I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (11 page)

“She could attend school like the other kids do.”

“The high school won’t take her because she is almost seventeen and still in ninth grade. And the vocational institute isn’t accepting new students until January. You need to find her someplace else right away.”

When I phoned Lydia, she said, “I have been waiting for you to call all day!” She bubbled on about going to the Wednesday evening church services and joining in the activities of the youth club. “Tomorrow Al is taking some time off to spend with me, but I could see you on Friday.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“June and Al prayed with me about Teddy. So now I am ready to say good-bye to him.”

That afternoon I phoned my literary agent, who is also an ordained Episcopal priest, and asked him for suggestions for what to do at the cemetery. He mentioned several Bible verses and suggested other readings that might have special meaning.

At breakfast the next morning I opened the paper and was startled by the headline: T
EEN’S
D
EATH
S
TILL A
M
YSTERY
. The photo of Teddy Kirby’s gravesite depicted an array of tokens and tributes left by his friends. The caption read: “On the first anniversary of his death, investigators, family and friends, are still searching for a suspect.” Now I understood why Lydia had wanted to do this today.

Our first stop on Friday morning was to my parents’ rose garden, where Lydia was given the shears and told she could pick anything she wanted. “Teddy loved yellow,” she said as she snipped roses with golden-tipped petals and placed them in my basket. Then we drove to the memorial park.

It was not difficult to find the right spot among the plaques set into the monotonous lawn. From a distance the site appeared littered; up close there was a capricious array of mementos including a paper cross constructed from chewing gum wrappers, a collection of various brands of beer and soft drink cans. Unsmoked cigarettes were lined up like military guards surrounding a foil windmill on a stick, paper and silk flowers, a wilting birthday banner, a laminated yearbook picture of Teddy, and newspaper articles about his death encased in plastic, as well as several handwritten notes and poems. Lydia and I had both brought Bibles. We read several passages in unison, ending with the Twenty-third Psalm. Then I took out my
Complete Works of Robert Frost
and recited “The Road Not Taken.”

I went back to the car to give her some time alone. Lydia kneeled and rearranged the roses, then came and sat in the car.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Almost.” We both were quiet for a while. “Sometimes you have to stop and think about what would have happened if everything had been different,” she said solemnly. “He could have lived, our baby could have lived, but then I might not have found Jesus. Do you think everything happens for a reason?” she asked me with shining eyes.

“Some days,” I answered truthfully, “but other days, no.”

Over the weekend I stepped up my inquiries for a home. Knowing that there was no place for Lydia in the public school system, I started to concentrate on people connected with Christian schools, hoping I could find her someone who would accept her into an educational program. Monday morning, though, I was surprised by a phone call from Clyde Baxter, the drop-out prevention specialist at the county school board office. He said he had heard about the situation and had been asked why there was not a place for my guardian child in the public schools. At first I was irritated to have had my confidentiality breached, but since nobody knew Lydia’s name, no harm had been done.

He said it would help to place her if he knew her identity. After giving it to him, he typed Lydia’s student number into his computer and her record appeared on the screen. “I know Miss Ryan. Had her in my middle school homeroom a few years ago. Nice kid. These scores show real potential.”

“She’s been told that at seventeen she is too old to begin high school and there is nothing else available until next year.”

“You can’t get a kid back in school if you shut the door in her face.” Mr. Baxter went on to list a variety of alternative programs. “If she will give it a try, we’ll bend over backward to find a way to make her happy to be learning again.”

I phoned Lydia. Al Fowler said she was out shopping with his wife. Before I could mention my discussion with Mr. Baxter, Al said they wanted to keep Lydia. “Could you come over and talk about it, because we need to know if you will support our position.”

I said I could be there shortly. Lydia came out to greet me.

“Would you help me get something out of my trunk?” I asked. Lydia shrieked with delight when she saw the guitar case. “This belongs to my sister, who left it at our house several years ago. I asked her if you could borrow it for a while.”

