by Gay Courter
“Well, what have you learned?” she asked.
“I met with Lydia’s mother, who gave me some background on the situation.”
Mrs. Shaw had not yet taken a seat nor offered me one. She crossed her arms stiffly and said, “I meant what did your superiors have to say about abiding by the Tabernacle Home rules?”
Once again I felt out of step with Mrs. Shaw and perceived how formidable the girls in her care must find her. Because I wanted to see Lydia, I had to avoid a confrontation, and yet I could not capitulate to her either. I spoke slowly, saying, “I did check with Lillian Elliott, who firmly believes that I have every right to see Lydia alone. However, I won’t insist on that right now. Last time I was here I told Lydia I would visit once a week and the most important thing is to be consistent with her. If I can just say hello and see how she is doing, that will be fine with me.”
“You have not clarified anything for me,” Mrs. Shaw replied tartly.
“Since I am a volunteer court appointee, I not only have rules to follow, but have to answer to both Mrs. Elliott and the judge as well as file accurate and timely reports on this case.”
“I realize that,” Mrs. Shaw said with a modicum of sympathy creeping into her tone. Here was a woman who at least understood responsibility to superiors.
“Mrs. Elliott said she would contact you to set up an appointment so she can explain the Guardian ad Litem program in more depth.”
“She hasn’t called yet.”
“She is away today and tomorrow, but I am certain she will try first thing on Monday. In the meantime, may I see Lydia?”
“I don’t think that would be wise. Not because I don’t trust you, but I need to know what the rules will be up front. If we let you see her today, then tomorrow you might come back and want to take her off campus.”
“The regulations are very simple. The Guardian ad Litem visits an assigned child a minimum of once a month, usually more often at first, and then as frequently as required. At regular intervals, she conveys the child’s status to the judge and confirms that the child’s needs for medical care, counseling, clothing, shelter, food, and education are being met.”
“Are you insinuating that we aren’t meeting those needs?”
“Not at all. I don’t pry or check further unless I have a suspicion. For instance, when I go into a foster home, if the children seem healthy, I don’t open the refrigerator to see if there is food in the house.”
“You already saw that Lydia is receiving excellent care.” Realizing that I was unconvinced, Alice Shaw tried a more collegial approach. “A disturbed girl like Lydia might say things that might put our program in jeopardy. If she lasts with us long enough, I know that our ministry will work on her, but we have to be vigilant not to allow one child’s misbehavior to spoil it for the others.”
She turned and opened her desk drawer. “Let me show you something.” She handed me a copy of the Tabernacle Home daily schedule, which listed prayer meetings, Bible study, religious workshops, meals, an hour of personal time, and an hour of exercise broken up into thirty-minute segments between 5:30 A.M. and 9:30 P.M. “AS you can see, there is no time for visitors.”
I glanced at the wall clock. It was almost four. The schedule said that was an exercise period. “I could take her for a walk.”
“No, she will come inside and see you in the place you were the other day.”
Realizing I had won a small victory, I merely nodded in acquiescence.
Mrs. Shaw gave me a crooked smile. “Just like you, my husband and I are volunteers, and so it is important for us to know that this investment of our time yields something that is spiritually rewarding. But now, in Lydia’s case, we have an obstacle that may not be surmountable.” Alice Shaw leaned toward me as though she were trying to break through our differences with reasoning. “I know you don’t want to be part of the problem. In fact, you think you are part of the solution, but because Lydia is the only girl with a Guardian ad Litem she will be corrupted in a way the others will not.”
I forced myself not to say something I might regret.
In any case, Alice Shaw barely paused. “Let’s say we allowed you to take Lydia outside this facility,” she said, walking toward the door. “Because we would not be able to monitor what she might hear or learn, her training could be compromised. You must remember these are truly cunning kids with appalling reputations. So we must reevaluate her placement here. Maybe we would serve the Lord better if we put our time, energy, and money into another needy girl.” Then Mrs. Shaw waved for me to follow her to the same area where I had met with Lydia before. After pointing to where I should sit, she disappeared.
In a few minutes, Lydia, wearing Bermuda shorts and a flowery blouse, came inside. There was someone cleaning the floors on the other side of the partition.
“Hi, Lydia. How are you?” I asked, genuinely pleased to see her again.
She looked up with flashing eyes. “Why are you back so soon?”
“I told you I would come in a week.”
“Well, I don’t want to come to live with you, and there is no way you can make me.”
Startled, I wasn’t sure at first what she meant. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I am not even allowed to take you to my house. I will only visit you where you are living, Didi.”
“I thought you said you were going to be my foster mother.” Then she scowled. “And who told you to call me Didi?”
“Your mother and sister used that name so I thought you preferred it.”
“I don’t ever want to be called it again.”
“I’m sorry for the mistake, Lydia.”
“So you met my parents?”
“Your father was out, but your mother talked about how much she and your father care for you. I think there is a lot of love in your family. Also, she helped clear up some of the things that happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that you never put anyone in a microwave oven, and that most of it was not your fault, but you were punished and nobody else was.”
