“Or there’s an exception to every rule.”
“She loved her kids,” Susan said abruptly, the sadness on her face genuine. “I don’t work with the parents, I merely see them in court. But that woman loved her kids. And she fought for them. Because that’s what it takes. When I first started out, I thought things would be more black-and-white. Bad parents who didn’t deserve their kids or good parents who needed time to get their act together. But all the parents, whether they’re good or bad, love their kids. And the kids, whether they should or not, love their parents. But particularly these past few years, it feels like the opioid epidemic is winning. As much as some of these people care about their children, in the end, they need drugs even more. Have you been following the foster care crisis in the news?”
I shook my head.
“There’s been a nearly thirty percent jump in recent years of children removed from their homes. Basically, there are now over nine thousand kids in Massachusetts who currently need foster care families. Except the state doesn’t have enough families to meet those needs. So where it used to be that a home could have no more than four foster kids, now the state is issuing waivers to permit five, six, seven kids in the same home. I’ve heard stories of ten. But needless to say, this creates its own set of issues.”
Including a couple of deaths of foster kids, charges of abuse at other places. Those headlines had caught my attention.
“The system’s overcrowded. Too many kids in need, not enough resources,” I summarized.
“Exactly.”
“Which must make your life harder.”
“As a volunteer, I only work with one child at a time. Or, in the case of siblings, possibly two or three.”
“If a family involves three siblings, shouldn’t all three be placed together?” I didn’t provide names, sticking to our policy of generalizations.
“Ideally, yes. But given the lack of available space in foster homes, it’s a miracle that even two of them were together.”
“Are homes monitored, screened?”
“As much as DCF has time.”
“Which, given the sudden jump in business . . . Do you see things, report things?”
“I don’t actually spend much time with the foster family. I see the kids in court. I meet with them at their request or offer to take them out. Let’s get lunch and talk, that sort of thing. But they aren’t zoo animals. I don’t just sit around watching them.”
“Can kids call you?”
“They can and they do. I have a separate cell phone I use for my CASA work. The number one request I get in the case of separated siblings is wanting to see the other family member. For example, I worked with two sisters once. They really missed their younger brother.”
I nodded, understanding.
“But I might also get a call about needing more clothes, articles for hygiene. These kids, they’re often given less time to pack than convicted criminals before being shuttled off to their new home. And while the foster families are paid stipends and given a clothing allowance—” Susan shrugged. “A foster parent has many charges, whereas I bring a single focus. It’s easier for the child to ask me, then I work within the system to make things happen.”
“Okay.”
“Medical requests work in a similar fashion,” Susan stated abruptly. “The child might make the request to me for a doctor’s appointment, then I arrange for the foster parent to take him or her.”
I waited, the last of my meatball sub dripping onto the brown paper wrappings.
“We practice this in training, given one of the top medical requests from girls is birth control.”
I didn’t move.
“It can be shocking to have a thirteen-, fourteen-year-old girl demanding an appointment for birth control pills, condoms, whatever. Again, it’s not my place to judge or grant permission. Just record, then work the system to determine the possibilities. Once, however, I had a very young girl make the request. Eight years old.”
I stared at her. Susan picked up her coffee cup. Set it back down. Her hand was shaking.
“I asked her why. She wouldn’t tell me. I did my best to inquire about relationships at school, in the foster home, was there anything else she wanted to tell me? Of course, regardless of whether or not she felt the relationship was consensual, any kind of sexual activity with an eight-year-old is clearly abuse. But the girl wouldn’t explain. In the end, she said the request wasn’t for herself but for her friend. An older girl who didn’t have her own CASA volunteer.
“I told her I was willing to help, but I would need a name in order to do so. At which point the girl clammed up. Wouldn’t say anything more. She withdrew her request, the subject was dropped.
“But recently . . .” Susan took a deep breath. “I’ve had a parent reappear. First time that’s ever happened. Asking me questions about her girls’ time in foster care. What I might’ve seen, what I might’ve known. And that’s made me reconsider that afternoon, the eight-year-old’s appeal.”
Susan looked at me.
“I wonder now if she was telling the truth about asking on behalf of a ‘friend.’ Because an eight-year-old is very young for birth control. Whereas her eleven-year-old sister, whom the eight-year-old clearly adored . . .”
An eleven-year-old sister who, years later, would be making similar requests on behalf of a mystery friend? BFF123—which maybe should’ve been SisterlyLove123?
“Did you relay these suspicions to the mom?” I asked now.
“Yes, when I spoke to her two weeks ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t. She took notes. Then she cried.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“They were my success story,” Susan Howe said abruptly. “Five years of doing this. Five years of trying to help kids. They were my single success story, children, mother, family, all better off.”
“Until today.”
“Until today,” she agreed.
After that, we didn’t speak again.
Chapter 22
Name: Roxanna Baez
Grade: 11
Teacher: Mrs. Chula
Category: Personal Narrative
What Is the Perfect Family? Part IV
How do you know what you’re going to be when you grow up? A loser? An addict? Or, somehow, one of those who rises above it all? How do you know, when you’re still my age, that it’s all going to work out in the end?
I see these kids. They wear the same shirt every day. They have a lunch bag, but there’s nothing in it. They carry a binder, but their homework is never done. Some lash out, disrupt class. Show the world their pain.
But there are plenty more who never say a word. Just show up, sit in class, present but separate. They know the world is there. But they also know it’s already beyond their reach.
Adults judge. Kids, too. First thought in everyone’s mind: Girl’s no good, just like her mother. Boy’s a loser, just like his father. But some children will go on to rule the world. We’ve all heard the stories. They’ll channel their frustration and rage into business, political, athletic, artistic success. They’ll become the feel-good profile on the news. A model for others to follow.
How do you know which person you’re going to be? Especially if you’re a kid like me, with a mother who’s an alcoholic and a father who’s never existed. How do you know it’s all going to work out when you’re stuck in the soulless abyss that’s foster care?
Mother Del’s. Six months after being torn away from our mom, I can’t tell you if my sister and I are any better off. We’d gained a roof over our heads and food on the table. But those things didn’t make it a home.