Lifesaving Lessons (8 page)

When I informed Mariah that Ken and I had agreed that she could use more time to adjust to the idea of a reunion, she seemed relieved. But when I heard her crying again that night, I knew it was time to listen to the advice of the island women and try to get Mariah some help. The weekend was unpleasant. I worked at my desk in my bedroom while Mariah lived on the couch downstairs. The TV was going constantly, but it didn't appear that she was watching it. She had her iPod speaker stuck in her ear, her computer on her belly or at her side, and she was reading a book. When she wasn't engrossed in the book, she was curled up in a near fetal position and dozing. She must have shifted to her bedroom at some point well after I had gone to bed, because when I made coffee in the morning, she had vacated the couch and I could hear the TV in her bedroom. She didn't emerge from her bedroom until noon on Saturday and Sunday, which I knew was typical of her age group. But I could only chalk off so much of this to typical teen behavior. It seemed to me that Mariah was suffering from real depression. I hadn't been around teenage girls since I had been one, so I could not really relate to anything she might think, feel, or express. We didn't talk. Mariah did perk up a bit when Brenda called to chat with her and invited us to dinner. And I decided I would use this chance to raise the idea of Mariah's getting some professional help; I knew Bill and Brenda would support the idea, and Mariah trusted them.

Much to my relief, dinner over at the Clarks' went well. Mariah opened up a bit with some conversation. She was clearly comfortable with “Grammy and Grampy,” as she called them with old familiarity (though it caught me by surprise—Bill and Brenda are just barely older than I am, so they were a bit young to have a teenage granddaughter, even in Maine!). Although Mariah's conversation was mostly negative about how she detested public high school and missed Evergreen Academy and all of her friends there, at least she was animated in her protests. She had a little spark that I hadn't seen. I figured the timing would never be any better, and broached the subject of counseling. Bill and Brenda both chimed in that it was a wonderful idea as if on cue, which they were not. They added that counseling certainly wouldn't do any harm, and in fact it might be good for Mariah to talk with someone who was more objective than any of us could possibly be. Mariah reacted in her usual nonenthusiastic way with a half shrug and said, “Whatever.” I took that as half-assed consent, and promised to do some research and make an appointment as soon as I could get her in.

The following Monday, right after dropping Mariah at the boat for school, I started making calls to get a recommendation for a counselor. By noon that day I had an appointment set up for the very next afternoon for both Mariah and me to meet with a woman in Rockland who specialized in “teen trauma.” Perfect, I thought. As Rockland is two hours from Mariah's school, the scheduling required that she miss a couple of classes, which was the only good news in her mind. I took myself ashore in the
Mattie Belle
and drove to the high school, where Mariah was already outside and waiting for me. She climbed into my Jeep, cranked up the radio, put her seat back, and fell asleep. She napped the entire ride. This didn't surprise me as I knew she was sleeping very little, if at all, at night. Maybe this meeting would help her sleep a bit, I hoped. And maybe this woman would help Mariah feel better about moving back home with her uncle tomorrow as planned so that my life could get back to normal (for me, which is far from anyone else's standard of normal). Ken had been quite understanding about the extra time at my place, but was insistent that “the crisis is over.” He wanted his life to get back to normal as much as I did. I knew that routine is best in most situations, and couldn't help but believe that Mariah would be better off in her usual routine than she was with me. She couldn't be any more miserable, that's for sure.

We found the counselor's place of business without any trouble. I remember holding open the front door for Mariah to enter. She resisted, insisting that I go first while she held the door. We sat uncomfortably in a comfortable waiting room, Mariah chewing her nails while I regretted dragging her there. A woman appeared from down a long hall and introduced herself as Lesley. Lesley suggested that Mariah and I both come to her office, as this first meeting would be more informative and thus more helpful to her if she could speak with both of us. What the hell, I thought, though I hadn't anticipated participating in the session. I reluctantly followed Lesley, with Mariah trailing behind, down the hall and into her office. Lesley asked us to have seats wherever we wanted. Mariah looked at the door. I grabbed a rocking chair. Lesley offered tea, which I accepted although I don't enjoy it much. Mariah shook her head, indicating that she would not like any tea, and got very busy playing with a dollhouse. She moved miniature furniture around until she had totally redecorated while ignoring all questions Lesley asked. I had shared all that had transpired in the Ken drama over the phone to Lesley. She spent a few minutes recapping all she understood, and asked a few questions accordingly. I sipped tea, tried to field questions for Mariah (most of which I didn't have answers for), and wished I had stayed home. This was really embarrassing, I thought. I had begged Lesley to see Mariah on short notice. And now it looked as though we were all wasting time. Mariah wouldn't even look at Lesley. She basically kept her back to the woman in the rudest manner.

