Three Little Words (34 page)

This book is a memoir of my journey
though a troubled childhood—one where I often felt abandoned, neglected, and trapped in a failing foster care system—to my eventual arrival at a secure and loving home. In re-creating events described, I relied on my memory as well as extensive research, which included review of court records, legal depositions, social service files, other government records, newspaper accounts, and photographs. I also conducted personal interviews and traveled to former foster homes and other places I lived. I have changed names and identifying details—including, in some instances, locations—of some persons portrayed, including those in my biological family, my foster families (with the exception of Marjorie and Charles Moss, who have been the subject of prior news coverage), and anybody who was a minor during the time of my story, except for my adoptive brothers and myself. A few characters are composites.

I have happily identified, by their real names, many wonderful people, including some very special teachers, who were positive influences.

Many of the adults who cared for me did a decent job; a few literally saved my life. But there were some rotten apples who not only abandoned, neglected, or abused me, but also defiled their legal, moral, and ethical duties. I don’t know which is worse: parents who don’t care for their children, biological fathers who don’t support their offspring, or professionals who violate their professional standards, as well as the public trust, by neglecting those under their care and control.

Because of my civil suits, much of my story has already been made public. I hope that the other children who lived with me in the Moss home—particularly the one I call Mandy in this book—will let me know how they are doing. I only wish I could have done more for them. I think that one of the reasons people have been so interested in having me speak and write about my story is because most children’s voices are suppressed or ignored. I represent thousands, probably tens of thousands of children who have been lost in the system. We are a chorus of voices that need to be heard.

I could not have Written this book
without the extensive help of my brilliant and talented adoptive mother, Gay Courier. She organized the materials, researched the legal aspects, and uncovered some of the mysteries of my past. There is no way this book would have come together without her hard work and endless devotion to the project. Gay, who is a bestselling author, also guided me through the grueling task of producing a readable book as she helped me relive some painful periods of my life. I expected to regurgitate my story; I did not expect to rediscover my fractured childhood and reassemble it, like a puzzle.

My adoptive father, Phil, was also an essential part of the process. He helped immensely with the research; in particular, reading huge blocks of court documents and making notes. He also read every draft of the manuscript and offered his insights, dedication, and unwavering love.

Someday I would like to know for certain who my biological father might be. I hope that he would be proud of me.

I have recently been in touch with members of my biological family, and I am grateful for their warmth and kindness. My biological mother and I are building an adult friendship, and I plan to be there for my little sister in any way I can.

I want to thank the following people for bringing me home:
Judge Martha Cook, Mary Miller, and the staff of the Thirteenth Judicial Circuit Court Guardian ad Litem Program in Hillsborough County, including Joel Valdes, Alyce Krepshaw, Wayne Coleman, Angie Smith, and Laura Ankenbruck. They are the true heroes of my story, even though they worked behind the scenes on my behalf and I knew only Mary Miller personally.

My legal advisers—Karen Gievers, Frank Bach, Neil Spector, Roy Wasson, Bob Glenn, Edwin Krieger, and Donald Linsky—helped give me a voice and secure my future.

Carol Paine and Susan Sampson connected my adoptive parents to me. Victoria Hummer, Marie Brzovich, Beth Reese, Barbara Luhn, Beth Lord, Sharon Ambrose, Sharon Williamson, Joe Kroll, Jann Heffner, Maureen Hogan, and Susan Reeder helped with my adoption and transitions.

Also thanks to Sandnes Smith Boulanger, who was always there for me and gave me someone to trust. Todd Boulanger was blunt and honest, but had a way of lightening any situation with a warm smile. Irvin Randle always made me feel good about myself with his welcoming hugs, encouragement, and jokes about my feet. Mary Fernandez and Bruce Weslowski put up with me in therapy, even though some of the hours we spent together were like ripping stitches out. Thanks to the many others—from the office staff to the administrators to the recreation staff—at The Children’s Home, who helped me survive campus life. I also want to thank my cottage sponsors, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Gaffney, whose scholarship prize in fifth grade convinced me that I would go to college.

I am indebted to all my teachers, guidance counselors, and school administrators, especially Mrs. Trojello, Ms. MacDonald, Ms. Worthington, Mr. Johnston, and Ms. Beeler, who took me under their wings and made such a huge impact on my life. A few very special teachers, whose names I do not know, tried to protect me by reporting abuse.

In addition, a special thanks to Rita Soronen, Denny Lynch, and others at the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption for the special role they have played in my life.

I also want to thank Jessica Brown, Joanna Carter, Katie Connolly, Glori Helms, Cyndal Houts, Jennifer Rodrick, Becky Smith, Erick Smith, and all my friends who have helped me through tough times.

For assistance during the writing of this book, I cannot thank my adoptive mother, Gay Courter, enough. I would also like to thank my agent, Jöelle Delbourgo; my adoptive father, Philip Courter; Elizabeth Law; Kiley Fitzsimmons; Jennifer Weidman; Cindy B. Nixon; Jeannie Ng; Sarah Flynn; Esther Mandel; Lynn Mills; Jonellen Heckler; Pat Gaudette; Kathryn Olney; Sharon Smith; and Dr. Montague Chancey for their editorial wisdom.

I want to recognize my platform-speaker mentor, Lou Heckler, who gave me the confidence to tell my story to large audiences.

