Lifesaving Lessons Read online

  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.

  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 sp
ent 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.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Mariah’s Story

  And 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 elev
en 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.