Lifesaving Lessons (15 page)

The answer to that would come in time. Sure, the island had slipped in a big way. But there was still such an abundance of goodness here that I had to believe the black cloud would give way to light. And there was no place else I wanted to live other than at sea. And continuing my part-time gig at sea was something else I needed to figure out. With my island identity in the balance, I would feel even more of a draw to blue water. Normally I could sling my seabag onto the deck of a boat and head offshore at a moment's notice. There had been times when I had left for sea without saying good-bye to anyone, and only called my family after the lines had been cast. That nonschedule might be a little tricky with my new acquisition.

I had been struggling for some time with the seemingly contradictory impulses of pulls from the sea and shore, and trying to find the right balance. Mariah's presence in my life made finding it that much more difficult. I was never so tempted to hop aboard a boat and leave my troubles behind as I always had as I was now. No, I thought, it would be irresponsible to go fishing and leave Mariah to someone else's watch. Wouldn't it? But chasing swordfish was my passion. Had pursuing my own happiness been eclipsed when I'd taken charge of Mariah? Was this what mothers everywhere mean when they talk about sacrificing for their children? Was I willing, or even able, to give up my life for the betterment of someone else's? And who's to say that my being around was best for Mariah? Maybe she'd be better off with me as an absentee guardian. Maybe someone with prior experience could step in for three months every fall while I went to work offshore. I did need to continue to make a living in order to provide Mariah with what she required. Sure, in the state of Maine guardians are not obligated legally to provide financial support for their wards from their own resources. Although I chose not to go that route, there are ways to get subsidies and health care. I remembered that from our fifteen minutes in court. Sure, the state prefers permanent guardianship, “assuring long-term care that is as nurturing and stable as possible,” to foster care. And all that was required of me as that permanent guardian was to show an “ability to provide nurture, protection, and stability,” which seemed both vague and minimal to me. But I did
feel
as though I was Mariah's support, emotionally as well as financially. And I wanted to do my best for her. I understood that the state of Maine had to allow guardians and foster care parents some leniency regarding financial obligations, without which there would be even more unwanted orphans. I understood that I was obligated to keep Mariah fed, housed, and clothed (with no specific standards). But I wanted to provide Mariah with much more. I wanted her to have opportunity, and that sometimes comes with a price tag. Besides, who else would pay the cell phone bill? Sure, a cell phone is not a
need,
unless you are willing to let your child be a total misfit among peers. I wanted normalcy for Mariah, and was willing to foot the bill for some of what that required.

Funny, I used to laugh when I heard people expressing how having children changed their lives and complicated things. Really? I was so accustomed to dealing with forces so much grander! How much could feeding and changing diapers actually change
you
? And to what degree could one little person complicate life? I was just beginning to understand. Hell, I didn't even know how to introduce myself anymore. I guess things
have
changed. And to think that motherhood was something I had
wanted.
It was something I thought I had missed out on. Another example of being careful what you wish for, I thought. And there it was. I had to continually check myself. I was not Mariah's mother. I would never be her mother. This was a temporary situation. My guardianship of Mariah would legally terminate on her eighteenth birthday. If things didn't improve drastically, it could be a very long three years.

All the while during this temporary interruption to life as I knew and wanted it came snippets of news about the federal government's case against Ken. These, too, littered that vague span of time from end to end. It was now clear that Ken had gone to great lengths to tamper with Mariah's head. The hard-drive evidence showed that Cody (the young e-mail friend who had coerced Mariah to pose for and send nude photos), the unnamed women in Texas who forwarded a picture of Ken's erect penis to Mariah, and Marie (the French cybersex partner of Ken's who was relentless in abusing Mariah in e-mail correspondence—complete with broken English) were all fabrications of Ken's. All of this inappropriateness, crudeness, and filth had been generated exclusively by Ken on his computer. All of this further illuminated the psychological perversion of Ken and how he had dedicated his life to ruining Mariah's.

With a court-appointed attorney, Ken tested every legal avenue available to him for release from jail while awaiting trial. We were notified each time he had a hearing. My sister Bif attended many of the hearings and reported back to me that each attempt had failed. He even asked a judge to release him to a third party! I was extremely nervous about who might vouch for and be responsible for this creep. I prayed it wasn't anyone Mariah and I knew. I prayed that the judge would not allow his release. A convicted felon in a wheelchair was the best that Ken could suggest as a third-party custodian. His final hearing for bail was denied. When I relayed that good news to Mariah, she suggested that perhaps now her nightmares about his sudden appearance at Evergreen might subside.

