Three Little Words (33 page)

We walked into the airy conference room that overlooked Tampa Bay, which was an improvement over the crowded location for the Mosses’ depositions. Ms. Gievers arranged her papers and then placed a bottle of Crystal hot sauce on the table as a silent reminder of why we were there. A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Moss and their counsel entered the room and sat opposite us. I was not sure where to look; and then I settled on a point above their attorney’s head. When I gathered the courage to glimpse at the Mosses, their faces seemed carved out of lifeless plaster.

The initial questions were simple, but even when I was asked more specific ones, my worries faded because the incidents I was asked to recall were as vivid as the day they happened. After a break the Mosses’ attorney questioned me about how I felt about my mother, about Grandpa being shot, and about other problems in foster care. The deposition concluded with my return weekend to the Moss trailer. “Was it your sense, at that point, that Mrs. Moss was trying to intimidate you?” she asked.

“I felt that way,” I answered.

At last my turn was over. Gay and Phil would be in the hot seat next. During lunch Phil asked, “How do you feel?”

I shrugged. “Nothing,” I replied, because the emotion was so complex. I sipped my soda and wondered if Dorothy felt this way when she dumped the bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West and watched her archnemesis melt.

As the cases proceeded to trial, the judge asked both sides to try to reach an agreement through mediation. Karen Gievers explained that at mediation the parties agree that everything discussed at that time will be confidential. This helps develop a trusting atmosphere because what the people say cannot be rehashed in a trial or harm other aspects of the case. Mostly, I wanted some acknowledgment that I was right and the Mosses were wrong—that they lied and I told the truth—but I knew that no amount of money was going to repair the damage they had done.

One of my attorneys, Gay’s cousin Neil Spector, learned that the Mosses had few assets left. He told me that in Florida, creditors cannot take your home, and the Mosses had mortgaged most everything else they owned, probably to pay their bail bonds and legal fees. When the state offered a settlement in the Moss case, Karen Gievers suggested to the Courters that they accept it on my behalf and continue mediations in the other two actions, which they did. I did not attend these meetings, which dragged on for both the remaining negligence case against the state and the civil rights case against the caseworkers in federal court.

The Courters reported everything to me. The initial offers insulted them more than me. “I hope we go to trial,” I said, “because even if I don’t win anything, I’d like to be heard.”

Karen Gievers was still trying to gather testimony from Mandy, Toby, and the rest of the adopted Moss children. After some wrangling, the judge said he would allow Ms. Gievers to write each child a letter, which the department had to deliver by a certain date. All of a sudden, the department’s counsel asked us to return for yet another mediation.

“They sound serious this time,” Ms. Gievers said, “because if we settle, they won’t have to send those letters.”

“Would you mind if we accept the next reasonable offer?” Phil asked me.

“You are asking me to sell out Mandy. We were sisters—at least for a while.”

“We must look out for your best interests,” Phil said.

“But it was never about money for me.”

“At this point we can’t even find Mandy and the others, and even if we do, we don’t know if they will want to sue.” Gay sighed. “Besides, there’s no guarantee you would win in a trial, and even if you did, it could get bogged down in appeals, which might result in any judgment being reduced or even a whole new trial.”

“I’d like to know you had something for college,” Phil added.

“Karen Gievers has several kids who won very large verdicts but are virtually homeless because they couldn’t collect,” Gay said.

“Like Mandy will be!”

“We can still try to find her, and she could still have her own lawsuit,” Phil said.

“Do what you want!” I replied in a huff.

Phil and Gay returned from the next mediation and told me that it was over.

“Over?” I stared at them blankly. “Just like that?” I thought back to all my files in all those boxes and what they had revealed to me about just how horribly my case had been handled. It wasn’t just about the Mosses—although they had triggered my quest for justice; it was the workers who refused to believe me, being moved without explanation, the separations from Luke, not being allowed to live with Adele again and … Thinking about all these things together brought back a familiar feeling. It wasn’t about being reunited with my mother anymore, but still I could not suppress an almost overwhelming sense of longing. They could have done so much more for her—for us. I pulled myself back to reality. No lawsuit was going to make my fantasy of a different life with my mother come true.

