by Gay Courter
“Look, Nancy,” the attorney said, spitting the words like machine gun bullets, “I know you have the best intentions, but I don’t think your guardian has the experience to see the pitfalls. This is a classic setup for a failed adoption.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Adoption sounds like a panacea. The papers are signed and everyone lives happily ever after, but adoptive parents get fed up, particularly with adolescent behaviors, and they turn the kids back to us and we have to accept them. Then we’re stuck with three kids who will take this next failure so hard emotionally they will be worse off than before, and will probably spend the rest of their minority in foster care.”
“I don’t see the difference,” Nancy responded. “They’ll be in foster care in a few weeks anyway. Adoption is a chance, maybe only a slim one. Why should we second-guess it and deny them this little window of opportunity?”
“There is a tremendous amount of work putting one of these adoptions together,” Scott continued. “I like to direct my limited resources at children who have more of a chance at success.”
I looked around the room wondering why everyone was so antagonistic. Dolly Lemoine had her back turned so she would never have to look at either me or Nancy. I could not understand why none of them would give this situation a chance. “You don’t know these girls,” I said, pleadingly. “Their therapist has stated that they have more potential for change than any kids she’s ever seen. If I put them in a group of high-functioning children from stable homes and asked you to pick them out, you wouldn’t be able to.” I fumbled in my file for the snapshots from the craft fair and passed them around. Nobody seemed to care, but I left the photos face up in the middle of the table.
Dolly Lemoine spoke up for the first time, but she still didn’t face the gathering. “We have other sibling groups who have been on the waiting list for years that the Slater family might be interested in.”
Nancy saw my back stiffen and leaned over as if to soothe me. “The Slaters are only considering these children,” I snapped. “You heard the story of how they felt compelled to take them in.”
“That’s what worries me the most,” Scott said. “They sound unstable to me. One of these kids is going to pull some typical teen stunt, and they are going to toss her out.”
“This theorizing isn’t getting anywhere,” Nancy said. “Let’s formulate a plan for proceeding. If it begins to unravel, we can reevaluate then.”
Scott Keefer deferred to the attorney. “I want to see those terminations,” Myra said. “And I don’t want them tainted.” She stared meaningfully at Nancy.
“You want them vetted by the parents’ attorneys and without guardian involvement, right?”
Myra nodded, then said she had another appointment.
“There are many other obstacles,” Scott added after she left. “Our budget has been cut and we won’t be able to do a home study for at least three months. In the meantime, the children need birth certificates, psychological reports, and medical and dental examinations. I’m afraid we do not have funds for any of those right now.”
I was smiling. I had copies of the birth certificates all ready. Dr. Abernathy could write the psychological. I had friends who were doctors and dentists who would gladly perform exams for the children to be adopted.
“Your guardian thinks this is some sort of joke,” Scott Keefer said with obvious annoyance.
I flushed. He had mistaken my relaxation for impudence. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you, I was just happy that none of those items are difficult.” I told him who would provide those services. “Just give me the forms and it will be done.”
“The birth certificates have to be certified originals.”
“I can take care of those,” Iris Quinones said to be helpful. “Gay can handle the rest if she is willing.”
“Then it is settled,” Nancy said and recapped everyone’s responsibilities.
Without another word, Dolly and Scott left the room.
In the parking lot, Nancy was furious. “See what I mean? They want to sabotage this adoption. And I don’t like the way they were condescending to you.”
“I didn’t mind.”
“Well, I did! You are a volunteer and deserve to be treated with respect and gratitude for everything you have already done. I’m going to call Scott tomorrow and demand an apology to you.”
“I guess they were fairly hostile, but it seems absurd to me. We’re taking three kids out of the system. We’ve found the placement for both foster care and adoption. We have private funds for the medical and psychological. I’m doing most of the work for free. What’s the big problem?”
“It wasn’t their idea. It’s not their adoptive home. It’s not being done in the right order or by their rules.”
“Surely they wouldn’t deny these girls a home because of that, would they?”
Nancy didn’t reply at first. Then she looked at me with fire in her eyes. “Not if I can help it.”
The case of the three birth certificates classically illustrates the bureaucratic web that ensnares children. Getting certified original copies was the one job Iris Quinones had agreed to undertake.
Two weeks later, she called me. “Can’t get them. They will only give them to a natural parent or guardian.”
“Aren’t the Colbys dependent children under HRS and isn’t the health department, which issues the certificates, an HRS agency?”
“Yes, but the clerk said I’d have to fill out the forms and apply through Tallahassee. That will take six months.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you ask their mother to do it?”
“She hasn’t returned my phone calls, but as her guardian you could get them.”
“I’m not the legal guardian of the child, the state is.”
“The clerk said they’d give it to the Guardian ad Litem.”
Exasperated, I got into my car and drove twenty-two miles to the health department, where I presented my court orders, showed my identification card, my driver’s license, and copies of the children’s birth certificates.
