Lifesaving Lessons (12 page)

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 had 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.”

“Okay.”

Phew, I thought. No tears and no anger. “It's been a long time since I have used birth control. I'm a little out of touch. Want me to make an appointment for us to speak with someone?” I emphasized “us,” and enjoyed an internal chuckle at the thought of needing birth control myself. How long had it been? . . . The chuckle quickly turned to concern for the same reason. My sexual activity was at least post-chastity-belt era. But I knew a lot had changed in the time since birth control pills were the only game in town. “I'm not prying. I just want you to be safe and protected. Okay?”

“Yes.” And that was the logical place to end the conversation. We went about our business and enjoyed the boat ride home, Mariah perched this time on the stern transom, looking like any other very pretty and wholesome kid. I made an appointment with the nurse who travels to our island aboard the mission boat. She went through all of the options available, gave us pros and cons of each, and ordered a prescription. Although I was a little late in the game for the speech, I felt compelled, if I were to be any degree of parent at all, to give the one about the merits of abstinence and how she was too young for sexual relationships. I believed this to be true in Mariah's case. She at least listened politely; never even rolled her eyes or exhaled at full volume. The next time we went ashore, we picked up the prescription and I was happy to think that Mariah was protected from an unwanted pregnancy. Of course, when Mariah started bringing her packet of pills to the kitchen table when we had guests, it was time for me to reprimand her again. I told her that her birth control was a private item and should be kept in her bathroom. We were right back to the eye rolling, and “why are you picking on me?” stage. Come on, Turkey Day!

I think an innocent bystander might have observed falsely that I had been left holding the bag with regard to Mariah's health and well-being. Yes, I took sole and full responsibility for making her appointments, transporting her to them, and funding all the requisite payments. Hair, teeth, eyes, physical exam for school—I took care of everything by my own volition. But many summer residents offered financial help. My friends and family continued to volunteer assistance in any way. I took seriously my responsibility to grab the reins for the duration of Mariah's raising. I had signed a document in front of a judge. But it was more than that. I
felt
responsible for more than guardianship. Parenting was what was needed. It didn't seem right to farm that out. On the few occasions that I did accept help, it was as if I were doing the helpers a favor by allowing them to contribute. And I'll always remember that as being pretty cool. There is one guy friend in particular whom I still refer to as “Mariah's fairy godfather” because he split with me the costs of her full braces and school necessities, including books.

We went off island to do a bit of shopping for school clothes. I understood that Evergreen Academy had a dress code and that the majority of students there came from somewhat well-to-do families. I wanted Mariah to feel comfortable and not self-conscious about her clothes. God knew she had other things to worry about without having the wrong wardrobe! I couldn't help but notice while handling laundry that Mariah was in dire need of underwear. Not that she wasn't in fine shape with the amount of articles she owned, but quality and fit were not optimum. I took her to be fitted for a bra. This is quite humiliating at the age of fifteen, I learned, or was reminded. Knowing what I did about this kid's past, I suppose I should have anticipated her being prudish about purchasing underwear and undressing in front of strangers. When the sales assistant referred to Mariah as my daughter, both our jaws dropped. But we let it slide because to do differently would be too confusing and provide too much info. The salesperson handed Mariah a couple of bras in different sizes to try on and led her to a dressing room. After Mariah had been in the room for what seemed long enough, the salesperson called through the curtain, “Come on out and let's check the fit.” There was no answer. “Let us take a look. It's all girls out here, honey.”

The curtain opened a crack at eye level. Mariah stuck her head out and said, “And
that
would be the problem!” Slam! The curtain was drawn closed with great force. I laughed out loud while the salesperson was clearly taken aback by what I am sure was perceived as rude behavior. Well, I thought, maybe Mariah really could be my daughter. We spent the rest of the day wandering around stores, riffling through racks, and not buying much. Everything Mariah showed interest in was skimpy, too low cut, or too small for her. Everything I suggested was “lame.” I tried to comment in ways that would not insult her. I never said that her choices made her look like a tramp. I pointed out that it would be cold at Evergreen. She was particularly drawn to heels when we looked at shoes. Strappy, spike-heeled shoes at Evergreen? The school is at the base of Sunday River, one of the two biggest ski resorts in Maine. I didn't expect Mariah to dress like an old lady. I mean, I didn't think she should buy tweed jackets or anything similar. She reasoned that she had attended Evergreen the winter before and knew what was permissible in the dress code. We ended up compromising on a few things, and we were both happy to be done with the shopping. The last stop we made was at Mariah's suggestion. We needed to get some shampoo for Cowgirl.

This was the best idea ever, I thought. I intended to ask Simon to take Cowgirl to Vermont, and it would be nice if his introduction to the cat at Thanksgiving made a better first impression than what I imagined was probable. Simon was a tenderhearted guy. He didn't really like cats, though. But he claimed to be my best friend, and I was in need. Need, indeed! And if he refused, Cowgirl was going to become an outdoor cat, period. I hadn't mentioned my plan to Mariah yet. No sense upsetting the apple cart. No sense ruining this otherwise joyful togetherness. I believed that Cowgirl embodied all of the bad vibes left behind by Ken. The cat skulked around the house and gave me the creeps. Ken had left behind plenty of fodder for bad memories and scary thoughts without the daily reminder from the gross cat. Simon
had
to take Cowgirl. It was a long car ride back to Stonington. When Mariah wasn't sleeping, she cranked up the radio to some rap station. She quickly changed all of the preset stations on my radio from my easy listening to her noise. Oh well, I thought, Thanksgiving is just a few day away. I was nearly rubbing my hands together.

.   .  .

It might have been a case of sensing light at the end of the tunnel. Or it could have been because Mariah and I were growing on each other. I'm not sure it really matters how we got there, but we seemed to have been moving to new and better ground. The days just prior to Thanksgiving weren't that bad, in a relative way. I actually looked forward to picking her up after school. And she wasn't crying herself to sleep anymore. The single rule that we followed at our evening meal together was that there was no TV. I had grown up with the rule that dinner was time for conversation. Dinner was so quiet with Mariah that I nearly rescinded the rule many times. Then, out of the blue one night at dinner, she asked, “Have I ever told you about the phone at Ken's house?” This seemed a strange conversation starter given our history of noncommunication. I resisted the urge to explain that she hadn't
ever
told me
anything
. I didn't dare respond with more than a head shaking for fear of saying the wrong thing, pissing Mariah off, and eclipsing what could be real dinner conversation. She went on to tell me about the day she was home alone and heard a clicking sound that was becoming annoying. She tracked the irritating sound to Ken's bedroom, which she was absolutely forbidden to enter, and found a recording device. She followed the wires from the device through a closet and into the phone jack in her bedroom. So Ken had been recording all of her phone calls! This girl had had no privacy at all. It was no wonder her trust threshold was sky high. I assured Mariah then and there that I had no interest in listening in on her.