Phil misunderstood my stricken look. “I thought you understood that this might happen.”

“How could all our work just fizzle out in one afternoon?”

“They
really
didn’t want to send those letters,” Phil said.

“So I’ll never go to court?” I fluttered my hands like a bird with a broken wing.

“Everything ends sometime, and now you have a sure thing,” Gay replied.

My hands fell to my sides. “But we were getting so close to Mandy.”

Even though I did not feel it immediately, I was relieved that the lawsuits were over and that I did not ever have to face the Mosses or any of the workers again. More and more invitations to give speeches poured in. I accepted as many as I could fit into my school schedule, including keynote addresses at several large conferences for judges, social workers, and foster parents. I spoke at the Wendy’s International convention in Las Vegas to more than three thousand guests just before a fund-raising auction for the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption. Although Mr. Thomas had died by then, I fondly remembered how kind he was to me on my twelfth birthday and how he told me that everything was going to be all right. I only wished he could have been there to see how far I had come. At least I could honor him for helping so many children.

During Christmas vacation of my junior year, Gay was looking for a movie to watch when she discovered the videotape from my adoption day four and a half years earlier. She popped it in before I could object. When Gay saw me wiping her kiss off my cheek, she said, “Okay, we won’t be showing this at family gatherings.”

“We’ve all come a long way,” Phil agreed.

“It’s funny”—I gave him a crooked smile—“in those days I didn’t need anyone; but now I sure do.”

I cannot say that, even today, Gay feels like my real mother. She is different from my biological mom, with whom I have those powerful memories that always acted like magnets connecting me to her no matter how much time passed or what circumstances intervened. But now, more than love or an unfulfilled longing, I feel pity for my biological mother. Her own mother abandoned her. Nobody helped her, and her life has been hard. Even though she could not take care of me, she did care about me. If my mother had received a fraction of the money the Mosses—or any of my foster parents—were paid, she could have established herself in Tampa and made a home for us. I expect I will see my mother again in some friendly way, yet I do not have the same desire to be with her.

I am still resentful of Mrs. Moss. The state had paid her to shelter children who were already wounded, and she broke them further—some permanently. In addition, I cannot help but hold a grudge against those in authority who were incompetent, negligent, or looked the other way when the system’s foster parents were harming us. So many children in my position have no voice, but I will not be silent. I will continue to speak out about the importance of getting children into permanent homes more quickly.

Broken promises crippled me for many years. As the Courters kept their pledges to me, my faith in others expanded. Day after day, they were there for me; until one day, I not only felt safe, I did not want to leave. Maybe that is one definition of love.

I journeyed alone for almost ten years before I found home. Adoptions are like very delicate gardening with transplants and grafts. Some are rejected immediately. Mine took hold, rooted, and bloomed, even though there were inevitable adjustments to the new soil and climate. Yet I have not forgotten where my roots started.

I still do not know who my biological father is. Recently, I came across the name and address of the most likely candidate. In a moment of courage, I telephoned him and left a message. He returned my call while I was out and told Gay that he very well might be my birth father. He offered to undergo DNA testing if I wished. I was too nervous to try again, although I later sent him my high school graduation picture. When he received it, he was so struck with my resemblance to members of his family that he called again. We had a long talk, but we have not confirmed paternity. My mother also dated his brother, which complicates the situation.

A few years after meeting my mother for lunch, I attended a drama camp at Duke University. Gay and Phil came to see my final performance. On the way home, we visited my uncle Sammie and his wife, Aunt Courtney. Their children’s chocolate eyes, red hair, and freckled faces mirrored mine.

“Yep! You’re a Rhodes, all right,” my uncle said.