All of Phil and Gay’s extended family have accepted me as their own, especially Grampy Weisman, who has been so generous to me.

Finally, thanks to my family: Phil, Gay, Blake, Josh, and Safron, who I now know will be there for me as I will be there for them—forever.

W
hen I was a junior in high school, Gay showed me an announcement for a
New York Times Magazine
essay contest that asked high school students to describe a moment in their lives in which they learned something about themselves. The experience had to be true. I immediately was reminded of my adoption-day videotape. I blurted, “I’ll write about my adoption day.” I paused for a moment, then told her why I would title it “Three Little Words”: “Everyone will assume the words are ‘I love you’—but what I actually felt and said that day was far from that.”

three little words

I never thought three little words would have such an impact on my life, even though they weren’t the words I was supposed to say. Every time I see the videotape, I cringe. It was one of those memorable occasions that families treasure, but this is one “treasure” I would rather bury.

It was July 28, 1998, my adoption day. I had spent almost ten of my twelve years in foster care; I was now living in my fourteenth placement. Some homes had lasted less than a week; few more than a year. So why would this one be any different? Before this placement, I had been in residential care (the politically correct name for an orphanage). Do you remember the movie
The Cider House Rules
, when the orphans try to smile in just the right way so they will be picked by the couple shopping for a child? While it was not supposed to be so obvious at The Children’s Home of Tampa, prospective parents did act as though they were looking at puppies in a pet shop. For more than two-and-a-half years, I watched the few lucky dogs pack up their belongings, wave goodbye and exit the gate. I also saw them return—even after being placed with a family—with their tails between their legs. People made promises about “forever families,” but often something went wrong. I don’t know what families expected. Nobody is perfect, and children who have already been rejected by their parents—or at least feel they’ve been—are hoping that someone will love them no matter how they behave. I had been living with my new family for eight months. Everything seemed to be going well, but would that change after the papers were signed? And just because it was “official,” did that mean they would not send me back if I didn’t live up to their expectations?

My parents have two biological kids who are grown; so they thought raising a daughter might fill their empty nest. I loved my new waterfront house, with my own room and a bathroom I didn’t have to share. For the first time, I could have friends over, and my all-star softball team came to swim after our games. Overnights are forbidden in foster care, but now I hosted and went to slumber parties. I could use the phone anytime I wanted, and lots of the calls were for me. I had my first pet, a kitten named Catchew that slept on my bed. There were no locks on the refrigerator or scheduled mealtimes. I could help myself to as many boxes of macaroni-and-cheese, bowls of ramen noodles or grilled-cheese sandwiches as I wanted.

When I did something wrong, my pre-adoptive parents docked my allowance or cut back on TV or telephone time. In one foster home, I was beaten with a paddle, denied food, forced to stand in awkward positions, swallow hot sauce and run laps in the blistering sun. Other times, I was removed to a new home with a new set of rules and promises. Nobody really lives happily ever after, do they? So when was this picture-perfect story going to fall apart? Before or after the “finalization”?

You can see how terrified I am on the videotape as we enter the courthouse. My eyes seem to be searching for a way out as I am led into Judge Florence Foster’s chambers. On one side of the conference table are the people from my old life; on the other, those who represent my new one. I am placed between Gay and Phil, who are about to become my new parents. Across the way are two representatives from The Children’s Home, both therapists. They are happy for me, but that is their job. Mary Miller is smiling and holding a bouquet. She had been my volunteer Guardian ad Litem for four years and did the most to help me get a family.

“Our” side is also represented by Gay’s father, Grampy Weisman; one of my new brothers, Josh, who is home from college and acting as the cameraman; and my new godparents, the Weiners, who have brought their three small daughters. The proceedings are delayed because the Department of Children and Families representative is late. He also held up the adoption by neglecting the paperwork for months. While the others chat, I am biting my lip and biding my time. Finally, the representative arrives, and my attorney, Neil Spector, who is also Gay’s cousin, begins the proceedings. I wait for my cue. But what am I supposed to do? Act as if this is the happiest day of my life? How can it be, when I am petrified that everything is a big fat lie?

After some legal jargon, the judge turns to me. “Nothing in life comes easy,” she begins. “If it does, you should be suspicious.” She may be trying to comfort me by saying that she knows I’ve overcome many hardships to get where I am. Instead, she just reinforces my fears that life with my new family is too good to be true. Because of my age, I have to consent to the adoption. After talking to my parents, the judge asks me, “Do you want me to sign the papers and make it official, Ashley?”

On the tape, it looks as if I am trapped center stage in the spotlight. Do I have a choice? I stare straight ahead, shrug my shoulders and mumble, “I guess so.” In three words, it is done.

P. S. Almost five years later, I am still with my family. I didn’t know then what I know now: some people can be trusted.

After I won first prize and the essay appeared in the newspaper, I received calls from agents, editors—even movie producers—wanting me to tell or sell my story. I had dipped into my files that had arrived for the lawsuit but did not know how the fragments stitched together. My memories were like tangled chains without a beginning or ending. Some were raw feelings, like a tendon cut loose from bone. I knew there was much more I had to find out before I could write my story, and that journey has helped make sense of my convoluted past. My anger toward the Mosses and my mother has dissipated, maybe because I understand each of them better. Most of all, my traveling companions are my “real” parents. We learned about my childhood together; and in some ways, it was if I grew up with them by my side.