I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (12 page)

Penny Eaton was warm and welcoming. Lydia was scrupulously polite but did not ask any questions as we toured the grounds. The facility consisted of six ten-child homes each staffed with a full-time married couple. They were well designed with large bedrooms and living spaces, a bright kitchen, and round dining tables with a built-in turntable in the center to make passing dishes easier. A study area contained reference books, an encyclopedia, and a computer. Each house had its own van for transporting the children to school and for family trips. Only the preschool children were at home, with both foster parents in attendance. Their work at the farm was considered their full-time job. Fathers were out in the pastures or repairing the dwellings while mothers were tending children and cooking. The atmosphere was far more open and cheerful than the Tabernacle Home, and it was made clear that the Guardian ad Litem, or anyone else, was welcome to visit Lydia at any convenient time.

“What do you think, Lydia? Would you like to apply to live with us?” Penny asked.

“I like the people I am with and I don’t want to be so far from my real family. It took us more than two hours to get here. My parents will use that as an excuse not to visit me.”

Penny looked to me for an opinion.

“I am impressed,” I admitted candidly, “but I think Lydia needs more time to think this over, don’t you?” I asked her. Lydia nodded and I could tell she was anxious to leave.

As soon as we were in the car, Lydia hurriedly said, “I prayed to have an open mind, but I could
never
live there.” Then she methodically listed her reasons. “It’s too far away from the county where I grew up and where my contacts are. What I said about my parents was true. They won’t even come a few miles now. Do you think they’d drive two hours?”

“Maybe with some counseling …” Lydia scoffed at my optimism. “Look, Lydia, I agree with you. The main benefit of the Christian Farm Society is that it will not cost the state anything. But your explanation is very rational. That’s what we’ll tell the judge,” I said.

Mona was just going to have to accept that placing a seventeen-year-old girl somewhere against her wishes would be a recipe for failure.

Despite the complexities of Lydia’s case, there had been no effort to get any mental health counseling for her. Because she was not technically in foster care, she did not have a Medicaid card and her parents were refusing to pay any costs. There was a chance she might qualify for free services at the county clinic until she had a stable placement, but Mona and the Fowlers claimed they did not have the time to take care of this matter, so I agreed to make the appointment myself.

A few days later Lydia and I were sitting in the waiting room of the mental health clinic. Lydia asked my help filling out the intake questionnaires. She checked the box marked “sleep problems” saying she had insomnia, something that was new to me. When asked to express her feelings about her father, she wrote: “love.”

“Is that all you want to say?”

“I do love my father.”

“I know, but if my father refused to see me, I might have a few other feelings too.”

“Can I put down more than one?”

“Sure, as many as you want.”

In bolder letters next to “father” she wrote: “cold, unfair, temper.”

When she went for the interview with Esther Kipper, the therapist, Lydia asked if I could remain with her. Dr. Kipper asked her why.

“Because there is some stuff I don’t want to have to go over again and Gay knows about it.”

I sat in a chair in the corner, but when Lydia prompted me I described her legal situation, the search for a home, as well as the facts regarding her delinquency and the false statements about her. Before the interview, Lydia told me that she was going to tell the truth. Keeping her word, she answered every question, even admitting she had tried LSD, uppers, downers, and marijuana, but not cocaine. She talked about how she found Jesus and that she would never use drugs again. “And I won’t take any of those mind drugs, like they gave me at Valley View.”

When Dr. Kipper asked Lydia if she had ever been raped, she said, “Yes, twice,” which was a shock to me.

At the end of the session we talked about Lydia’s options. I explained that unless Dr. Kipper saw any problems with our plan, Lydia and I were going to ask the judge to order Lydia into foster care and to keep her at the Fowlers’.

“Considering the difficult circumstances, I think that you have done very well, Lydia,” the therapist said with a generous smile. “My opinion is that you should remain where you are, continue regular counseling, and start school as soon as possible.”