Aunt Leanne stopped by, and we fell into each other’s arms. I felt more warmth toward her than I had to my mother the last time I saw her. Side by side, we went through some of the family albums. As I turned a page, an envelope fell out. Aunt Leanne reached for it, but the picture of a tiny baby in a box had already slipped into view.

“Do you remember Tommy?” she asked.

I felt as if my spine had turned to ice. The baby in the box … the secret I wasn’t supposed to tell …

“He was born when you were almost two,” Aunt Leanne whispered. “He lived for only forty-eight days.”

The gray, doll-like baby transfixed me. “Why did he die?”

“SIDS,” Aunt Courtney said. “He was premature and his lungs hadn’t developed well, so that’s probably why.”

“It was a horrible time.” Uncle Sammie sighed and left the room. Then I heard him on the phone. “Guess who’s sitting in our kitchen? Ashley!” When he came back in the room, Uncle Sammie announced, “Your grandpa is coming over. We don’t see him much, but he always asks about you.”

“Where’s Adele?” I asked.

“She’s been quite ill.” Sammie said that they had not been in contact for many years.

When my grandfather arrived, he did not have much to say, although I could tell he was pleased to see me again.

Uncle Sammie asked if I wanted to revisit some of the places where I had lived. Aunt Courtney, Gay, Phil, and my cousins piled into Phil’s van. We drove past the house where Dusty had grown up, the trailer Dusty and my mother had rented, and the apartment where Tommy died.

“Do you remember any of this?” Phil asked.

“No, nothing,” I said. I was still numb from the startling news that I had had another brother, something I remembered as a kid, but had somehow forgotten.

We parked alongside a small country cemetery and marched over clumps of ruddy earth to the Grover grave?yard. “Your brother was named Tommy Grover, after him.” Uncle Sammie pointed to the tombstone for Dusty’s father, Thomas.

“He was only thirty?” Gay asked after doing the math.

“His own father shot him—supposedly over a card game,” Uncle Sammie replied. “Those Grovers were always trouble.”

“Was there a family feud or something?” I asked.

“You might say that. Luke’s grandma didn’t want us Rhodeses to get you, because the Lord knows we tried,” Aunt Courtney said.

“Leanne called social services for years, but they wouldn’t tell her nothin’,” Sammie added.

“Where’s Tommy buried?” I asked.

“I thought there was a marker for the baby,” Uncle Sammie said.

“Used to be next to his grandfather.” Aunt Courtney paced the Grover section looking down.

I felt dizzy in the hot Carolina sun and leaned against Phil for support. He steered me back to our van.

Shortly after we returned to my uncle’s house, the phone rang. Aunt Courtney handed it to Aunt Leanne, who took the portable outside. After she hung up, there was a muffled discussion between Aunt Courtney and Gay. Gay announced that it was time for us to leave, and before I knew what was happening, my reunion was over.

“What was the deal with the phone call?” I asked when we got on the road.

“Lorraine heard you were going to visit the family, so she started driving up from Florida yesterday,” Gay said. “They didn’t want you around when she arrived.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. They said she was about an hour away and they wanted us gone.”

Later that evening Aunt Leanne called Gay and told her that my mother’s car had broken down and that the police had arrested her.

My heart fluttered wildly. “What about Autumn?”

“Your uncle is going to get her.”

“Find out if she’s okay!” I insisted. “Don’t let them put her in foster care!”

Gay stayed in touch with Aunt Courtney and Uncle Sammie, who cared for my sister during this crisis. I continued to e-mail Uncle Sammie and had some contact with Aunt Leanne. My mother also e-mailed me, and we had several telephone conversations around that time.

When I was in my last year of high school, a letter for me from a federal prison arrived in care of the school. Dusty Grover had read an Associated Press article about me that mentioned the name of my school, which is how he knew where to reach me. He wrote me a long letter and included another for Luke. He said he had been trying to contact us for many years. In his correspondence Dusty gave a different spin on various episodes. He claimed he was never violent to my mother and loved Luke and me very much. He told one story that I found especially curious.

