Lifesaving Lessons (9 page)

From the social worker's folder came a slip of paper on which a number was scrawled. All eyes turned to me. I was extremely nervous, having no idea what to expect, and assumed that bio mom would be shocked and horrified and would insist that her daughter be returned to her pronto. I dialed with proverbially crossed fingers. My phone was on speaker so that both Gretchen and I could communicate with the mom, Gretchen to answer any legal sort of questions, and I because, well, her daughter was living in my house under my care, so I seemed to be in charge.

“Hello?” The voice was pathetic, I thought. I wanted her to be stronger, and insist that we ship her kid back to Memphis. Family is what was needed here.

Gretchen introduced herself to Mariah's mother. I introduced myself, and did my usual nervous thing: I started talking quickly before I chickened out and clammed up, which was my other usual thing when uncomfortable. Not knowing how much the mom communicated with Ken, I knew I had to continue to toe the party line. “You don't know me, but I live on Isle au Haut. Your daughter is staying with me temporarily because Ken is in bad shape right now. He's abusing alcohol and is getting some help.” This was about the nicest way I could tell the woman that she had mistakenly given her kid to an abusive drunk.

“Oh God!” That was stronger than the initial greeting, and I breathed a relieved sigh. “I have a sinus infection. I didn't need to hear
that
today. She can't come back here!”

Holy shit, I thought. Had I heard that correctly? Looking around the table at the looks of horror, I guessed that I had. I guess our conversation dribbled on from there. I suppose I said good-bye to the mom and hung up. But thinking back on it now, all I remember is being dumbfounded and shaking my head in disbelief while my friends did the same. I found a box of Kleenex and passed it around the table like a plate of cookies. I couldn't wait for everyone to leave my house so that I could call my own mother and confirm what I knew as normal maternal behavior. The women did leave as soon as they could all pull themselves together. We all shared tight hugs—the kind you give and receive when someone has died and you can't seem to release the warm embrace. Each woman thanked me with great sincerity for taking care of Mariah while this mess got straightened out. No one wanted to think about foster care for a fifteen-year-old girl. That would probably not result in a happy ending.

After they left, I felt a closeness to this group of women that I had never experienced before. With the obvious exception of family, my friends, mentors, and support had always been male. Sure, I loved Brenda and Bill, and Kate had become a great friend, but sort of in a comradely way, like my male buddies. With Kate, rather than talking fishing, we talked food. There seemed something quite natural and very right about gaining female friends now. Until this time I had never noticed the unique power and strength in female bonds. I love my mother and sisters. But I had not ever had any real fondness for women other than family, nor had I ever had what I would refer to as a
real
female friend. I never wanted any. I knew that I had several now. These were not new, budding relationships that needed nurturing. These friendships were tight and immediate and as heartfelt as any I had with my longtime guy friends. Circumstances had plunged us into an unexpected and sudden intimacy, and it actually felt great.

The next few days were strange and strained. We waited not so patiently for some form of law enforcement to come and take Ken off our island. Brenda and my cousin, Dianne, had become the point people for all phone conversation and relaying of information in all directions. The truth of the situation was slowly but surely seeping from cracks and wicking to different nooks and crannies. Nothing was said directly to me. But I could tell that more and more community members were in the loop by their reactions to Mariah and me. The state police were eventually coming out to arrest Ken, but they hadn't told us when. Mariah continued to go to school, returning every afternoon and asking, “When are they coming?” Our county sheriff was so thoughtful, and worked hard to get answers to all persistent inquiries. The social worker from the Department of Health and Human Services, who called to check in daily, asked if I needed any money to help with the feeding and caring of Mariah, which I did not. The wheels were turning, just not quickly enough from an extremely anxious perspective.

