Mr. Ferris was gruff with me. “Get your stuff and get in the car.”
I ducked under Mr. Ferris’s arm and into his musty-smelling car. As he started the motor, I looked at the shed where I knew my toys were stored, but I did not dare ask about them.
Neither of us spoke until we were almost at Mrs. Chavez’s. “Ashley,” Mr. Ferris said sternly, “the most important part of someone’s character is being honest. Nobody likes a liar. You keep getting in trouble with these behaviors.”
“Where’s Luke?” I asked.
“He’s at Joshua House.”
“Is that a foster home?”
“No, a shelter.”
“When can I see him?”
“I’ll try to arrange a visit with him next week.”
Poor Lukie, I thought. But this time, at least, he had Mary Miller watching out for him.
When I returned from my overnight at the Mosses’, I asked Madeline if she brought me anything from Disney World.
“We never went,” Madeline said. “We were only teasing you.”
That spring Vivian, a foster child who was slightly younger than me, moved in and slept on a cot in Mrs. Chavez’s room. Mrs. Chavez mentioned that Vivian was “free for adoption,” which sounded like she was a kitten being given away at the flea market. Mary Miller had said something about me being adopted, yet adoption had trapped Mandy in the Moss family, where she could be punished as much as they wanted without anyone checking. I did not want that to happen to me. Still, when I overheard Mrs. Chavez say that Vivian would fit in with their family, I was jealous. Vivian was African American, and I was the only white person in the house. Even if I wanted to stay, they would not keep me. No matter how hard I tried, I would never be chosen by them—or anyone.
Until Mary Miller took our case, the legal issues concerning Luke and me had been neglected for years and were in violation of all the laws that were supposed to either return children to their parents or come up with another permanent family. First, she finished clearing Luke for adoption, then she started working on getting me relinquished as well. She took the necessary steps to deal with my unknown father’s rights, but my mother refused to give me up. Because Mary suspected that my mother was still using drugs, she had convinced the judge to halt our visits, but if my mother tested clean, reunification was still possible.
At a crucial court hearing my mother brought proof that she had completed rehab. Still, Mary Miller was suspicious. She asked the judge to order one final screening. Maybe my mother had celebrated her rehab graduation prematurely and knew what the result of another test would be. In any case, she refused to take the drug test and signed a paper for the termination of her parental rights to me instead. Judge Giglio wrote in his order that it was “manifestly in the best interest of said child for the mother’s parental rights to be terminated” and that the state was to receive permanent commitment of said child and “place said child in an adoptive home.”
Mrs. Chavez always looked the other way when I talked about my mother, and none of my caseworkers answered any questions about when my next visit would be. Although Mary Miller tried to explain that I would never live with my mother again, she had avoided telling me that I would never see her either. I suppose she realized that I couldn’t handle everything at once—and she was right. Still, I knew something was different. I sensed that something had changed. Until the court papers were finalized, there had been a chance that the tides would reverse, the world would stop spinning, and I would be my mother’s Sunshine again. Until the judge signed the documents, everything else had been temporary. Once the judge ruled, I was an orphan. I had no parents, and no possibilities were in sight.
8.
campus for crazy kids
My transfer to The Children’s Home of Tampa was my thirteenth move in the seven years I had been in foster care. Mary Miller told me I would be able to live with Luke again and promised I could finish third grade at Boyette Springs, which made me feel slightly better, but I still didn’t want to leave the Chavezes’ because I was afraid the home might be far worse.
My new caseworker, Dixie Elmer, talked up the new place as though it were a magical kingdom, but it sounded more like Lake Mag than Disney World. During the entrance tests, they gave me some sentences to complete. After I am afraid …, I wrote: I will never see my mother again; and after My mother …, I added: is on drugs. After My father …, I answered: I really don’t know my father. Finally, beside I need my parents …, I finished with: when I’m alone, feeling blue, and need someone.
“And what if you had three wishes?” the intake worker asked.
