Lifesaving Lessons (7 page)

August is when the lines separating friends and family become fuzzier than usual. When Addison asks, “Is Barney my uncle?” I know how badly he wants the answer to be yes, so I confirm even though there is neither blood nor marriage to substantiate the role. The Greenlaw houses burst at the seams with family, family friends, friends of friends, pets of friends, and family of friends of family. Our mantra is the more the merrier. And yes, there is
always
room for one more. August is when the tribe of young boys swells from the usual pals—Greenlaws and Barters—to enough to make up a softball team that will take on any challengers on any given evening. August is when at least one window is shattered by slingshot or BB gun, and we are all thankful that “nobody lost an eye.” The nephews often spend time with me while their parents commute on and off island to work. Sunday afternoons used to be full of tears while very young boys had to make the painful decision to stay on island without Mom and Dad or leave their island playground until the following Friday night. This August the boys barely had time to wave good-bye to their parents from the dock. The parting questions had changed from “When are you coming back?” and “Why do you have to work?” to “Do we have money on our store tab?” and “Can you bring mackerel jigs and BBs Friday?” Growing boys have access to several refrigerators on the island. Meals are eaten wherever the boys happen to be when something is served. And they sleep wherever they happen to end up when they run out of steam. The speed of the revolving doors in all of our homes increases in August. And before we know it, the month is coming to an end and we're actually looking forward to some quiet time.

Just two short months ago I was lamenting the quiet. Too quiet, I had thought. It had been a lovely summer, but I knew it was coming to an end soon and I wondered whether I would have the brass to slip the yoke and detach myself from all to which I felt tethered and face another solo winter. I had continued to work on the laces that bound Simon and me into what my family referred to as “the fun couple,” making efforts to actually plan and follow through with activities independent of my friend. We were physically detached, both geographically and in sleeping arrangements, for sure. But emotionally I still felt entwined, as evident from my phone records. My sea legs were starting to twitch, ready to take strides that would leave my life on land waving good-bye from the dock as the lines were cast. As my lives at sea and ashore had drifted apart with time, the bridge that spanned the two had tapered under the stress to a thin, soft, pulled taffy–like strand that threatened to break. And I felt pressure to choose on which side I wanted to be marooned. And I knew that I would have to choose soon if I intended to line up a boat and crew to fish the Grand Banks season this fall.

Late this particular August, and early enough in the morning that I was tiptoeing around my house so as not to wake any of the overnight guests, the phone rang. I rushed to pick it up before it could disturb the nephews, cousins, and neighbors' kids who had crashed on my couch and surrounding floor. I could see from the caller ID that it was Bill Clark. It's not unusual for my phone to ring before 6:00 a.m., and when it does, I know it's one of my fishing buddies with a question or favor to ask, or some information to share. I was pleasantly surprised to hear Bill's wife, Brenda, on the other end.

Brenda is a great family friend (yes, I had reached the age where I shared friends with my folks) whom I see too little of in the summer months when we all get so busy with extended families who tend to visit exclusively when the only complaint is mosquitoes. Bill and Brenda enjoy the same family/friend equation that the Greenlaws do. In fact, Bill's father, Arnold, had come to live full-time with them, as had Bill's, son, Nate, who was a young, handsome, welcome addition to our community. Bill and Brenda's closest off-island friends had become friends of mine, too, and vice versa. Most important, the Clarks were very good friends of my parents, which, to my mind, is the truest measure of what anyone in my world is made of.

Relative newcomers to Isle au Haut, Bill and Brenda had made a bold move just a few years ago, uprooting and coming here from the Camden area. They were both freshly divorced and starting over together, committed to living on the island where they instantly fit in like lichen on the ledges. They began their island existence in a town rental house and quickly bought land and built their own place that was as warm and welcoming as Brenda herself. Their place sits close to the top of Annis Hill, where they can see clear across the bay. Their perch and watchful eye give all boaters transiting the sometimes windy gorge between the island and Stonington peace of mind. They keep a VHF radio turned on at all hours, and Bill has rescued many a broken-down boater, towline attached and no questions asked.

