The call came from a director at the Pinellas County Guardian ad Litem office. “Hi, Ashley,” she said. “Sorry to contact you so late, but we were hoping you would be available to speak at the adoption day in Pasco.”
Both Erick and I had worked as guardians with her. “Nice to hear from you!” I said, “but—”
She interrupted me. “The event is on Thursday, November eighth, this year.”
“I know,” I said, laughing to myself.
“Is it possible you’ll be available?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll be very busy, although I think I could squeeze it in.” This time I chuckled aloud. “Erick and I are adopting our son that same day in that court!”
“I can’t believe it!” she said, and we happily confirmed that I would speak as part of the ceremonies.
Five months passed between Tiffany surrendering Skyler and his adoption. Despite her fears, nobody snatched him from our home to place him with another family waiting to adopt. If Tiffany had been assured he would have remained with us, her stress would have been minimized. Yet there are no guarantees. I’d heard of instances where an adoption was canceled at the last minute because one of the prospective parents was arrested, so adoption agencies generally do a final background check. Even families that seem squeaky clean on the surface have had unpleasant secrets come to light at the last moment.
In the meantime, we were still a therapeutic foster care family. Maya called one morning. “I need a really huge favor,” she said. “We have two brothers ages eighteen months and four who need a placement until they can find a preadoptive home.”
“What’s their behavior profile?” I asked. With Skyler and Ethan, we couldn’t have a hitter, a biter, or a sexually abused child who acted out on others.
“I can assure you they are lovely boys, but nobody in regular foster care will take them.”
“I don’t understand—”
“They’re African-American.”
“What! Do you mean to tell me that they rejected these kids because of their skin color?”
“Nobody is forced to take any child for any reason, and apparently they don’t have an available family with an open bed and the right profile,” Maya said without confirming my comment. “Does this mean you’ll accept them?”
“Of course!” I said, shocked that such prejudice still existed.
Their caseworker, Lindsay, delivered Micah and Zachariah in less than two hours. “I am so grateful,” she said effusively. “We’ve been trying to place them for a week.”
I sized up the two handsome boys for clothing size. We had plenty to fit little Zachariah, but Micah would need a new wardrobe. I made them a welcome lunch and added a lesson in “please” and “thank you.” They caught on quickly.
Then I called Gay, who was coming to Erick’s father’s birthday party the next day. I gave her the children’s sizes, and she went to the nearby children’s upscale consignment store—where she got an additional discount for foster children—to outfit Micah.
At the party, Micah played doctor, asking people to open their mouths. He used a belt as a pretend blood pressure cuff and acted very solemn as he went around the room, checking everyone.
“He’s had a lot of medical care,” I said. “I think he’s working out some trauma.”
“Shanice—that’s their mom—has been homeless for years,” I told Erick. “She has mental health issues and sometimes left the children alone for days in the shelters. Anything could have happened to them in that environment.”
Gay went online and ordered a child’s doctor kit. When Micah came home from school three days later, the package was there. We let him unwrap it. I expected he’d jump up and down with excitement. Instead, his face turned serious. “Let’s begin,” he said, turning to Erick.
He gave Erick a full exam, checking his ears, his nose, and his throat. He took his blood pressure with the realistic cuff and listened to his heart with the stethoscope, which had a small amplifier. When he was finished, he came over to Erick and took his hand. “I see what the problem is,” he said with a concerned tone.
“What?” Erick asked, pretending to be alarmed.
“You have chickens in your ears.”
Erick couldn’t suppress a smile. “Oh no! What do I do?”
“I’ll take them out for you.”
Zachariah was close in age to Skyler, but he had some developmental delays. We were grateful that Skyler had arrived when he was so young. In his day-care class he was the most advanced in physical development and speech. Zachariah joined my cuddle-bunny club, and I tried to give him plenty of lap time, because he craved close contact. Micah enjoyed playing independently with cars and building toys. If I took the sofa, I would have one boy on each side. Interestingly, the child who was the most independent was Ethan. I wasn’t sure whether it was due to his personality or because somehow he knew there had never been the slightest possibility of going anywhere else.
“Mrs. Smith,” the caller said, “Don’t forget that picture day is tomorrow for Micah and Zachariah.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll be sure to pack an extra outfit.”
It had been the most ordinary of calls, yet I reacted with a racing pulse. How I had loved picture day at school! I always wore my best dress, brushed my hair, and even cleaned under my fingernails. When I was adopted, we found a few school pictures in my files—but I had never seen them before. Often I had already changed schools when the photos came back, or I had started the school after picture day had taken place. Of course we ordered each a photo package for their albums, as well as a plaque with Micah’s preschool graduation picture on it. Even if they weren’t with us when these came back, we would be sure the boys got them.
After a few months, we asked Lindsay about their case. “Any progress on finding them an adoptive family?”
