Three More Words

by Ashley Rhodes-Courter

  “He was hesitant to go to his father, and he separated from him easily. The minute we got home, he leaped into Erick’s arms.”

  “Erick’s wonderful with him.”

  “If Albert’s parents don’t complete their case plans, Erick wants to adopt him.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. He may have a relative who would qualify.”

  “We didn’t go into this to adopt. . . .” My voice caught. “It’s just that we adore him.”

  “Even you, Ash?”

  “I guess I’m still trying to be realistic,” I said, and the truth was that it was so much harder for me to commit myself.

  “Right, and you two are newlyweds. You’ll be starting a family of your own in a few years.”

  “Life is what happens when you are making other plans,” I said, quoting one of Gay’s favorite lines back to her.

  Over and over I reminded myself—and Erick—that Albert wasn’t ours. He was on loan, temporary, checked out like a library book or a hamster during school vacation. We had to turn him back in the moment we were asked to. We might not even be given notice. The thought of this tender toddler, who had just turned three, receiving the same heartless treatment I had endured petrified me. To guard myself, I had bundled most of my affectionate feelings in reserve. Was that what my former caregivers had done? I had perceived my foster parents as being distant, and I believed they disliked me. Had they just been protecting themselves from becoming too attached? And if their unattachment had made me so distrustful of everyone’s motives, how could I knowingly pass my misgivings on to another child? Wasn’t the point to do a better job with this child than anyone had ever done with me? So why was I holding back? Here was a little boy who needed love, who demanded love, who deserved love, and yet . . .

  We fell into an easy routine. When I asked his caseworker, Juanita, why Albert didn’t have a Guardian ad Litem, she said, “Why does he need one? He’s going to be reunified no matter what.”

  “His father hasn’t seen him in months, and neither parent has done anything on their case plan. We are also constantly fighting to get him services, so having another set of eyes on the case may be a good idea. No one listens to us in court,” I said angrily.

  Erick and I had to resign from being guardians when we became foster parents because of conflicts of interest. A guardian, or court-appointed special advocate, had been instrumental in getting me free for adoption, and I knew that one was essential in Albert’s situation. Albert’s next visit with his father took place at the social services office. This would be the first time I would use the training we’d had in the fostering class. My job was to tell the father all about Albert’s progress, then listen to his concerns and address them.

  When I arrived, the receptionist took the diaper bag from me and reached for Albert’s hand, which was clasping mine tightly. I started to follow her into the visitation room. “You can’t go in there,” she said in a clipped voice.

  “That’s not what I was told,” I replied. “We’re supposed to forge relationships with the parents, tell them about their child.”

  “Let me get the visitation supervisor.”

  “I’m sorry you were misinformed,” the supervisor said. “We don’t allow foster parents to interfere with visitations,” she said. “Besides, this child is too attached to you. He might refuse to go to his father if you are in the room.”

  Albert’s eyes were wide.

  I started to let them go, but called, “Wait, I need my cell phone and car keys that are in the bag’s pocket.”

  I hurried toward the elevator, infuriated that nobody knew that foster parents were now being trained to be active parts of the case and interact with siblings and biological families.

  “Hey, Ashley!” Annabelle said as she got off the elevator. “What are you doing here?”

  “Am I ever glad to see you! I thought you worked in another office.”

  “I’m here one day a week,” she said, and noticing my scowl asked, “What’s going on?”

  I blasted her with what had just happened. She checked her watch. “I have some time before my meeting, so let’s get this sorted out right now.” She walked me into the supervisor’s office and Juanita was called in as well.

  “Didn’t we just have a training on this?” Annabelle said.

  “She’s the first foster parent to have asked for the new rule to be enforced,” the director said.

  “It’s not a new rule,” Annabelle said in a conciliatory tone, “it’s a new paradigm—a way to integrate foster care and reunification.”

  “As long as you are here,” Juanita said to me, “we had a staffing about Albert.”

  Staffings bring together as many people as possible who are involved in a child’s case to discuss his status, well-being, and plans for his future. Since foster parents spend the most time with the child and thus know him best, we should have been invited to anything involving Albert, but I decided to bring that up another time.

  Juanita continued, “So far we’ve ruled out all biological family on both sides. The parents have failed services provided previously—which is a bad sign. But we’re going to give the father another chance and place the child in a foster home closer to him.”

  “Move Albert?” I gasped.

  “When his father is ready for increased visits and overnights, the child will be nearby. You’re—what—two hours away from here?”

  “I’ve been transporting with no complaints.”

  “It’s hard on our workers and his guardian.”

  “He doesn’t even have a guardian.”

  She looked at his file. “Yes, he does.”

  “Nobody’s called or visited us.” I forced myself to speak in a calm voice. “Moving him now would be detrimental. He’s settled in and making progress.” I flushed, feeling panicky for Albert. Hadn’t they learned anything since I was a child about the damaging effect of moves? “I spent a month getting him into the developmental preschool, and they’re thrilled with his progress.”

  “We’ll consider our options,” was Juanita’s noncommittal response.