This morning Brenda's voice wasn't the usual cheerful half giggle I'd anticipated. She was agitated and talking very quickly and jumping in and out of sentences, leaving me with fragments of near hysteria. I stared out the windows and tried to piece together from Brenda's comments the story of the nightmare Mariah had endured last night, when the rest of us were having the best party right there on my deck. It seemed that Mariah had literally run from her house to Bill and Brenda's to escape a drunken uncle Ken, who was on her heels until she reached the big hill in front of Charlie Bowen's house, where she was able to pull away. Mariah was crying uncontrollably when she burst through their door and handed them a letter she had crunched up in her fist. Unbeknownst to anyone but Mariah, Uncle Ken had fallen off the wagon. Eventually he showed up outside the Clarks' house and put on quite a show, screaming and carrying on about wanting his girl back. His language was foul. He wanted to fight Bill, who was wise enough not to lay a hand on the very intoxicated man who could barely stand on his own. We don't have a police force on the island—we don't even have a cop—but Bill and Brenda called on two island men to escort Ken home while they consoled Mariah and promised that she could stay with them until her uncle cleaned up his act. There was no way anyone would let Mariah go home with him that night.

This had all happened, of course, a few hours before Brenda called me. Having now spilled the whole story, Brenda was at last calm enough to speak more coherently. Ken had been taken back to his house, from which he called Bill and Brenda repeatedly, threatening them and pleading for Mariah to return home. The calls continued through the wee hours, ensuring that nobody got one minute of sleep. Ken then called the county sheriff's office, which was many miles away by land and sea, and reported that the Clarks were holding his legal ward against
his
will—sort of like kidnapping. The sheriff called Bill and Brenda, who explained the situation and said that Mariah was not going back home unless the sheriff came and took her there himself. It sure sounded like an ugly, drunken drama, I thought as I stepped over Aubrey, who had slept with a leg draped over his younger brother, who slept soundly, still clutching the wooden pirate ship he'd built. This shit doesn't usually happen until midwinter, I thought as Brenda continued.

Apparently, according to Mariah, Ken had been hiding his drinking from everyone for a while, Brenda relayed. And now things had gotten out of hand. He had written a letter to Mariah that was so nasty, she was frightened enough to try to climb out a bedroom window. Much to Mariah's horror, her windows had been nailed shut from the outside. This sent the teen into panic mode. She fled her room, ran by her uncle, and bolted for the safety of the Clarks', where she had always been welcome. The Clarks had already contacted the island's visiting doctor, and he had agreed to come out as soon as possible to urge Ken to go to a hospital for evaluation and drying out. Until that could happen, Mariah needed a place a stay. And although Bill and Brenda loved Mariah, at this time she had to sleep on a couch at their place because family occupied all the available beds. And it would probably be best if Ken didn't know where Mariah was until he could get sober and back on the right track. All of my clan was scheduled to vacate this afternoon, leaving me with an empty nest that could surely house a little bird temporarily. So, I thought, why not?

“But,” I asked, “why isn't Mariah away at school? Shouldn't she be starting her sophomore year?” I had seen Mariah a few times when I had gone to the café for a late coffee (her working hours didn't begin until 10:00 a.m.). I hadn't been to the café after 7:30 lately and just assumed that Mariah had gone.

“Well, Ken found out that she had a boyfriend at school and decided that a boarding situation was not enough supervision. He's forbidden her to go back. Called the school and everything. She's enrolled at the local day school on Deer Isle and needs to be on the mail boat tomorrow morning,” Brenda said. Wow, I thought. That's pretty severe punishment: taking away a kid's private, exclusive, full-scholarship education. And the local public high school requires boat rides to and from every day. Sure makes for a long day with no extracurricular activities after school. Brenda seemed uncomfortable with my silent digestion of all of this and added, “Ken hacked into her e-mail, and, well, he's in bad shape with the drinking. His reaction to the boy thing was totally inappropriate.” Yes, I thought, I had been instrumental in getting Mariah to apply to boarding school because it is a great opportunity. She must be . . . fifteen. Isn't it normal to have a boyfriend at that age? Hell, Aubrey is only eleven, and he's noticing girls. I wondered briefly whether this was a situation where a mountain was being made of a molehill. Ken would probably sleep off his drunkenness and everything would be back to normal by this afternoon. Maybe I would suggest that Brenda and Bill keep Mariah until Ken comes to his senses. Did I really want to be involved in this bullshit? Everyone needs a good night's sleep. That's what my mother would say. A good night's sleep will brighten up any bad situation.

As if reading my mind, Brenda continued. “Listen to this letter he gave her.” And she read.

Mariah, it doesn't seem likely that things will ever be the same between us, as they once were. There are too many negative feelings that have built up over the years. It seems like I don't have anything to say to you anymore, because of what you did at Evergreen. I'm sorry for that, but I can't help the way I feel. Now we're at the point where I can't even SAY the way I feel, because you'll go running to tell Bill and Brenda and make yourself look like the victim. Let me remind you that NONE of this is MY fault. I'm not the one who did something wrong.

