I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (10 page)

“I checked and Becky Morse said she would take her.”

“It is hardly the guardian’s responsibility to call up our licensed homes and try to place children there,” Mona huffed.

“I realize that, but I was only trying for a home where I thought Lydia would be comfortable for a few days.”

Mona glared at me.

Lydia turned to her. “I need to get my things from the Tabernacle Home,” Lydia reminded. “And I want to say good-bye to everyone there.”

Mona looked at her watch. “This is really going to screw up my afternoon. Could you take her there and—” She stopped herself. “Forget it, that would never work. All right, how about this? I’ll go get her things and meet you back at our office here.”

Thinking that this meant I would be taking Lydia to the Morses’, only a few miles from the HRS office, I agreed.

“See you later, Lydia,” I said in a friendly way, but she did not respond.

At the appointed time I arrived back at the HRS office, only to be told that Mona and Lydia had waited for me as long as they could but had gone to the shelter home.

“Is she at Becky Morse’s?”

“No, she was placed at the Fowlers’ in Orangeville,” Mona’s receptionist said. “Here’s the number. You can call there tomorrow.”

“But I told Lydia I would see her this afternoon.” The receptionist shrugged. “Do you know how to find the Fowlers’ house?” She shook her head, so I phoned for directions. June Fowler said she was expecting a new girl, but she wasn’t there yet. Then she explained how to find them, more than twenty-five miles from where I had been waiting.

When I arrived at the small ranch home with bright green shutters and a driveway blocked with two tricycles, a man on a ladder was fixing a rain gutter. “Is this the Fowler home?”

“Sure is,” the man said in a soft Georgia drawl.

“Are you Mr. Fowler?”

“Nope. I’m Pastor Sharp. Our church owns this house and the Fowlers live here because he’s our youth pastor.”

I explained who I was, then asked, “What’s the name of your church, pastor?”

“The Orangeville House of God.”

“Is that a Pentecostal church?”

“Most certainly is.”

Relief must have flooded my face and the pastor returned a wide grin, as if glad to have made contact with another believer. “Lydia is a Pentecostal Christian and she was praying for this.”

“Praise the Lord,” he said with a winsome grin.

I went inside and found Lydia sitting at the dining room table having a snack with the family. I was introduced to the two identical Fowler twins, Melody and Steffie, who were five, and another foster daughter, Candace, who looked about twelve. Mona had left a few minutes before I arrived.

“What are you doing here?” Lydia asked with some annoyance.

“I told you I would come by this afternoon.”

“Mona didn’t need you to drive me, so why did you come?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“You know, I saw that report of yours and I am really upset about it,” Lydia said with a sniff. “Now everyone knows about my private life, even things that I was told nobody would ever find out.”

“When did you read it?”

“Just now, in the car.”

“Mona Archibald gave it to you?” She nodded. “I don’t think that was a very smart idea, but you have every right to be angry. You’ve had a horrible day and everyone has been pushing you around for a long time.” The family at the table was listening intently.

“You’re the one who wrote the report,” Lydia said accusingly.

“Yes, I did. But I am sworn to secrecy and those other people were not to divulge what was in it either. But that doesn’t help the fact that it must hurt to have your life opened up in the courtroom, especially when you haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

Candace, who was sitting next to Lydia, reached over and touched her arm. “You’re going to like it here, you’ll see. It’s the nicest home I have ever known.”

I smiled at Candace. “This is a shelter home for Lydia. She’ll only be here a few days.”

Candace giggled. “That’s what they said to me, and I’ve been here more than a year.”

June Fowler nodded. “Yes, once we get a girl we never want her to leave. And that goes for Lydia. We were just telling her we would like her to stay with us as long as she wants.”

I muffled my annoyance. Foster parents were supposed to have been better educated in the psychology of these temporary situations. “That may be a bit premature, and besides, Lydia’s situation is different. She has not been adjudicated dependent by the court nor is she a foster child. We are trying to find her a home outside the system.”