I scanned the room and settled on a stuffed tiger to stare at. “I would like to be with my mother, be very well educated, and have enough money to support my family, if I ever have one.”
I must have passed, because I moved to The Children’s Home in June. I carried a blue box. Its lid was stamped TIFFANY & CO. At Christmas, Mrs. Chavez had been thrilled to receive a vase that was bought from that store. When I knew I was leaving, I asked for the box to hold my precious possessions, and Mrs. Chavez had given it grudgingly. Ms. Elmer lugged the garbage bags stuffed with my clothes into the administration building. A grandmotherly woman with a sweet smile spoke into the phone at the front desk. “Ashley has arrived,” she announced.
I heard the click of high heels approaching. A formidable woman dressed in a long skirt held out her hand. “My name is Beth Reese. I’m the director of treatment services,” she said to the caseworker, then nodded to me. “You can call me ‘Ms. Beth.’”
She turned to someone who had come up more quietly in sneakers. “This is Ms. Sandnes. She’ll be your primary.” The other woman, who looked like a college student, wore an inside-out sweatshirt, and she had combed her blond hair into a taut ponytail.
“Hi, Sandra,” said Ms. Elmer, mistaking my primary’s name.
“It’s spelled S-A-N-D-N-E-S. The ‘d’ is silent, so it’s pronounced ‘San-ness.’” She wrinkled her nose toward me. “I know, it’s weird.”
“Let me show you around,” Ms. Sandnes said. She reached for my box, and I reluctantly let her have it. “Don’t worry, Ms. Margy will watch over your stuff.”
Ms. Sandnes led the way down the hallway and poked her head in an open door. A man waved. “Welcome, Ashley.” At the far end of his office three boys were tossing a foam ball into the hoop above the window.
The tallest boy called out, “Where’s she going to live?”
“Lykes Cottage,” Ms. Sandnes replied, “with your brothers.”
“How long have they lived here?” I asked as we continued down the hall.
“Three, maybe four years.”
“How long will I be here?”
“Probably a year—maybe more, maybe less. Most of our children either go home to their families or are adopted.”
“Could I go home to my mother?”
Ms. Sandnes bit her lip as she decided what to say. “In your case, no.” She checked her watch. “I want to get you settled in before dinner.”
When it was time to return to the reception area, I hurried back. Ms. Margy was locking the door to her office. “Nobody touched your stuff.” Her eyes twinkled like the fairy godmother’s in Cinderella.
As we walked across the quad, Ms. Sandnes pointed out the six coed cottages, each housing twelve children, which were spaced around a circular drive. She indicated the building next to the playground. “That’s Conn Cottage. Your brother will live there with the younger children,” Ms. Sandnes said. “You’re going to be in Lykes with me. Our cottage has later bedtimes and more privileges.”
Children of all ages, sizes, and colors zoomed by on bikes. “I had a bike at the Chavezes’, but they told me I couldn’t have one here.”
“Of course you can. We’ll borrow one from storage for you, and then we’ll ask your caseworker to retrieve your bike from Mrs. Chavez.”
“Oh, caseworkers never get your stuff. Ask Mary Miller, she’s
my guardian.”
When we arrived at Lykes, several children were climbing into a white van. A man helped the smallest one up. Ms. Sandnes beamed at him. “Ashley, this is Mr. Todd; he’s one of the staff in our cottage.”
“I’m taking a couple of families to the movies tonight.” A few more kids clustered around him like chicks to a hen. He winked at Ms. Sandnes and me. “See you later, Ashley-gator.”
“Is he cool?” I asked her.
“Oh, very. Ours is the coolest cottage on campus.”
I followed Ms. Sandnes inside. On one end of the entrance hall there was a Lion King poster. Well-worn couches and comfy chairs filled the room on the right, where some kids were watching television. There was also an empty aquarium.
“Why aren’t there any fish?”
“Someone poured juice in the tank and it killed them,” she explained.
