Lifesaving Lessons (16 page)

“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.

If anything, maybe I was feeling guilty about spending less time with aging parents, and I had Mariah to help justify it. The bottom line was that while I may not have been the ideal mother figure, I did have an uncanny ability to surround Mariah with greatness from other sources. My family was more than welcoming to anyone who showed interest in being part of us. The confusing thing was that it was not evident that Mariah wanted a part. Other than our somewhat strange dealing with our dead, I see us as a shining example of a strong, loving, and perpetually optimistic and supportive unit. The island population as a whole was genuinely interested and active in my relationship with Mariah, and seemed to have a vested interest in what we all hoped would be our ultimate success. My neighbors and fellow community members were consistent in checking in with me and Mariah. When Mariah was home with me, we received dinner invitations that we enthusiastically accepted and always had great follow-up conversations afterward. Mariah was beginning to be sort of fun to be around. I think she was becoming more comfortable in our unorthodox unit. Although we had a vast distance to cover, I felt that we were gaining baby steps in the right direction.

Simon and Mariah seemed to be bonding quite nicely. And I couldn't have been happier about Simon's help with her, even though it confused the issue of my wanting to terminate our existing relationship and revamp. Simon had become the closest friend I could ever imagine having, and I wanted very much to retain that while moving forward with someone else on a romantic level. I had no idea who that someone else might be, but I wanted to be open to an opportunity if I should happen upon one. I suspected that Simon felt the same way but had no way of really knowing because we never talked about it. I couldn't imagine anyone serving as a better father figure for Mariah. Simon is kind, generous, smart, hardworking—all of the things you want your children exposed to. And Simon has a stick-to-itiveness that I respected, especially in his not accommodating Mariah's ongoing dog request, but at the same time, I was frustrated by it in other facets of life. I hoped that I wouldn't take Mariah's feelings into consideration to a degree that shaded my decisions on how to proceed with Simon. If we “divorced,” how would that affect the stability that I knew was paramount to Mariah's well-being? Many couples stay together for the sake of children, but Simon and I weren't married. And Mariah wasn't really ours, was she? I could, I reasoned, always date a guy with a dog.

When my cluttered web of emotional confusion embodied jointly in Simon and Mariah sped away from the town dock headed for Vermont, I breathed a sigh of relief that signified deliverance from the burden of figuring things out. In the world of clichés, this was not “out of sight, out of mind,” but rather a “sweeping under the rug.” Items under the rug are still there. Know what I mean? But I felt that I could now postpone dealing with the mess I had created and stored in my psyche regarding my two most prominent relationships and concentrate on the easier and more fun ones linked to my sisters. There would always be time later to pull back the rug and get the broom out.

I think that sisterly love is one of those things that are impossible to articulate. So I won't try. If you don't have a sister, you wouldn't get it anyway. And if you do have a sister, you don't need an explanation. I am lucky to have two sisters, Bif and Rhonny, and was most fortunate at the time of the double burial to have both of them on the island with me. Rhonny, two years my senior, had moved (on a whim) to Florida and was now home for an extended, undefined visit that we had all come to expect of her. I recall stretching out in the middle of my large, sectional sofa, flanked by sisters, and just letting all guards down. Sisters can and do talk about everything. We laughed about the twofer, cried about the twofer, and sat silently contemplating the twofer. The silence was finally broken when Bif asked about Mariah.

I spoke openly and honestly about my perception of our relationship, my hopes for her future, and my fear that I was not doing a very good job as guardian. “It just doesn't feel right. You know what I mean? I guess I was hoping to become more of a mother figure than just the person who provides basic needs until she's a legal adult. I want the best for Mariah. She deserves opportunity, and I hope I'm providing that.”

Both sisters chimed in with verbal pats on my back for taking on such a project and congratulated me on hanging in there when things were rough. “Yeah, I remember thinking the same thing about Mattie when she was fifteen,” Rhonda confided about my niece, who was now out of college and holding down a job in graphic design. “Mariah will come around. She is a very lucky girl to have you.”

“She is lucky. I'll agree with you there. She is most fortunate to have this entire community and Greenlaw family and network of friends to support and bolster both of us. But she's just so stubborn! Sometimes I feel like choking her, at others I feel like hugging her, and once in a while I just feel like throwing my arms in the air and walking away,” I confessed. “But of course I'll never do that. That would be admitting that I made a mistake. Not happening.”

“Linny,” Bif started, “you know that we will help in any way we can. Right, Rhon?” Rhonda nodded enthusiastically. “I assume you'll need or want to go fishing next fall, and I'll be available to get Mariah back to school for you and act as guardian until you get back ashore.”

“Yup. Want
and
need. I'll need the income to continue to pay the bills around here, and I'll want to get back to what I love and to live within my comfort zone for a while. This whole thing just feels so awkward. I always assumed that being a mother would come naturally. I was wrong.”

“When women give birth, the relationship is clearly defined as between mother and child. This is different. You can
mother
Mariah. But you can't
be
her mother. What do you
want
your relationship to be?” Bif asked. The question had never been posed. And I realized at that instant that I needed to define what I wanted and stop pussyfooting around the issue of why, in my mind, our relationship wasn't working. How could it work if I didn't even know what it was?

I wasn't willing to sacrifice what I loved most in the world for this kid, and had been torn about it. Now, in light of Bif's suggestion to define the relationship in my own way, even if unorthodox, I could give myself permission to do my thing offshore knowing that it would be best for both Mariah and me. I wanted Mariah to be happy. I assumed that she would not be opposed to my being happy. I admitted to being happiest when I was home alone while Mariah was at school. My sisters said that it was okay for me to feel that way. Because they are my sisters, I believed them. Rhonny offered to host Mariah in Ft. Lauderdale for all or part of any winter breaks from school, or to stay at my place with her in the summer if I needed to be away on a book tour. We fell silent again.

Completely relaxed, I lounged on the sofa and thought, wow. Not only have I provided Mariah with her basic needs, a supportive community, an exclusive education, a wonderful father figure, and a devoted and close network of friends and family, but I've also provided two of the coolest aunts ever. This package deal was more than even the best mother could offer a child, I thought. Our collective silent reverie was shattered when Bif sprang from prone position to fully upright and then to her feet, shrieking, “Get it off me! Oh my God, get it off!”