When I was talked into letting you continue to live here, it was on the condition that you would make some changes in your behavior. You said you would break your ties with the friends who were a bad influence, but you haven't done that. If you were serious about that, you would have removed them from your Facebook and MySpace, but you did not.

Cowgirl
[that's Mariah's cat, Brenda said]
brought your Hello Kitty pouch out from your room the other day and was attacking it. It was full of your stash of small-dick condoms. After I stopped laughing at how small they were, it occurred to me that the fact that you KEPT THEM shows that you have no intention of changing your behavior. A person who isn't planning to have sex doesn't keep a stash of condoms hidden in her room. And no, you are NOT allowed to have condoms. If you are going to continue to suck cocks and fuck, then you can pay the price for doing that, whether it's AIDS, herpes, or pregnancy.
[Nasty drunk! Brenda fumed now.]

Before I realized those things, trust was zero. Now it is LESS than zero, if that's possible. I don't think you can earn that trust back, and it looks like you're not even going to try. I really don't get why you want to stay here. It's not going to be pleasant for either of us. Why on earth do you want to keep living here? Don't you know how it is? Can't you figure it out? Almost everyone on the island looks at you now and imagines you spreading your legs for the Evergreen boys. How can you stay here when you know people see you like that? Ken

Brenda sniffled a bit.
My stomach turned. “What time are you bringing her over?”

Storm

T
hings progressed that day at the most unislandlike speed. Brenda called to say that the doctor and the sheriff and our local minister were headed out to visit Ken in hopes of persuading him to get some help. The next call confirmed that Ken had gone along peacefully enough to be admitted into a hospital in midcoast Maine, where he would consent to an evaluation and whatever appropriate treatments were necessary to get him healthy again. Perhaps he'd been down and out before and was admitting defeat. This was positive, I thought. Now that Ken was not there, Bill and Nate would take Mariah home to collect a few things and deliver her to me to remain under my roof and care until Ken could return sober and take responsibility for his niece once again—a couple of weeks at the most, I figured. There was a strange, unspoken wondering among us about what else could have transpired under Ken's roof, but I guess we really didn't want to know. When I relayed the story to my mother, she groaned and rolled her eyes, indicating that she suspected there was more to the story. But I was able to shrug off my mother's silent suggestion. As I was now reminded, she had not liked the whole Ken/Mariah scenario from the beginning, referring to Ken as “the funny uncle.”

The care component of Mariah wouldn't require much work on my part. She could stay in my downstairs guest bedroom, which has its own bath—plenty of privacy for a teenage girl. My bed and bath were upstairs, so we wouldn't disturb each other in the least. I would feed her and drop her off and pick her up at the town landing at appropriate mail boat times. Maybe I would have to buy a few groceries so she could pack her lunch for school. I'd ask Brenda what Mariah liked to eat.

That day was a particularly hectic one, to boot. Everyone who had been visiting or summering on Isle au Haut with school-aged children was packing up and bailing out. It's customary to wait until the very last minute to leave the island for the summer, ensuring that the late boat will be full of sad people who all stand in the stern facing aft as the boat pulls away from their beloved island, waving enviously to those lucky few who get to stay into autumn and beyond. My family and friends were all busy stripping beds, deflating air mattresses, rolling up sleeping bags, cleaning out refrigerators, and packing duffels. We had gathered at my house to say our last farewells until Columbus Day weekend, when the final house close ups would be done for the winter, when into my driveway came Bill and Nate with Mariah between them in the front seat of Bill's truck. I had informed my family of the situation as well as I could with the young kids around, so I was careful not to say too much in the presence of what my grandfather used to refer to as “little pitchers with big ears.” It was immediately obvious that Addison had heard too much when he asked me, “Why is Mariah coming to live with us?” I nearly laughed at his use of the word “us,” as his house is actually next door to mine. But I love the fact that all of our houses are indeed his.

“She is going to stay with me for a little while until her uncle gets out of the hospital.”

“Is she my cousin?”

“No, honey. She is our special friend.” This seemed to satisfy Addison, who now ran to open the door to let Mariah in. Addison immediately threw a big hug around a very surprised Mariah and explained to her that he had to go home to school but that he would be back every weekend. Kids are funny, I thought, and very perceptive. I figured Mariah would be back in her own place by the next weekend, but Addison was so intent on everyone he liked being part of his family network that I let it slide in spite of the fact that I assumed Mariah would be unhappy about the prospect of staying here that long.

