I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (8 page)

“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.

“Although her parents don’t want her, Lydia is not yet a legal ward of the court,” I explained.

“Aren’t there any other alternatives in your community?” the doctor asked before hanging up.

From experience I knew that once HRS was in control of a child, they could move her without anyone’s permission. My work with other guardian children had taught me that confused teenagers were the least likely to last long in one foster home. There were a million excuses for dumping them. A caseworker might determine that another child would do better in the home, and move the teen, or the foster parents could change their mind at any point. One call to the caseworker and the child was on the move again. So what other possibilities were there? Lydia was not a bad child. Maybe I could find an idealistic, affectionate family with a spare bedroom.

Barely containing my enthusiasm, I called Nancy. “Would it be permissible to place Lydia informally with another family?”

“As long as they did not expect state reimbursement, I don’t see why not. Just remember Lydia has been adjudicated to the Tabernacle Home, so we have to deal with them first. I am supposed to call our friend, Mrs. Shaw, and tell her what rules we are going to stipulate. What should I say?”

“There’s no reason to capitulate to them, is there?”

“Absolutely not. It would set a bad precedent.”

I scribbled a list and recited it. “Initially I want to see Lydia two to three times a month, once outside of the facility, with arrangements beforehand about where and when it will be. The other times I want to see her alone either in a private office or outside on their grounds. I want to be able to call at an appropriate time to make these arrangements and I want her to be permitted to phone me whenever she wishes during her free time. She can call the guardian office collect so it won’t cost them anything. Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all. That’s what any other guardian would want.”

However, despite Nancy’s optimism, Alice Shaw’s response was that she would get back to us with their counterproposal.

Nancy would not retreat. “I told Mrs. Shaw that since this is court ordered, and not some privilege Lydia has to earn, our points are not negotiable.”

“How did she react?” I asked.

“Mrs. Shaw’s voice was icy and very formal, and she said, ‘We’ll have our decision by Wednesday, but I must ask that you warn your guardian to refrain from contacting Lydia before then, for the child’s sake.’ Since I didn’t want Lydia to suffer because of our stance, I agreed.”

A few hours later the phone rang. “Gay? Nancy. I just had a call from Mona Archibald at HRS. Pastor Shaw called her a few minutes ago and informed her that they will ask Lydia to leave unless we back off from our unreasonable demands.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

“You can modify your requirements or …” She drifted off. “Just a moment, Calvin Reynolds from HRS is calling on the other line. You want to hold?”

“Sure.” I closed my eyes and wished I had turned the case back to Lillian when the religious question was raised. Another guardian more acceptable to the Shaws might have protected Lydia better.

Nancy was back on the line. “There’s going to be an emergency hearing next Monday to allow the judge to determine whether Lydia will remain in the Tabernacle Home under their rules. That gives us a few more days to find an alternative for Lydia.”

Here was a challenge I relished. Producing films often brought the same rush, especially when something that had been set up for a long time fell apart at the last minute because of weather or a technical problem or an illness and I had to use all my wiles to save the day by lining up a completely different program. I called several former Guardians ad Litem, the heads of two neighboring programs, the director of a girls’ school upstate, the district manager of several special HRS programs, a few wealthy women in a nearby city who might know someone who would take Lydia in. Then I started on my personal list of contacts. I picked two families, one in our community, one about fifty miles away.

“I would take her myself,” I told my friends truthfully, “but it is a hard-and-fast rule that guardians may not even bring their clients to their homes.”

Both families showed some interest but wanted to know more. My immediate concern was where Lydia would sleep Monday night if the judge ruled that she should leave the Tabernacle Home at once. Perhaps the Shaws would keep her a few more days, but based on their behavior, I thought that unlikely. I called Becky Morse, the foster mother of one of my other guardian children, and asked if she could act as an emergency shelter.

“Sure. Tell Mona Archibald that I will expect the group rate for her care, which is what I get for short-term kids.”

“Becky, she’s not in the system, so maybe they won’t pay anything. If it turns out that way, couldn’t you give her a few days without payment?”

“No, even if I would like to help you out this once, I don’t dare, because then HRS would constantly be asking for freebies and favors.”

“But if the judge orders her in shelter care, then HRS is obliged to pay you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“So, if that happens, would you take her in?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

I awoke Monday morning dreading the shelter hearing. Before I went downstairs for breakfast, I pulled out the encyclopedia and looked up the Constitution of the United States. I opened to the preamble, something I had not read since the sixth grade.

The words “in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice …” came alive for me. I turned to the amendments and scanned the Bill of Rights: Freedom of Religion, Speech, and the Press; Rights in Criminal Cases, Rights to a Fair Trial, Women Suffrage, and Civil Rights. What seemed to be missing, however, was children’s rights. Even though you couldn’t legislate love, why, at the very least, weren’t children specifically given the right to safe, permanent, healthy homes? Just as women were no longer considered chattel, shouldn’t there at least be an amendment listing the basic entitlements of every American, no matter the age?

At that moment, though, my immediate concern was a home for Lydia. I had no firm offers for Lydia, only a few ideas of places she might visit. Anyway, there was always the possibility that Judge Donovan, who had ordered her to the Tabernacle Home to begin with, would agree to the Shaws’ demands, discharge his guardian—or suggest only the most minor supervision—and leave her where she was.

Nancy Hastedt and Lillian Elliott greeted me on the courthouse steps. “I didn’t expect you both to come.”

Nancy grinned. “I never turn down a ringside seat.”

“We’re waiting for Thorn,” Lillian said, referring to Kit Thorndike, the lawyer who worked half-time for the Guardian ad Litem program, and whom we liked to think of as a “thorn in the side” of our opposition.

“Do you think the Shaws will bring their attorney?”

“Nothing would surprise me,” Nancy said, her eyes gleaming.

I knew that Nancy relished this sort of challenge and that there were possible precedent-setting legal issues, but all I could think of was Lydia’s reaction to having her life turned topsy-turvy once again. After Thorn arrived, I briefed them about the shelter bed at the Morses’ and some of my possibilities, then we went upstairs to the courtrooms.

As we passed through the metal detector, we were greeted by Mona Archibald, who acknowledged Thorn and Nancy with a sardonic grin. “Why all the big guns for the microwave case?”

“Lydia Ryan never put anyone in a microwave oven!” I seethed.

Mona shrugged at Lillian. “That’s what’s in my file.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever read that file,” I snapped, “or you would realize that a ten-year-old can’t fit in a microwave and that Lydia wasn’t even in the house when the incident occurred.”

“I just don’t understand why you are so hell-bent and determined to destroy this placement,” Mona sputtered.

As Mona left to talk to the HRS attorney, Nancy rolled her eyes. “A bit hostile?” she asked rhetorically.

“Speaking of hostile, look over there.” Lillian’s eyes indicated the Shaws, who were standing at the far end of the corridor with Lydia in between them. She was dressed in a loose-fitting flowered dress, two sizes too large, with a soiled white collar. Her eyes were downcast and she was clasping a Bible.