“Doesn’t look like she has herpes now,” Erick said with relief. “How does a kid her age get herpes anyway?”
“I think babies can get it if their mother has an active case when she gives birth. That’s one reason for C-sections,” I said, having read about it in one of my pregnancy books.
That night we were too tired to read Lillian’s paperwork. The next day, though, our innocence turned to horror.
I had woken up earlier than Erick. I made myself a nutritious smoothie, let the dogs out, and sat on the patio watching them frolic before tackling Lillian’s thick file.
Two pages in I started to perspire. I almost woke Erick up but forced myself to get the full picture before I panicked. Besides having herpes, she had been diagnosed with a severe case of HPV—human papillomavirus, which she had acquired through sexual contact. I looked at the top of the page. This had been written by an intake caseworker. Maybe she had misunderstood something. I knew personally how often children were misdiagnosed or falsely labeled. I flipped to her medical paperwork and found a forensic report from the child protection team. There had been indications of sexual abuse at her six-month exam . . . she had been to the doctor for chronic bladder infections . . . sexual abuse noted again at one year. I began to quake. Why hadn’t the agency warned us? The therapeutic agency’s documents said nothing about sexual abuse, only the shock of the dead body and needing to wean her off her meds.
I hurried upstairs and lay down next to Erick, gasping. “What?” he asked as he roused. “You okay? The baby . . .?”
“The little girl . . . Lillian . . . they didn’t tell us . . . horrible sexual abuse . . . since infancy!”
“What the—?” He sat up abruptly. “We can’t keep her.”
“I know,” I said. Here’s the thing: Foster parents worried most about false allegations of sexual abuse. As a stay-at-home dad, Erick was already viewed suspiciously by some people, and as a well-known person in the child welfare field, I could be a target—and even more so now that I was running for office. Brian and Beth had just gone through an inquiry because a disturbed child accused his foster father of hitting him, even though the boy didn’t have a bruise and his story kept changing. Eventually Brian was cleared, but he was put on suspension at his job, and the accusation itself remained on his permanent record.
“Her medical report says she had so many genital warts and blisters that her anus was ‘unrecognizable.’ Also that she had ‘significant signs’ of penetration.”
Erick exhaled through the corner of his mouth. His face was mottled with rage. “I don’t know who could take better care of her than we could.”
“You want to take the chance?”
We talked about the risk. “She’s two,” he said, “and doesn’t have much language. I don’t think she’s going to make up wild stories.”
“Yet.”
“She probably won’t be with us more than a few months anyway.”
“We can talk about these issues with the agency,” I said, “and then we can decide.”
He reached over and kissed me.
“Hiya!” came a singsong voice. Lillian toddled into the room without the previous stumbling walk or flat tone. She reached her hands up for me to lift her onto our bed.
Erick looked over his shoulder at me. He was right. We were keeping her.
Having a little girl was different. Although foster parents were not supposed to cut their charges’ hair, hers was so uneven and matted that I took her to the beauty parlor so her bangs were straight and her hair fell in a sleek bob. After so many boys, Gay and I shopped for cute clothes and found bargains at a local consignment boutique. Gay and Phil also treated me to some maternity clothes for my travels and the campaign.
While we were out shopping, I got a call from Luke, who only phoned when he had a problem. “What’s wrong?” I asked reflexively.
“I’m in the hospital.”
“Oh, Luke! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sort of. Some asshole hit my motorcycle with his truck and almost got me killed. I broke my leg and my bike is ruined. But I have a lawyer who’s going to sue the driver for everything the guy has.”
“I’m sorry you’re going through this. What hospital are you at?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I gotta go.”
He quickly hung up the phone. I took a long breath and realized I hadn’t told him I was pregnant. My fingers hovered, ready to text him back, and then I stopped. Something about his story seemed odd. When I got home, I checked the county website for incarcerations and saw that Luke had been recently arrested for fleeing the scene of an accident, with property damage, driving on a suspended license, and various other charges over the last year. There was always some critical piece missing from Luke’s wild stories. I couldn’t understand why he was determined to stand in his own way and be his own worst enemy.