“There are a few issues,” Lindsay said. “Both fathers have agreed to surrender. However, their mom said she just can’t bring herself to sign the documents.”
“Now what?”
“We’ll have to file for a termination hearing.”
“How long are we talking about?”
“Six months, maybe a year.”
“By then these boys will consider us their family. What about a preadoptive family?” I glanced around our living room, which looked like we’d left a window opening during a tornado of toys and blocks.
“There aren’t many who will accept the risk knowing the mom hasn’t surrendered yet.”
“There’s no way these children are being reunified, right?” I had heard the mom had added more prostitution charges to her long record.
“Of course not.”
“They’ll be so much easier to place while they’re still young. Zachariah is in diapers, and Micah’s developing an amazing vocabulary. He’s very interested in science and medicine.”
I woke Erick up in the middle of the night. “What? Who?” he asked, figuring it was his turn with one of the kids.
“I just need to talk about the Oliver boys.” He groaned and sat up next to me in bed. “Let’s look at it from their mother’s point of view. She’s homeless, mentally ill, and a prostitute, but she still has a last vestige of dignity. She doesn’t want to give away her children to people she doesn’t know. Remember, Tiffany felt the same way.”
“You’re right.” Erick held his hand up like a traffic cop. “Wait, maybe we should contact that private agency Tiffany told us about.”
“They do work much faster. The state could drag the case out for a year or more. Shanice could surrender her rights to their agency and may feel empowered by getting to choose their new parents.”
“But the agency charges a fee.”
“It wouldn’t cost the mother anything. And the families she would be choosing from would already be aware of the costs.”
Neither of us could see a downside. I phoned the agency the next day. “Based on the information you were able to provide,” the agency head said, ?
??we could help this mom. The last time we took a foster care case, we found the child an adoptive home in two weeks.”
“That fast?” I pressed the phone closer to my ear.
“We work nationally,” she said. “I want to make a few calls first. And then I’ll get in touch with their caseworker.”
Shanice was thrilled with the idea of picking her children’s new family. Their caseworker Lindsay was also excited. She was working another case where a little girl had been in her pre-adoptive home for two years and there were still technicalities holding up the final adoption. These young boys needed a forever home as soon as possible.
The adoption agency sent a cab to pick up Shanice at her shelter, and she spent day after day poring through the albums that families make to introduce themselves to birth mothers. The process was slowed by the fact that Shanice kept disappearing. Micah and Zachariah were eventually adopted by a biracial couple in Oregon. Though there were some unforeseen delays, the state could never have offered these children more efficient permanency.
I like to imagine Micah walking along the shore, showing shells to his adoptive father, a science teacher, who might help Micah work on the cure for chickens in the ear.
We adopted twenty-month-old Skyler the day before Ethan’s first birthday. All the Smiths and the Courters were there, as well as many of the people we had worked with as guardians and foster parents for several years. I’m also on the board of the Heart Gallery—a group that uses photography to promote children waiting to be adopted—and many children who had found families from their portraits were also being adopted. After my speech, we filed into the judge’s chambers for Skyler’s proceedings.
“I like to ask children if they want to be adopted,” the judge said.
My stomach flipped as I recalled this very moment fifteen years earlier, when I’d spoken my ambivalent three little words so churlishly. I glanced at my parents apologetically, but they were busy grinning at Skyler, who was waving his hands. Then he gave the judge a huge smile.
The judge grinned back. “I’ll take that as a yes!” Everyone applauded.
It was done. It had come full circle. I was now the adoptive mother.
Outside the courtroom, our local television station interviewed me. “What do you think of these events?” the reporter asked.
“We all know about the tragic cycle of abuse—where abused children grow up to become abusive parents. I like to think we’ve changed it to the cycle of adoption.”
After the celebration at the courthouse, we went to a waterfront resort for a festive lunch and took family photos around their gardens. We ended the day with the family back at our house for a barbecue. The following weekend we had a “One + 1 Party” to celebrate Ethan’s first birthday and the new addition to our family. We rented space at a children’s museum in St. Petersburg, which was the perfect place for our friends with children. I loved hearing the squealing sounds of excited children and the murmurings of parents scurrying after them. Skyler discovered the tube slide and giggled all the way down. Then he wanted to climb back up the way he came. Erick had to carry him off and put him back on the ladder. As I watched, I felt infused with a floating lightness—as if helium was filling my veins and I was looking down on the father of my children swinging and lifting and laughing. He was happy. Skyler was happy. Ethan, who was tucked into his grandfather Phil’s arms, was smiling too. Gay was at my side, and the Smith family was at the bottom of the slide, cheering Skyler on.
I guess so. . . . That young girl, who said those words at her own adoption because she had felt her ties to other people would always be tenuous and ephemeral, didn’t exist any longer. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored surface of a nearby exhibit. Although Ethan had rumpled my hair and sticky fingers had mauled my dress, I saw a lucky—and contented—woman.