He described how Lorraine and Leanne made plans to go to Florida to visit Luke and me. When he asked whether she was bringing us any presents, she said she did not have the money. So he claimed he bought me an Easy-Bake oven, and other things for Luke. So my precious oven—always a symbol of my mother’s love for me in my mind—may have been bought by him! I suppose he really did care for me.

Currently, Dusty is serving time in a federal prison for bank robbery and will not be released for many years. Although we are not blood relatives, I still think of him as my first father. After our reunion at Uncle Sammie’s, my grandfather was sent to jail for selling drugs. His former girlfriend, Adele Picket, passed away after a long illness. Mrs. Moss was arrested again for child neglect. She had violated her probation by caring for another child. She did not receive any additional jail time.

My uncle Sammie and his family have been very kind to me. They have visited us twice and even flew down for my high school graduation, where they became reacquainted with Luke. My mother now has a good job and is divorced from Art. I have been getting to know her and Autumn again. It has been important for me to have caring biological family in my life.

Karen Gievers and Mary Miller worked out a favorable settlement in Luke’s case. He continued to live at The Children’s Home for five years after I left. The Hudsons and the Merritts remained his friends. Then—at last!—a champion came forward for Luke. A former navy offi?cer was working on his B.S. degree in special education when he saw Luke’s listing on Florida’s adoption website. He went through extensive training and jumped through many bureaucratic hoops to become his adoptive parent. However, by then Luke had been in the system for fourteen of his fifteen years.

During a trip to London, Luke admired the royal horses and asked to have riding lessons. He showed a natural aptitude for jumping and loved competing, but nothing comes easy for my brother. He is now eighteen and struggling to overcome all the setbacks he has had over the years.

I am still in contact with Mary Miller, my Guardian ad Litem, to whom I owe so much and appreciate far more now than I did when I was a child. She still volunteers to represent children in the court system. Martha Cook, the attorney who handled our termination case pro bono, is now a family court judge in Tampa. Coincidentally, she finalized Luke’s adoption.

Ms. Sandnes received her master’s degree in social work, became a licensed counselor, and still works at The Children’s Home as the counseling services manager. She married her former Lykes colleague Mr. Todd, and they have two adorable sons. Every time I return to The Children’s Home, Mr. Irvin greets me with a broad smile. Those kids are blessed to have a staff member who cares as much as he does.

My brother Josh married Safron. At last I have a big sister, and I could not have asked for a more loving or beautiful one. Blake and Josh have been supportive and have helped me through the times when a girl needs big brothers.

Karen Gievers was hired by most of the Mosses’ adopted children—including Mandy. I learned that Mandy was married and had a baby, but not much else.

Before I went to college, I packed the boxes that pertained to my foster care history. When I reviewed the spreadsheet that listed everyone in South Carolina and Florida who had been responsible for my case, I was amazed by how many there were. I counted:

73 child welfare administrators

44 child welfare caseworkers

19 foster parents

23 attorneys

17 psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists

5 Guardian ad Litem staff

4 judges

4 court personnel

3 abuse registry workers

2 primary caseworkers

1 Guardian ad Litem

Out of these 195 people, only Mary Miller and Martha Cook were unpaid volunteers—yet they are the two people who made the greatest difference in my life.

I completed the first draft of this book on the sixth anniversary of my adoption. Thunder boomed as I returned home after picking up pizzas for our celebration. The skies started to brighten as I unwrapped an elegant wooden box. The top had a decoupage portrait of a nineteenth-century princess twisting a pearl necklace, which Phil had altered by substituting my face. I laughed aloud, then opened the box. It was a music box. And it played “You Are My Sunshine.”

Something very tight and very deep inside me snapped. Tears spurted unexpectedly. I looked across the table directly into the shining eyes of my parents. Gay and Phil—my mother and my father—were crying with me. Then we laughed at one another’s bawling. The late-afternoon light streamed through the mist on the Crystal River, and I felt something I had never known before: Home.