“Why can’t she go to her real mommy?” Steffie asked.

“Maybe some day she will,” June said to her daughter, then turned to me. “I don’t know what we will do with Lydia tomorrow, though. We weren’t expecting a new kid today and Al and I both have to work. I don’t think it is good for her to be alone on her first day.”

June and I shared a knowing glance. Lydia might run away.

“Why don’t I come by and take her out to lunch?” I glanced at Lydia. Her animosity had faded somewhat.

“You mean we could go to a restaurant?”

“Sure, anywhere you like.”

“And I would be allowed to go to a store?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Or other places I haven’t been in a long time?”

Something in her tone made me suspicious. I knew she had a drug and alcohol problem, or maybe—like so many of these kids—she wanted to buy cigarettes, but that seemed to conflict with her fresh religious conversion. Mrs. Shaw’s warnings about lying and manipulation also echoed in my mind.

I looked at my watch, then stood. “I have a long ride back. Lydia, come out to the car with me and we’ll make plans for tomorrow.”

When we were outside, I realized that except for the crying jag in the courthouse rest room, this was the very first time we ever had been alone.

“So, I’ll see you about eleven, okay?” Lydia was very still. “Think about where you want to go to lunch and what else you might like to do.”

“I know what I’d like to do, but nobody will let me,” she said in a singsong challenge.

“What’s that?” I braced myself.

“I want to go to the cemetery where Teddy is buried. I want to say good-bye to him.”

Foster parents are recruited, trained, licensed, supervised, paid by HRS and thus are employees of the state. Many seem to be motivated by religious conviction, others are dedicated to helping children, some find the financial supplement essential to their household income. While the extra few hundred dollars a month might not seem like much to feed, clothe, house, and supervise a troubled child, many of the foster families in this district house two or more children. One group home receiving $473 per month per child averaged six children for a while and used the $2,838 per month additional income to cover payments for a larger home and car. In regular foster homes children under twelve receive approximately $300 a month for their board rate, while those over twelve qualify for another $75 to $100 per month, depending on the severity of their problems. A few families spend the total funds on the needs of the children, but in my experience, most of the children receive hardly any garments over and above the yearly $200 clothing allowance, a few are served different food than the rest of the family, and some older children are expected to provide significant labor in maintaining homes and farms. One justification for using foster care funds for general family needs is that it is a puny “salary” for a round-the-clock “job.” One family receiving $1,116 a month for three teenagers stated that it only came to $1.55 per hour on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis for one person.

After the initial course to become foster parents, HRS provides no continuing education or foster care counseling services beyond visits from caseworkers. But these caseworkers are not well trained in parenting education or support services for complex families’ situations or special needs children. Foster parents have complete control over who remains in their home. Children who misbehave can be threatened to be kicked out, and frequently foster children are moved at the whim of the foster parent. A great many of them are shuffled multiple times, and even though they are supposed not to remain in foster care more than eighteen months, more than half of Florida’s foster children are there longer. Even more shocking is the fact that the youngest children in the system remain the longest.

However, the Fowlers were only providing Lydia with shelter care—a bed for a week or so until a permanent solution could be found. And Lydia was not officially a foster child. Because of the psychological risks of having her in that system, I hoped to keep her out of it entirely.

My goal for the day was simple: I wanted Lydia to begin to trust me. I vowed not to denigrate the Tabernacle Home or her parents.

Lydia was dressed in a shabby skirt and T-shirt. I assumed the Tabernacle Home had kept her plaid jumper uniform and the awful dress she had worn to court. Her sneakers had holes in them, sometimes the fashion, but the effect was pathetic, especially when her family could afford decent clothes. If she had been a foster child, at least she would have had a fifty-dollar initial clothing allowance, but in her present situation she had nothing.

She slipped beside me in the car and started chattering immediately. “The Fowlers are really
nice
! Candace and I stayed up for hours talking about everything, especially how we feel about the Lord. Best of all, they pray just like we did at the Tabernacle Home with everyone standing in a circle and holding hands.”