I was just about to suggest that we'd had enough when Lesley asked a rather odd question. “Mariah, do you have privacy in the bathroom?”

Mariah exhaled loudly, showing her impatience with this whole gig, I thought. I wanted to crawl under the couch. Mariah turned and faced Lesley for the first time in the fifty-minute session. She looked the woman squarely in the eye as I cringed and braced for whatever ill-mannered response she was preparing to launch. “No. No, I don't. My uncle has a hidden camera in a radio in the bathroom. I have seen pictures of myself showering on his computer.”

Mariah's Story

A
nd she didn't stop there. With no more prompts, Mariah poured it all out in heart-wrenching, jaw-dropping, horrifying detail. Torn between tears and puking, I wanted her to stop as much as I wanted her to go on. Here was the story none of us had thought to look for or, perhaps, wanted to know.

Mariah's mother had given birth to her when she was nineteen. Mariah's “relationship” with Ken had begun years before when they both lived in Tennessee. They were not related by blood; Ken was the brother of Mariah's stepfather, so he was “uncle” only in the most indirect way. Ken had collected Mariah from her mother every Friday afternoon and kept her for the weekend at his house, beginning when Mariah was about seven. “My parents didn't have much money, and he bought me toys—anything I wanted.” So, it seemed, Ken had been grooming Mariah for some time, I began to realize. And what could her mother have been thinking? “I slept with him in his bed—there was nowhere else for me to sleep.” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to run away as much as I wanted to stay. I felt myself go numb. “He apologized for the pictures I saw of myself on his computer. They were taken accidently. Since then, I always take my clean clothes into the shower stall with me because I don't know where the camera is.” My stomach turned when I remembered how Brenda and I had lectured Mariah about personal hygiene and suggested she bathe more frequently. “When he knew that I had seen the pictures, he gave me a credit card and let me buy stuff on the Internet.” Mariah continued with an explanation of how Ken had talked with her about the birds and the bees—which was a detailed account of his own sexual exploits, including why most of the women in his past refused him anal sex because of the size of his penis. These talks happened the past summer during breaks taken from driving lessons (which she explained only took place in the national park, where there was little or no traffic to interfere with a beginner behind the wheel). Oh God, where would we start? Should I tell her now that it is inappropriate for a fifteen-year-old girl to sit in a man's lap while learning to drive? Should I explain to her that the advice to parents to talk to their kids about sex does not include show-and-tell?

Mariah had now moved from the dollhouse to a coloring book and crayons. She colored a page from Cinderella, never looking up but still talking. “And now he's e-mailed naked pictures of me to some of my friends at Evergreen and made it look like I sent them! They are calling me porn star.” Waking up from a nap on the couch to find Ken masturbating while looking at her was commonplace. Ken pleaded with Mariah to wear tight jeans. No wonder she preferred baggy sweatpants. “Every time I don't do what he wants, or if he gets mad at me, he says he'll send me back to Memphis and I'll never see my friends or the island again.” Her voice trailed off as she put finishing strokes on Cinderella's gown.

I wondered how bad the Memphis situation might be if she preferred to stay with Ken. Lesley asked about the night Mariah bolted from the house. “Well, he was drunk. And the air was . . . Well, it was just so thick that . . .” Mariah seemed to be searching for words. Lesley suggested a few options ranging from uneasiness to terror. “Yes. Sexual tension. I just couldn't take it anymore. I was scared and when I tried to go out my bedroom window, it was nailed shut. I knew I had to run. So I just did it.” There was a long silence while Mariah turned the page of the coloring book and began a new picture. Lesley talked softly and calmly, but her words for Ken were harsh. It was clear that Mariah was done talking. I sat paralyzed.

“Well, I hope you'll understand that I am obligated to report this to the state,” Lesley said matter-of-factly. I shook myself out of numbness long enough to ask how the system would work from this point forward and what Mariah and I should be doing, and what we could expect. Lesley informed me that protocol required her to report these abuses to the Department of Health and Human Services, and that they would get the proper authorities involved. She noted that nothing would happen as quickly as any of us would like and that we should go on as we had been, as well as we could, and that I should not allow Ken to lay eyes on Mariah under any circumstances. We should keep all of this as quiet as possible and allow the authorities to do their jobs. “And I hope you'll come back for another appointment next week.” Mariah rolled her eyes and gasped in disgust at the prospect of returning. I was sure that she felt she'd shared all she could and had no intention of going any further. It wasn't until Lesley got up and opened her office door that I realized Mariah and I had to leave. We had to go home now. We had to ride in my car together for two hours. For once, Mariah moved faster than I did. I thanked Lesley and headed for the parking lot.

