Lifesaving Lessons (18 page)

It felt strange leaving the campus and Mariah behind, knowing that it was quite likely that I would return the following day. But I knew some windshield time would do me more good than sitting in a hotel room in Norway, Maine, waiting for some faceless group to decide Mariah's and my fate. And leaving showed that my words were more than words. Unless Evergreen pressed charges against Mariah's mother, she would remain a student in good standing (on probation, of course). As I drove out of town, it struck me what a strange place this school actually was. The staunchly bricked and pillared and quaint New England Main Street lined with trendy, independent coffee shops boasting of organic and fair-trade wares and free Wi-Fi was juxtaposed with modest homes, a gas station with simple hot coffee, and a drab public school. As Ivy League preparatory disappeared in my rearview mirror and the school of hard knocks sprawled ahead, I believed that Mariah represented a poignant connection between the haves and have-nots. And I prayed that the disciplinary board would see the value in her presence as a bridge over that tremendous gap.

The argument about nature versus nurture has remained unresolved for a very long time, so it was unlikely I would figure it out in a four-hour commute. Sadly, whichever side of the equation I favored, to my mind Mariah didn't stand a chance. If her mother was indicative, nature did not bode well. And if nurture began at birth, the scenario was bleak for the same reason. So her mother plays the lead role in either nature or nurture. How discouraging. I wondered if I was being unfair or too severe regarding her biological mom. I wondered what her mother's situation was and how her rearing had shaped her. I wondered about the perpetual cycles of abuse I had heard about. But that wonder only existed for a second because it all seemed so hopeless, so glass half empty.

I thought it must be hard for Mariah to have one foot rooted in her own family's traditions and the other tentatively toeing the ground of better opportunity. I wondered whether straddling was a conscious choice. She had nominated me as her guardian in a legal procedure. But other than that single signature on a single document at a moment when she was confused and traumatized, Mariah hadn't been given much in the way of choices. Or perhaps she had been asked to make too many choices. Perhaps expecting her to choose was expecting too much. Mariah needed more than a guardian. She needed remedial nurturing and someone to be responsible for choices beyond food and clothing. She needed help making life choices. And it was at that moment that I vowed to choose for her. No matter how Evergreen's disciplinary board ruled, for better or for worse, I would decide for Mariah until I felt she was capable of doing so herself. Isn't that what my mother had done for me?

Change Was Good

I
can't say that I was surprised to hear that Evergreen's disciplinary board had decided that another chance was in order for Mariah. Relieved is more like it. Eleanor Pratt made it clear that this was a highly unusual case and that they were making an extraordinary exception by allowing Mariah to remain in school—on probation, of course, for another year. I suspected, even with all that Eleanor had said about how special Mariah was and how the school wanted to do its part appropriately in her well-being and education, that the board had wisely chosen not to test the ultimatum I had left on its doorstep about my kid. I would like to think that Evergreen was sincere in wanting to do the right thing, but I realized that the right thing might well have been to give Mariah the boot as dictated by the school's rules and the penalties for breaking them.

I truly believed that Mariah's mother should be held accountable. For the briefest moment I wondered what their decision and seeming unwillingness to prosecute the responsible adult was teaching my kid about following rules and suffering consequences. But I just as quickly justified Mariah's remaining in school as the most valuable outcome regardless of any deep-seated morals that may be conflicted. This situation flew in the face of my deeply held convictions about personal responsibility and accountability. If it had been Mariah's roommate whose head was on the chopping block, would I feel the same? And just to drive the point home about the tentative relationship between behavior and consequences, I turned Mariah's phone back on (even though I had threatened never to do so) so that I could call and let her know what was what.

Mariah had gotten off on a technicality. My mother might have been right when she told me that I should have become an attorney. More poignant was the fact that this was the first time I had stood up for Mariah in a motherly way. And that felt good.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It's Linny. They decided to let you stay and finish the year.”

“I'm flunking algebra . . . yet again.”

“I'll hire another tutor. You'll have to take a summer course.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun!” Her sarcasm bothered me.

“Forget about fun. You are on probation for another year. You can't afford even a minor offense.”

“I'll be good. I promise. Thanks, Linny.” And that was the first and only time that Mariah had ever promised me anything, and come to think of it, the first time she had thanked me out of something other than direct obligation. Although I was touched by her sincerity, I was still nervous that she might misbehave before I picked her up on the Saturday following final exams to go home for the summer. But she did not. I heard no more from the school, and she jumped right into two jobs when her feet hit the island, then landed a third job on Sundays manning the island's only gift shop. I hired a beautiful, young island woman, Morgan, to tutor Mariah through an online algebra course that she desperately needed to pass to become a high school junior. Mariah connected with Morgan and I couldn't have been happier about that. It was good for Mariah to have nearly daily contact with someone of Morgan's quality. Not only did Morgan coach Mariah into a passing grade, but she was also a great influence and inspiring role model in many other ways. Imagine somebody cool and hip who loves math! Amazing, indeed.

