iceberg that would form with the dropping temperature. Th
is was nice. And if he hadn’t added that he had, in the process of shoveling my truck out, absolutely buried the vehicle of someone else, I would have thanked him. “You can’t even see the top of the antenna! That car won’t see daylight until the Fourth of July!” I supposed this little act of kindness was retaliation for something. On Isle au Haut, grudges are held dear, often longer than the disgruntled can remember what the cause was. I was put out, only for fear of having the owner of the ice-encrusted vehicle point a finger of blame my way.
That night, planning to return home the next morning to my cleanly shoveled truck, I received a call from the wife of the owner of the entombed car. I hesitated to pick up, but realized that it might be worse if I did not. Might as well face the misaimed wrath now and deny, deny, deny. I wouldn’t need to throw my friend under the bus because my alibi was solid. I was not on the island at the time of the storm or subsequent mischievous shoveling. The wife apologized for bothering me but thought I might like to know that her husband had borrowed my truck to go home in because he couldn’t begin to break the ice from his own. I wasn’t going to need my truck anytime soon, was I?
The next time I left my truck at the dock, I took the keys with me—something I had never before done. This trip was to pick up Mariah at school and head for Vermont to visit Simon and the GI doctor whom we no longer needed to see. I had four hours in the car with Mariah in which to tell her about Cowgirl. But Mariah cranked up the music, put her seat back, and fell fast asleep. With her most recent complaint in mind, I didn’t have the heart to wake her. I glanced at her from time to time and felt a strange emotion I hadn’t felt before. I was taking some degree of comfort in Mariah’s peacefulness. I wondered if this was what parents felt when standing over a crib smiling and sighing at their child and speculating what dreams might be dreamed and how the child would pursue them. Some hopeful wonderment about Mariah’s future tiptoed around my head, careful not to disturb. I resisted the urge to push Mariah’s bangs away from her eyes.
Mariah stretched and yawned about the time we rolled into Simon’s driveway. It was now inevitable, I thought. Simon came out to greet us. After a sleepy “Hi” from Mariah, the next thing I heard was “How’s Cowgirl?” Simon’s jaw dropped. His eyes opened wide and he glared at me with a questioning look. I guess I had neglected to tell Simon that I hadn’t found the right time to deliver the sad news.
I took a deep breath and braced myself. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but Cowgirl died.”
I heard myself swallow in the silence that followed. Mariah frowned and her eyes crinkled at the corners. Her lower lip began to quiver. Emotion was building palpably. Simon wandered into the garage and pretended to putter with something. When Mariah shifted her focus from the ground at her feet, our eyes met. I was more than prepared to console Mariah as I had rehearsed this so many times. I took a deep breath. She opened her mouth to speak and said, “Can we get a dog?”
I suppose there was some sense of relief. But what I felt most was pissed off. My maternal instincts had been cheated once again! Mariah needed none of the comforting, cheering, or soothing that had lain dormant in me for so long and now beat at the door begging to be unleashed. She didn’t want sympathy or knowledge of cause of death. She didn’t want to hear that Cowgirl had gone to the big litter box in the sky. She didn’t want to place a wreath or a cross as a memorial. She didn’t want to reminisce about the good times she had shared with Cowgirl, or publically contemplate what a good cat she had been. Mariah wanted a dog. “No” was all I could muster.
“Why not?” I turned on my heel and headed into the house while fully explaining why not. For starters, Mariah could not keep a dog at school. My schedule did not allow for a dog—too much time away from home, traveling, fishing, et cetera. And even if I were a stay-at-home mom, I did not want a dog. “Oh, that is so mean! Come on, please? Look, I have a picture of a pug on my phone. Isn’t he the cutest?” Mariah followed close behind me, pleading all the way like the kid in the grocery store who had just been told no by his mother about the box of Ring Dings. “I promise I’ll … ,” and she went through the usual litany of covenants associated with pet care.
“That’s what I said to my mother when I wanted the ant farm. She has never forgiven me for releasing them to live in my sock drawer. Of course she’d have never caught on if I hadn’t fried the vacuum cleaner trying to recapture them. Damned socks!” Mariah didn’t find nearly as much humor in this as I did. And the pleading continued until it was a full whine. When I couldn’t take any more, I pushed Mariah toward Simon. He was a softer touch than I was in these matters. After all, he had been suckered into the cat ploy. The wanting of a dog became Mariah’s mantra. It is truly the only thing other than prescription medicine that she was persistent in asking for and didn’t receive. And so Cowgirl’s uneventful, undramatic passage was appropriately celebrated with no sharing of sorrow, no condolences, no lamentation, and no grieving.
