FIRST DUSTING

December, 2010. My son had been telling me about monkey dust for some time. Only he didn't call it "monkey dust". He called it "this kickass new speed" that he'd obtained through a friend while touting its virtues with the religious fervor of a sinner who had just found Christ. At thirty-two, Ivan had recently returned to Maine from Copenhagen with his girlfriend, Berin, a Danish native, and their four-year-old daughter, Ayla after he had run into complications with his passport. Since their arrival in Bangor, the three of them had lived in a succession of apartments, paying their rent with the help of welfare checks and donations from relatives as they struggled to find their equilibrium as a family. So far, their track record hadn't been a particularly good one. Before Ayla had come into the picture, while still living in Denmark, Ivan and Berin had broken up and gotten back together so many times that it had been impossible to keep up with the stops and starts.

Still, as Ivan's mother, I found his again-off again relationship with Berin in keeping with the mecurial nature of his life since high school. Following graduation, he had taken off with a group of "new agers" for the jungles of Peru where he had paddled down the Amazon and sampled a hallucinagenic concoction courtesy of the jungle locals. Returning from that initial sojurn (bearing gifts which included an ocelot hide he had smuggled past customs) he had spent only a short time in Bangor before taking off once again, this time for Copenhagen where he hoped to explore life in Freestate Christiana, that city's controversial, self-proclaimed "autonomous" community whose residents consider themselves exempt from municipal law and whose involvement in the cannibas trade continues to spark conflict with the Danish government. Before his departure for Copenhagen, Ivan had told me that, in visiting Christiana with its small, but committed community of bohemians, artists, expatriates, and social mavericks, he hoped to find himself among like-minded people who were more interested in increasing their spiritual knowledge than they were in settling into the prescribed strictures of society. Not knowing much about Christiana or its politics, I could only wish him well and try not to worry about my first born son as he struggled to find himself so far away from home. I understood the compulsion he felt to seek out a place where he felt at peace and in synch with those around him. That was the same reason I had taken off for England after high school. I may not have found exactly what I was looking for there, but the experience had taught me a great deal about the world outside the confines of Bangor, Maine. I wanted Ivan to experience the same sense of worldliness. In high school, I had never felt as though I truly fit in, and neither had he. We had a lot in common. I thought that a trip to Denmark would, if nothing else, mark a rite of passage, one that would expand not only his mind, but, perhaps, his soul.

As it turned out, once had finally made it to Christiana, Ivan found himself less than impressed by the so-called "free state" he had heard so much about. He was surprised to find that, even in a community that defined itself by its aversion to violence and intolerance, there was still a considerable degree of politics and back-biting going on. He had gone there searching for spirtual enlightenment, but most of the people he met there were little more than Danish versions of the pot heads and slackers he had known in Bangor. Disappointed, he had left Christinia and intergrated himself into a community of squatters who lived in another part of Copenhagen. Many of them were artists and musicians, leanings that Ivan possessed as well, and, as his life became intertwined with theirs, he developed friendships and attachments that led him into situations that were far beyond my realm of understanding. For the next several years, our communication was limited to sporadic phone calls and emails in which Ivan made brief references to people and places I had never heard of, but which, from the way he talked about them, were clearly important and exciting to him. It was only much later, when he brought Berin back to Maine for a few weeks before they returned once more to Copenhagen, that I began to get a real sense of the changes he had undergone since first leaving home. He was still the same person he had always been---a handsome, fair-haired, round-faced young man whose Scottish and German Jewish heritage on his father's side of the family showed in his pale skin and expressive blue eyes--but there was a new edge to what had always been his naturally gregarious nature. I suspected it had something to do with his relationship with Berin, who, despite her seemingly unpretentious manner, struck me as far more sophisticated and cynical than Ivan. Perhaps that's the way all Danish people were, I thought.

Berin was a beautiful young woman, in her early twenties, with a thick tangle of dusky brown hair that fell around her face and down to her shoulders in a wild mass of waves that accentuated her rounded features, enormous green eyes, and outsized lips. "Exotic" was a phrase that people used frequently to describe her unusual looks. It was an appropriate one. Her mother had been born in Michigan and adopted as a baby by a Danish couple who raised her in Jutland, the peninsula thaqt forms the mainland of Denmark, and a place that Berin often referred to as "provincial", unlike the city of Copenhagen where she had grown up. Her father, who had died of a heroin overdose before she had been born, had, as far as we knew, been Danish. But Berin's dark looks and the sultriness of her facial features hinted at something other than Danish in her heritage. Ivan thought that she had hispanic blood. Berin believed, without anything to substantiate the claim, that she was part black. Whatever her true heritage, she was, without question, an extremely unique young woman, and a definite stand out among the Bangor-ites with whom she and Ivan associated. Attired almost always in black, a cigarette poised ubiquitously between her fingers, she had a way of drawing attention to herself without even trying. Although she was still struggling with English when I first met her, her heavy Danish accent and occasional verbal mishaps couldn't hide her intelligence and sharp wit. It was clear from the start that she and Ivan were deeply in love. Yet, despite that, there was still something about her that made me feel like an outsider in her and Ivan's life.