“May I quote you for my report to the court?” I asked.

“Surely,” the therapist said, winking at Lydia.

Two days later I picked up Lydia at the Fowlers’ and took her to Central High School. Our instructions from the drop-out specialist were to ask to see the principal. He explained that although Lydia did not meet most requirements for admission, he would waive the rules because, “I hear you are a girl with real potential.”

“Nobody ever told me I could do well before,” Lydia said.

“You are very smart,” I insisted, then looked to the principal for support.

“If you put in the effort, I know you can succeed,” he said warmly. “We want to welcome you back to school.”

“Do I have to take physical education?” Lydia asked.

“No. I don’t think you would feel comfortable with a bunch of immature ninth graders.”

Lydia’s eyes sparkled. “What about guitar? I’ve been learning how to play on my own.”

“We have two guitar classes in our music department. The goal is for you to get back into the routine and have a positive experience.”

Soon Lydia was signed up for exactly what she wanted: courses in word processing, child development, ninth-grade math and tenth-grade English, guitar, geography, and experiential science. Since it was too late to start classes, she was told to come on the bus the following day.

“Your parents will be proud that you are back in school,” I said as we headed home.

“I hope so. They never had much faith in me.”

So often I had seen guardian children whose self-esteem had been eroded by years of criticism. I refused to go along with the pervasive belief that a child required more correction than praise. One of the most essential roles I could play was to keep reminding my guardian children how terrific they were.

“I’ve seen some of your ability test results. You can do very well if you want to.”

“That’s not what my parents believe.”

“Have you talked to either of them lately?”

“Not my father!” Then she expressed her fury that every time Stuart answered the phone he either hung up or put her mother on without one word of greeting. “Mom tells me to write him and ask for forgiveness, and I have done it over and over, but he never answers. I say, ‘Dad, please talk to me. Just tell me what I need to do to come home again.’ “

“That must hurt your feelings.”

“Nobody wants me … except Al and June.” Lydia exhaled for so long she seemed to deflate. “Do you think there’s any chance I can stay with them?” she asked plaintively.

We pulled up in front of the Fowlers’ house. “I don’t know. First you would have to be declared a dependent child by the court. Then you would be a foster child, a ward of the State of Florida. But, even then, the Fowlers could ask you to leave at any time or HRS could move you whenever they wanted.”

“Couldn’t you do anything to make them keep me?”

“I can protest the placement, but I can’t insist they put you where you want to stay. They could send you to a group facility in another part of the state or to a foster home in another school district. I am sorry to say this happens all the time. I had one guardian child who was moved thirteen times in less than a year.”

“Why can’t I have a home?” she said tearfully. “The Fowlers are the only ones who want me.”

“And someone else, remember?”

“You?” she asked tentatively. I was touched, but I shook my head.

“What can’t anyone take away from you?”

“The Lord,” she mumbled.

I nodded, hoping it was true, for right now the material world had bankrupted her.

“You know something, Gay?” Lydia said, brightening. “Everyone else always talks to me about what they are going to do to help me, but then time passes and nothing changes. You are the first person who ever did every single thing that you said you would.”

“Well, I will continue to try for you, but even I can’t promise the end result. Only the judge can make you a foster child, but that still doesn’t guarantee you’ll stay with the Fowlers.”

“I know that, and I know that whatever happens it won’t be your fault.”

I began to see that trying to win might be a trap. Already I had won the right to place Lydia outside the system only to find myself crawling back to ask the judge to order the opposite. Would I be winning again if he now granted my request? And what if three months from now, Lydia changed her mind and wanted out? I could just imagine calling HRS and asking for another home!

If there is anything I had learned as a mother, it was never to say never. I could see that in this case the sole victory would be Lydia’s progress and supposed that this would not be the first or last time I might have to reconsider my original premise, to admit I was wrong, or that the situation had changed. And no matter what happened with Lydia, I would have to return to the same judge and work with the same foster care personnel again and again.