Mariah was quick to put her seat back and close her eyes. My hand was shaking as I reached out to pat her arm. She quickly pulled away, seemingly repulsed by my touch. I wasn't sure what to do, but blurted out, “I have to call Brenda. I'm going to tell her everything.”

“Okay,” was all I got in return.

“I have to tell her
everything
.”

“That's fine.”

“And I have to call my sister Bif.”

“Okay.”

“But that's all. I won't tell anyone else. You can tell whomever you want, but let's wait until the state takes over. It'll have to be a secret for now. And forever if that's what you want. It's up to you.”

“Okay.”

I was nervous as I waited for Brenda to answer the phone. I prayed that she'd pick up, and finally she did. Brenda recognized my number, and answered with “Well, hello there! How did it go?” I told her everything as quickly as I could. I couldn't wait to get this off of me and onto someone else. Brenda cried. She relayed things to Bill as well as she could. When there was nothing else to say, Brenda asked that Mariah and I go to their house when we got back to the island. I told her that it would be late. She said they'd be up.

I called Bif, from whom I keep nothing. She was pretty shaken up by the whole story but spoke rationally. She assured me that everything would be fine and that the state authorities would handle the situation. I promised to call when Mariah and I got home. As soon as I hung up, Mariah asked, “Is what Ken did really bad?”

“Oh yes. It's really bad.”

“Do you think he's going to be in trouble?”

“Yes. He is in serious trouble.”

“Well, I knew some of it was wrong, but I didn't know it was
that
bad.” She hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating and not sure whether to share something. “There is one thing that Ken can hold against me,” she said cautiously. “I did something, too. What if he tells?”

“Mariah, you are a child. There is nothing you could have done that you'll be held responsible for. Your uncle is a pedophile and child pornographer. You are the victim here. I don't care what you've done. No one else will either.” Mariah proceeded quite cautiously, as if she didn't trust me. She spoke slowly and chose her words carefully. The bottom line was that Mariah had taken pictures of herself nude at the age of eleven and had e-mailed them to a boy named Cody, with whom she had been communicating, apparently inappropriately. She said that Cody had threatened to forward all of their correspondence to her uncle if she did not fulfill his request for photos. I assured Mariah that this was nothing to worry about because she was only eleven at the time. But inside, my guts were churning. Until this afternoon, I had bought Mariah's casual response to Ken's behavior—including his alarming letter. As far as I could tell (or wanted to look), she hadn't considered the sending of nude pictures a big deal, or anything more than perhaps an embarrassment. In fact, it seemed almost like normal behavior to her; didn't everyone's guardian do that? But I knew that there was a much, much bigger and uglier thing happening here.

We arrived at Bill and Brenda's after Bill's dad had gone to bed. Nate was out with friends. The smell and sight of whoopee pies fresh from the oven made my mouth water. The heat from the wood pellet stove chased the cool, damp boat ride out of us. Or perhaps it was the warmth of Bill and Brenda that smoothed the goose bumps. Mariah shivered and snuggled up close to Brenda, who draped a strong, protective arm behind her neck and around her shoulder. We sat at the kitchen table and speculated about the future. That table had served me many a restoring glass of wine, fed me comforting dinners, and hosted hearty laughs. Midway through our conversation, the juxtaposition between now and then became as abrupt as granite steps jutting from moss. I felt as if my being there with the present mission spoiled the coziness of the Clarks' home. The ugly talk managed to dissolve their home's snugness as if someone had pulled a drain plug from the middle of the hardwood floor. Comfort flowed out of the room like mascara on the
Dr. Phil
show. It was a mess. And we tried to make sense of it.