"Danish people are stand-offish," Ivan told me, when I mentioned my misgivings to him. "It's nothing personal."

Eager to keep thing running smoothly, I accepted his explanation and did my best to get to know the new woman in his life. By that time, I had moved away from Bangor and was living with my husband Michael on fifty-eight acres of land in Brownville, a rural town an hour north of Bangor. Our two children, Ivan's half brother and sister, had grown up there, and were, from all appearances, content with their lives. But things were far from ideal. Married now for over twenty years, with two children, and, for the first time in my life, financially secure, thanks to Michael's job with the railroad, I remained restless. My writing hadn't taken off as I had hoped it would. And as much as I enjoyed certain aspects of country life, I felt keenly the lack of intellectual stimulation that I had known when I'd lived in other places where I'd been able to interact with friends who were writers and with whom conversations didn't invariably include references to woodpiles and ATV's. My restlessness had become a daily issue between Michael and me. He loved living in Brownville, reveling in the close proximity to the woods and nearby lakes. I longed for the city. It was a difficult compromise, and by the time Ivan and Berin returned to Maine with little Ayla in tow, my marriage to Michael was on its last legs. I didn't realize it at the time, but he had already met and fallen in love with another woman whom he had met during his canoing exploits with a group of people who shared his enthusiasm for outdoor activities.

In the fall of 2009, he broke the news to me that he wanted out of our marriage. I was devastated. As unhappy as I was, I had thought that this, my second marriage, was the one that would last. Even though Michael and I had reached a point where we spent more time apart than we did together, I saw no good reason to split up. If nothing else, I believed, it was important to stay together for the sake of our son, Tristan, who still lived at home. But Michael had different ideas. And so, that cold November, just weeks before the start of the holiday season, I found myself alone, facing the prospect of beginning life all over again at the age of fifty-two. Our daughter Hannah had already graduated from college and moved to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming an actress. Tristan, still in high school, decided to move with his father to a rented house closer to Bangor so that he could take advantage of some courses that weren't offered in the Brownville area high school. Ironically, I was the one left alone in Brownville, in a big, empty house at the end of a long dirt road that ended at the railroad tracks. Overwhelmed with emotional pain and feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, I took the money from my divorce settlement and went to Europe where I squandered almost all of it in the space of one year. I revisited London, flew to Copenhagen where I stayed on a houseboat owned by friends of Ivan amd Berin, and explored Berlin and Hamburg, all as an antidote to the pain and depression that, despite the thousands of miles that separated me from its cause, still seemed to shadow my every thought and action. Returning to Maine, I settled for a few months in South Portland, mostly to be near the ocean, which I loved, but then, unable to find a job and beginning to feel the pinch of decreased finances, I decided to relocate back to Bangor where Ivan, Berin and Ayla were living in an apartment on Elm Street.

By then, Ivan and Berin were once more on the outs. Berin was already making plans to return to Copenhagen with Ayla. Drugs had become a divisive factor in her and Ivan's life together. Over the past year, I had learned that neither was a stranger to recreational drug use. The money they didn't spend on rent or food, they spent on their respective drug habits. Berin's drug of choice was marijuana. Ivan was drawn to speed and hallucinogens. Moving into their apartment on Elm Street in Bangor, I found myself surrounded by their friends, most of whom were also involved with drugs of one kind or another. I didn't like the idea, fearing that it would have adverse effects on Ayla, but somehow I convinced myself that I could help stem the wayward tide and maintain a semblance of normalcy for my granddaughter's sake. Despite her and Ivan's extracurricular activities, Berin was still a good housekeeper and a committed mother. Ivan was less dependable in that sense, but it was obvious that he wanted the best for his daughter. For the first week or so that I lived with them, it seemed as though things might even turn out all right. Ayla had already started kindergarten and seemed happy and fairly well-adjusted even with the almost constant arguing that went on between her parents. Spending time with her, I was able to put my own pain aside, at least temporarily, and enjoy what passed for "family time", even though the situation was far from idyllic.

But drug use is an insidiuous thing, and, unfortunately, the ones that Ivan and Berin used weren't the only ones causing problems within the household. For the past twelve years, I had been prescribed Ritalin by my doctor, after she had diagnosed me with adult ADD. The medication had been a mainstay in my life all that time, allowing me to focus in a way that I never had before. The problem was, as a writer, I sometimes wrote late into the night, and when I did, I would keep myself alert by taking more Ritalin than I had been prescribed for that day. Because of that, I often ran out of medication early. Now, living with Ivan and Berin, in the midst of people who regularly bought and sold prescription drugs, I found myself spending precious cash on extra Ritalin. I had moved to Elm Street with the intention of salvaging what was left of my family, but, instead, I found myself turning, much too often, to either Ivan or Berin, for help in procuring extra Ritalin.