Lydia took the guitar out of the case and strummed it. “This is even better than the one at the Tabernacle Home. Can I restring it?”

“Sure, but why?”

“I’m left-handed.”

Lydia busied herself with the task. I admired her dexterity as she undid the strings and moved them around. June came into the room and handed out plastic cups of iced tea, then took a seat next to her husband.

“We have a problem,” I began. “I’ve told everyone we wanted to keep Lydia out of the foster care system, and HRS does not want to have to pay monthly fees for her. The only way I can see this working is if she enrolls in school and you would agree to keep her without subsidy.”

June glanced nervously at Al. My guess was that she had become emotionally attached to Lydia, but he would have a more pragmatic approach. Still, they were living in a home owned by the church, so those expenses couldn’t be too high, and they received payment for Candace. Also, Lydia had parents of her own who might take over her health costs, buy her some clothing, possibly give her an allowance, and Lydia could get a part-time job.

After a few hopeful seconds, Al Fowler shook his head. “We have contracted with HRS to provide two foster beds, and if we gave one away to Lydia, we would be violating that agreement.”

“I am sorry if I may have misinterpreted what you said about your attachment to Lydia,” I said dejectedly.

“Don’t get Al wrong, we do care for her,” June said, “we just have to play by their rules.”

“Well then, let’s talk about the school situation.” I then told them about the possibilities. “What do you think, Lydia?”

“I’d love to go back to school if they would take me. If I stay here, I could go to Central with Candace.”

“Look, Lydia,” I began sternly, “you were placed here for a few days of shelter care until we could find a home for you. Frankly, we haven’t made much progress in that direction, but we are going to have to come up with some options fast. Maybe Al knows a family in the church who might take you in. That way you could see the Fowlers often and maybe attend school with Candace. I know HRS is not going to take care of you unless the judge orders it, and he’s already told us to seek an alternative.”

“Nobody can make me stay somewhere I don’t like unless they lock me up again!” Lydia began to tremble and June went over and hugged her close.

“Can’t you ask the judge to change his mind?” June asked wistfully.

For a moment I thought about how foolish I would look after all my protestations to keep her out of the system, but then asked myself why I should care what the judge or Mona or Calvin thought about me. I had told Lydia she could choose her placement and now she had. If I tried to dissuade her, I would be another in a long string of people who had let her down.

How I wished I could have avoided the call to Mona! First I gave her the good news about the school possibilities, but she wasn’t fooled.

“Isn’t it a bit premature to be discussing this for Lydia when she might not be in this county next week?”

I tried to explain how the Fowlers and Lydia wanted to be together.

“My supervisor will be calling Al about that. It is one thing to have a bleeding-heart guardian trying to tell us how to do our job, but we expect more from our licensed foster parents.”

I backpedaled and asked if I could request an official staffing conference to review the choices.

“Judge Donovan, in his wisdom, gave you placement authority here,” Mona said facetiously. “Now you are finding out there aren’t a lot of people waiting in line to take in someone who would put a baby in a microwave oven.”

“Mona,” I groaned, “you know she never did anything remotely like that!”

“All I know is that your interference blew a safe placement, where she was not only doing better than anywhere in the past, but cost the state nothing. Now we are shelling out for her every day. If you are going to drop the ball, I guess that means that I will have to pick it up and find her a home.”

After I hung up, I phoned Lillian and poured out my heart. Lillian listened sympathetically. In the manner of a kindergarten teacher trying to prompt a child to take the right course, she said, “Now, Gay, what do you think is in Lydia’s best interests?”

“To remain with the Fowlers and start school again.”

“Most of the time the biggest hurdle is figuring out the solution. You know the goal, so now all you have to do is aim for it.”