I had not laid eyes on Ken since Mariah and I had gone to see Lesley six weeks before, which was fine by me. By all accounts, he was keeping to himself, only going out to the post office and off island to his agreed-upon therapy or counseling. Everyone was aware that he was not to see Mariah without her consent, which she was in no way willing to give even though he did make daily requests to me by e-mail, all very cordial. Our e-mail correspondence was civil, considering what I knew and assuming that he felt I was standing in the way of what he wanted. Ken was far from stupid. And he knew enough not to push too hard. He was acting in exactly the way I would have expected him to, considering what he knew of his own vulnerability if the truth were known, but he remained unaware that it was.

I was taking one day at a time, as recommended by a good bumper sticker, and wondering what would eventually become of Mariah. I knew that wherever she ended up would be a huge improvement over where she'd been. People were treating me like some kind of hero for taking her in, which was embarrassing because I'd been looking forward to her exit from my house and life. Mariah spoke fondly of an aunt and uncle in Tennessee with whom she had lived from time to time before coming to Maine. They sounded like decent folks who had really cared for her. I assumed Mariah would end up with them. She also spoke often and lovingly of her grandmother. Mariah was proud to show me a photograph of this grandmother. Friends are great, but nothing compares to your own family. Returning to her true home, Memphis, would work out best for everyone in the long run, I thought.

My sister Bif was the only one with whom I could be honest about how I was really feeling—which was put upon; I was no self-sacrificing angel to my sister. I complained that Mariah was hard to have around. She just wanted to watch TV all of her waking hours, which were honestly too few for me to complain about. I didn't like having to lock my doors and have a loaded gun handy. Shouldn't Mariah be staying with someone who had a man in the house? And she was so sad, she'd put me in a major funk. And I was very uncomfortable knowing all that I did about how she had been abused. Bif always listened and never judged, although I am sure she should have.

Simon had just come to the island after having been home in Vermont, and he was at my place having a late lunch. We were basically catching up on my present unhappily not-alone status when the phone rang. It was the mail boat captain. He was calling to let me know that Ken was on the dock and waiting for the late boat for a ride home. Exasperated, I recalled that this was the day Ken had alcohol counseling, and of course that required a boat trip. But in the past he had taken his own boat, avoiding the mail boat for whatever reason. So until this second I hadn't worried that he might try to see Mariah. I knew that Mariah would be arriving from school at the dock in about thirty minutes. I thanked the captain for the heads-up and sprang into action. Simon's boat was faster than mine, so I recruited him for a ride to the mail boat dock in Stonington to intercept any chance (or not) meeting. It was the longest seven miles of my life. My heart was racing and I prayed that we would beat the school bus and head Mariah off before she might be forced to face Ken. I was frantic. The one thing I was supposed to do was to ensure that Mariah and Ken did not see each other until she was ready—and that was going to be never. Jesus! If I didn't get there in time, she'd be a basket case tonight, I thought. I begged Simon to push the throttle up. He assured me that
Scalawag
was doing all she could.

We arrived at the mail boat landing and I hit the dock running before Simon had a single line ashore. Thankfully, the bus was not yet in sight. But Ken was. I approached him quickly. “Ken! You know you aren't supposed to ride this boat without letting me know. You agreed!”

“Oh, sorry, Linda.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the ocean. “I was just off having a counseling session, and I guess I forgot the rules.” He rolled his eyes to emphasize his feelings. “But really, the crisis is over. It's time for Mariah to come home. She can't live with you forever.”

Absolutely repulsed by his casual, cavalier attitude, I felt every part of me tense up. I gritted my teeth. I took a deep breath and said, “She can. And she will. We have always been up front with each other, so I want you to hear this from me. I am going to become Mariah's legal guardian. If you choose to fight me on this, you will lose.”