The crowd left to catch the boat, leaving Mariah and Bill and Nate and me to stare at one another in silence. When it got so awkward I couldn't stand it, I started jabbering nervously. “Okay. Well, welcome, Mariah! God, you've only been to my house in the past to collect paychecks. Let me show you around. This is the kitchen . . .” While I was in the midst of showing a dazed girl how to operate a toaster, which she no doubt understood better than I did, Bill and Nate suggested that they bring in Mariah's things from the back of the truck while I completed the house tour. I showed her everything! I heard my front door open and close several times, but it wasn't until we emerged from the laundry room tutorial that I realized how much stuff this kid came with. Everything was in open, rectangular, plastic fish boxes, which are normally used to carry lobster to market or bait to boats. And there were many boxes. It looked as though the three of them had thrown everything they could get their hands on into the plastic totes as fast as they could. I was tempted to ask if Ken's house was on fire while they were there, or whether they were afraid of getting caught “stealing” her things. What a mess! I caught Bill's attention with wide, questioning eyes.

“Well, you know teenagers,” he said. “They need lots of clothes! Only a couple more totes, and we'll leave you alone.” He and Nate left to grab the last of the boxes that topped off a huge pile in the middle of my living area. Really, I thought, this looks like every piece of clothing the kid ever owned. There's no way she could possibly wear all of this. Then I noticed three boxes of books.

“Planning on doing some reading?” I asked.

“We didn't know what she'd need. And Ken's place is a mess. We didn't want to have to go back and forth too many times for things she forgot, so we just brought it all,” Bill said, in a matter-of-fact way.

“Okay, cool,” I said, not wanting to go any further with a conversation that might be uncomfortable for Mariah or indicate that she was unwelcome because of all of her belongings. “Let's move some of the things you won't need right away to the basement, shall we?” Mariah was in charge of putting the boxes into two piles: one that needed to be moved to her bedroom and the one of nonnecessities to go to the basement storage area. The pile of boxes for storage was rather tiny. She
needed
most everything, so the bedroom was a bit crowded. I couldn't help noticing the stench coming from the boxes—and it wasn't fish or bait. Mariah's clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and cat urine. I asked if we should move some of the clothes she wanted to wear to school to the laundry room. She agreed that that was a good idea and confided that when she had arrived at boarding school last year, she had been accused of smoking, which she assured me she did not do. I wondered about what she was accused of that might account for the cat pee, but didn't ask.

Bill and Nate left after they had given Mariah hugs and told us to “have fun!” That seemed more of a command than Bill's usual good-bye, and one that neither Mariah nor I expected to be able to accomplish. She never mentioned anything about how she felt, and I wasn't about to ask. But I imagined all sorts of good reasons for her silence. She was exhausted from lack of sleep and somewhat shell-shocked by the drama of what she had lived through in the past twenty-four hours. She was distraught about not returning to Evergreen Academy. She was upset about having to go to the local high school, where she “couldn't even have friends because of the boat schedule,” the only thing she verbalized. I was sure she was embarrassed and humiliated that her uncle had taken it upon himself to tell everyone he'd run into in the last few days that she was not returning to Evergreen, and why. And she was naturally uncomfortable moving in with me, with whom she hadn't been particularly close in the past. And she was scared to death about what the future would hold. I would imagine that fear was the biggest emotion she was experiencing. The fear of the unknown coupled with exhaustion can lead to very bad thoughts of doom in any of us at any age.

But these were all my thoughts, not her words. Anything I said was met with a shrug. Every question I asked was responded to with an “I don't know,” “Maybe,” or “It doesn't matter to me.” Mariah didn't seem to feel very strongly about anything, and I eventually realized that I was annoying her by trying to communicate. After an hour or so of staring silently into space and trying to figure out what to say or do, I decided that I needed to get out of the house. The poor kid just wanted to be left alone, I thought. I told Mariah to make herself at home and asked what I could pick up at the store for her school lunch. “I like turkey and cheese sandwiches,” she said, much to my delight. I dashed to the store and bought enough to make sandwiches for the week, thinking that if Ken returned home in a couple of days, he certainly wouldn't have thought of buying groceries in his current state.