Not so, the death of Uncle George. The dearth of pathos surrounding Cowgirl’s expiration stood in abrupt juxtaposition to the emotional tsunami that encompassed George’s demise. Uncle George, the last of my dad’s siblings, received the full fanfare that the Greenlaw family has become known for. Not that we are an overly religious group, but we do have our signature ceremonies that resemble a production requiring great orchestration. Most of the hoopla surrounding a (I hesitate to call it a funeral because it would not qualify in most people’s minds) family burial is due to the location of the graveyard and logistics of the physical act of burying.
Uncle George had expressed two wishes before he died: One was to be buried alongside his mother (my grandmother Mattie) and his sister (my aunt Sally) on Isle au Haut, and the other was to have his father there, too. His father, my grandfather Aubrey Greenlaw, had been dead for twenty years and was buried with his second wife in Woolwich, Maine, a small town on the mainland. In order to grant wish number two, Gramp had to be disinterred and moved to the island, where he could be replanted. Readers of The Lobster Chronicles may recall that my grandmother required two burials also, placing my paternal elders in a class remotely akin to perennials. Of course we all believed that the rising of Gram (on her own accord) from the grave after she was planted was in response to my grandfather’s remarrying before her body was cold. So the disinterment of her gadabout husband seemed justified. Rest in peace evidently means nothing to my family.
When I say we bury our dead, I mean that we all take active roles in what is more of an escapade than a solemn event. Because digging graves on the island is such a frig—the island is mostly ledge—it seemed wise and frugal to excavate one big hole to accommodate both caskets rather than go through the process twice. We all marveled at George’s insistence on not being cremated. Aunt Sally, our most recent death, wisely chose cremation and was “put in with a posthole digger.” That was relayed by Sally’s widower, Uncle Charlie, while we worked as a family with chain saws to clear a path for the backhoe for Uncle George’s procession. Fellow islander and friend Al Gordon was the man with the equipment to clear trees from and excavate the site, and he did so with competence and respect for both the dead and living Greenlaws. It made sense to organize the hearses to the dock, and boat to the island, in a way that would require one trip. So two hearses rolled down the dock in Stonington, and two caskets were lowered hydraulically aboard the Mattie Belle. Two pickup trucks received the caskets and delivered the two corpses to the grave site. It wasn’t long before my sister Bif was referring to the service as a “twofer.”
At the edge of the hole my dad said words remembering his brother and father fondly, and he was pretty choked up. That’s a hard thing to witness when you’ve never seen your father shed a tear. But the cracking of his voice was soon forgotten when nine-year-old Addison took the floor. When asked if anyone else wanted to speak, we all looked around, fearful that one of us might have to. Addison sauntered to the front of our small crowd, hands jammed in hip pockets, turned to face
us, and said, “I didn’t actually know him very well, but he was a good grandfather.” That was it. He returned to his position between his father and grandfather. It was simple and direct. We had no idea which of the two men Addison eulogized. And if either George or Aubrey had been Addison’s grandfather it wouldn’t have been funny at all. Come to think of it, Addison was likely confused by the whole twofer thing. The event didn’t become a fiasco until we couldn’t remember which casket was which or which end was head and which was foot. I recall discussion that wasn’t heated enough to denote argument as we worked with shovels to throw dirt back into the holes after the coffins were not so smoothly lowered. To this day we aren’t sure who is where or which way, which brings back memories of Gram’s burials (yes, both of them).
Mariah’s take on her first experience with the death of a member of her new family was that it was “different.” And with that I could not disagree. Simon was kind enough to transport Mariah to and from school for the festivities because he had to go right by Evergreen in his travels, saving me the time and effort. Mariah hadn’t spent much time as an integral part of the Greenlaw clan. My parents were polite but hadn’t yet bonded with Mariah in any significant way. Looking back, I am sure that my mother was being protective of me because she was certain that my assuming guardianship was a huge mistake with which I would have to live for another three years. My dad loves to tease lightheartedly. His attempts with Mariah were met with tears, which made my father feel very bad because he would never intentionally hurt or upset anyone. And my time with Mariah took time away from Mom and Dad. Although it wasn’t spoken about, Mariah’s presence seemed like a wedge that threatened to divide a close and solid family unit. This was probably just in my mind, but I think it bears mentioning. As much as my parents wanted to protect me, I wanted to protect Mariah.
Lifesaving Lessons Page 17