The volcano of events that had erupted beginning with Ken had certainly been belching a putrid breath. Sometimes the stench had come in a gale of wind from Memphis, and sometimes it was more indigenous. Mariah and I did begin to bond in our shared resolve to simply endure the stinking times. During that obscure passage of time (studded with explicitness best marked by promises and threats related to cell phone use) I became Mariah's conduit to the legal process and proceedings. Like a buffer, I absorbed happenings and relayed what I thought she should or needed to know. I held some things back for her emotional protection. And I was forthright in telling Mariah that I would not share things I felt needn't be. She was good with that. I told Mariah that I really
wanted
to take care of her. I think I talked a pretty good game. I kept second thoughts, which were becoming less frequent, to myself. Outwardly I was being a parental figure, perhaps the only one she had ever had. I assured Mariah that
my
job as guardian was to take care of everything
,
and that
her
only job was to behave and do her best at school. Tenure was not in the cards for either of us.

A Package Deal

W
ith a characteristic total lack of pageantry, Cowgirl simply died. A far cry from the cats of my childhood that got dramatically caught in the car's fan belt or the spokes of a speeding bicycle (which didn't do a lot for the rider's knees and elbows), Cowgirl had something in common with March: out like a lamb. There was none of the high-volume screeching that an injured-in-combat and soon-to-be-dead cat emits. There was no dramatic hanging on by the claws from the edge of death or heroic attempts to resuscitate. No, Cowgirl's exit was more of a silent riding off into the sunset, unnoticed. As Simon hadn't actually witnessed the cat's exit from the stage of life, the thought crossed our minds that she might have been stolen. Then I recalled her appearance and nearly fell out of my chair laughing. More than likely, Cowgirl had simply slinked off into the woods surrounding Simon's house in Vermont, never to return.

It wasn't that Simon hadn't put forth major effort in keeping Mariah's cat alive. In fact, at last tally Simon reported spending in excess of $1,200 in health care for the cat. Maybe it had something to do with the Hippocratic oath taken by Dr. Holmes so many years ago, but I just couldn't get my head around his willingness to pay the enormous vet bills. I understand that it was indeed humane of Simon to deworm and de-flea Cowgirl. And it was kind of him to experiment with different types of kitty litter (all purporting to eliminate odors), and it was certainly within reason to serve a variety of high-end cat foods until finding one that suited Cowgirl's discerning palate. But it's quite another thing to have the cat receive every shot she'd never had, knowing that she was clearly on shaky ground in a “not long for this world” type of way. And I would have drawn the line well before collecting and delivering a stool sample. The diagnosis resulting from a myriad of tests was hyperthyroidism, which required Dr. Holmes to administer to Cowgirl some oral medicine. The pills were not well received, and when Simon's hands were scratched and bitten to pieces, he went back to the veterinarian for an alternative treatment (for the cat). The vet recommended some medicated ointment. (This part is hard for me to believe, but Simon had no reason to exaggerate.) He had to administer the ointment to one of Cowgirl's ears daily, alternating ears. Simon kept track of left or right on his desk calendar. It was suggested that Simon was more attentive to Cowgirl than I was to Mariah. To that I took offense.

The problem to my mind was not that the cat had passed, but how and when and who would tell Mariah. This was something that Simon and I agreed might send Mariah into hysteria as we shared an opinion that she was quite fragile emotionally. We fretted about sharing this sad news for weeks, avoiding any conversation that might lead to her asking, “How is Cowgirl?” Avoiding conversation altogether was most manageable from my perspective, as I had not yet turned Mariah's cell phone back on after her most recent abuse of use and coinciding gigantic overage bill. So now it appeared that Simon had gotten the better part of
that
deal. Simon had paid his last vet bill. His obligations of responsibility were done. Mine were ongoing. Not that I would equate child rearing with pet responsibility. But there are similarities that come to mind when I think about it in the shallows of my pool of thoughts. I was pretty happy to have a healthy kid! Well, fairly healthy anyway (healthy by everyone's standards but her own).

I wouldn't say that Mariah was a hypochondriac, but she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with the nurses at Evergreen Academy. I received calls from the school clinic, biweekly at a minimum, for anything from a cough to chest pain. Mariah saw a doctor when the nurses deemed it appropriate, and also had a weekly appointment with a counselor off campus. In addition to the school's health care professionals, I spoke on a regular basis with Mariah's advisers, who were good about, well, advising. So my communication with Mariah was through a conduit, and rarely between the two of us.