Ken's antics were the talk of the town, which was no surprise considering that our island is very seldom visited by law enforcement. We don't have any authoritative person, team, or unit, and I suppose that is because situations requiring law enforcement are so rare. Everyone I ran into was relieved that Ken, who was generally well liked and thought of as a productive resident and community member, was getting squared away at the hospital. In hindsight, I realize that many of us were sweeping the obscene letter under the rug because we didn't want to think about the possibilities. And everyone was genuine in thanking me for housing Mariah in Ken's absence. It wasn't until a few of the island women suggested that Mariah might benefit from some professional counseling that I realized that this was more about helping out one of our island children than it was about doing a favor for Bill and Brenda. The women surmised that Mariah had been bounced around a bit in her earlier childhood in Tennessee, and Ken's explanation of what he had saved her from by bringing her to Maine, including poverty, drugs, and family he described as “white trash,” rang true with all suppositions. Mariah's biological mother had not only allowed her daughter to move far away, but also had consented to giving Ken legal guardianship of Mariah, making it quite clear that this was a permanent arrangement. “Who gives their kid away? That has to be traumatic! She should see a shrink.” Although I listened intently to all suggestions, and in fact agreed that Mariah might benefit from some professional help, there was no way I was sticking my nose any further into her business than was absolutely necessary. I was housing her because Brenda and Bill's house was already full. Setting up and getting her to some kind of doctor's appointment was out of the question. That ball was in someone else's court, I thought.

Three days of the same routine had me feeling like a robot. I got up early, made Mariah's lunch, woke Mariah up, watched Mariah eat cereal, drove Mariah to the boat, worked until three in the afternoon fishing and/or writing, picked Mariah up at the boat, watched Mariah watch TV while I cooked dinner, ate in silence, advised Mariah to get some sleep, and went to bed. Our sleep schedules were not in sync, to say the least. Mariah was a night owl, while I was more of an early-to-bed-and-rise person. Everything was very consistent, including what I perceived as extreme unhappiness in my household. Mariah was miserable. She wasn't mean or bitchy, but she moped in sadness.

On day four I got word that Ken had released himself from the hospital, perhaps a bit prematurely. But as he said, he had every right to leave when he saw fit to do so. However, none of us were eager to find him suddenly among us again. Patient confidentiality be damned! Brenda had connections and feelers out statewide to keep us posted on anything and everything that had to do with Ken's location and status. According to Brenda, who was in daily contact with the nearest deputy sheriff, Ken had entered into some agreement with some party that to this day remains fuzzy to me. He had agreed to attend alcohol counseling once a week along with taking a prescription medication that would make him violently ill should he choose to imbibe. He was also forbidden by the sheriff to see or contact Mariah without her consent. He could call me and ask to speak with Mariah, but could do nothing more until she was ready. He had to be careful to notify me if he planned to ride the mail boat so that I could let Mariah know, or ensure that she would not be on that same boat. This all seemed quite reasonable for a smooth transition. The agreement and with whom Ken had made it must have been nonbinding, because it appeared to be very casual. Thinking back on it now, the whole arrangement was way too casual and even sloppy, and how were we going to enforce it anyhow? After all, I didn't have any legal standing in the matter as far as Mariah was concerned; I was just putting her up for a few days and acting as a kind of informal conduit for information. The agreement amounted to concessions made by Ken in exchange for something—at the time, I didn't know what that might be, but I suspected that Ken just wanted to go along with whatever was required for him to wiggle out of his legal predicament in the hope that his abhorrent behavior would blow over and he could get Mariah back into his house.

When Ken arrived on the island four days after his removal, he sent me an e-mail thanking me for taking care of Mariah and promising that he was indeed getting his act together and was eager to have his niece home. He asked permission to call me, which I gave. When he called, he was sincere in his gratitude and wanted to set a date for a reunion with Mariah. Ken suggested Sunday of that week, which was one week from the day Mariah had arrived at my place. That sounded good to me because I was eager to get back to my normal routine and thought it best that everyone else do the same. When I picked up Mariah at the boat that afternoon, she did not take the news of her Sunday reunion well. She burst into tears and said, “I'm not ready. He's not ready.” She cried herself to sleep that night in spite of my telling her that the reunion could be postponed.

On Friday, after I dropped Mariah at the boat, promising to be there to pick her up at four and to inform Ken that she would not be reuniting with him as soon as he would like, I sent Ken an e-mail to let him know that Mariah wasn't feeling that she would be ready to see him on Sunday. I asked if he thought Wednesday might be acceptable. He said that he understood and wanted Mariah to be comfortable with coming back, although he was missing her. They were each other's only family now, and he wanted to take charge of his responsibility as soon as she consented. We talked about teenagers, and agreed that it would be an awkward time for Mariah even if she had a more functional, normal situation.