Three More Words

by Ashley Rhodes-Courter

  “We sent out an e-mail asking if anyone has old baby furniture, and I know all the best thrift and consignment shops locally,” Beth told us. “I’m excited, aren’t you?”

  “We’re a little nervous,” Erick admitted.

  “We can help each other out with babysitting and respite,” Brian offered.

  I glanced at Beth, and we read each other’s minds. The guys were bonding, and we were going to be great friends as well.

  The licensing process took a couple of months from start to finish, and we didn’t even know our license had been officially approved when Erick received a midnight call asking if it might be convenient for them to deliver our first foster child. She was supposed to go to another couple we met in our classes, but they were out of town for the weekend.

  Erick put the placement coordinator on hold. “It’s pretty inconvenient,” he said to me. “We’re supposed to go to my grandmother’s house tomorrow.”

  “This child has nowhere to go,” I reminded him. And that was it—the start of a new way of life for us.

  We made up the crib and waited for our first foster child. A trembling two-and-a-half-year-old toddler arrived wrapped in a blanket. Erick went over the paperwork with the caseworker while I unwrapped LaJanna. She was wearing only a thin shirt and a bulging, putrid diaper. I couldn’t remove all the caked-on feces, and so I filled a bathtub with warm water. LaJanna sobbed, gulped, and moaned as I cleaned her.

  Erick brought a bottle of warm milk upstairs and helped me dress the limp little girl. She clung to the bottle with all her might and sucked it dry. “Should we give her another one?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We can’t let her go to sleep hungry.”

  As I lowered LaJanna into the crib, she punched and screamed. “I know, I know . . . ,” I whispered, and tried again. This time she kicked me in the belly as she arched her back away from me. Erick reached for one of the stuffed teddies we had bought in case we got a child. LaJanna pressed it to her chest with one hand and accepted the second bottle with the other. Erick helped me lower her into the crib.

  I dimmed the light and we tiptoed out. “Do you think she’ll fall asleep?” I asked.

  “How am I supposed to know?” he said. “You usually get nine months to prepare to be parents. It happened to us with one phone call.”

  I got up several times to check our first charge, but we were really lucky, because LaJanna slept the rest of the night. But she woke at dawn crying inconsolably. I knew that cry—at least the feeling behind the cry: Where’s mommy . . . where’s my bed, my house? How do I get back there? I want my mommy!

  While I held LaJanna, stroking her wiry, beaded curls and silky arms, Erick read me notes from her file. “Mom has a long history of mental illness . . . just decompensated . . . child has only eaten cigarettes and beer for last several days, perhaps longer.” He gagged. “Her mother fed her cigarettes and beer! That’s crazy.”

  “That’s what decompensated means,” I said. “She flipped out.”

  Erick scanned the paperwork again. “She’s supposed to go to the Sandersons, but they are out of town for a few days.”

  “Oh, I remember him— I think he was the youth pastor who always wore a tie.”

  “Yesterday I was worried about LaJanna coming at an inconvenient time.” Erick rubbed his temples. “Just think, she could still be eating cigarette butts!”

  LaJanna was glued to me for the next three days. At first Erick tried to cheer her by playing songs on his guitar and making funny faces, but LaJanna just pressed herself into my chest.

  “She needs to be sad,” I said.

  “They talked about children and grieving in class,” Erick said. “I guess this is what they meant.”

  I sent Erick to the store for diapers, socks, a pair of sneakers, several frilly T-shirts, and long pants, since it was January. She also needed pajamas, a hoodie jacket, and her own blanket. The agency provides a small clothing stipend for children when they first enter care, and we had become members of our local foster and adoptive parent association, where parents often shared items, donations, and supplies.

  “Get some Cheerios, bananas, and more milk,” I said. “And fresh bottles. I’m going to toss out her cruddy one.”