When Bonnie came for the first in-home therapy session, Lillian twirled into the room in her watermelon-colored pinafore dress and twinkle-toe sneakers, with Bella, the Chihuahua, following like a shadow.
“Hello, Ms. Bonnie,” I said.
“Hello, Ms. Bonnie,” Lillian echoed.
“She’s a different child!” Bonnie enthused.
“Yes, she doesn’t drool or mumble,” I said. “Those drugs were poisoning her.”
“I love her hair.”
“Shampoo works wonders.”
I left the therapist to work with Lillian and went outside to help Erick in our all-organic—after all my junk-food binging, Gay had laughed at that!—vegetable garden. Lillian knocked on the glass door to alert us to come back inside.
I gave Lillian a puzzle to work on in the playroom, while we joined the therapist to review our concerns. “First of all, we were told she has herpes, but the medical report says she is positive for HPV,” I said. “If we had known this, we would have asked a lot more questions before accepting the placement. With the herpes, we were thinking maybe she contracted it at birth if the mother had an outbreak. But this kind of HPV is sexually transmitted.”
“A female child with a history of sexual abuse is a problem for us,” Erick said, glancing over to Lillian, who was saying “High five!” to Loki and hitting his raised paw.
“Why is that?” the therapist asked smoothly.
“Because it puts our family at risk for a false accusation,” Erick responded bluntly.
“I’m on the road several times a month,” I said, “which is one reason we’ve mostly fostered boys.”
“Everything will be fine as long as we keep the lines of communication open between us,” Bonnie said. “Your family has our full support.”
“That’s reassuring, but it only goes so far if this kid blames me for something or some doctor gets the wrong idea—” Erick’s face blanched.
I reached over and held his hand. “Has there been a thorough investigation? What’s happened to the perpetrator?”
Bonnie shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, but I can get the rest of the case file, if that would help.”
When Bonnie called us back a few days later, she confirmed that the original removal came after Lillian overdosed on her mother’s medications. “At that time her two older brothers confirmed that they had been sexually abused and had seen Lillian abused by the same man—a frequent visitor to the mother’s home,” she said. “One of the brothers said, ‘I saw Murph Buckles kissing my sister’s privates.’ ”
“So did they lock him up and throw away the key?” I asked.
“The prosecutor is worried about ‘jurisdictional issues,’ ” Bonnie said.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Also,” she said in a whispery voice, “they are talking about revising the case plan from the placement with the grandmother to reunification with the mother.”
At first I was too startled to reply. I flipped through Lillian’s file on my lap. “Have you read through the report on their living conditions? It says, and I quote, ‘All three children had impe
tigo with major lesions on their skin caused by the filth in the house.’ Not only were they neglected, but they were also raped. I’m all for reunification, but does this sound like a place where she’ll ever be safe? It’s going to take a lot more than a piece of paper and a verbal agreement to protect this little girl—particularly with her perp on the loose!”
The second week Lillian was with us, I was scheduled to give a speech in the Florida Panhandle. It was a three-day weekend, and so we invited Penelope and Jasper to come along. Penelope’s Girl Scout troop was going camping, but Jasper wanted to join us. He kept Lillian occupied on the eight-hour car trip with books and a magnetic drawing pad. Thankfully, she also napped for an hour or two.
Gulf Breeze is a small peninsula of land lined with a white beach that sparkles like diamonds. Jasper wanted to explore the Gulf Islands National Seashore. Erick was torn. “I don’t think Lillian will last long in the sun,” he said.
“I don’t want to spend the whole day in the hotel,” Jasper complained.
“This conference is filled with social workers,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll find someone willing to watch Lillian while I’m onstage.”