The adults agreed that for the time being we should keep Ken's reprehensible activities very quiet. We surmised that if Ken were tipped off that the beans had been spilled about his abuse and illegal exploits, he would certainly destroy any incriminating evidence. Mariah should remain with me so as not to raise any suspicions and, of course, for her own well-being. I thought I could simply put off the reunion for as long as it would take until Ken was arrested. “And,” Bill added, “if any of the guys hear about this, they'll kill the bastard. It's all I can do not to take care of him myself.” I knew this was true. It's just the way islanders think. Take care of your problems yourself. Four island families had young daughters who had enjoyed sleepovers with Mariah at Ken's house. Had Mariah's friends showered there? Although I sort of liked the idea of Ken “falling overboard,” it wouldn't be fair to Mariah not to have him prosecuted. And this creep was not worth someone else's going to jail for murdering him. No, death was too easy. And once he was out of the picture, we could make some arrangements for Mariah, we thought vaguely.

The doors of my house were locked for the first time ever that night. I put a sign on the inside of the front door, reminding me to unlock it in the morning as I had no key and didn't want to lock myself out. After Mariah went to her bedroom, I dug out my shotgun and some shells from a closet, loaded it, and propped it in a corner where I could grab it if needed. I lay on top of my bed and stared at the ceiling with all of the lights on. How could this have happened here, on
my
island? This place is a paradise where kids need no protection beyond helmets and life jackets and bug repellent and sunblock. How would the news of a predator in our community who preys upon innocence affect us? Would the fabric of the island be stained permanently by this? Will this be a loose thread that could unravel the entire form into a chaotic heap? Will we islanders still have the natural instinct to claim this place for ourselves and long to be claimed by it? The knowledge of what had been happening right under our noses would certainly cause everyone to question many things that we had taken for granted. “Pristine” would no longer be an adjective for what felt sullied to me now. I couldn't believe that I had locked my doors. I couldn't turn the lights out. But, I realized, for the first time since she'd come to stay, I didn't hear Mariah crying herself to sleep

About that lock—well, Mariah and I got good at breaking into the house in the days and weeks that followed. Even the reminder note on the door couldn't erase so many years of no locks, no keys, and no worries. I also got good at giving Ken excuses for Mariah's not being able to return to his care. All of our contact was by e-mail, with the exception of a few phone conversations which were preceded by an e-request for a call. Ken was definitely staying within the walls of his house. Anytime I had occasion to do a drive-by, I would sneak a peek into his home, which was easy with the huge window right in front. I never saw anything other than the TV set and lights on at night. Brenda could have been accused of harassing the state police with her constant calls to learn when someone might be coming out to take Ken away before he got nervous or got dead if word leaked out about his activities. Mariah and I went through the motions. Or at least that's what I remember of what we were doing.

The Department of Health and Human Services was the first state agency to get in gear. They called and informed me that in order for Mariah to remain with me temporarily, rather than go into a foster care program, which was the normal procedure, someone would need to visit to ensure that my place was adequate and a safe, healthy environment. The woman who would visit and check me out called and suggested that I have some of Mariah's “support” around for her to meet also. My perspective, which was admittedly naïve about this brand of proceedings, was that the process was alarmingly casual. I had seen the official paperwork from the state of Maine declaring that Ken was Mariah's legal guardian. But other than that one document, there was nothing else. All I knew of the biological mom was rumor, and I assumed that had been generated by Ken when he was looking for support and pats on his back for stepping up to care for his niece.

The social worker, Gretchen, arrived on a morning boat in midweek, which worked well as Mariah headed off to school on that boat's return trip to the mainland. I had several island women at my kitchen table, all of whom except Brenda knew only the short version of the story, which was that Mariah was staying with me until Ken was healthy and sober enough to care for her again. Before all this, I had thought of them merely as fellow islanders, and not really friends at all, but they had come in support of Mariah and her need to stay with this island family. The women ran the gamut from grandmothers to the childless—but all hearts were in sync.

After some discussion and lots of coffee, it became clear that somebody should place a call to Mariah's biological mother to make her aware that her daughter was now staying at my place and why, and it seemed that that somebody was going to be me. As with every aspect of Mariah's case, there was some confusion surrounding the protocol. The social worker had a folder that contained a document that Mariah's biological mom had signed relinquishing guardianship to Ken. Ken had apparently done some research into the bureaucracy, and had been receiving a welfare check for seventy dollars a week from the state of Maine via Tennessee. The folder held paperwork that showed that the guardianship case and welfare receipt had been done pro bono by an attorney who happened to summer on the island. For a second I bristled at the lack of research the attorney had done and how he would feel when the truth got out. But just as quickly, I recalled that the whole community had been duped. Now that Ken was unfit, shouldn't the biological mom have the option of caring for her daughter? The state had funds with which to transport Mariah home, but they didn't seem to be in any hurry to put her on a bus.