  During her first bath I had concentrated on carefully cleaning LaJanna’s filthy body. This morning I tackled her beaded and braided hair, which was more of a challenge. I worked shampoo in between her cornrows as gently as I could while holding a washcloth to her forehead to prevent the suds from stinging her eyes. After lunch, she seemed ready for a nap. Once again she fought being put in the crib, and this time the bottle and teddy didn’t help.

  “Okay, okay, you win, baby,” I said. I carried her downstairs and flopped on the couch. She curled into my lap. I kissed her forehead and inhaled her sweet baby smell. She clutched at the long necklace around my neck with one hand and her bottle with the other and fell asleep. I closed my eyes and rested too.

  I woke in about an hour. LaJanna’s hands had relaxed, but when I tried to roll her onto a cushion, my necklace pulled toward her. It had become entangled with her hair beads, and I could not extricate myself. I lay back and rearranged LaJanna as best I could and waited for Erick to return from running errands.

  The door slammed. LaJanna startled awake, and her head snapped forward, pulling me along with her.

  “What happened?” Erick asked as he surveyed my twisted position.

  “Just hurry and get my nail scissors.”

  He looked at where her beads intersected with my necklace. “We’re going to have to cut her hair.”

  “That’s against foster rules. Just cut my necklace.”

  “My mother made that for your birthday.”

  “She’ll just have to remake it,” I said as Erick snipped it into pieces and untangled it from the child’s hair.

  After several days, we packed up LaJanna to go to her intended foster home.

  “We were just getting to know her,” Erick said wistfully.

  “We knew this was going to happen and that she’s going to a good place. If none of her birth family are suitable, they are ready to adopt her.”

  LaJanna had been with us such a short time that I hadn’t become attached to her. Besides, I was used to the comings and goings of foster care and was more comfortable with the process—one that seemed cruel to Erick, who was born and raised in the same home by parents who were still married and in love. While I understood the rules, goals, and purpose of fostering, I now wondered if Erick was going to suffer because he loves and attaches so easily.

  I was vacuuming the cracker crumbs out of the couch—and finding more necklace beads—when the phone rang asking whether we could take another emergency placement. This time it was even more inconvenient. Contractors were coming the next day to tear out ceilings and install ductwork for a new air-conditioning system. We couldn’t have a child in a home with all the dust and construction happening.

  “What’s the situation?” I asked the placement counselor.

  “He’s been living in a crack house. They found him under his unconscious mother in an abandoned home.”

  “Sure, we’ll take him,” I said.

  We had planned to stay with my parents during construction, and I asked Gay if I could bring the new child.

  “Of course, I’ll get the crib that’s at my dad’s house,” Gay said without a pause.

  A few hours later, Juanita, the caseworker, came to the door carrying Albert, a small, thin two-year-old boy who looked younger. Loki, our husky, came to greet the newcomer, followed by Bella, our chubby Chihuahua. “Ahhh!” Albert screamed. He shook so violently I feared it was the start of a seizure.

  Erick corralled the dogs into the backyard. The terrified boy hadn’t made it a foot into our home yet. “Has he eaten dinner?” I asked.

  “I was going to get him a burger,” Juanita said, “but he was too hysterical to eat. It was a pretty bad scene when they took
him. Crack house . . . lots of people crashing . . . arrests . . . swarming with deputies . . . the father didn’t speak or respond. Kid might be retarded or mute or something. The child protective worker thought the mom might have recently overdosed.” Juanita nonchalantly rambled on with what little she knew and wasn’t very tactful with her words.

  “How long will this placement last?” Erick asked.

  “A few days to a week. He’s from Pasco County, but they didn’t have any shelter beds.”

  Waiting for Albert’s arrival, I had made a plate of snacks and fruits. I patted a stool by our kitchen counter. “Place him here. Maybe he’s hungry.”

  He kept clinging to Juanita until I popped a banana slice in his mouth. He chewed it quickly. After a few more, he sat on the stool and let me feed him. Juanita handed me his moldy bottle, which had to go right into the trash. I gave him a sippy cup, which he knocked to the floor.

  “He probably needs babying,” Erick said, and made up a fresh bottle.