  Trying to get Albert all the services he needed took weeks of time. I enjoyed advocating for the little fellow, although it seemed we were the only ones initiating any action on his behalf. Nine months had passed since he was placed with us. Albert’s mother was out of the picture, and his father had stopped coming to the monitored visits.

  One afternoon Juanita stopped by the house. “The court has granted Albert’s father unsupervised visits.”

  “What?” Erick said, shocked.

  “Mr. Sosa requested it at the last staffing, and the court accepted.”

  “What has he done on his case plan?” I asked.

  “He’s got a job at Checkers—working sixty hours a week.”

  “That’s impossible,” Erick said. “No fast-food place gives that number of hours.”

  “That’s what he told the judge,” Juanita replied, her face a mask that concealed what she really thought.

  “Have you confirmed it with his manager, or has he provided pay stubs?” Erick asked. “And what about safe housing?”

  “He’s sleeping on the sofa of a former roommate.”

  “Someone who lived at the crack house?” Erick said sarcastically.

  “Of course we’re doing a home study of this apartment.”

  “Does this other guy have a criminal record too?”

  “We don’t disclose that information to foster parents.”

  We were the ones who nurtured and loved this little boy and were the most concerned about his safety. His father hadn’t visited him in nearly five months. When he had shown up for a visit, he ignored our advice about appropriate activities, toys, and foods. He barely even spoke to Albert during visits. He would just bring a loud movie to watch. When Albert first came to us, he was practically feral. Now he spoke, laughed, was potty trained, drank from a cup, ate politely, and engaged with the world around him. If his father cou
ldn’t entertain Albert for an hour, how was he going to meet his special needs? His dad couldn’t even maintain stable housing and had moved several times, living with numerous questionable roommates since the case began.

  My phone rang. The number indicated it was from Annabelle. “We’re really in a jam,” she said. “We have a baby whose foster mother can’t take care of him anymore, and he’s already been through both sets of grandparents.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, if only to be amenable so Annabelle knew I appreciated her standing up for me regarding Albert.

  Two hours later sturdy Lance arrived in a diaper meant for a baby half his size and—as usual—without any clothes or supplies.

  10.

  becoming the other mother

  The love of a foster-mother for her charge

  appears absolutely irrational.

  —Winston Churchill

  “You’re Lance’s fifth placement,” his caseworker, Mike Bigelow, said as he unbuckled the baby from his car seat.

  “How’s that possible?” I asked. “He isn’t even six months old!”

  “Mom and dad both have severe mental health issues. He was born in a secure psychiatric ward and given to the maternal grandmother. Then a neighbor reported that she was hallucinating about feeding him to lions, and so he moved to his paternal grandparents. After we discovered a relative living there who had a sex-crime conviction, he went to a shelter home and then his first foster home.”

  “Why didn’t they keep him?”

  Mike looked embarrassed. “The foster mother complained he took too much time away from her dogs.”

  Erick pointed to our dogs, which had been adjusting to life with small children since our first foster child arrived. “Our priorities are different,” he said.

  “Are there any other relatives who can take him?” I asked.

  “Since he’s already been through both grandparents and his parents are unstable, this will probably go to TPR.” TPR meant this baby would be available for adoption. “His parents are hard to talk to, but we don’t think there is any other family.”

  As soon as Mike closed the door, we prepared the usual welcoming bath. Lance’s diaper area was raw, an indication of poor care, but we didn’t find any signs of abuse, infestation, or disease.

  “I hope he’ll be a good sleeper,” I said, since I was starting a new internship the following week.

  My social work major was Children and Families; however, my initial field placement had to be in a different concentration. After a stint at a local homeless shelter, I was assigned to work in the social work department of a local hospital. Many patients needed additional services upon discharge because they had no family or friends to care for them. All my life I had been worrying about the possibility of having nobody to count on when I was an adult. My connection to the Courters was solid—we talked almost daily and saw each other often—and the large Smith family also enveloped me. I also knew I could ask Josh or Blake for anything, and I even felt that some of my biological relatives would be there in a pinch, including Lorraine, who can be quite responsible and doting when sober—although it was too little too late for me.

  Fortunately, this internship had long but flexible hours. I could schedule my initial 550 hours around my speeches, classes, or foster child emergencies. Best of all, my supervisor, Arlene, was one of the finest mentors I ever had. She let me learn the complicated computer and charting system at my own pace and was always eager to answer my questions. I admired her easy, caring bedside manner. Nurses and other staff told me I was fortunate to be working with “the best in the business.”

  After the first week I had a better understanding of the local resources, but there were many unusual circumstances and protocols. I still wasn’t fully confident three weeks into the job. I could handle most of the routine and less complicated discharges. While I loved working with Arlene, I realized that hospital social work was not going to be my career.

  One family was very belligerent. I was trying to arrange for the mother—a stroke victim—to be transferred by stretcher to a nursing home that accepted her insurance. Her son wanted to move her in his car and to a facility closer to his home. When I tried to explain why neither would work, he cussed me out at his mother’s bedside.

