The Children Money Can Buy

by Anne Moody

  The baby I had seen had been deemed a “failure to thrive,” but once she got out of that home and started to receive proper care, she did fine. Naturally, the foster mother denied any wrongdoing; she had no doubt convinced herself that babies just need to sleep all the time. But it seemed evident to us that the babies in this woman’s home had either been drugged into passivity or had simply given up on the idea that their crying, or anything else they did, mattered to her, or to anyone at all. Despite the extremely serious nature of her mistreatment, there was no consequence to the woman other than losing her foster care license and the admiration she had so enjoyed.

  As far as we knew, instances of physical and sexual abuse were rare in the foster homes we used, but they did occur, and we always took accusations seriously. I had a sixteen-year-old girl call one day to say that she had to move immediately because her foster father was sexually abusing her. This girl had lived with her foster family for the past three years, and it seemed like one of the most secure placements on my caseload. She had been a school friend of her foster parents’ daughter and the family had gotten licensed specifically to care for the girl when her own family fell apart. Her mother was dead and her father had been convicted of sexually abusing the girl and an older sister, who was now living on her own. I visited the foster home numerous times during her stay there, and there had never been a hint of difficulty. The parents were open and loving, and the children—the two sixteen-year-old girls and a younger boy—all seemed happy. The father was the last man I would have thought could be an abuser, and in all probability he wasn’t. But once the child made that accusation, there was nothing to be done except to remove her from the home and arrange for counseling. I never suggested to the girl that I doubted her story, but each time she told it, the details would change dramatically. The foster family was devastated and confused by the allegations, and also understandably frightened.

  The girl moved in with a family that specialized in fostering teenagers. Neither she nor I was happy about that choice, but there were no other homes available. I remember the night I took her to that home and watched the new foster mother make a big show of welcoming her in a contrived ceremony held in front of all the other kids. She gave a tearful, overwrought performance in which she assured the girl that she had now found her “forever family.” The woman was incredibly self-centered and annoying, and it didn’t take that girl long to find an older guy to run off with. The foster care system clearly failed her—whether or not the abuse allegations were true.

  One of the nicest and most impressive foster families I worked with was a couple in their sixties who had taken in the four older siblings of a three-year-old boy who had died of starvation because, as an older sister explained, there was “no food but jam” at their house. The older children included a fifteen-year-old girl, fourteen- and twelve-year-old boys, and a ten-year-old girl. They had come into care four years earlier with no plan in place to reunite them with their mother. By the time I met the children, their mother hadn’t been heard from in more than three years, and they were in long-term foster care. The four children had initially been placed together, but within a year, the fifteen-year-old developed some behavioral problems the foster parents couldn’t handle, and she was moved to another home nearby. Her siblings said they were pleased to have her gone, and she seemed pleased to be in a home with no other children. The move apparently suited everyone, and all four children appeared to be doing amazingly well, given their traumatic history.

  The three younger children were exceptionally tall and thin and graceful and had some developmental delays. They had all been traumatized by extreme neglect, the death by starvation of their little brother, the ensuing legal issues, the separation from their mother, and undoubtedly other horrors we didn’t know about. Fortunately, the foster mother had a lovely, gentle, nurturing manner. She and her equally likable, easygoing husband had been married since their teens but had never had their own children. Their rural home was small and humble but extremely pleasant and well cared for, and although money was obviously tight, it looked as though they lived well. For their part, the children always behaved wonderfully, at least when I was around. They were polite, cooperative, and responsive and appeared to have an appropriate attachment to their foster parents. Whenever I visited, the whole family, including the father, would gather around to talk, and I was impressed by how seriously the parents took their responsibilities to these children. It was a pleasure to be around them all, and I was always sent off feeling happy and carrying a gift of something delicious. In the winter, they would send me home with a jar of jam or something freshly baked. In the summer it was fresh vegetables from their huge and abundant garden and Concord grapes from the arbor. In many ways, going to their house felt like stepping back in time to an era when hard work and a bit of productive land could meet most of a family’s needs.

  These happy visits continued for about two years. Then, seemingly out of the blue, I got a call from the foster mother asking me to come and move the children. I was stunned. When I got to the house, I found that all three children were asking to be moved. They couldn’t tell me about anything specific that had happened, and no one had any particular complaints about anyone else, but the foster mother reported that the children said they wanted to leave so they should be allowed to do so. I couldn’t extract anything more from her or from the children about what had led up to this situation, and the foster father just said he needed to respect his wife’s decision. So, with a heavy heart, I arranged to take the children to visit another foster home. I had never been to the new home before, but it was the only one available in their school district that could take all three of them.

  A few days later, when I came to get the kids, they acted as though we were going on an exciting field trip, and the foster parents looked as though their hearts were breaking.