  Albert grunted. His plate was clean, but he wanted more. I made a small cheese sandwich for him. He shoved several pieces into his mouth at once and started choking. I fished some out with my finger and let him suck on his bottle to wash the rest down.

  Juanita handed a packet of papers to me and headed for the door.

  “Time for a bath,” Erick said.

  Albert took his hand tentatively, and the guys went upstairs. I followed to help start the bath.

  Erick waved me away. “Just head on out to the drugstore,” he said. “We’ve got a nest of lice here.”

  I scratched my head all the way to the pharmacy and back.

  Albert seemed comfortable with Erick, but when he put the boy in the crib, Albert became agitated. He crawled out and ran out the door crying, “Eh! Eh! Eh!”

  “Let him go,” Erick suggested.

  We followed him down the stairs as he frantically looked for something. When he arrived, he’d been clutching his bottle and a rag. He zoomed over to the front door and saw that his rag had slipped under the dining table. Erick fished it out and handed it to him. Albert gave a satisfied grunt and allowed Erick to tuck him in with a new teddy bear and the wretched smelly rag of a blanket.

  “Lice?” I mouthed. Erick gestured to let him have the rag anyway.

  Once again we stood in the doorway, waiting to see if this forlorn child would be able to fall asleep. Soon we heard his raspy breathing. His nose had been running and he had a mild cough. I wondered whether this little one had ever seen a doctor. How many people lived in or visited the crack house? Why didn’t he speak any words?

  Erick and I went downstairs and made ourselves sandwiches for dinner. There was a loud bumping sound. Erick jumped up, thinking Albert had fallen out of bed. We both stood in the nursery doorway watching Albert—still asleep—smacking his head against the wall.

  Erick ran to our bedroom and took the pillows from our bed to pad the wall. Albert had banging episodes all night. A few times he cried out in his sleep, and one of us went to comfort him. He was up for good at six, and the contractors were expected to start tearing apart the ceilings at eight.

  Groggily, I packed for myself and planned to shop for Albert on the way to Crystal River. I kissed Erick good-bye. “I don’t know who’s going to have the toughest weekend,” I said.

  “Be safe and take it easy. Besides, he might only be with us for a few days.”

  Those few days turned into more than a year.

  Albert was a puzzle. He was far behind in every measurable skill, although we refused to believe that he lacked potential even though most days it was two steps backward for every one forward. Yet he had a purity, a sweetness, and a desire to please. His first response to everything was to nod his head in agreement; he smiled more than he fussed, and when he wanted something, he tucked his little hand in mine and led me to what he desired. He reacted to sounds, and so his hearing was fine, but for some reason he only grunted.

  Both Gay and Phil pitched in those first few days while we stayed at their house during the construction. But after a short time Albert always drifted back to me, pressing against my body for physical comfort. “He’s attaching to you,” Gay said. “That’s a great sign, although I’m worried about the head banging. You might have to get him a helmet.”

  “In my abnormal psych class we’re studying the case of ‘Genie’—she was a feral child who was locked in her room for more than ten years,” I said. “Like Albert, she only grunted, smeared her food, hit her head, and rocked aggressively at night.”

  “At least he was rescued early,” Gay said.

  In the morning Phil made him scrambled eggs and buttered squares of toast. He held out his plate for more. He had three pieces of toast, a bottle of milk, and applesauce. A few hours later he ate six meatballs, carrot sticks, and two bananas.

  “Poor thing was starved,” Gay said.

  At naptime we set up a cot in the middle of the bedroom and placed pillows on either side on the floor in case he rocked himself out of bed. While he slept, Gay pried the rag from his fingers and did a quick wash and dry, then tucked it beside him again.

  Later, Gay patted Albert’s fluffy curls. “I’ve never seen a reddish, relaxed Afro. I wonder where his parents are from.”

  “Looks like he’s an interesting combo of Latino, European, and African-American,” Phil said.

  “His father has a Hispanic last name,” I said.

  “Maybe his first language is Spanish!” Phil said.

