At some point, Mara’s future second husband entered the picture.  She met him at a therapy group – whether it was inpatient or outpatient I can’t remember.  But I didn’t press for details.  Mara seemed happy with this relationship, and there was talk of the two of them moving in together.  However, at first the relationship had to be kept secret from the medical staff, because it was a violation of the programs rules.  To be honest, I can’t remember any of the specifics, because my life was too busy, too far away, and too uncertain.  Mara may have been hospitalized again after moving out from the apartment she shared with the drug-using female, or gotten housing in some sort of program-supported building again which placed restrictions on her activities.  I just remember that they found each other, and she seemed happy about it.

As I’d learned to expect, little by little the details she’d casually mention to me – which may have been her way of revealing them, or may had simply been slips because she didn’t remember what I knew and what I didn’t know – did little to make me feel this was a healthy relationship.  “Martin” was a recovering crack addict (which is why he was in this mental health program) and HIV-positive.  Strangely, Mara had decided to hook up with a man she didn’t feel safe having intercourse with; instead when they wanted to get romantic she would “break out the toys” - a description I didn’t try to get more details on.  From the way things sounded, sexual fulfillment was the least of their problems.

Both of them were receiving some kind of government money, although Mara’s Social Security Disability was the major part of their income…as I’ve mention earlier I was still giving Mara money when and how I was able, which usually consisted of me transferring some money from my individual checking account to our joint checking account (which we’d left open simply for that purpose).  But Mara and Martin always seemed to be broke, especially after the third week of the month.  A major reason for this was Martin’s continued use of crack.  He’d beg and argue until Mara agreed to let him buy $20 worth, if in exchange she could get $20 with of pot.  By the end of the weekend, he’d have spent $100 or more, and on occasion sold some of their belongings to pay for the extra.  CDs or DVDs I’d given Mara as presents since we split up would disappear, and some of the gold jewelry she had would find its way to a pawn shop, or a dealer.  Inevitably Mara would call me towards the end of the month to see if there was any way that she could get some extra cash sooner rather than later, either to pay rent or to buy food.

In the past I would have felt terribly guilty about all of this, but the combination of drinking, working an outrageous number of hours a week, my own depression, and the miles between us helped to alleviate those typical emotions…most of the time.  Instead I just felt shitty…there was no question Mara’s life was continuing to go the wrong way, and I no longer held out much hope that it could ever be turned around.  Support from her family was either non-existent or useless.  I never knew how much knowledge they had of Mara’s situation, but I was certain that her sister Lisa had some idea of what was going on.  I was positive of this because Mara had left a number of belongings in New Jersey at Lisa’s house, and among those items was the diamond engagement ring I’d given her in 1988.  It had a high-quality stone and had cost around $3,000; even deeply discounted it had monetary value.  Mara was furious that Lisa refused to send this ring (and I think some other jewelry) to Florida.  “It’s MINE, and she won’t GIVE it to me!” Mara would seethe on the phone to me over and over again.  But I knew the ring had no true emotional value to her anymore…it was simply a way to help finance their drug habits.

Sometimes my emotions would revert to their old habits.  Despite my distance, my own problems, life’s distractions, I knew that Mara had gotten involved with this relationship simply because she wanted someone to love and for someone to love her.  And years I later I still feel guilty about that, as if I took that away and pushed her towards the roller-coaster which would eventually be her undoing.  I know, logically, that I was simply doing what I could to take back control of my life, and that this was not my responsibility.  But logic and emotion rarely fit together.  I get wet eyes, at a minimum, just thinking about it as I write this.  The what-ifs always get me.  What if I stayed with her, gave her another chance, tried harder, tried longer?  What if?  Maybe we could have been happy again.  Maybe those moments of happiness could have outweighed the others.  Maybe she would have been able to overcome her demons.  Maybe.  What if?

Drugs were not causing their only money problems.  There had been some sort of arrest for shoplifting or burglary – I wasn’t clean on which – for which her husband needed legal assistance.  More than the charge itself, Mara and her husband were fearful that it would be discovered he had an outstanding warrant or two in other states.  So the little money they had was also going to finance this defense, and to make it work through the system as quietly as possible.  I’m not even sure what was stolen; nothing of real value…something stupid, a zebra-fur lighter or something.  It was a meaningless act with dangerous consequences.

It was at about this time that Mara discovered a little trick she could use to get cash at the end of the month, instead of waiting until her latest Disability payment had arrived in her bank account.  She’s deposit an empty envelope in an ATM, listing it as a $300 check.  Then it would allow her to withdraw $100 of that immediately.  It could only be done one time, but to her the $20 overdraft penalty was unimportant.  She’d ride with a negative balance in the account for a week or so, and then the direct deposit would clean things up for her.  I tried to point out that this really was fraud, and a dangerous game to be playing.  I had to be quite angry and forceful about it, and make her promise NEVER to do this in the joint account we still had open.  The last thing I needed was some banking irregularities while the Federal Justice System tried to figure out what kind of a prison sentence they were about to dump on me.

Then, just a few months before sentencing, Mara tells me that she has been given permission to work part-time without threatening her disability payments, and that she and her husband have gotten a cat.  In the midst of all this drama and the whirlwind of negativity, these were the first two positive signs of light I’d seen in a long time from Mara.  She was able to find office work which wouldn’t earn much, but which wasn’t too difficult, and maybe the sense of achievement would help her regain some self esteem.  At one time she had been a tremendous worker…maybe this was the path back upwards…and a way to return to a semblance of normal life?