A Little Family

W
hoa. Imagine my surprise to hear that from me. I might have been more shocked than Ken was. And yet, though it went directly against everything I had been saying and thinking, at least internally, it also felt right. Ken took two steps back because I was literally in his face. “I'm not ready for that to happen; maybe I never will be. Mariah is the only family I have. I just want her to come home,” he said rather pathetically. His clothes, which were noticeably grungy, stood out now only because most island residents have an off-island wardrobe we save for trips to the mainland. I couldn't believe that Ken and I were the same age. He looked old and worn in his down-and-out drunk slump. His face was thin and hung sadly from his forehead, which was fully exposed in a bit of breeze that swept greasy tendrils of hair to his temples. He placed a hand over a silk-screened Jerry Garcia on the chest of his T-shirt and tapped his heart as if consoling it tenderly. The same hand reached for the breast pocket and flipped out a cigarette that magically landed in his mouth, lit in what seemed a fraction of a second.

On the very edge of my visual field, I saw Simon whisking Mariah behind and by Ken. They exited my peripheral border stage right and headed toward
Scalawag.
The image of a suspect with head draped in a coat to hide identity from a camera flashed in my mind. I didn't have another syllable to share with Ken. I repeated what I had already said, just to make it clear, and added that if he really cared about Mariah's well-being, he would sign off on the guardianship and allow the switch to be seamless. He said that it was a big decision and one that he wasn't emotionally healthy enough to make at this time. He acknowledged that he understood that should he resist, he would certainly lose. I then did what any good American would do and said, “You'll be hearing from my attorney.” I turned from him and walked calmly and purposely to
Scalawag,
which bobbed slightly at the end of the wharf while I wondered why I didn't have an attorney.

Scalawag
's engines purred happily while the external outdrives sputtered, burped, and whizzed strong saltwater streams. I threw the lines and stepped aboard while Simon maneuvered away from the dock and zigzagged through the lobster boats that rested on moorings after long, hard days of honest work. I stood in the stern and looked over the bow at Isle au Haut, which loomed above the smaller, lower islands that studded the sides of our path. Simon stood at the helm with Mariah beside him. I had better inform her now what my intentions are, I thought. Ultimately it would be her decision, not mine. But until now I was sure she hadn't anything to contemplate, just fears that are cultivated by the unknown. It was time to thumb-up the eyelid.

I don't typically hem and haw or tiptoe around awkward conversation topics. I dive in headfirst and worry about the depth of water in midair. I moved to Mariah's left and joined her in holding the dash for balance as the boat sped along toward home. “Sorry the bus-to-boat transition was so dramatic,” I offered with a smile.

“It's okay.” Mariah's eyes focused on something over the bow. There was a short pause, and then she asked, “Why were you talking to him?” She was nervous, nearly accusatory.

“I was informing him that I am going to become your legal guardian.” I was looking directly at Mariah, who had no physical reaction to the grenade I had just tossed other than a narrowing of her eyes. I felt Simon tense up. Awkward doesn't come close to describing how I felt in the silence that followed. I stared at Mariah and Simon, both of whom stared straight ahead, seemingly preferring nothingness to eye contact with me. I sighed in a bit of relief after unloading. I knew it was unfair of me to expect any verbal reaction from Mariah right now. She needed time to digest what I hadn't taken time to chew. “Of course,” I continued, “it is entirely up to you.”

“Okay.” Okay? The one word was toneless. There was no indication of emotion in any direction. Okay that I had spoken to Ken? Okay that I wanted to become her guardian? Okay that it was her choice? Not that I was expecting joy or a three-way hug, but this other extreme forced a tear to pool up in the corner of my eye that threatened to roll down my cheek should I blink, which I did not. I do not cry often, never have. But when I do, it's a good one that might last for days. I wouldn't waste a tear or two now. This wasn't worth it. So I swallowed hard, shrugged, and became the third of the “no evil” monkeys, suddenly fascinated with the view over the bow.