I did try to call Mariah on her room phone, mostly to no avail. I figured that she refused to answer, in case it might be me, in an attempt to frustrate me to the point of turning her cell phone back on. She eventually won this contest because I was starting to feel bad about talking about her rather than with her. I reconnected her cell service and dialed the number prepared to tell her about the passing of her beloved Cowgirl. Mariah picked up the phone on the first ring. Amazing, I thought, because the phone had been shut off for several weeks. “Oh, Hiiiiii,” she said in what I might have mistaken as sarcasm, but it could have been genuine delight
not
in hearing my voice but rather in the knowledge that she could now text her brains out until the next billing cycle. I asked how she was, to which she responded in great length and detail about her many physical ailments, including the pain in her chest that her counselor attributed to anxiety because the doctor had ruled out any biological cause. “But,” she continued, “I am feeling lots better now that my phone is back on.” Yeah, right, I thought, nothing short of a miracle. Carpal tunnel syndrome is preferable to anxiety-driven chest pain. She told me that the doctor had recommended some prescription medicine for her anxiety, and for that she needed my permission.

This is where I stalled. I wasn't sure about prescription medicines for anxiety and/or mood swings at the age of fifteen. Aren't girls that age naturally anxious and moody? Every time I had mentioned what I considered extreme symptoms displayed by Mariah to the girlfriends in my new island advisory committee, they had unanimously responded that all was quite normal. Even when I chose to argue that Mariah exhibited behaviors I considered deep in the abnormal realm, they laughed and confided that it could and probably would get worse, citing examples of the atrocities they'd experienced at the hands of
their
daughters. Of course we all shared concern about the extent of damage years of abuse by Ken might have caused. But for now I had to stick with the plan of getting on with things, moving forward in a positive manner with shades of Frank Sinatra: “Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race. That's life . . .”

Was medicine a cop-out? Didn't Mariah need to ride the bronco into adulthood unadulterated? But I also knew that pain from anxiety is real, and perhaps Mariah was suffering unduly and medicine was appropriate. She couldn't put her finger on what was bothering her or what she might be stressing about. There was no doubt in my mind that her anguish was a direct result of what she had endured at the hands of Ken, and that it would be something she would deal with for a very long time with the help of the professional counseling I was happy to provide for as long as she wanted. I juggled options for a minute and finally went with my gut. I suggested that Mariah wait a bit before starting on medication. I shared my opinion that drugs were the easy way out and that perhaps coping skills could not be developed if symptoms were masked rather than dealt with and overcome. I reminded her that she claimed to like and benefit from her sessions with her counselor and encouraged her to continue these and even increase the frequency of visits if she wanted. Mariah sounded a little disappointed that I would not give permission for the prescription at this time and mentioned some number of friends who had prescription mood levelers, which did nothing to sway me. I agreed that we would revisit the topic when she came home for her next break and that I would certainly set up an appointment with a doctor for a second opinion at that time if she still felt a need.

When we hung up, I realized that it would have been much easier to permit drugs to be prescribed. I wouldn't need to deal with it again. I found solace in knowing that if Mariah were my own flesh and blood, I would have responded in the same way. So here I was again acting like the mom that I wasn't. I was relieved to have had a legitimate excuse not to mention Cowgirl. No sense fueling the anxiety, I reasoned. Inwardly I believed that the death of this cat was ultimately a good thing in that it was a reminder of a nasty past. But I am not an animal lover. Mariah is. In fact, the only time I had seen real joy in Mariah was when she was petting a dog or ogling newborn kittens. I wouldn't lie to Mariah. If she asked, I'd tell her that Cowgirl was gone. But otherwise I would wait for a better time. The question did arise in my mind about whether I was protecting Mariah or myself from her reaction. I decided to give myself the benefit of the doubt this time.

The next phone call wasn't the right opportunity either. This conversation was another plea for medication. The chest pain had subsided, but now Mariah had stomach issues. She had indigestion or something like it. “Stuff” was coming up in her throat and gagging her. She even threw up! She needed prescription medicine, she said. I suggested that she should try Tums first. I was afraid that Mariah would think I wasn't taking her ailments seriously, so I made an appointment for her to see a GI specialist, a friend of Simon's who agreed to squeeze her in for a work-up during a long weekend at home she had coming soon. Mariah seemed to be growing increasingly annoyed with my refusals to allow her to start popping pills. I was growing increasingly nervous about the amount of time that was passing since the death of her cat and my not telling her. Each time I saw her name on my caller ID, I quickly vowed to spill the beans. But I always hung up without doing so. The longer my silence on the topic persisted, the more difficult it became to bridge the gap between living cat and dead cat. The next call was a complaint of sleeplessness, which could be remedied by sleeping pills if I could be so kind as to agree. No way.

