Three More Words

by Ashley Rhodes-Courter

  “I got a nineteen-year-old boy who’s living with me, but I know he’s gotta leave.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “I caught him having sex”—she paused—“with his half sister.”

  “How old is she?” I asked, trying to keep censure out of my voice.

  “Ten. She’s big enough to get a baby.”

  N’vasha had also come in for the free supplies provided to help women keep their children. She still had two in diapers at home. I checked her file. She had been in several months earlier to ask for free supplies, and I saw a note about the sexual abuse concerns written then.

  “Why didn’t anyone follow up on this?” I asked one of the supervisors.

  “That’s not our role,” she said. “We can’t know the Lord’s plan.”

  “We’re talking about child sexual abuse!”

  “Don’t be hasty to judge.”

  “As a foster parent I am a mandated reporter,” I said, “so no matter what your policies are, they don’t trump my sworn responsibilities.”

  Later, I called the Department of Children and Families’ hotline as required.

  My strength turned out to be talking to the moms who were considering surrendering their children for adoption. I also made hospital visits to see brand-new mothers. One undecided woman agreed to an open adoption after we spoke. She was comforted by my adoption story and that I am still able to be in touch with my biological mother.

  I found it excruciating not to answer direct questions about preventing pregnancy. One woman who was having her twelfth baby became angry. “Why won’t anybody tell me what to do?” she shouted. I wanted to blurt out for her to just go to the health department, but that was also against the rules.

  I thought I could have suspended my personal principles, but this woman’s plight had been the last straw. I asked Priscilla to see her.

  Afterward Priscilla said, “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Actually, her case upset me,” I admitted.

  “Of course,” she said in a syrupy voice. “Everything is more personal when you are pregnant.”

  “No, this is different,” I said. “Did you know most of that woman’s other children are in foster care?”

  “Really?” Priscilla raised her plucked eyebrows. “Well, what’s the big deal about being in foster care?”

  My jaw dropped. If I started to reply, I couldn’t trust what I would say. “I have a really bad headache. I’d better go and rest for my baby’s sake,” I said so no other questions would be forthcoming.

  The minute I got home I called my fieldwork placement supervisor and insisted on a new position. “We don’t have any openings,” she said.

  “I know several groups that might be taking interns.”

  She explained the rules for changing a placement, and in a few weeks I had transferred my internship to the juvenile division of the public defender’s office.

  For a brief moment in our marriage Erick and I were childless, except for the one we were expecting. We had done a major cleaning and tidying, placing all the children’s clothes in boxes with the sizes marked and sorting toys by age group.

  A few days after Lance left, Erick took me out for dinner. I enjoyed putting an outfit together that wasn’t covered in spit-up or peanut butter. We went to our favorite sushi restaurant, even though I couldn’t eat raw fish. I did have two servings of miso soup, which appealed to my hormonally-altered palate. My band was also preventing me from overeating during my pregnancy.

  I didn’t share my worries about how pregnancy would change my body, since it seemed so easy for me to pack on weight under normal circumstances. Some of my friends had gained fifty to a hundred pounds during their pregnancies, and many were still struggling with baby weight. I was concerned about how I could maintain my newly modest portions while still meeting the baby’s needs. During the period I was experiencing severe morning sickness, my band was loosened because regurgitation can create slippage. In the second trimester I caught myself eating more voraciously, and so I had my band tightened a little and was extremely careful to select the nutrient-rich foods that would be best for the baby. I would then have my band completely deflated in anticipation of labor. All this loosening and tightening was painless, and we were able to find a “sweet spot” for every situation.

  “Ready for another course?” Erick asked at the restaurant.

  Instead of ordering everything at the beginning of the meal, I had waited to see how what I ate settled. I knew I couldn’t eat more than an appetizer size. “All these years I’ve been looking for some internal switch—what everyone calls willpower. My band does it for me.”

  “Whatever works,” he said. “You look beautiful tonight. And I love you more than ever.”

  We beamed at each other like kids with a crush. I had never been happier. Together we had made a lot of tough decisions and had weathered the loss of Albert and now Lance. We had known this came with the fostering territory, but it is hard to anticipate feelings. Privately we referred to our baby as “Keeper.” Nobody would ever come and move him from our home.

  “I wonder what will be different about our own baby,” Erick mused.

  “Do you think we’ll have first-time jitters?”

  Erick laughed. “We’re the baby drill team. We can change diapers in the dark, know who’s crying and for what reason, and are experts at sleep-training children who come from chaotic situations.”

  I nodded. One of the best gifts we could give those in our temporary care was to get them on a schedule of naps and regular meal- and bedtimes, heal the inevitable diaper rashes, make sure they were inoculated, and cure their wounds and infections. We were proud of what we had accomplished for eight children so far. “I bet we’ll be in for some surprises,” I said as I sipped my hot tea and smiled with contentment.

  “I’m glad you dropped down to part-time in grad school,” Erick said. “You were so exhausted.”