“One of the children was not born in this county. That requires an eleven-dollar fee,” the clerk said. I took out my checkbook. “Cash.” I handed her a ten and a single bill. “It’s ten dollars for each of the other ones.”
I gave her twenty more dollars, leaving myself only change in my wallet, and demanded a receipt. Then I drove two miles to the HRS headquarters and asked for Iris Quinones. After thirty minutes, she still had not appeared. Finally I had to leave. I asked the receptionist to make copies of the birth certificates and my receipt. I impressed upon her the value of these documents and she promised to deliver them to Ms. Quinones at once.
Two weeks later Myra Garland still did not have the birth certificates. Later I had learned they had traveled from Iris’s desk to the county attorney, then on to Lauren Lorenzo, Dolly Lemoine, then Scott Keefer, before landing on Myra’s desk. She had decided to have Calvin Reynolds manage the legal proceedings locally, but we had to wait for the certificates to make their way back to his office, which took six weeks.
If I had not “interfered” with this process, it could easily have taken six months, or longer, for this tiny step to have been made. Instead of being annoyed by this, however, it energized me. Everything was falling into place. School was ending and the Slaters were about to become licensed foster parents. Soon the children would be reunited under one roof with people who wanted them to stay forever.
The rest was nonsense.
I could handle nonsense.
A few days before Mother’s Day, Nicole called me and asked, “Which one should I send cards to?”
“You have two mothers, why not send them both cards. It would make each one of them happy.”
“What about Fay Lamb? She was also my mother this year.”
“Sure, her too.”
All three women made a point to tell me they had received “special” cards from Nicole. The
other girls also gave cards to both Jeanne and their mother. At church Jeanne was called to the front of the congregation to receive the Mother-of-the-Year award. Her picture was taken surrounded by Julie, Nicole, Simone, Zane, and Jared.
When Father’s Day rolled around, Julie asked her father to lunch and I took the sisters to McDonald’s. Buddy Colby bought us Big Macs. I gave him a stack of photographs of the girls and we talked about how well things were going in the Slater home and the fact that they would officially become foster parents in a few weeks. We kept the conversation centered around the financial benefits of foster care and adoption, but I said that nothing would stop him from opening bank accounts in the children’s names for their future. At this, Mr. Colby changed the subject.
At the end of the meal, Buddy said, “I know you want me to give up my rights to these girls, but I think it’s one of Lottie’s tricks to get me out of the picture.”
“That’s not the case,” I said, “but I understand your concerns. What would make you more secure?”
“If I saw that she signed the papers first and that she couldn’t grab them back.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
“That still doesn’t mean I’ll give away my daughters.”
“I’m not going to try to talk you into it. You discuss it with the girls and then you pray about what you think will be best for them. I know you love them and because of that love you will do what is right for them.”
A week later I had a call at the Guardian ad Litem office to contact Mr. Colby. I reached him after dinner. His speech was slurred.
“Been thinking about what you said about my girls.”
“About what is best for them?”
“Yes.” There was a long pause. “I like you. You are the only one who ever seemed to really care about my children. Do you actually think it would be better for them to be adopted by strangers?”
“I think it would be best if they could live together with one of their parents, however they don’t want to go back to their mother.”
“I don’t want them to do that either.”
“And the court won’t send them back to you in the near future.”
“I know that.”
“If they stay in foster care, they could be moved around and separated. Adoption is the only possibility of permanence. Also, once they are adopted, HRS is out of the picture—and by the way, I am too. That means HRS won’t be able to control your access to them and you won’t have to answer to HRS.”
“I think I am going to do it.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, what you want me to do.”
“I want what is best for the girls.”
“I’ll do it, if they tell me that’s what they want.”
“Okay, we’ll talk again. Call me anytime.”
He hung up the phone and I held the dead receiver for several seconds, then threw the portable phone in the air. “Yes!” I said aloud. Then I dialed Vic Slater and told him the news.
A court date for the change of placement hearing was set. As soon as Calvin Reynolds heard the Slaters’ foster care license was in the mail, he filed the papers to order the Colby sisters into foster care. For once, HRS and the Guardian ad Litem office were in agreement. In preparing my report for the court, I took special pains to write complimentary words about the natural parents as well as the HRS workers.
Many departments of HRS, including foster care licensing, protective services, and adoptions have worked hard to facilitate this atypical case. Everyone, including the children themselves and their birth parents, cooperated to make this special placement work. Complex procedures were done rapidly and communication between everyone has been excellent, allowing this favorable outcome in a challenging situation.
The girls prepared to come to court because they wanted to tell the judge that this is what they desired. When I took them into the judge’s chambers, I said, “Usually ordering children into foster care is an admission that all other avenues have been blocked, and Your Honor’s decision is the least detrimental alternative. However, this is a happy day because foster care is merely a technical step on the way to an adoption and everyone present is in accord that this is the best course of action.”