It seemed a strange form of stare-down contest, which struck me as funny (although I didn't laugh; hell, I didn't even consider a half grin). Whoever broke the trance first lost. We were more than halfway home. I could gaze empty-eyed with my mind brimming over forever. My thoughts were focused, but I might as well have been totally blind for all that registered in the line of sight. Focused thoughts did not mean organized or clear, just not wandering. I wondered what I had just gotten into with the suggestion that I would take on a teenage girl—and an abused kid at that! I had no idea what Mariah had been through beyond what she had shared so far. But my gut said that there was more to the story.

Yes, I had wanted children. But would I be in over my head beginning with this one? Mariah had been a challenge even at the safe distance I had maintained with her status as temporary houseguest, and I'd been counting the days till she moved out. Making this arrangement legal and permanent was probably a bad idea, I thought. And now it was too late. I had opened my big mouth. There was always a chance that Mariah would not want me to become her guardian. But what other options did she have? Foster care? Would life with me be her consolation prize? I wished I could turn back the clock to just one hour ago. One hour ago I was eagerly waiting to be set free from the burden of responsibility for this girl. I had shot my mouth off first to Ken and then, more important, to Mariah. There was no way I could take it back now. It had to have come from somewhere real inside me, but what did it really mean? Guardianship and all things maternal fit neatly into the category of things about which I am clueless.

Suddenly there was a terrible noise that came from the stern of the boat, and we slowed down dramatically enough to send us all into a lurch toward the forward bulkhead, which we braced ourselves against. I knew immediately that one or both of the propellers had become tangled by pot warp, the line that runs from a lobster trap to the buoy on the surface. Thanks, God, I thought—something I know how to deal with! I told Simon to pull both throttles back to dead idle and knock both engines out of gear while I hustled to the stern and climbed over the transom and onto the swim platform, where I could see a line trailing behind from the starboard propeller. I instructed Simon to shut down the starboard engine and raise the outdrive, bringing the fouled propeller to the surface. Mariah, who had seen this drill a few times aboard the
Mattie Belle
during the season she had worked for me, grabbed Simon's boat hook (on a fishing boat it's called a gaff) and handed it to me. I hooked the line and yanked, but it was too tight for me to pull it to where I could wind it off the propeller. I asked Simon to back down (place the port engine in reverse) so that I could gain some slack with which to work. He did, and I did. The line was clear, and a few seconds later a buoy shot out from under the boat like a missile. Simon lowered the starboard outdrive, restarted the engine, and off we went toward home.

“Thanks, Linny,” Simon called over his shoulder as I sat on the bench seat that straddled the stern.

“No problem,” I answered with a slight wave, wishing that I had no problem. Thirty years of boats and fishing had fine-tuned problem solving of the salty nature. There wasn't a situation at sea that I wasn't confident I could remedy. I had made every conceivable mistake that could be made (at least once) and thus had firsthand experience in getting back on track. But this present situation involved emotions and people not in my repertoire. I could fix anything mechanical, weather any storm, persist and endure through poor fishing and low morale, but none of that practical stuff mattered today. The seaworthiness I had always aspired to meant very little now.

The tide was dead low, requiring that Simon pull back both throttles to idle in order to navigate “the ditch.” As we snaked through the narrow thoroughfare between Isle au Haut and Kimball Island, Mariah joined me on the bench seat. She looked at me, I think for the first time since we had met. She didn't look around me, through me, or over my head. She really looked at me. “How do we do it?” she asked.

This was no time for dramatics or for dodges. I answered honestly. “I have no idea. But I will find out. And if it's something that you want to happen, it will happen.” She nodded and jumped up to grab the stern line in time to take a couple of wraps around a piling at the town dock. “I'll help Simon put the boat on the mooring. You can wait in the truck or walk home and I'll meet you there,” I said, knowing full well that she would not walk.