  The MSW was up to a two-year degree program, which had seemed doable when I enrolled. The stumbling block turned out to be the many internships on top of the foster children, my speeches and traveling—and now our baby, who was due in less than five months. I calculated everything carefully and decided I would be able to get all my research, hours, and papers in before the birth and just have to take my final exams afterward. I figured I could always study in between nursing or naps.

  The following Monday we had two phone calls that required quick decisions. Maya wanted us to “consider” Lillian Gentry, a complicated two-year-old. “She also has some medical issues. The short intake form we got on her says she has had herpes,” Maya said.

  They would e-mail over Lillian’s case summary to read, and then we could discuss her care before making a decision.

  “This is so much better than having to make a snap decision over the phone,” I told Erick. “They’re giving us all the facts up front and leaving the choice up to us.”

  Just as we were discussing the disturbing aspects of the child’s case, Phil called. “Hi, hon,” he began. “I know you aren’t busy or anything, so I thought you might be interested in a new project.”

  I knew his sarcastic tone and laughed. “Whatever you say, Pops.”

  “You remember Floyd?” He filled me in about a man who managed campaigns for the state Democratic party. Phil had done commercials for some of his candidates.

  “Isn’t he the guy who said I should run for office someday?”

  “Right. How about this election?”

  “In November? That’s only a few months away!”

  “Yes. A lot of incumbent Republicans are running unopposed. The party is looking for people who are not afraid to run against them.”

  “I think I’ll be busy then. Our baby’s due right around Election Day.”

  “It only takes one day to have a baby,” he said with a laugh. “Just keep an open mind and talk to Floyd about your political aspirations.”

  A few hours later Floyd
called. “We’d like you to file,” he said. “There are only five days before the qualifying period closes.”

  He had stirred the part of me that loves a challenge. “But I’m only twenty-six.”

  “Hey, Debbie Wasserman Schultz was the same age when she was elected to Florida’s House of Representatives, and now she’s chair of the National Democratic Party. I’d love you two to meet.”

  “Okay, let me talk to my husband.” I’d almost hung up when I thought of another question. “What office do you want me to run for?”

  “State senate.”

  “Really?” My voice went way too high and squeaky.

  Erick had questions and major reservations. “But think about all the good we can do for people just by campaigning,” I said.

  Within a few hours Floyd had e-mailed the paperwork to register my campaign. Erick and I tackled it immediately—if there was anything at which we excelled, it was bureaucratic forms.

  The next day we met with Floyd. “Are you sure I should run for the senate? I feel like I’m skipping a few steps.”

  “It’s been done before.”

  “Is my pregnancy a deterrent?”

  “On the contrary, nobody’s going to trash a pregnant woman,” he said.

  I could almost see Floyd’s mental gears meshing as he considered the pros and cons of every point. Erick was also analytical, and I would rely on his ability to sort out potential issues. We’d make a superb political team, I thought, hardly believing I was actually running for a state-level office. Floyd promised we would get all the help we needed. By the end of the week I was a registered candidate, and the newspapers started calling it the “David and Goliath” race.

  Lillian Gentry and her two older brothers had been living with their grandmother in a rural area of the county. I shouldn’t be shocked about the youthful age of grandmothers—my own would have been only thirty-three when I was born if she hadn’t died the weekend I was conceived. Here was another one in her early thirties. Lillian had been placed with her due to the usual—drugs and domestic violence—or so we were led to believe. The reason the three children qualified for therapeutic care was that they were on multiple psychotropic medications, including mind-altering drugs used to treat attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, anxiety, depression, and psychosis.

  “This is ridiculous for a child her age,” I said to Erick. “I mean, these are intense drugs, and they could permanently change a young child’s brain.”

  “Why do they give them?” Erick asked.

  “Let’s face it, every child who is removed from their family is upset, and some freak out more violently—at least on the outside—than others. But in this case, I bet the family just didn’t want to deal with three young, hyper kids.”

  “Did they give them to you?” he asked.

  “No. I was able to control my feelings by pretending I didn’t have any.” I grinned. “Worked for me. But lots of kids at The Children’s Home took several pills at ‘medication time.’ ”

  “We’d better find out if this little one really needs them,” Erick said.

  While we were considering accepting Lillian’s placement, the agency’s therapist, Bonnie, called with the latest information. “It’s quite the story,” she said. “So the grandmother spends Sunday shopping with the three children and a family friend. A couple of times the grandmother runs into a store while the friend remains in the car with the children.” She took a long, whistling breath. “When they return home, the grandmother unpacks the car and starts cooking. When she calls everyone for dinner, the friend doesn’t show up. The oldest boy says she’s still sleeping in the car. Grandma tells him to go get her. He comes back and says, ‘She’s blue.’ ”

  “Blue?” I asked.

  “As in D-E-A-D.”

  “The kids were driving around all day with a dead lady in the car?”

  “Apparently she’d been gone a long time, and Grandma never noticed.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “Are you considering Lillian?”

  “Tell me more about her medications.”