“It was my fault and I deserved my penalty.”
“Surely you did not belong in juvenile detention.”
“I took drugs and had sex and even fooled around with devil worship.”
“But that’s not why you went to detention.”
“I was on the wrong path and if I hadn’t gone there I wouldn’t be here or have accepted Jesus as my savior. I know that this is the only right path, in fact, I have proof that my prayers are working.”
“What’s that?”
“I have been praying for a guitar, and then the day after you were here a guitar was donated to the center.”
“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
“I need better picks. Would you ask my mom if she could bring me my old ones?”
“Sure, I’d be happy to help.” I paused. “Last night I found my book of Robert Frost poems and was reading them. If you like, I could make copies of some of the poems and bring them next time.”
“I’m not allowed to read anything unless they approve. You would have to show them to Mrs. Shaw.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” I could hear someone coming down the corridor and thought our time might be up. “You have a birthday coming soon. Is there anything special you want?”
“No, I already got my birthday gift from God.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, my guitar. But I would also like a dress to wear to church. One girl prayed for a dress and got a brand-new Liz Claiborne.”
Alice Shaw appeared from behind the partition and indicated that Lydia should resume her exercise class, then led me to the parking lot door.
“Lydia is interested in some poems. Is it all right if I bring them next time?”
“There’s still the matter to settle with Mrs. Elliott, but if that works out satisfactorily, you may give her something to read so long as it is upbeat, and nothing negative.” We walked past
a picture of the crucifixion. “Nothing about death.”
As soon as I returned home I called Mrs. Ryan. I told her how well Lydia looked and asked about the guitar picks.
“We threw those away with the guitar. Her sister broke it after she left. Anyway, why do they let you see her, but not me?”
“Actually, they don’t want me to see her either, but I have a court order. How do you feel about their rules?”
“They are strict, which is fine so long as she doesn’t get caught up in all the other nonsense.”
“Like what?”
“Didi told me on the phone that they are boycotting Betty Crocker products because ‘she’s a devil worshipper.’ I tried to explain that Betty Crocker is a corporation, not a person.”
Catherine Ryan went on to tell me every weekend the girls were taken in a van to various churches several hours away so they could raise money for the Tabernacle Home. “They don’t socialize with the members of the congregations; in fact, they aren’t even allowed to speak to anyone unless they are spoken to. And there is something else that is bothering me …”
“What’s that?”
“At work someone brought me one of the Tabernacle Home’s mailings about a pro-life rally. Along with the fund-raising information was a paper headed, ‘My Testimony by Lydia.’ Using her real first name, she confessed about her abortion and what happened with Teddy. Even my friend knew who it was. I don’t like my daughter being exploited in that way.”
“They never should have published that with her real name or without your permission.”
“Could you do anything about that?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll check,” I said, happy to have a reason to collaborate with Mrs. Ryan for her daughter’s benefit.
My next stop was to Sawgrass High School to copy Lydia’s school records. Since she had lived in the same county her whole life, the records continued from kindergarten. The summary for each year was accompanied by her school photo. I lined these up and stared as the five-year-old child’s chubby face became narrower and thinner and her wide, excited eyes seemed to lose their luster. In some of the pictures she wore glasses, in others not, and I wondered if she had a vision problem that had been neglected. For the first few years in primary school her statewide scores indicated she was three-to-five years above grade level and her report cards were excellent. Then, after around third grade, the A‘s and B‘s were replaced by D‘s and F‘s. In fact, she had failed two full years and had been retained once. Why? Last April, after leaving Valley View, Lydia had dropped out of school entirely. Something had gone terribly wrong but had been ignored. The last page of her records was her most recent discharge from high school before going to juvenile detention. Attached to it was a bill for a book that had never been returned to the library: The Complete Works of Robert Frost.
Later that day Lillian called to say she had discussed my access to Lydia at the Tabernacle Home with the circuit director. “Nancy reviewed the documents and found a few unusual aspects to the situation. First of all, the Tabernacle Home is not a licensed HRS facility, although since Lydia was placed there by her parents voluntarily, it does not have to be. Also, the courts have never declared Lydia a dependent or a delinquent. Ironically, she has been given an interim status as a ‘child in need of services,’ with HRS providing some supervision, but as it turns out, no services.”
Lillian then put Nancy Hastedt on the phone.
“Are you saying that there is nothing we can do?” I asked her.
Nancy gave a throaty laugh. “Don’t forget, the court appointed you as her Guardian ad Litem, and there is an administrative order saying no agency may interfere with a Guardian ad Litem. According to the judge, Lydia must complete the one-year program there; thus in accepting her, the Tabernacle Home has contracted to keep her in accordance with the rules of the court. That means that the Tabernacle Home may not interfere with your duties.”
“What if they threaten to throw her out if I demand to see her?”
“That would be a breach of contract and they might be in contempt of court.”
“Is fighting them really in Lydia’s best interests? Maybe the best thing would be to leave her alone and do the most minimal supervision.”
“Do you feel comfortable with that, Gay?”