When I went to the conference center for a microphone and audiovisual check, I asked how I could arrange for child care during my speech. One of the conference coordinator’s assistants volunteered to watch Lillian.
“I’ll be right outside that curtain, and when I stop talking, we’ll get to go play for the rest of the day,” I promised, handing Lillian a bag of books, toys, and snacks. “See you soon, Silly-Lilly!”
I waited in the wings for my introduction to be over and walked out to the podium. As I was wrapping up my remarks, I could hear Lillian backstage becoming restless. She cried out, “Mommy!” in a frantic voice.
“Mommy’s coming right back,” the babysitter whispered. She opened the curtain to let Lillian peek at me through the slit, thinking that if she saw me, she would quiet down.
Lillian broke loose. “Mommy!” She rushed toward me, arms reaching out.
I bent to calm her. She sighed with relief, turned slightly away from me, and faced an audience of hundreds of people. Without skipping a beat, she stepped forward, bowed, and said, “Thank you! Thank you!”
The audience erupted with laughter and applause. Lillian responded by clapping right back at them. The babysitter looked on helplessly. I waved her off. Lillian wasn’t about to separate from her adoring audience or me. I pulled her back toward me and held her hand through the final words of my speech.
“People with no direct experience with foster youth have preconceived notions about who these children are.” I then gave some examples about how many professionals had so few expectations of me. “Youth who have been abused or neglected feel worthless, so they are desperate for someone to believe in them. We just have to find ways to enhance their strengths.” I mentioned the advocates who had made a difference in my life—teachers, counselors, and chiefly my volunteer Guardian ad Litem. “We need to make certain that every child is heard. We must encourage and empower the children we know in any capacity.
“I’ve also been a Guardian ad Litem—so I understand how complex and frustrating the legal system can be. I’m just completing my MSW, thus I have that clinical perspective.” I pointed to Lillian.
“We should be working together to help every child like this one become their best selves and let them shine!” I clapped for Lillian. The spotlight on the stage created a halo atop her sleek hairdo; her cheeks were baby-doll pink and her eyes wide with the excitement of it all. It was an electric moment. I felt it. The audience felt it. And Lillian glowed.
13.
ours and theirs
It is easier to build strong children
than to repair broken men.
—Frederick Douglass
In life you never know what will walk through the door; in foster care the same is true—only the surprises happen more often. We figured that the next two children who entered our home would be with us for a matter of weeks or months. We never imagined one would become ours forever.
Sheila called to say that Denver, age two, and Skyler, age four months, had been with an aunt for a few weeks, but she could not handle them and they needed to be moved quickly. “Only Denver needs therapeutic care,” she said, “because his meltdowns are extreme. The baby is recovering from severe injuries but has an easy disposition.”
“Any sexual abuse?”
“Thankfully, no.”
I said I’d call her back because Lillian was being unusually oppositional that morning. She was trying to put on a dirty blouse that was in the laundry instead of the clean one I had selected.
“If there’s anything I’m not in the mood for today,” I griped to Erick, “it’s two more toddlers!” At this stage of pregnancy, I had many annoying aches.
“What’s their situation?” Erick asked.
“There’s an injured baby and a freaked-out toddler.” I pivoted my hips to take the strain off my back. “You know we’re crazy, right? We have this election coming up, I have to finish my internship, get ready for finals”—I pointed to Lillian, who was trying to hide under the bed—“cope with that little gem”—I sucked in a long breath—“and in our spare time have this baby and figure out what to do with a newborn.”
“It sounds impossible when you put it like that,” Erick said. “But given that we can’t change most of those things, what difference will two more kids make?” We cracked up. Lillian peeked out from under the bed and started laughing too.
“Maybe it’s just for a few weeks,” Erick said. “We can do anything for a few weeks.”
The new boys arrived during an afternoon thundershower. Erick ran out with umbrellas to help get the boys inside.
