Lifesaving Lessons (10 page)

“Yup. You seem to be hungry,” I said with a degree of sarcasm that didn't stop the nail biting. I sat stock-still, arms crossed at my chest as I bit my lower lip. My lips were slightly chapped and rather than search for my ChapStick, I occupied the waiting time chewing tiny pieces of skin from them until I managed to draw blood.

Mariah handed me a Kleenex and said, “You must be hungry, too.” I couldn't help but smile, and acknowledging the nerves seemed to sooth them. I wasn't sure what was causing the conspicuous disquiet in Mariah, but imagined it could have been the possibility of having to repeat her embarrassing past yet again to a stranger. On the other hand, I was acutely aware of why I was anxious: I was taking another step toward something I was so unsure about, that I had no confidence. If the guardianship turned out badly, there would sure be a lot of people who could claim to have told me so.

Our meeting was somewhat impersonal and quick, much to our shared relief. Mariah and I learned together at this first and only meeting with the attorney that it was Mariah whom she would represent in the guardianship case (I would have to get my own lawyer, and did). The law required that the ward petition the court for a change in guardianship. When questioned by the attorney, Mariah looked at me for the answer, as if seeking assurance. I assumed that I should not lead Mariah in any direction, so I just nodded each time she looked at me. I certainly didn't want this to appear to have been
all
my idea just because it was. Finally, the attorney began spoon-feeding Mariah by making each inquiry a simple yes or no question. Did Mariah agree that a change in guardianship was necessary? Yes. Did Mariah want to terminate her ward status with Ken? Yes. Did Mariah understand that she could nominate a new guardian for consideration? Yes. Did Mariah want to nominate Linda Greenlaw for her guardianship? Yes. And that was the first and only indication from Mariah that she wanted to go through with my suggestion. I tried not to listen to my own conscience telling me that Mariah had no other option.

Maybe it wasn't quite as simple as I remember it. But that is honestly what I recall. I don't remember any conversation about what had happened with Ken or her biological mother, or about any of the other traumatic events of her childhood leading up to our appearance together in that room, or anything actually personal. I've heard of more complicated arrangements to adopt a dog from a shelter. The attorney explained what would come next. Paperwork would be filled out and filed with the state, and a copy would be mailed to Ken asking that he sign away his legal responsibility and return the signed document to the attorney within two weeks. If he refused, then steps would be taken to force him to give up his charge. So the ball was in motion and soon to be on Ken's side of the net. The attorney also explained that Mariah's biological mother would also have to sign a document, as she had when Ken took charge of her daughter, relinquishing any parental control or responsibility. Eventually, and whether Ken and the mother signed off—willingly or not—our case would go before a judge and guardianship would probably be granted. The attorney would handle all of this, and free of charge because she was representing a minor. Mariah and I both shook the attorney's hand, thanked her, and left the building feeling a little lighter. We climbed into opposite sides of the Jeep, slammed doors simultaneously, clicked seat belts, and exhaled in perfect harmony. “Can we eat? I'm starving,” Mariah said.

“Me, too. What do you feel like?” Of course I meant this only in reference to what she might like to have for lunch, and not at all metaphysically. The last thing I wanted to do right now was probe inside either of our brains or souls.

The following week was agonizing. Because the accusations made against Ken involved child pornography and crossing state lines, the charges, when and if they were ever in place, would be federal. The result of this seemed to be that more time was needed. The extenuating circumstance seemed to be that we live on an island. Logistically this was somewhat new territory for the agencies involved. We waited to hear when Ken would be arrested, and hoped that he would sign off on guardianship before that happened. It's hard to believe that Ken wandered around as free as a bird during this period or, in his case, as free as a caged bird because he'd chosen to remain a hermit. I was feeling a lot of things; on the top of the list was helplessness. I continued to lock my house every night. I lived with a knot in my gut that squeezed bitterness into my throat perpetually. The phone calls and morning meetings for coffee at my kitchen table were ongoing. Everyone, whether fully in the loop or just partially, wanted to be up to speed on what was happening, and everyone had fingers crossed that things would go as well as they could. I had daily calls from island women lending support, both emotional and physical. I received cards and notes and e-mail from people who wanted to help me do the right thing with respect to this new relationship. The offers were refreshing and much appreciated. Mariah went off to school every day on the boat, and we were fed dinner by friends and neighbors any night we accepted an invitation. Some friends called just to say they were thinking of us and were willing and available to do anything to help.