“They are a Pentecostal home, aren’t they?”

“Yes! Jesus did answer my prayers when he led me there. I don’t ever want to leave!”

I didn’t have the heart to try to explain the realities quite yet. “Let’s go to lunch.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t worry, it’s my treat. Anything else you’d like to do?”

“Visit Teddy’s grave.”

“I’ll take you whenever you want, but are you sure you want to go today?”

She was quiet for almost a mile. “I don’t think I am ready yet.”

We had pizza and I was pleased that Lydia continued to be so talkative with me. We discussed Robert Frost’s life in New England, what birch trees looked like, and that she hoped to live near mountains someday.

On the way back to the Fowlers’, I asked if there was anything else she wanted or needed. “Yeah, but it isn’t anything you can do.”

“Try me, I like a challenge.”

“First, I’d like to see my father on my birthday next week, but he won’t even look at me.”

“What about your mother?”

“She might call me.”

“You want me to call her?”

“No, I can do that myself now. June said I could use the phone anytime I wanted.”

“Let me know how it goes. Anything else?”

“I’m praying for a guitar. I had to leave the other one at the Tabernacle Home.”

“Maybe your parents would get you another one for your birthday.”

Lydia snorted at this impossibility, then a hard-to-read look darkened her face. “And there is something else …” Her voice seethed. “I am sick and tired of being called ‘the girl who put the baby in the microwave oven.’”

“Me too! I get furious when anyone says that and I am making it a point to let everyone know. You never did that and yet you keep getting blamed for it, even went to prison for it, which was totally unfair!”

“Maybe I didn’t do what they said, but I was very bad and deserved my punishment.”

“I don’t understand what it is that you think you have done that is so terribly wrong.”

“I’ve shoplifted and that was wrong. I even got caught for it, but they let me off, providing I never did it again.” I recalled her mother mentioning this and realized that I was so vested in her innocence that I hadn’t thought about her committing other crimes I did not know about. “And I never did it again!” she said emphatically, as though reading my mind. “I can learn a lesson, even though my father thinks I can’t. He’ll see! When I get another guitar, I am going to sing him a song that is a testimony of my Christian faith. It goes, ‘I’m not the way I was, I’m on the other side.’ Then he, and everyone else, will see how different I am.”

“Listen, Lydia, everyone makes mistakes, but you have gotten an incredibly raw deal. I don’t understand why your parents are still disciplining you for something that happened more than nine months ago. I’m not excusing the incident, but the truth is that nobody was seriously harmed and you actually played a much smaller role than the boys.” I felt my face flushing with indignation as I said what was on my mind. “There is no way you deserved juvenile detention or what has happened to you since. You belong in a regular family, going to school like other girls your age, and having a good time. I’m glad you have found a religion you like and you are making changes in your life, but other people have to make some changes too. After all, they are the grown-ups and you are the child. You are entitled to more mistakes than they are. And you are also entitled to love and kindness and freedom and justice.”

Lydia stared at me with flashing eyes. “You really care about this, don’t you?”

I took a long breath. “Yes. I do. And do you want to know why?” She glowed in anticipation. “Because I care about you.”

When I returned Lydia to the Fowlers’, I promised to call her and we could make plans to look at other homes. Her face clouded momentarily. The next day Mona Archibald phoned to say she had seen Lydia at the Fowlers’ and wanted me to know that a problem was brewing.

“Are they going to throw her out?”

“On the contrary, they want her to stay permanently, which means she would have to become a foster child, and you and I both don’t want that to happen.”

“The families I had in mind won’t be appropriate now because she only wants a Pentecostal family.”

“There’s always her parents.”

“They won’t accept her.”

“That’s not what he said in court.”

“That was for the record,” I replied. “Lydia wants to be reconciled, but her father won’t even agree to see her for a few minutes on her birthday.”

“She can’t stay with the Fowlers. They both work and she would have no supervision.”