Logistics are more of a task than the task itself here on the island, and life had been complicated before I introduced a teenager's schedule into the mix. I was already not caring much for carting Mariah everywhere she needed to be. Oh, she drove on the island without a license like everybody else, but every time she had an appointment, social engagement, or an urge to shop on the mainland, it gobbled up a full day of my life. But, as they say, where there is a will there is a way. It was time for Mariah to get her driver's license, so I started researching where, when, and how. I found a highly regarded program right in Stonington, which did mean I'd have to take her ashore for class and driving lessons two nights a week, but the payoff would be good. Even more incentive to get that license! When I learned that Mariah needed to show a birth certificate to enroll in the class, I knew I didn't have a copy. Neither did she. Not to worry, though. I got on the Internet and found the number for vital statistics in Tennessee. I told the nice man what I needed. He asked for Mariah's date and place of birth. I gave them to him, ordered two copies, and gave him my credit card info. So easy!

Not so easy. The nice man phoned the next day to report that he had no record of Mariah's birth on that date at that location. Did I have the correct date, he asked? Was I certain she was born in Memphis, Tennessee? Could she possibly have been born in another state? How would I know? I knew only what Mariah believed and what had been unquestioned until now. Did she have another name, he asked? There was no way I could ask Mariah if there was a chance that she had no idea who she was or where she was born or how old she was. She loved her birthday and had started a countdown months before, sending me daily reminders. I needed to confirm what she thought she knew, not let on that she might not have a clue as to her beginnings or identity. And I needed a birth certificate pronto!

So I did what any resourceful, slightly desperate mother would do under the circumstances. I got online again and found a sleazy site that promised official-looking documents. Two days and more money than I care to admit later, Mariah was Mariah and she was born on her birthday in her birthplace. Cool! I assumed that the name, place, and date of birth that Mariah had lived with was indeed accurate, and now we had the paperwork to back it up. I wondered if my Web activity and purchase of a birth certificate that might be phony would come back to haunt Mariah later in life. In the end I decided that it wasn't worth mentioning. So what if she wasn't born on the exact date she had celebrated every year. Lots of people manipulate birthdays to accommodate schedules. My own birthday is so close to Christmas that my family often acknowledges it on the twenty-fifth, when we are all together. (Not a highly religious holiday for the Greenlaws, and I never thought Jesus Christ was stealing my thunder as so many people have voiced concern about through the years when they learn of my birth date.) Anyway, my powers of justifying my possibly seedy actions were in overdrive. (Oddly enough, Mariah did come with a Social Security card. Goes to show you the diligence of Uncle Sam when potential taxes are at risk.)

I couldn't help but notice that a driver's license was not at the top of Mariah's priority list, which confused me slightly. I saw this as a necessary and natural step toward independence and maturity. I recalled getting my own license and how eager I was to do so. And even though I was perhaps a bit selfish in wanting Mariah to have hers to free up my personal schedule, I remembered my mother doing the same thing for the same reason. Every time I asked to use the family car (which was daily) when I was a teen driver, the answer was “Yes. Take the kids.” So virtually everywhere I went at the age of fifteen, I had the seven-year- old twins in tow. This was fine when it was a basketball game or ice-cream run, but I had to put my foot down when it was time for high school dances. I thought all teens were dying to get their licenses. This was not the case with Mariah. Maybe independence and maturity were things I wanted for her and that she was not ready for. She went along with the idea easily enough, though. And we began our two nights off island each week for ten weeks.

Somewhat to my surprise, instead of adding to my own resentment, we both quickly began to look forward to our nights off including boat rides on the
Mattie Belle.
Mariah had always had a special fondness for the boat, and had even named one of her hamsters Mattie Belle when she first arrived on island. The ride over to driver's ed gave us some great regular time for plain ol' catching up because we didn't see each other that much during the rest of the week with our work schedules and diametrically opposed sleep routines. I would drop Mariah off at the school and then do some grocery shopping, filling the car with items from her list and mine. After class we would go out to dinner at a restaurant right on the water from where we could see the
Mattie Belle
at the public dock. The ride home well after dark was comfortable and silent.

One night at dinner after driver's ed I asked Mariah how her job at the Inn at Isle au Haut was going. She said that she liked the job, although it was hard work. She loved being around the sole proprietor, Diana, and all of the gourmet food she prepared for her guests. Mariah had the luck to be fed dinner at the inn each night that she worked that shift, and was proud to tell me that she tried many things she had never before eaten, and really enjoyed them. Then she hesitated and frowned. “What?” I asked.