Simon was in and out between Vermont and the island, and fulfilled his role of providing moral support well. We were back to “normal,” and I appreciated his friendship now more than ever. The timing was bad for any other significant change in our lives, Mariah's or mine. When he was around, he and Mariah clicked. She joked with him about recent events in the news, or at least the happenings that she found noteworthy. Because she got such a kick out of Simon's ignorance of tabloid news, Simon began doing his homework and questioning her about Brad and J Lo and whatever rapper had beaten his girlfriend. By the same token, Mariah had to bone up on current events less interesting to her by watching CNN and Fox News. We watched
Jeopardy
every night before dinner and with the three of us working as a team, we didn't miss many. Weirdly, I started thinking of us as a little family, so I put more effort into meals than I otherwise would have just for me. Even though this was a nervous and miserable time in my life, I felt very much a part of the island community in that everyone shared equally in the misery and waiting. I felt united with Simon and Mariah. At no point did I ever feel alone.

Mariah now greeted me with the same two questions every day after she slammed the door of the truck. “Did he sign?” and “When are they coming?” My cousin, Dianne, is responsible for carrying the mail between the post office and the mail boat. Although I am sure it is not legal to riffle through the mail bag to look for a certain Priority Mail envelope addressed to a certain attorney in Portland, she somehow managed to give me a thumbs-down every morning when I dropped Mariah at the boat. I was very worried that Ken would not sign. And if he hadn't signed by the time he was arrested, there was a big, terrifying question mark regarding where Mariah would end up. Ken and I engaged in a short e-mail correspondence in which I encouraged him to resign guardianship because it would be the best thing for Mariah. And we all wanted what was best for her. Ken dragged his feet. He just couldn't do it yet, he said. I also worried that he would dump all incriminating evidence into the ocean before it could be confiscated. Although we had done well about keeping tight-lipped, Ken would eventually figure out that Mariah had probably told us, or the social worker, about what really had gone on in their house. I worried that in his unstable state, he might come unglued and attempt bodily harm to himself, or worse, Mariah. The calls from the Department of Health and Human Services continued, mostly from Gretchen, the social worker assigned to our case. She always asked if I
needed
anything. No, I didn't need money or professional help with coping. Or at least I didn't think so.

We were closing in on the two-week deadline for Ken's resignation of guardianship. I got word from the county sheriff that two state police officers and a special federal agent were coming to the island the next day. They couldn't ride the mail boat, so they would be brought out from Rockland, which is clear across Penobscot Bay, by the U.S. Coast Guard. I was asked to meet the Coast Guard boat offshore with my boat and lead them to our town dock. From there our first selectman would transport the officials to Ken's house. Of course I agreed, more than ready for this long-awaited juncture. The county sheriff would accompany me aboard my vessel as would the first selectman. A time and rendezvous point was set. The handful of islanders who were aware of the pending arrest spent several nerve-racking hours surmising and worrying on the telephone. I didn't sleep that night.

I dropped Mariah off at the boat and was thrilled to get a thumbs-up from the mail-carrying cousin. Okay, I thought, one down, one to go. Soon after the mail boat pulled away and headed ashore, the county sheriff arrived in his own boat, ready to make a trip offshore with me. The first selectman was promptly at the dock just as I brought the
Mattie Belle
in from the mooring. The men stepped aboard and off we went.

Fortunately, it was a brilliantly clear day. The breeze was fickle, flirting with the sun, and yet embracing as it delivered a chill it held from caressing the bay. It was the kind of day that lets you know winter is on its way, but when I turned the boat just right, the sun's blaze on the ocean connived to suggest that autumn was in no particular hurry to yield to the next season. We passed the lighthouse at Robinson Point and I felt good that I was now
doing
something. I liked the feeling of the cold wheel in my hands. My confidence soared. The knot in my stomach melted away as I steered for a position off Kimball Head, where I could see the entrance to Fox Island Thoroughfare from where the Coast Guard boat would be coming. This is what I understood. This was my comfort zone. This was the day we had all been waiting for, and I was happy to be a spoke in the wheel of justice that seemed to finally be spinning.