Calvin Reynolds nodded. The lawyer for Mr. Colby, who was not present, and the lawyer for Mrs. Hunt, who was, stated they had no objections.
We were out of court in less than five minutes.
In the hallway, Calvin said, “What about the terminations? Who is handling those?”
“Send them to the parents’ lawyers. We’re ready to go.”
“Are you certain they will sign?”
I saw Mrs. Hunt coming out of the rest room and motioned for her to come over. “Mr. Reynolds wants to know if you are ready to sign the terminations.”
“I could do it now,” she said.
“Sorry, I don’t have the forms,” Calvin replied, a bit taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I’ll send them to your attorney tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Lottie,” I said. “Call me if you have any questions.”
“What about the father?” Calvin said after Lottie left.
“He’ll sign, but he wants to be certain their mother does it first, so this isn’t some sort of ploy for her to get them when he can’t.”
He pressed the elevator button. “Why don’t we bring them back to court and have them execute the consents simultaneously?”
“Mr. Colby doesn’t like coming here because the last time he was in shackles. Also, he hates to be in the same room as his ex-wife.”
“What if he doesn’t sign?”
“He’ll sign. He told me he would.”
Calvin shook his head in disbelief. “It never happens this easily.”
I headed for the parking lot where my car sizzled in the midday Florida summer sun.
The girls were waiting for me with their mother. “Want to join us for a burger?” I asked Mrs. Hunt. She beamed. “Who wants to ride with her mom?”
“I do,” Julie said.
“Okay, Nicole, you come with me and Julie and Simone go with your mother.”
In the restaurant everyone was cheerful. Simone talked about her summer job, Julie about taking horseback lessons, and Nicole about babysitting for Zane and Jared, who were “a pain” but it was worth it because of the money.
Lottie Hunt glanced at a newspaper that had been left on the next table with two headlines about custody cases. During the summer of 1993, there were several high-profile children’s rights cases: Baby Jessica, the two-year-old child, who the court in Iowa had demanded be returned to her biological father from her adopted parents in Michigan; and Kimberly Mays, the fourteen-year-old Florida girl who had been switched at birth. Kimberly was asking that her natural parents, the Twiggs, be restrained by the court from seeking custody of her.
“What do you think about those cases?” Lottie Hunt asked me.
I deflected the question. “What do you girls think?”
Nicole spoke up first. “I think Baby Jessica should go back to her birth mother.”
Lottie seemed surprised. “Why?”
“Her mother has been trying to get her back since she was a few weeks old and the courts have been holding it up. That wasn’t fair to either the real parents or the baby.”
“But the mother lied about who the father was,” Simone interjected.
“So, should the baby suffer for that?” Nicole countered.
I was surprised that the Colby sisters knew so many details about the case.
“What about Baby Jessica?” Lottie asked me. “Did she have a guardian?”
“Actually, I think she eventually was given one, but it wasn’t very meaningful. Her rights haven’t been considered. In law children are the property of their parents.”
“That’s not fair,” Julie said.
“If you were Baby Jessica’s guardian, what would you do?” I asked Julie.
“I would allow her to live with the
people she knows but to visit her mother sometimes too.”
“I agree with Julie,” Lottie said. “You’ve got to think about the baby first.”
I popped some of Julie’s French fries in my mouth, thinking: I cannot believe this conversation. We’ve just taken this woman’s children and put them one more legal step beyond her reach, and she’s thinking about their needs rather than her own for a change. “What about Kimberly Mays?”
“That’s different,” Simone said. “She should visit her birth parents because none of this was their fault.”
“How can you force a fourteen-year-old to stay with people she doesn’t like?” I wondered.
“They could see her at someone like Dr. Abernathy’s office,” Julie said.
“What about Gregory K.?” Lottie Hunt asked me. “Do you think he had the right to divorce his parents?”
“All he wanted was termination of parental rights, the same paper you have agreed to sign.”
“I know. I didn’t want to put my kids through that. If Gregory’s mother had really cared about him, she would have done the same.”
“You really love your daughters, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Lottie answered steadily. “And I’m showing everyone you can do something like what Gregory K. wanted, and do it right.”
“We have a little problem,” Vic said three days later. “Julie wanted to stay overnight with a friend of hers, but we did not know the family and suggested that her friend could come to our house instead. She had a fit and cried and said we were being mean to her. Then, when we thought she was calling her friend, she phoned her father and told him she didn’t want to live here anymore and didn’t want to be adopted.”
“I guess she’d better talk to Dr. Abernathy about this. In the meantime, I’ll take Julie out for a while. Would tomorrow afternoon be all right?”
The next day Julie and I went for ice cream sundaes at Dairy Queen. “Complaint time,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Julie asked tensely.
“I bet you have a whole list of complaints. Lay it on me. That’s what I am here for.”