“No, but—”
“Why don’t we wait until I’ve visited the place. Lillian and I have an appointment tomorrow. Mrs. Shaw insisted we come without you.”
The next afternoon Nancy phoned me with her report. “Hi, we just met with Mrs. Shaw.” I waited, expecting her to have a different take on the situation and somehow find me at fault. “It’s far worse than you led us to assume,” Nancy groaned.
On the other line Lillian chimed in. “I can’t believe that woman! The first thing she wanted was our rules listed in writing so she could show them to her lawyer.”
Nancy continued. “Mrs. Shaw said the Tabernacle Home was private and did not accept funding, and that their attorney advised that a lawsuit against them would not hold water. And this is before we had a chance to say anything or even take a seat in the room.”
“We tried to defuse the situation,” Lillian interjected. “I told Mrs. Shaw that you said that Lydia wants to stay at the Tabernacle Home, and that you reported that it was a very adequate facility. In a conceited manner, Mrs. Shaw replied that of course it was. Then she went on to say that Lydia could not go off premises for six months, as stated in their student handbook.”
“Oh, and Mrs. Shaw gave us a typed list of instructions for you to follow,” Nancy added. “My response was to tell Mrs. Shaw that I trusted the good sense and integrity of my volunteers and so I would not dictate to you, or anyone else.”
“What did she say?” I asked, imagining Mrs. Shaw’s pique at a structure that did not have workers blindly obeying their superiors.
“As you might gather, Mrs. Shaw was very defensive, and again, rather than respond to the point, she attacked. She said she was very unhappy that I had accompanied Lillian without making it clear that it was going to be ‘two against one.’ “
“I wouldn’t want to have to be on the opposite side of the room against you two either!”
We all laughed.
Nancy then became more serious. “Unfortunately, Mona—Lydia’s HRS caseworker—was there the day before and tried to clarify the Guardian ad Litem’s role to the Shaws. She did us no favor, and probably hurt us by explaining that since there were so few guardians, in her opinion, they should be given to younger kids.”
“What should we do about Lydia?” I asked, refocusing on my case.
“I am worried that the Tabernacle Home is not a suitable placement,” Nancy responded curtly.
“However, she is comfortable there for now,” Lillian interjected in her honey-sweet accent. “What do you think, Gay?”
“Do you sense we can work with Mrs. Shaw?” I asked.
“I hoped we could,” Lillian replied, “but she is one of the most dominating women I have ever met. Her way is the only way. I don’t think she’ll compromise.”
“Also,” Nancy added, “she is smart and has done her homework. By now she probably knows the legal situation as well as I do.”
“Lydia wouldn’t be welcome at her parents’ home,” I said, thinking out loud. “We certainly don’t want her back in detention. If she is forced to go somewhere she doesn’t like, she’ll run away, and then be at risk on the streets. Why don’t we back off until we can find her an alternative placement?”
“I’m supposed to talk to Mrs. Shaw tomorrow with a list of our demands. My feeling is that they have to comply just like anyplace else,” said Nancy emphatically, “or else the child needs to leave.”
I could see that this might not be solved until Nancy and the Shaws dueled at dawn, but where did this leave Lydia?
Lillian offered a suggestion. “We need more backup for our position. I have the name and number of the doctor who cared for Lydia at Valley View.
Why don’t you contact him and discuss whether he thinks the Tabernacle Home is a good placement for Lydia?”
“Wonderful idea!” I said, anxious for an objective opinion. “She’s been so unstable for so long, I feared moving her from even an inappropriate placement against her will.”
Stability. I thought about a recent lecture I had heard on the importance of permanence that compared children’s emotional security to a bucket. If a child’s needs are met, if she receives the love and attention she craves, the sturdy bucket does not leak. But as soon as she is abused or neglected, tiny holes begin to puncture the bucket, and the vital fluids that maintain a child’s stability start oozing out. If a child who enters the social service system isn’t maintained with transfusions, the essential elements slowly drain away. Even worse, the system itself is capable of widening the holes, or even punching fresh ones. Moving children from place to place, treating them unfairly, not meeting their needs in a timely manner—all contribute to the leakage. Eventually it will not matter how fast you try to replenish the pail; like a sieve it empties itself instantly.
Fewer holes in the bucket. I had to keep that in mind and not unwittingly become another archer shooting arrows, even if my aim had been meant for a higher purpose. If the folks at the Tabernacle Home, with the help of Jesus, could mend Lydia’s lacerated spirit, I did not want to be the one to reopen the wound.
And yet everyone, including the psychiatrist who had treated Lydia at Valley View, confirmed my sense that the Tabernacle Home was not in Lydia’s best interests.
“She’s too easily led and needs to learn to rely on herself, not another cult,” the doctor told me.
“What are the chances for family reunification?” I asked her.
The doctor was extremely negative about Stuart Ryan, calling him “brittle, authoritarian, and mean.” She also warned that if Lydia had to live with her family, she might be at risk for suicide. “Why doesn’t HRS find her a supportive foster family?” she asked.