  “This man is not only unreasonable, he’s out of control,” I said to Arlene.

  “I like to remind myself that it’s easier to be mad than sad,” Arlene said. “People who are grieving often act irritated.” She paused. “Try to be sympathetic to his circumstances and see if he calms down. If not, I’ll talk to him.”

  Her suggestion worked, and I scribbled a note to bring up the mad/sad question in class.

  I was working on a rainy Friday morning after a week of travel and classes. My first case was easy: a teenager with a broken leg was going home in his parents’ car. I returned to my station and scanned the next patient’s file.

  Her name was Melissa Flicke, and under next of kin was listed: Chelsea Duffy, daughter. My head throbbed as I tried to focus on her address. Dark spots burned concentric holes in the blurred words. Marjorie Moss, one of my most horrific foster parents, had a daughter-in-law named Melissa who was a regular at the Moss home. My strongest memory of her was that she had once tattled on me—and I always felt she’d done it just so I would be punished. I had been watching her husband doing tricks on his motorcycle and I hadn’t come away from a fence when she called. When Melissa told, Mrs. Moss beat me so viciously that my mouth bled. The last name Duffy also sounded familiar. And Melissa’s daughter was named Chelsea, who had been a teenager when I was seven. I was fairly certain the address in the file was on the same road as the Moss home. Either way, many of the Moss family members lived in the same area. Eventually, the Mosses were prosecuted on more than forty counts of felony child abuse with torture and were sued by many of their former foster children, including Luke and me.

  I forced myself to concentrate on the discharge folder. Melissa Flicke seemed quite young to have terminal brain cancer. I rubbed my eyes, as if that would clear the fog that had descended. I stroked my name tag. The family might recognize my name after everything that happened. I headed to Arlene’s station. She was on the phone, working on another difficult case. I tentatively motioned to her for a word when she was finished. Arlene waved me to the chair next to her but kept talking. “So what’s the patient’s condition?” She rolled her eyes. “She’ll have to come back here to be reevaluated. No, no—just stay there. I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Sorry to bother,” I said when she got off the call, “but I believe I’ve had a prior relationship with this patient and—”

  Arlene wasn’t really listening. “You’re a pro, Ashley, I’m sure you will handle it just fine.”

  “It might make the situation worse emotionally for the family—I can explain later—but maybe you should take lead on this one—”

  “Okay, just flip over your name tag, and we can deal with it together.”

  I felt crushed by absolute dread as I stood in the doorway of the patient’s room. It was if I were carrying dive weights—my body heavy and awkward, like I had to remind myself how to walk. Peachy morning light dappled the dim, sad room. A man dozed in a chair while two other relatives or friends guarded the bedside. A large woman lingered by the window and another—gaunt and yellow—lay motionless on the bed.

  The patient groaned.

  I startled, my heart beating wildly.

  “Ma?” The woman by the window turned around. Could this be Chelsea? I searched for the features of the plucky teen inside the unrecognizable body. “Do you want more medicine?”

  The man in the chair opened his eyes. “Tell her to squeeze your hand.”

  “Squeeze my hand,” Chelsea said. “Nothin’. I can tell she’s hurtin’.”

  That voice—both raspy and childlike—was it really hers? I couldn’t be 100 percent sure, but still, like a crack of lightning, my professional compassion dissolved into
a molten ball of fury. This family had put me through a hell that still inhabited my dreams and had given me a permanent layer of distrust . . . of everyone. An even more evil thought intruded: pull the plug! She wasn’t really attached to any lifesaving machines, and I never could have done it. Still, how ironic it was to witness someone who once held my young life in her hands now on her deathbed.

  Arlene caught up to me and I walked into the room behind her. I double-checked to make sure the name on my ID couldn’t be read. Arlene cleared her throat. “I’m your discharge coordinator,” she said. “Who is signing for the patient?”

  “Me,” Chelsea said.

  The tray table at the foot of the bed was littered with to-go food and cups, so Arlene led her out to the corridor. Chelsea signed all the papers while leaning on the nurse’s counter without reading them. The moldy smell of her sweater caused saliva to rise in my throat. Before we were finished, my pulse started racing and my forehead became damp. I took a few deep breaths.

  “The transporter will be here in two hours,” Arlene said. Normally I would have interjected something politely consoling, but I had to keep swallowing.

  The daughter lumbered back into the room, her hunched back like that of a tired bear.

  I hurried to the nearest lavatory and gagged into the sink. I sat on the edge of the toilet until the nausea passed, then washed my face, rinsed my mouth, and ran my fingers through my hair to smooth back the loosened tendrils. When I walked into the hallway, Arlene was passing. She steered me by the elbow into the break room on that floor.

  “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “In a way I did.” The whole story tumbled out.

  “You handled yourself wonderfully,” Arlene said.

  “I almost lost it.”

  “The point is that you didn’t—and that’s the mark of a professional.”

  “What were the chances?”

  “Yes, quite a coincidence. Are you absolutely sure it was the same family?”

  I paused.

  “Sometimes our minds play tricks with us.” Arlene gave me a meaningful look.