  The new foster home turned out to be a dilapidated old farmhouse in the middle of a dirt yard strewn with broken appliances, tangled barbed wire, old car parts, and other cast-off items. Unwelcoming as it looked from the outside, the inside was even worse. The bedroom the woman showed the children had nothing in it except for rusty bed frames, filthy bare mattresses, and large shreds of ancient, peeling paper hanging from the ceiling. The kitchen walls were thick with grease that had turned the light-colored wallpaper around the stove dark brown, and the air was so filled with flies that I had to constantly wave a hand in front of my face to keep them out of my mouth and eyes. The children were their characteristically polite selves during the visit, but were dead silent as I drove them back home. As soon as we arrived, they quietly went to their rooms, no doubt with a new appreciation for the fresh sheets and fresh food that this home provided. I explained to their foster parents that we would have to look further for a suitable new foster home.

  When I called a few days later, the foster mother reported that the children had now decided they wanted to stay where they were. The next time I visited, everyone was happy, life was back to normal, and no one wanted to talk about the aborted move. I was never able to find out what precipitated the children’s request to move or why the parents didn’t try to talk them out of it. I suspect that the foster mother had just been calling their bluff after an angry episode in which one of the kids said they wanted to leave. I suggested as much to her in private, and she acted surprised, saying “No” with a sweet little smile that seemed to indicate she and I shared our little secret. That strategy isn’t one that would work well in most situations, but this time, with these children and the stark contrast between the foster homes, it was most effective.

  I have long since lost touch with that family, but I have a vision in my mind of the parents sitting at a big table, surrounded by children and grandchildren and lots of terrific food, and embodying everything that is good about foster parents.

  5

  The Cycle of Dysfunction

  Michelle was nineteen when I off
icially met her. But along with lots of other people, I had long known of her as the crazy girl who shouted abuse at random passersby and got in fights with people. Her problems were obvious, and trouble had probably always hovered nearby; but until she had a baby with her, there was apparently no reason or authority that could compel her to get the help she clearly needed. As a younger teenager, Michelle had been “looked out for” by the older street population, but her hair-trigger temper and aggressive demeanor made it hard for anyone to get along with her for any length of time. Michelle’s mother, who was a drug addict with obvious mental health problems, was also on the streets, but she lacked Michelle’s overtly confrontational manner and generally just seemed too stoned to communicate.

  Michelle had been raised primarily by her maternal grandmother, a frail but feisty woman in her seventies who looked much younger than seemed possible for someone who had raised two generations of children with such severe problems. She may have had her own psychiatric problems, but the fact that she was often difficult to deal with could just as well have been due to all the turmoil and defeat she had endured for so long. The overwhelming sadness of watching helplessly as your daughter and granddaughter self-destruct had to have taken a tremendous toll. I admired the grandmother for simply continuing to be there for Michelle, and for doing everything she could to advocate for her granddaughter and great-granddaughter.

  Michelle’s fourteen-month-old daughter, Ayla, had come to the state’s attention because of various complaints from people who had observed Michelle’s dangerously inadequate parenting. The most specific and startling complaint was that she would frequently take Ayla outdoors wearing only a diaper in the frigid Midwest winter weather. Child Protective Services investigated and determined that Ayla was not safe in her mother’s care and that there was no one else in the family who could parent her. Although the grandmother was not found to be an inadequate caretaker herself, CPS felt that she lacked the ability to protect Ayla from Michelle. So the baby was placed in a foster home and had lived there for about a year when I met her. Ayla was a beautiful, happy baby, and her young foster parents, who had no other children, doted on her.

  My most immediate responsibility was to arrange for and supervise Michelle’s visits with Ayla. I was also supposed to figure out their future, but for that I needed some time to get to know them and their situation.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that the situation was abysmal. Michelle lived in an empty shell of an apartment that was dark, quiet, and almost devoid of furniture or any other personal effects. It never seemed as though anyone was actually living there, even Michelle. I would often hear the sounds of other people from an upstairs bedroom, but Michelle denied their existence and no one else’s presence was ever made known to me or acknowledged.

  Our visiting routine was invariable. I would arrive at the foster home and find Ayla being readied for the visit. She would be dressed beautifully and bundled into multiple layers of clothing, perhaps because the foster mom could never get over knowing how cold Ayla must have been when she was taken outdoors wearing only a diaper. The first time I met the foster mother, who was lovely, I found myself wondering about her decision to bundle Ayla in a snowsuit on a mild day. I didn’t say anything because she obviously knew far more than I did about appropriate clothing for babies. But even with no heat on in the car, Ayla was drenched in sweat by the time we reached Michelle’s apartment, only fifteen minutes away. After that, I learned to stop a few blocks from the foster home and remove a few layers of clothing from little Ayla.

  I also learned to lock my passenger-side door so that Michelle couldn’t reach in to take Ayla out of her car seat as soon as I got there. I learned that lesson the hard way on my first visit, when Michelle frantically lifted Ayla out of the car, smacking her head mightily on the door frame. The second time we visited, I had the door locked, giving me time to walk around the car, stand next to Michelle, and caution her to protect Ayla’s head. It didn’t work. It didn’t even work when I used my hands as a buffer between the door frame and Ayla’s head. It was awful to see Ayla get hit in the head like that, of course, and it was also awful to see Michelle’s disappointment at not being able to reach in and scoop her baby out of the car seat. She always greeted Ayla’s arrival with such unbridled joy, and I always had to start the visits out by stifling it.