A man, who was taking notes, glanced up. “Hey! I’m Mr. Irvin,” he said. “Welcome!” A few kids were eating at the kitchen table. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “We’re having a pack-out dinner tonight, so you can eat whenever you want.”
Pack-out? Primary? Families? What language were they speaking?
“We’ll get her settled first,” Ms. Sandnes answered for me.
She led me to my bedroom. “Are you nervous?” She did not wait for a response. “Well, I am. I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve never been a primary before.”
On top of my bed was a newbed-in-a-bag, with Pocahontas sheets, pillowcase, and coverlet. “What do you mean by ‘family’ and ‘primary’?” I asked.
While we made the bed, she explained that “primary” was short for “primary caregiver.” Every primary had several children in his or her “family.” Families engaged in at least one fun event a week, like going to a movie or bowling.
“Do you live here?”
“No, I have a shift, but I’m usually here from two in the afternoon until bedtime.”
I showed her the music box my mother gave me. Ms. Sandnes said, “This is very precious, isn’t it?” I nodded. “Let’s put it on the tip-top shelf in your closet.”
It did not take long to organize my meager possessions. “Are you ready to eat?” Ms. Sandnes asked.
“Pack-out” did not sound very appetizing. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I am,” she said. “Let’s see what they brought over from the caf.”
I followed her into the kitchen. She lifted the foil on some pans. “There’s fried chicken, baked beans, coleslaw, and peaches. Want me to make you a plate?”
“I’m kind of picky.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t like chicken on the bone.”
“I can cut it off.”
“I don’t want anything touching.”
“You can have separate plates.”
Was she always this nice, or was this just how they treated a new kid? I wondered. She and I sat at one end of the long table. The food was not hot, but it was tasty.
“Would you like to take your shower early?” she asked. “It takes a long time for all the showers.”
“Why?”
“We have a lot of rules here, but they are for your privacy and safety.”
She handed me a neon pink bucket containing a fresh tube of toothpaste, a new toothbrush, and a small bottle of shampoo. With a marker, she wrote ASHLEY on the bucket, with fat dots on the ends of the letters. After my shower Ms. Sandnes introduced me to my roommate, Sabrina, who was a year younger than I was.
“Sorry you couldn’t go see Casper with us,” Sabrina said. At first I thought she was rubbing it in, but her wide eyes like black olives made her seem sincere.
Crossing campus the next morning, I heard a familiar voice. Luke, who had just arrived at The Children’s Home, ran full speed toward me and flung his arms around my waist. “Mr. Tom!” he called to his new primary from Conn Cottage, “this is my sister!”
“Ouch!” I tried to pry his arms from around me. “Not so tight!”
“Luke!” Mr. Tom called. “Catch!” He tossed a tennis ball and Luke caught it.
“Ever play tennis?” Mr. Tom asked Luke.
“Nope.” Luke shook his head.
“We can play after you unpack,” Mr. Tom said.
Luke threw the ball in the air, then scampered off with Mr. Tom.
Relieved that I didn’t have to worry about him, I followed Sabrina and Daphne, another girl from Lykes Cottage who was a year older than I was and who seemed savvier than Sabrina. We waited by the administration building until Sabrina’s therapist came for her. “Therapy sucks,” Daphne said.
“Well, I’m not going,” I announced as we headed back to the cottage.
“Oh yes you are,” she retorted. “It’s required.”
My therapist was Mary Fernandez, and I found her probing irritating. I planted myself in a seat in her office, crossed my arms, lined my eyes up with a crack in the wall, and braced for the inquisition.
“How are you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Fine.”
“How’s the cottage?”
“Fine.”
“When did you last see your mother?” she asked to stimulate a conversation.
“I don’t know.”
“You look sad about it.” I bit my lip. “Are you angry?” She pointed to a chart that listed feelings. “How about any of those?”
“I don’t feel anything about it.”
“Why?”
“There’s nothing I can do anyway, is there?” My voice may have vacillated too much.