It was just before Christmas, 2009, that Berin announced her intention of returning to Denmark to raise Ayla on her own. She and Ivan just couldn't seem to mend their differences, and unable to find steady employment in Bangor, she had decided that there was just no alternative. I tried to talk her out of going. So did other members of our family. But she was adamnant. And it was on the night before she left, after I returned from a trip to South Portland to collect what was left there of my belongings, that I heard about monkey dust for the very first time.

"You should have been here last night," Ivan told me, as I settled back into the apartment with my things. "Jared Lawson was here, and he gave us this amazing, kick ass speed."

Talk of drugs was hardly taboo in our household, and I took his mention of a new addition to the daily regime in stride.

"What was it?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "But it was better than anything I've ever had before...and it's legal."

I wasn't impressed by the reference to Jared Lawson, a young man Ivan's age, who I had already met once or twice before. I hadn't thought much of him at the time, mostly because he always seemed to be sleeping. Thin and angular, with outsized blue eyes and unkempt dark hair, his bony frame invariably enveloped in a black hoodie, he reminded me of a walking cadaver. I had a hard time believing it when Ivan told me that he was an ex-Marine. He looked too weak to have ever been a member of the military. Not only that, but from what I had heard, he made his living dealing drugs. I didn't want him hanging around the apartment on Elm Street, and I definitely didn't like the idea of him encouraging my son's own drug use, even if it was with "amazing, kickass speed."

"What do you mean...it's 'legal'?" I asked.

"It's sold in stores," Ivan explained. "But Jared gets it straight from the manufacturer. So it's pure. And it's incredible. You have to try it. It's better than Ritalin. One hit of this stuff, and you'll never settle for Ritalin again."

"I'm prescribed Ritalin," I said. "Besides, I don't use it recreationally. It's to help me focus."

"Oh, come on, you know you take more than you're supposed to," Ivan responded, with a superior little smirk. "You take it so you can stay up and write. And what I'm saying is that, if you took this stuff, you wouldn't need Ritalin. It's better."

His needling made me angry. He'd hit a sore spot. As much as I didn't want to admit it, I did have a problem when it came to taking my Ritalin in the manner in which it was prescribed. But that didn't mean I thought of myself as a "pill-head" or, even worse, a "junkie." The fact that I took my medication in excess wasn't something I was proud of, but at least I only took extra doses when I was writing. Or so I told myself. As far as I was concerned, that put me in an altogether different category than the stereotypical pill popper. My drug use--or misuse--was for working purposes. It was sacred. Like the tobacco some Native Americans once used in their religious ceremonies.

"Thanks, but I think I'll stick with my Rits," I told him, making it clear that the subject was closed.

The next several weeks were filled with the emotion and chaos of preparing to say good-bye to Berin and my granddaughter. Their flight back home was scheduled to leave Boston on Christmas Eve. That meant that they had to leave Bangor by bus early on Christmas Eve morning. It was a one of the most wretched holidays I had ever endured. Still smarting from my divorce, and my younger son and my daughter in two different locations, I could hardly bear the thought that I would wake up on Christmas morning in an apartment inhabited only by Ivan and myself. Saying good-bye to Ayla at the bus station, I cried so much I almost hyperventilated. I told her that I would miss her and begged her not to forget about me once she got to Denmark. She clutched my hand as tightly as she could and smiled at me through her own tears.

"You can come and see me," she said. "I'll just be across the ocean."

That made me cry even harder, of course. But there was nothing more to do except kiss her good-bye as she whispered, "I love you, bedstemore."

Bedstemore. The Danish word for "grandmother," or, more precisely, according to Berin, "best mother." Watching her board the bus with her mother, I wondered how long it would be before I would hear her call me that again. As the bus pulled away, Ivan and I got into my car and headed back to Elm Street and the Christmas tree that we had all decorated together just a week or so before. I hated the thought of seeing it in that empty, quiet apartment which, just that morning, had reverberated with Ayla's voice as she tried to cheer the rest of us up by singing the same two Christmas songs over and over again.

"It's too bad they'll be on a plane tonight," Ivan remarked, as we drove. "In Denmark, Christmas Eve is when they actually celebrate Christmas. Ayla's going to miss out on it."

"Yeah, well, it's just a stupid holiday anyway," I said.

A few minutes later, we were back on Elm Street. As Ivan disappeared into his bedroom, I went into the living room and looked at the tree. The lights were off. It was Christmas Eve. If there was ever a time when a Christmas tree should be lit up, it was tonight. But I didn't have the heart to bother with them. If Santa Claus deigned to make an appearance, I decided, he would just have to find his way in the dark this time around. Turning my back to the tree and the scattering of presents underneath it, I headed off to bed. What I didn't realize was that Santa Claus would definitely be making a stop on Elm Street. And he would have no trouble finding his way in the dark. But it wouldn't be a white-bearded Santa Claus in a red suit with a sleigh pulled buy eight reindeer. And the presents that he carried in his sack would have nothing to do with Christmas.

To be continued...