  These visits were heartbreaking. By about the fourth one, Ayla—normally an easygoing baby—started to cry at the first sight of Michelle. Possibly it was due to the memory of head bumps, although I think it was a more basic response to Michelle’s intensity and aggression. By contrast, I found my own response to the chaotic energy emanating from Michelle to be overwhelming sleepiness. The visits were almost always in the mornings, but no matter how well rested I was when I arrived, fifteen minutes with Michelle affected me like a drug and I had to struggle to stay awake. I brought this up with a psychiatrist we consulted and she explained that my reaction was just a way of trying to escape the stress of the situation.

  It soon became evident that Michelle didn’t have even the most basic skills she needed as a parent. She was simply too impulsive and volatile. It was also clear that there wasn’t another family member in a position to raise Ayla. Michelle’s grandmother was not only quite old but also unable to assert any more authority over Michelle than she’d asserted over Michelle’s mother when Michelle was a baby. There was no question that Michelle loved Ayla and wanted to be able to raise her, but it was no less true that Ayla wouldn’t be safe with her. The only option for them would have been a living situation in which Michelle could be provided training and supervision around the clock while she tried to acquire basic parenting skills. And this was simply not available. So, our mandate to reunite the family notwithstanding, I felt I had no choice but to file for termination of Michelle’s parental rights.

  During the court hearing, Michelle’s tragic mental state spoke for itself, making it easy to build the case against her. The whole proceeding was terribly sad, with Michelle alternating between angry outbursts and withdrawal. I don’t think she fully comprehended what was happening, but she knew that Ayla wasn’t being returned to her that day, and she was enraged. Her grandmother, on the other hand, understood everything, and sat through the hearing wordlessly except for an occasional “Harrumph,” taking in the testimony from various experts about Michelle’s difficulties along with my recounting of my experiences with Michelle and Ayla during our visits. Ultimately, it was Michelle’s own statements that convinced the judge to rule against her. Everyone in the room could see that the judge had no option other than to terminate her parental rights—which made it all the more startling to find Michelle’s grandmother immediately after the hearing telling me in no uncertain terms that God was going to punish me for what I had done. In her view there was simply no justifiable reason to take someone’s child away. Period.

  I know that my efforts to terminate Michelle’s parental rights were based on my conviction that it was the only course of action available at the time that would give Ayla a chance at a normal life. Ayla would still have to contend with a genetic predisposition toward mental illness, but at least we could spare her years of upheaval and trauma that would increase the odds against her. Ayla’s visits with Michelle no doubt caused her suffering, but they were relatively short-lived. Before she was three, she was adopted by her foster parents, and I am certain that the love and stability they provided gave her the best possible chance of avoiding the problems crippling her mother and grandmother.

  I was tremendously happy that I could play a role in giving Ayla a better life. But I was also tremendously sad knowing that not so many years earlier, Michelle had been the baby being mistreated and needing rescue. She had suffered throughout her childhood and was still suffering as an adult. Now it seemed as though we could stop this cycle of dysfunction only by making Michelle suffer even more. I wished that Michelle’s grandmother could understand why I
didn’t believe that God was angry with me. From my perspective, I was the one who was angry on Michelle’s behalf.

  6

  Boy Troubles

  By my fourth year at DSHS, now considered a seasoned veteran, I was assigned a job that, in retrospect, required a lot more expertise than I actually had. I was sent down to Texas to see how two boys from Michigan were faring in their residential placements there: one in a large city and the other in the desert about three hours to the north.

  Today, the words “residential placement” and “boys’ ranch” set off alarms for me, but that wasn’t the case when I was twenty-eight.

  The boys in question were seventeen-year-old Jesse and sixteen-year-old Cole. I had known Jesse for three years and had watched his inexorable slide toward Michigan (or Jackson) State Prison, all the services the state of Michigan could offer notwithstanding. Imagining the treatment an appealing eighteen-year-old boy would get in that place had me terrified for him, my fears stoked all the more by a graduate school friend who had done an internship at Jackson and told me about hearing the screams of inmates being beaten and raped while guards stood by doing nothing.

  Jesse was fourteen and had been in foster care for many years by the time I met him. His case file was a drearily familiar recounting: hardships he had faced, behavior problems he had developed . . . and one stand-out section in which the previous caseworker, Lou Ann, had written about his proclivity for stealing women’s underwear. Beginning at about age twelve, Jesse would periodically break into neighbors’ homes and abscond with as much underwear as he could find—a practice both unsettling and inconvenient for the neighbors. Every so often, Jesse’s foster mother would retrieve the loot from his hideout—a rusty old car sitting on the edge of their property—and invite the neighbors over to reclaim what was theirs. The victims adapted to the routine, apparently willing to tolerate it because they knew that the foster parents were good and responsible people who were trying their best to help a child in need. And they all liked Jesse—as I said, he was quite an appealing kid.