“It’s normal to miss your mother.”
“Maybe I’m not normal.” I instantly regretted admitting something was wrong.
“In what other ways do you feel different, Ashley?”
We sat in silence while my session dribbled to an end.
Part of the therapy routine was playing what’s called the “Talking, Feeling, and Doing Game.” When I landed on blue, for sad, the card might read: When do you feel sad?
This was ridiculous. A red space did not mean I was angry or a yellow one that I was happy. The therapist’s tricks might work on a dumber kid, but not me. Why should I discuss my mother with anybody when nobody had even given us a chance to say good-bye?
Besides having to endure sessions with Ms. Fernandez, I had family therapy with Luke. Luke was willing to play the games, although he would not follow the rules. The more he fooled around, the more aggravated I became.
When the Merritts heard we were going to The Children’s Home, they said they wanted to stay involved in our lives in an honorary “aunt” and “uncle” role. At the end of July, Mr. Bruce, the family therapist, invited the Merritts to Luke’s birthday party in the therapy conference room.
At one point Mr. Bruce noticed me sulking. “When’s your birthday?”
“November twenty-second.”
“We’ll have a celebration for you, too,” he said.
I groaned. “I’ve been promised birthdays before that haven’t worked out.”
To outsiders, the campus seemed like a prep school where adorable children lived in cute cottages and had excellent recreational facilities. Yet each resident had hidden terrors that lurked like sea monsters in the murky bottom of an unfathomable lagoon. Several residents had been raped by family members. Two siblings had had their hands superglued to the wall and then were abandoned by their parents. Another’s brother had been starved to death in a closet. Most of the time our personal monsters stayed submerged, even though the constantly undulating water kept us on edge. Every once in a while a creature’s tail, fin, or snout would surface as some peculiar behavior.
At night Sabrina screamed out, “Get off me!”
Sometimes I would awaken sobbing, saying that someone had been shot and that blood was everywhere.
Others dealt with their demons differently. Sam would haul off and punch anyone who annoyed him. Leroy’s trademark was scratching. Keri was full of surprises. One minute she would be cute as a
button, the next she would transform into a raging fiend. She plugged the sinks, turned on the taps full force, and flooded three bathrooms simultaneously. She climbed on dressers, unscrewed light-bulbs, and shoved hangers into the sockets until sparks flew out. Some days she might only stand on a chair and spit on everyone who got in range. Even though Keri was small for her age, she was strong and daring. Trying to flee Mr. Irvin, she jumped on the Ping-Pong table in the rec room. When he tried to grab her, she dove headfirst and split her chin on the table’s edge. A few days later she tore off her bandages and plucked out her stitches. When the blood began to flow, she giggled maniacally as she ran around trying to drip blood on as many kids as possible. Keri’s weird laugh was a warning. Next, her head would bob a bit and her eyes would take on the intensity of a wild predator. She was as flexible as Gumby, so restraining her was difficult. Once, she twisted around and bit Ms. Sandnes’s hand so severely, Ms. Sandnes needed to take antibiotics.
I was excited when a beautician volunteered to give the girls in our cottage manicures. Because I had watched Mrs. Chavez at work, I knew all the procedures. As the manicurist unpacked her tools, I pointed to a tube that looked like an accordion. “That’s cuticle remover.” I indicated a stone. “And that’s a pterygium stone.”
“Well, you know a lot!” she said. “Would you like to go first?”
“Why does Ashley get everything first?” Keri screeched.
Keri grabbed a bottle of clear liquid. Before anyone could react, she uncapped it and threw it in my face. The beautician screamed, “That’s acetone!”
My eyes felt as if they were on fire. “Help me!”
Ms. Lisa, who worked in the cottage, steered me into the staff bathroom and poured water over my face to flush out the chemical. “Are your eyes okay?”
“I think so.” I blinked. “But they’re still burning a little.”
Ms. Lisa was shaking. “You could have been blinded.”
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