During this time of phone off and phone on and calls from the school nurses, the island was relatively quiet, as it usually is in late March. I had learned long ago that happenings on Isle au Haut were somewhat episodic in that they came in waves (not in threes!). We seemed to be in a trough right now. Other than the usual gripes and grudges, there were no new surges of good or bad—all was copacetic. Oh sure, there were minor disturbances that rose from the ashes of longtime disputes. And those served to keep life interesting. One ember that was fanned to a small flame involved me, indirectly.

I was off island to do a speaking event when my sister Bif called to inform me that she had just spoken with a friend on the island who had told her of the good deed he had done on my behalf. It had snowed about a foot and a half of wet, heavy flakes and the weather was predicted to get very cold. The friend had taken it upon himself to shovel out my truck, which awaited my return in the town parking lot. If he hadn't cleared the snow from on and around my vehicle, he thought it might just stay put until spring in the iceberg that would form with the dropping temperature. This was nice. And if he hadn't added that he had, in the process of shoveling my truck out, absolutely buried the vehicle of someone else, I would have thanked him. “You can't even see the top of the antenna! That car won't see daylight until the Fourth of July!” I supposed this little act of kindness was retaliation for something. On Isle au Haut, grudges are held dear, often longer than the disgruntled can remember what the cause was. I was put out, only for fear of having the owner of the ice-encrusted vehicle point a finger of blame my way.

That night, planning to return home the next morning to my cleanly shoveled truck, I received a call from the wife of the owner of the entombed car. I hesitated to pick up, but realized that it might be worse if I did not. Might as well face the misaimed wrath now and deny, deny, deny. I wouldn't need to throw my friend under the bus because my alibi was solid. I was not on the island at the time of the storm or subsequent mischievous shoveling. The wife apologized for bothering me but thought I might like to know that her husband had borrowed my truck to go home in because he couldn't begin to break the ice from his own. I wasn't going to need my truck anytime soon, was I?

The next time I left my truck at the dock, I took the keys with me—something I had never before done. This trip was to pick up Mariah at school and head for Vermont to visit Simon and the GI doctor whom we no longer needed to see. I had four hours in the car with Mariah in which to tell her about Cowgirl. But Mariah cranked up the music, put her seat back, and fell fast asleep. With her most recent complaint in mind, I didn't have the heart to wake her. I glanced at her from time to time and felt a strange emotion I hadn't felt before. I was taking some degree of comfort in Mariah's peacefulness. I wondered if this was what parents felt when standing over a crib smiling and sighing at their child and speculating what dreams might be dreamed and how the child would pursue them. Some hopeful wonderment about Mariah's future tiptoed around my head, careful not to disturb. I resisted the urge to push Mariah's bangs away from her eyes.

Mariah stretched and yawned about the time we rolled into Simon's driveway. It was now inevitable, I thought. Simon came out to greet us. After a sleepy “Hi” from Mariah, the next thing I heard was “How's Cowgirl?” Simon's jaw dropped. His eyes opened wide and he glared at me with a questioning look. I guess I had neglected to tell Simon that I hadn't found the right time to deliver the sad news.

I took a deep breath and braced myself. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but Cowgirl died.”

I heard myself swallow in the silence that followed. Mariah frowned and her eyes crinkled at the corners. Her lower lip began to quiver. Emotion was building palpably. Simon wandered into the garage and pretended to putter with something. When Mariah shifted her focus from the ground at her feet, our eyes met. I was more than prepared to console Mariah as I had rehearsed this so many times. I took a deep breath. She opened her mouth to speak and said, “Can we get a dog?”

I suppose there was some sense of relief. But what I felt most was pissed off. My maternal instincts had been cheated once again! Mariah needed none of the comforting, cheering, or soothing that had lain dormant in me for so long and now beat at the door begging to be unleashed. She didn't want sympathy or knowledge of cause of death. She didn't want to hear that Cowgirl had gone to the big litter box in the sky. She didn't want to place a wreath or a cross as a memorial. She didn't want to reminisce about the good times she had shared with Cowgirl, or publically contemplate what a good cat she had been. Mariah wanted a dog. “No” was all I could muster.