I sat on the couch, and Erick slipped Skyler into my arms. I adjusted him around my baby bump. “He just got his body cast off,” the worker said. “A therapist will teach you his stretching exercises.”
“Body cast? On this tiny baby?”
Erick took Denver out to be introduced to the dogs so the caseworker and I could talk.
“The respite home was happy to keep the baby, but they thought Denver needed more services,” Sheila said. “We didn’t want to separate the brothers.”
“So they were with their mother, then an aunt, then respite, and now us.” I counted on my fingers.
“Really five placements if you include the hospitalization for Skyler.”
“What’s their legal situation?”
She exhaled a long breath. “The baby’s father is in jail. We’re hoping there’s enough evidence to send him to prison for a long time. We haven’t located Denver’s father. The mother wasn’t present when the guy tried to kill the kids, and so she has a case plan.”
“What did he do?” I asked, bracing myself.
She closed her eyes. “It’s best if you read the file.”
Erick brought Denver inside. “Way to go, Denver!” he said. “This kid is a natural with dogs!” Denver gave a tentative grin and reached up for Erick to lift him again. As soon as he was up, he flailed to get down. “I’ve got to pick up Lillian from school,” Erick said. “She’s enjoyed being the queen bee and may not like competition.”
“You two are brave,” the caseworker said. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
After she left, I put the drowsy baby into the portable crib in the living room. I tucked a blanket around him—not an easy feat, since my belly got in the way when I bent over. Skyler stirred slightly, then fell asleep with a gentle smile on his face. The idea that anyone, let alone his father, could purposefully injure something this precious was unfathomable.
I turned my attention to Denver, who looked like a wary squirrel caught in the middle of the street. When I moved slightly in his direction, he twitched backward and fell. Just like Tyson, he didn’t cry, but slumped over in a heap and covered his face with his hands. I sank to the floor beside him and patted his bowed head. He flinched. Slowly s
obs rose from somewhere deep inside. He cried in muted sniffs and gulps.
Interestingly, Lillian paid no attention to newcomers. It was as if they were stuffed animals that she had to negotiate around or over. She rarely spoke to them or commented about them to us. It was so peculiar that we decided to be very observant, because we feared she might try to undermine them in some way. Denver settled into the routine, and smiley Skyler reminded me of Lance and hardly ever cried. By the end of the week, we were a well-oiled machine. I laid out outfits the night before, and Erick did morning diapers and dressing while I made breakfast. Then he delivered all three to different sections of the same day care. We spent the rest of the day campaigning if I didn’t have class or my internship. After school Lillian had her snack on a stool by the kitchen counter, Denver went into the high chair, and knowing he needed a strong maternal connection, I cuddled Skyler with his bottle. Amazingly, all three of them slept through the night. We congratulated ourselves on being able to manage this little brood so smoothly.
After the first week, I took out the brothers’ stack of files. Erick was downstairs watching a Monty Python movie with Jasper, who was spending the weekend with us. The notes detailed that when Denver had been rescued, his face was bruised and bloody. He had been hit with a hard object, and there were so many wounds on his belly and back that he had received a CT scan for internal organ damage. Skyler’s tibia—the strongest weight-bearing bone in the leg—had been snapped on purpose. I felt so queasy I had to lower my head.
From various accounts the story emerged. Tiffany, the boys’ mother, was living with Daryl Archer, the man she named as Skyler’s father. Daryl hated babysitting the boys. Tiffany had a job at an ice cream store, while he was unemployed. Tiffany’s mother had promised to relieve Daryl by noon. It had been a broiling summer day, and their sardine can of a trailer sizzled on its sunny lot. There was no air-conditioning and little food in the house except beer, dry cereal, and the latest craze: Spice, also known as synthetic marijuana, which was legally available in convenience stores and was known to cause psychotic episodes. At some point Daryl flipped out. He beat Denver until he went quiet and went after Skyler when he started crying. Then he left.
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