“Well, no offense,” Mariah began. “But it is annoying when the guests question me about why I live with you.”

Diana had warned me that her guests love to chitchat with the island people and that Mariah would be questioned about where she lived and what her parents do, et cetera. “That doesn't offend me. It is nearly impossible to offend me. And that is
not
a challenge,” I laughed. “What do you tell them?” I asked curiously.

“At first I would just get embarrassed and run for the kitchen. But last night this woman wouldn't leave me alone. She kept firing questions at me. Once she learned that I live with the
famous
Linda Greenlaw, she wouldn't let it go until she understood
why
that was so and what it was
like
to live with you.”

“It's your story to tell. Tell what you want to whom you want, and nothing more,” I said, repeating the advice that I had shared so many times with her. “So, what
did
you tell her?”

Mariah hesitated, and then shrugged. “I told her that I was in need of some major nagging and that you needed a pain in your ass, and that both of our needs are being met.” Mariah looked cautious, as if she might have crossed a line.

I raised my glass of wine to clink against her milk and said, “Touché! Now for confession time: When people ask where the hell you came from, I tell them the stork left you on my doorstep when you were fifteen.”

“Linny!” We both started to laugh a much needed laugh.

“Well, I guess we both have our own ways of avoiding the whole gory story,” I said.

“It is pretty gory, isn't it?”

“Oh yeah. But you know what the best part is? The best part is that we can talk about it in the past tense.” Mariah agreed for the most part, but confided, after looking over her shoulder and lowering her voice, that she was still afraid that Ken would be found not guilty and would get out of jail. I promised Mariah that he would never bother her again. “He will never step foot on our island.” She said that she wasn't scared for herself. She was worried that he would find another victim.

I learned a lot about Mariah at that table that night. And I was proud and unhesitant with my introductions of her simply as “Mariah.” No other explanation was needed as far as I could see.

Daily routines were one thing, but there was a big moment looming: the resolution of the case against Ken. We were on a wild emotional roller coaster together, united by our hopes and fears of the possible outcome. The court had assigned Mariah a victim's advocate (a real title and one that I would not use otherwise, because Mariah
never
let on that she was a victim), and she kept us in the loop about upcoming hearings (putting us on edge), continuances and postponements (frustrating!), and failure after failure for the court-appointed defending attorney as he painstakingly exhausted each avenue available to his client. After each one we'd exhale and sink back in our seats.

Change was good, and we underwent many changes during that summer. I had the basement finished with a bedroom and bathroom for Mariah, allowing her to move out of what we still called the guest bedroom. I noticed that Mariah began referring to the house as “ours,” and I no longer had to wonder whether her “home” was Maine or Tennessee. I no longer felt that Mariah interrupted my life; instead, I knew that she enriched my life. Now when I would say no to some of Mariah's requests, she responded with easy acceptance. There was no begging or pleading when the answer was no. Indeed, she seemed happy to be forbidden to do certain things. In the past when I had friends in for social time, Mariah would revert to coloring books and crayons. Now she joined the conversation and no longer complained of being with “old people” all the time. Mariah was becoming quite a socially adept young woman whom my friends enjoyed. Life fell into a comfortable normalcy. And I no longer questioned whether I should go fishing or not. I knew it was all right for me to continue along my chosen path, which Mariah would take in stride. Our very separate lives synced smoothly. She did her thing. I did my thing. And when we were together, we did our thing.

I left on a fishing trip before Mariah started school again that fall, leaving her in good hands. Bif took over as guardian and mother figure, doing the school prep shopping, transporting, and advising. Mariah moved in with Bif and her husband, Ben, in their year-round home in Harpswell, Maine. When Mariah complained of homesickness, Bif was kind enough to collect her from school and take her home for a weekend in Harpswell, where she got lots of coddling from Aunt Bif and great food prepared by Uncle Ben. When I called and informed Mariah that I had been arrested and put in a Canadian jail for fishing violations, Bif let me know that Mariah was fine with this information. Bif attended all court proceedings and hearings on my behalf as they pertained to Ken and his pending trial. I fished the Grand Banks season without a worry about how Mariah was doing in my absence. At the end of my fishing season, when I picked her up for her Thanksgiving break, I hadn't seen Mariah in three months. She looked great. She was happy. Her grades had improved slightly. She appeared to have come into her own and was thriving in a way that I hadn't witnessed before. And we shared the excitement and anticipation of going home to a place we both loved knowing that neither of us had been there since we'd left together, me to the Grand Banks and Mariah to Evergreen.