As part of the preparation for the court date, I attended a formal meeting, called a “staffing,” at HRS headquarters to determine whether Lydia qualified for foster care.

“Someone needs to chastise the Fowlers for becoming too emotionally involved with a child for whom they were only supposed to have temporary care,” Mona’s supervisor said at the start of the meeting.

“You’re talking about a child like she’s an ornamental clock loaned out to a home that is paid a fee to wind and polish it and keep it running, but not to care for it too much because they are going to have to pass it on,” I complained.

But, in the end, the HRS supervisors decided not to approve Lydia for foster care.

While waiting for a court date, I checked to see how Lydia was adjusting to school.

“Everything is different when you are trying to do your best for the Lord,” she explained. “They want me to learn secular songs in guitar class, but I have said I will only play spiritual ones.”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“No, the music teacher respects my beliefs.”

From an early age Lydia had demonstrated a spirited personality. Her stepfather in particular had tried to inhibit it, and she had defied him at every turn. Yet, properly harnessed, this same temperament gave her spunk and drive. If she used her religious differences to meet this need to define herself positively, that was fine with me, for the alternatives—from drugs to sex to running away—were self-destructive.

“When is the judge going to decide my case?”

“I haven’t been given a date yet, but since there is no emergency, it will probably be sometime in the next few weeks.”

“May I be there?”

“I am certain Judge Donovan will want to hear how you feel.”

“He didn’t listen to me last time.”

“I know but …” I paused, then took a chance. “Who did he listen to?”

“You,” she stated, then grinned. “Hope he does that again.”

The following Monday Lillian called at eight in the morning. “Lydia Ryan’s on the docket for this afternoon.”

“How’s that possible? I wasn’t notified and Lydia probably went to school already. I don’t even have a written report ready.”

Lillian told me to call Mona and insist she pick up Lydia from school. I was to write a report and read it to her over the phone, then fax the Guardian ad Litem office the final copy. Because HRS had come out against foster care for Lydia, the guardian office was preparing the legal documents necessary to state our case formally. After a hectic morning, I arrived at the courthouse shaken and unprepared.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryan were standing by the elevator, and I nodded to them. They ignored me. As I passed through the metal detector, I was asked to relinquish the Swiss army knife in my makeup bag.

Lillian greeted me with a conspiratorial grin. “Trying to sneak that in, were you?”

“Should’ve remembered and left it in the car,” I said with some chagrin. I handed Lillian copies of my report. “Where’s Lydia?”

“Mona has her in the waiting room at the end of the hall.”

I rushed there and apologized to Lydia for not knowing about the court date.

“Are my parents here yet?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, in the hall.”

“Would you ask my mother to come here? I want to talk to her without my father being around.”

Antagonism seeped from the pores of the Ryans as I approached. “Lydia would like to see her mother,” I said. Catherine gave a little jump, then looked to her husband for approval. He stared straight ahead at me, so she sidestepped him and went to her daughter.

As soon as his wife turned the corner, Stuart Ryan sneered at me. “What are you, some kind of nut?” He shook a copy of my court report in my face. “You’ve written lies about my family and I’m going to make sure you pay for what you’ve done.”

“Do you have some specific objections?” I asked as I reached for my copy.

His eyes bulged. “What is this shit about having us pay for her care? We already owe thousands for her and I will be paying that off for the rest of my life.” A violet blush spread from his neck to his chin like a barometer of his rising blood pressure. “I’m going to get you for this and put you out of business.”

Just then Nancy stepped off the elevator and waved to me. Gratefully, I followed her. “Did you hear what he said?” Nancy shook her head, so I repeated it. “Can he sue me?”

“No. A guardian is protected under the law as a good Samaritan.”

The bailiff guarding the door to the judge’s chambers had overheard me. “Did you say someone threatened you?” he asked.

“In a way …,” I demurred.

“Who?” he demanded.