That night Calvin Reynolds called me at home. His voice sounded cordial, but since he was the HRS attorney, I was on guard. After a few pleasantries, he spoke as though confiding in a friend. “I wanted you to know what happened late this afternoon. Mona requested another hearing in front of Judge Donovan next week. She has found another religious facility about a hundred miles south of here. They have other children there who have guardians as well, so your access to her would not be a problem. Mona is going to take her there tomorrow or the next day, but I think it would be better if you went along.”

“Why?”

“Lydia seems to trust you the most, at least that is what June Fowler says.”

“Lydia is set on staying with the Fowlers and they want her too.”

“They may not be as devoted as you think. Mona’s supervisor had a long talk with Al about renewing his license. If something has to give, it is going to be Lydia.”

“Is there any chance she could stay there?”

“May I tell you something completely off the record?”

“Yes.”

“I agree that Lydia belongs where she is, but we cannot afford to put every runaway kid on the foster care rolls. When we get to court, I will do my job, which is to support the agency’s position to place her in the other facility or return her to her family, however I will not oppose you vigorously. Also”—he lowered his voice—”Mona asked me to petition the judge to remove the guardian from this case, but I said I wouldn’t because that would make me look foolish.”

“Why are you telling me this, Calvin?”

“Try to imagine what it is like to do my job. HRS has limited resources and manpower, so we have to ration our services. Every day I have to process a whole stream of children, each case more tragic than the next. In the big picture, a kid like Lydia is not so badly off. She has a family who could afford to support her. In another year she will be eighteen; and she is old enough to work. She doesn’t have any obvious handicap. Now that is not a reason to ignore her, but she doesn’t demand the attention that, say, an abused baby would get. Also, to be perfectly blunt, money spent on a smaller child might yield a greater reward. By seventeen, we figure there’s not much you can do to change a bad kid.”

“She’s not a
bad
kid!” was my knee-jerk response, and I launched into a whirlwind defense.

“I know,” Calvin answered softly, “just remember what I said and also”—he gave a little self-deprecating laugh—”I think I’d rather be doing your job than mine.”

Due to Calvin’s warning, the early morning phone call from Mona did not come as a complete surprise.

“Listen,” she began in her most streetwise voice, “I’ve found a possibility for Lydia.

“Tell me more,” I replied evenly.

“I thought you would want to check it out yourself,” she said cagily, and gave me the phone number. “Just keep an open mind, that’s all I ask.”

I called the Christian Farm Society and spoke to their director, Penny Eaton. She explained that the original Christian Farm Society began in Colorado in the 1960s, when their founders decided their mission would be to save America’s troubled youth through Christian family living. I described Lydia’s situation and her preference to be in a Pentecostal home.

“We are conservative, full gospel and fundamental, but not Pentecostal in nature. When the Bible speaks, we speak; when the Bible is silent, we are silent.”

I thought that this might be acceptable to Lydia and asked about their educational program.

“We don’t have our own school, but we take them in vans to the River Grove Baptist School, which has students from several Christian denominations. They have a place for Lydia and would like to meet her. When can you bring her down?”

“Didn’t Mona Archibald, her caseworker, make an appointment?”

“No. She said you would be the one transporting her.”

I knew this was a trap. Since the judge had directed me to find her a home, I could not refuse. Also, Mona didn’t want me claiming that she had coerced Lydia.

When I called Lydia, her reply was swift. “I’m not going! Why take me out of a program I like, just to put me in another? You asked me what I wanted and I told you. I want to stay here because they care about me, and I care about them. I like their fair rules. I like the way they support me spiritually. I like their kids and Candace. And besides, they treat me like nobody else ever has.”

“In what way?”

“With respect.”

Calmly, I asked Lydia to think about visiting the Christian Farm Society because there was no guarantee she could stay at the Fowlers’. “Just look at it with an open mind, that’s all anyone can ask.”

The road to the Christian Farm Society was lined with live oak trees laden with pendulous Spanish moss. Horses frolicked behind tidy fencing, and here and there in shady groves were small playgrounds with swings and sandboxes.