  “She has prescriptions for oppositional defiant disorder, attention deficit/hyperactive disorder, and a mood disorder. She’s even on a blood pressure medication.”

  “And she’s how old?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “But all two-year-olds are defiant and hyper and moody!”

  “We expect to wean her off all the meds to see what she’s like on her own.”

  “Why did they prescribe them for her in the first place?”

  Bonnie’s voice was calm and soft. “The grandmother was overwhelmed by the three siblings, and so she complained to a doctor.”

  “It’s like a psychiatric leash,” I said.

  “Exactly. If you turn them into zombies, they behave better.”

  “Speaking of drugs, I saw a note that said Lillian had overdosed. What is that about?”

  “She swallowed some of her parents’ pill-mill drugs.” I gasped. “She was in a coma for a few days,” Bonnie continued. “I think that’s what precipitated the original move to her grandmother.”

  “I have a call in to my midwife to find out if I can care for a child with herpes during my pregnancy,” I said. “I’ll let you know after I talk to her.”

  My midwife, Darlean, hedged a bit. “If there is an outbreak, you’ll need to wear rubber gloves for diaper changes,” she said.

  “Hopefully we can potty train her soon.” Erick counted on his fingers. “I think we’ve trained four so far, or is it five?”

  “Maybe I should put that on my campaign résumé!”

  Within a few days of filing to run for the Florida senate, state-level party representatives scheduled a lunch with me. They talked about my competition. The current senator was Jack Latvala, a moderate Republican. “Have you heard the expression ‘All politics is local’?” one of the party reps asked. “Start by making a list of everyone you know in the area, even if they aren’t in your district. They will talk to their friends and associates who could vote for you.”

  “My Boy Scout network is huge,” Erick said to them, “not to mention Ashley is well known for her child welfare advocacy and often appears on television and radio.”

  Erick took over most of the logistics, while I concentrated on my classes, internship, and prenatal appointments. Erick’s research brought some worrisome news. “No wonder nobody would run against Latvala,” he said. “He runs a printing company that can turn out posters and political paraphernalia.”

  “Maybe I should hire him.”

  We both burst out laughing because of the absurdity of our undertaking. How naive we had been to think I could put together the network and funds needed to run for the mosquito control board, let alone the state senate.

  The newspaper reported that Mr. Latvala had raised more than half a million dollars, while we had cobbled together a ludicrously small campaign fund. Since we couldn’t compete with my worthy opponent’s ability to blanket the district with signs, my friends moved around waving banners at various key locations at rush hour. Others volunteered to go door-to-door and talk me up. We had flyers at various events. Phil, who had made dozens of commercials for candidates from both parties—most of whom won their races—produced one for me.

  I spoke at various functions and was solicited by a variety of sources wanting to be paid for their services. The most nerve-racking moment came when I had to be interviewed by the editorial board of the Tampa Bay Times. Their questions were tough, but I was prepared. They wrote an article that could have been far less flattering.

  “I know what it’s like to be impoverished, have lived the child welfare system, felt the impact of budget cuts. I’ve been able to experience firsthand what happens when we don’t have legislative priorities in place,” they quoted, and then told more about my background.

  In the article Mr. Latvala called me “very bright.” He also said that while foster care is “a very i
mportant issue . . . we’ve really got a plate full of big issues.” Erick loved the article’s last line and read it aloud. “ ‘Asked why she didn’t first try for a smaller post like school board, Rhodes-Courter joked that the senate is the natural next step for this former fifth-grade class president: “I wanted to jump in feet first. Go big or go home.”’ ”

  A transporter delivered Lillian at the exact time Sheila, our new agency’s targeted case manager, had arranged a visit with us. Erick unbuckled Lillian’s car seat and lifted her out. When he placed her on the ground, her knees buckled. She couldn’t even put her limp arms around his neck, and so he carried her in a cradled position into our home and propped her on the corner of our couch.

  “Is she ill?” I asked Sheila.

  “No. She’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “Does she have some other impairment?” Erick asked. Lillian was drooling like a much younger child.

  “No, that’s just her meds. I’ll go over the weaning plan with you.” Sheila went out to her car and found the child’s stuffed kitty and tucked it under her arm. Then she came back and handed me some pharmacy bottles. “Discontinue these two immediately and cut back as per the list. She should be detoxed in two weeks.”

  “Will she go through any sort of withdrawal?”

  “Hard to say. We don’t have much experience in children this young on so many drugs.”

  I caught Erick’s look of disgust.

  By dinnertime, Lillian started to emerge from her zombie state, but she still needed to be spoon-fed. I bathed her while Erick made notations in a notebook about any marks or bruises. She was a beautiful child, with huge green eyes and straight straw-colored hair and bangs. “Normal bruised knees and a black-and-blue mark near her left elbow.” I photographed them for reference. We both wore rubber gloves the first time we diapered her. She had a mild diaper rash—nothing we hadn’t seen before—and a few spots that either were normal discoloration or from something that had healed. There were no fluid-filled or healing blisters.