I knocked the engine out of gear. We drifted, rolling gently from crest to trough to crest of swells that displayed nothing but blue. The sheriff looked at his wristwatch, then at me. I raised my eyebrows and shoulders in unison. He said, “It's time.” The agreed-upon time of rendezvous was ten o'clock. I scoured the horizon to our west, trying to pick a boat out of the shoreline. I saw nothing. “Probably just running a little late,” the sheriff said. I found it strange that the Coast Guard would be late to arrive at a point and time they themselves had set. Didn't they have the best state-of-the-art electronic equipment for navigation? They have stuff that civilian mariners don't yet have access to. And aren't they heavily trained and highly skilled? Weird that they couldn't figure out an ETA accurately, I thought. But realizing that I might be a bit uptight about what might transpire and perhaps unfairly impatient, I forced myself to sit on the gunwale rather than stand at attention at the helm.

Sitting patiently didn't last long. I grabbed a pair of binoculars and searched again. I saw nothing. “Maybe I should call them on the radio,” I suggested. Both men agreed that a call was in order because the CG was now officially forty minutes late. After two attempts, I received an answer from the very apologetic Coast Guard. They had experienced traffic coming out of Rockland. Just so you nonboating people know, that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Traffic? In Rockland Harbor? That time of year? But you are the U.S. Coast Guard, I thought. Maybe they experienced heavy traffic on Route 1 on their way to the CG station, I hoped. The nice voice on the radio confirmed that they would be exiting Fox Island Thoroughfare in five minutes. I thanked the man, and felt a huge sense of relief. Now all I had to do was wait for them to come near, and lead them to the dock. Phew.

Well, five minutes turned into fifteen. I finally spied the CG boat coming out of the notch on the horizon that I know as Fox Island. With the binoculars I could see the telltale red stripe against the white hull. “Here they come.” I smiled. And as I watched the boat turn to the south and increase speed, I said “And there they go.” The boat was approximately ninety degrees off course. “Where the hell are they going?”

“Matinicus?” offered the sheriff, mentioning the only island or land mass the CG might find south of us before hitting Cape Cod. “Head them off.” And I tried. But they were too far away and moving much faster than the
Mattie Belle
could manage. I really didn't want to be on the radio any more than necessary as I was still thinking that this was to be a somewhat covert operation. There was a long-standing stereotype among the members of the commercial fishing world that all Coasties were from Kansas, or some other landlocked home, but it didn't seem that funny right now. We chased the boat for a while hoping someone aboard might happen to see us and mention to the captain or navigator that they were being pursued. But it was no use. They were putting quite a distance between us. I had no other choice than to radio them again.

I asked the very nice and youthful voice to please come to port about ninety degrees. And lo and behold, we watched the boat, which was now no bigger than a dot, grow to what once again resembled a Coast Guard vessel. When it was clear that they had no idea which boat on the ocean I was aboard, even after I gave them my position in latitude and longitude, I asked the nice boy to stop where he was. “Just knock your vessel out of gear, and I will come to you. Please. Over.” Once I was close enough to ensure there was no mistaking the
Mattie Belle
for any other boat, I waved an arm at the CG boat and motioned them to follow me. They responded by waving in the other direction, beckoning me to come closer, which I did. I got right up alongside their vessel so that I could communicate without the radio.

There were three uniformed men on the deck of the boat, all dressed in navy blue and sporting orange life vests. The door on the upper deck of the bridge opened and another uniformed man stepped out. They all looked like kids, which I sadly realized was more an indication of my age than theirs. The officer above informed me that he was unauthorized to take his vessel to the dock as the depth of water on the navigational chart was insufficient for the draft of the boat of which he was in command. I asked what she drew, and he replied that he needed ten feet of water in order to get permission to proceed. “It doesn't look like you draw ten feet,” I commented. He agreed that the boat did not need that much water, but the rules governing what he could do did. “Well, there's at least ten feet there now. You'll be all set.” He apologized and explained that things weren't that simple. He did not have permission from someone who was calling the shots from ashore, and could not, under any circumstances, proceed any farther. He then suggested that I secure my boat to his and transfer the three people he had transported to this point. This was dumbfounding. And not at all what I wanted. This part of the bargain was unnecessary. There was plenty of water at the dock. We had waited so long for this day. I deduced that I would also be transporting the officers along with Ken back to the Coast Guard boat. I was nervous about Ken. Did I really want to face him in this situation? No, I did not. But what other option did I have?