As Simon pulled the boat up to the dinghy that was tethered to his mooring, I made my way to the bow with the boat hook. I reached down, gaffed the dinghy's painter, pulled the mooring's spliced loop out of the water, and placed it over the cleat, securing it with a couple of hitches of smaller line. I untied the dinghy and walked it back around the house and to the transom, where we could easily climb in. While Simon shut down the boat, I sat in the stern of the dinghy, holding the side of
Scalawag
so that Simon could step right into the middle seat and row us ashore. He placed oars in locks and started pulling smoothly and rhythmically. The beat of the sound of the oars against locks, then water, then air lulled me soothingly, as the sound of good rowing always does. “I hope you know what you are getting yourself into,” Simon advised. “Mariah may be beyond saving. You have no idea what demons she'll be fighting or for how long.”

“She needs me,” I said. “And I need her. I have lived a very selfish life so far. I need to be responsible for someone other than myself for a change.”

“But legal guardianship? Do you really want to take that on? You know I am always here for you in moral support, but I would never be part of any binding legal paperwork.”

“Who asked you to?” Even I was surprised by my swift response. This was the only instance in the eight years of our best-friend-and-companion relationship that I had felt truly disconcerted. Yes, the truth was that I had been squirming to terminate any real involvement with Simon beyond a round of golf or a day on the slopes for nearly a year now. But since Mariah had moved in with me, I had had second thoughts. So perhaps what I felt was not for Simon but for me. Whether it was adult company or a sympathetic ear or just plain help with jobs around the house and a boat that takes two people, I had allowed us to slip back into what I had struggled emotionally to be done with. While I appreciated Simon's honesty, the reality was that he would not “be there” for me or Mariah. I just knew from my experience with him that when the going gets tough, Simon disappears. He just does not deal well with drama. And I suppose that my independence and general low maintenance and lack of neediness had been part of my appeal. While I battled my own second thoughts and dreads, I didn't need any negative input from him. I was capable of providing that all by myself. Now that I was sure that I had injured Simon's feelings, and being extremely nonconfrontational, I asked, “Want to have dinner with us? I won't make you sign anything tonight.”

Before dinner I walked down to my parents' house, knowing that I had better bring them into the loop before someone else did. Their reaction to the news that I was pursuing guardianship of Mariah was predictable. My mother and father, being good parents, were compelled to protect me. I have often felt like the slightly retarded daughter when my mother warns me about being taken advantage of. It wasn't all that long ago, I recalled, that my mother had advised me to “look in the mirror and practice saying no.” So it was no surprise when my folks shared their opinion that I could be making a huge mistake and that there might be nothing I could do for Mariah beyond what I had already done. “Linny, you have no idea what that girl has been through. She needs professional help. You're not equipped to deal with this.” After assuring Mom and Dad that I did indeed have a clue as to what I was undertaking, that it was too late to back out, and that I
wanted
to assume guardianship, they did reluctantly agree to support my decision even though they believed it was a bad one.

So the next day I started researching the how-to part of legal guardianship. I Googled and made phone calls until my brain was saturated. Adoption seemed absurd because Mariah was already fifteen. I found a female attorney in Portland who specialized in family law and made an appointment. I don't know who was more nervous going into the meeting, Mariah or me. We sat silently in the stark waiting room at Pine Tree Legal Services. Although there was nothing left of her nails to bite, Mariah chewed the ends of her fingers relentlessly and jiggled her legs up and down, bouncing on the balls of her feet rapidly. When the end table began to vibrate, rattling the lamp it held, I placed a hand on Mariah's knee and said, “Stop. You're driving me nuts.”

“Sorry. I can't help it. Why are we here so early?” Mariah looked at her cell phone. “Our appointment isn't for another ten minutes!”

“Sorry.
I
can't help it. I am a chronic early bird.”

“Geez. I could have slept another hour.”

“I didn't sleep last night.”

“Neither did I. Can we get something to eat when we get out of here?” The base of the lamp continued to keep the beat to Mariah's drumming and was accompanied by an occasional loud sigh signifying that impatience was joining her nerves. She gnawed her cuticles relentlessly.