  I called my sister-in-law Giulia and asked her to come and meet Albert. “Speak to him in Spanish,” I said. Giulia is Italian, but she is fluent in several languages.

  “Hola, mi nombre es Giulia. ¿Cuál es tu nombre?”

  “Alberto!” The child beamed.

  “¿Te gusta jugar con autitos?”

  “Sí!”

  “I think he knows more Spanish than English!” I said. “Wait till I tell Juanita.”

  The next day I took Albert home. After being with the Courters’ mellow Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Albert was not as fearful of Loki. Erick gave Albert a treat for the dog and said, “You are the boss of the dog. Tell him to sit.” Erick demonstrated and then put the treat in Albert’s hand. Loki sat even without a command. Erick unfolded Albert’s hand and Loki took the treat gently, then licked his hand. Albert giggled and reached for another one to give the dog. “Good job, Albert. Now you are friends.”

  “I met the kid’s father at the resource center yesterday,” Erick said when we were alone. “He brought a bag of soiled clothes, diapers, and some bootleg Disney movies.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Tall, good-looking, but he has strange pointed teeth.”

  “Did he speak Spanish?”

  “The weird thing is he barely spoke, kind of grunted the way Albert did when he first arrived.” He shook his head. “I heard that the mother was admitted to a psychiatric facility yesterday.” Albert came and stood, reaching his arms up. We gathered him between us for a double hug. His frame was bony, and he smelled like sunshine.

  “Poor thing,” I said aloud. “What chance does he have?”

  The phone rang. Erick took Albert’s weight off me while I answered it. “LaJanna? Really?” I glanced at Erick. “No, she isn’t here.”

  “Is LaJanna all right?” Erick asked.

  “I sure hope so. The case supervisor thought she was still with us.”

  “In other words, they’ve lost her.”

  I sighed. “They lost me for almost a year—at least on paper. I would have thought they’d have better systems now.” Suddenly I started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Erick asked.

  “I haven’t been a foster child in years, but it’s so painful to see the same mistakes being made with these kids more than a decade later.” I wiped my tears so Albert wouldn’t get upset. “We have an appointment at the health department tomorrow, but let’s find a pediatrician who takes Medicaid to look into that cough. The
n we have to get him into speech therapy. Oh, and he loves music. If we knew how long he’d be here, we could put him in dance class.”

  “Whoa,” Erick said, “we don’t have to do everything at once.”

  “Oh yes we do! The brain of a baby his age is still elastic and accepting, but the window of opportunity closes around age three. He already has language learning deficits, and we have to make up for lost time.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Rhodes-Courter Smith,” Erick said. “We’ll do everything we can.”

  We were enchanted by Albert, with his heart-shaped face, eyes the color of black olives, skin the copper tone of a surfer. The head banging stopped after a few weeks. He slowly began to speak—a word at a time and then short sentences. If he pointed his bony finger, I’d say, “Tell me what you want” and not give in—well, most of the time—until he found a word. We dressed him in crisp button-down shirts and trendy pants I’d iron myself. He had an astonishing appetite and relished anything we served. I saw my childhood food issues in his hunger, which went beyond enjoying a meal. People who don’t worry where their next meal is coming from can’t begin to understand, any more than someone who has not experienced an excruciating migraine can imagine the pain. There’s a survival need met with a combination of gratitude for the delicious food combined with the urge to get as much of it as possible while it is available. Now I know that my own drive to overeat stems from those years of deprivation, and darling little Albert had already faced the same hollow ache.

  Determined to boost him with the best nutrition, I started reading supermarket labels and rejected anything with sugar in the first few ingredients or too many additives or content I couldn’t pronounce.

  I filled in Gay when she called one afternoon to ask how we were doing. “Albert’s dad has only shown up for one visit since Albert’s been with us, and yesterday he brought a bunch of food from a gas station to their visit. When we got home, Albert had a disgusting case of diarrhea.”

  There was a long pause. I knew Gay wanted to say something about my conversion to healthy foods, but she stopped herself. “How did the visit go?”