After the Oliver boys left, we decided that we wanted time to enjoy both Skyler and Ethan without too many children coming and going. We told Maya that we would not accept any long-term placements for the time being. “I know there is still a huge need for respite homes,” I said. “We would be happy to help out for short periods.”
We had used respite for family trips or when I was going somewhere interesting for a speech and Erick was able to accompany me. Some families have foster children who are so challenging that their foster parents need a breather to reset. We didn’t expect Maya to call so soon with a favor.
“Millie is eight,” she began, “and her current foster home is closing.”
“I’ve met Millie,” I said, recalling a girl with lustrous black hair who tried to hide her missing teeth by smiling behind her hand. Foster parents serving this small agency knew one another well since we regularly came together for trainings and activities. “We’d be happy to have her,” I said, because something about her had already touched my heart.
“This should only be for a very short time,” Maya admitted. “She is supposed to be free for adoption soon, and we have identified an adoptive family for her.”
“I’m a good helper,” Millie said when I showed her around our home. “I clean, too! Just tell me what to do.”
“That’s great,” I said, “but here, we all help each other.”
I remembered back more than fifteen years ago, trying to sell myself to a new foster parent, hoping this would be the one who would keep me. Millie reminded me of myself in many ways, most poignantly because she too had buried her fears and sadness and was trying so hard to make a good first impression.
Millie was patient while I tended the younger children, who were demanding food or a diaper change. To keep her from being bored, I bought her some jewelry-making kits she could work on, and she used little rubber bands to make everyone in the house their own bracelets. She loved crafts, dressing up, nail polish, and the same girly activities I had enjoyed. After so many little men in my life, I loved doting on her.
Just like me, she had very definite food preferences. I understood her need to control as much as she could, and allowed her to help pick menus that she would enjoy. Often, people are reluctant to foster older children, but they can sometimes be more satisfying than uncommunicative little ones.
One night I went to tuck Millie in. Without prompting, she had taken my book, Three Little Words, to bed and had fallen asleep reading it. Erick tiptoed in and snapped a picture. I stood there awhile longer. It was surreal to think that this was my foster daughter and realize how far my life had come. I wondered whether she was able to imagine a happy ending for her own story.
After the first week, she said, “I wish you would adopt me.”
My heart melted. “It’s complicated,” I began with a sigh. I remembered kids at The Children’s Home asking virtual strangers to adopt them. We just wanted a family—any family. “That’s not the plan, sweetheart,” I said. “You’re going to a wonderful couple in a few days.”
Two months later, we learned that just after she left our home, the goals in Millie’s case had changed. Because of this, her preadoptive parents had not been permitted to keep her. After that, the veil of confidentiality descended over Millie, and we had no idea where she was. The secrecy that surrounds the children in the system is supposed to “protect” them—as if there were a way to shield them from their pasts. As I know all too well, the memories cannot be erased; they course through our bodies like blood. They are always there and not so far from the surface. I envy children whose recollections are all positive and delightful, and I empathize with those, like me, who had a rougher go. No matter how much happiness I have—and I now have more than my fair share—my own past is a part of my present and will be a part of my future. One of my goals as a foster parent has been to add a layer of joyful times to a child’s life while trying to minimize their stress. While we can’t escape or erase the past hurts these children experience, we can fill them with positive experiences in a loving home—and maybe even give them some hope. Still, Erick and I have continued to worry about the children who
left our home and were returned to what we believed were unsafe conditions. I expected Millie would be one of the lucky ones—like me—who would find loving parents eager to give her whatever she needed.
This is how Millie’s story was supposed to end in this book—on a positive note, remembering a child who had every potential, and might still do well despite her early struggles. This was not what happened. I have had to edit this chapter at the last minute and will live with so many regrets and questions for the rest of my days.
This is why: Just over a year after Millie was with us, I was sent a link to a newspaper article, and scanned the headline. “Some guy went crazy and killed his disabled mother,” I said to Erick. “And then went after his young nieces.”
Erick shook his head. Sadly, these headlines are not uncommon in Florida. A few weeks before, a father flipped out and threw his five-year-old daughter, Phoebe Jonchuck, off a bridge approaching the Sunshine Skyway in St. Petersburg. It was revealed that Phoebe’s death could have been prevented because several people had called the state abuse hotline, warning that the father was unstable and a danger to his young daughter. But the workers at the hotline screened the calls and deemed there was no reason to investigate further.
I gasped as I read the article further. “Oh! Oh no!” An icy wave passed from me to Erick. Our worst nightmare as foster parents was coming true! “It’s Millie,” I cried out.
“Is she . . . going to be okay?” he asked, his eyes instantly welling with tears.
“They just said that she’s in critical condition.”
I picked up the phone, called the agency, and reminded them that we had fostered Millie. “We can take her again,” I said first thing. They said they would consider us “if she survived.”