Chapter 12
The Waiting Game
On Wednesday evening I drove up to Sonoma County to the home of the Hurley’s, a marvelous and skilled couple who had fostered seven of our children and adopted three. All but two were now grown; five were college grads, one on the way to a Masters’ Degree in Mythology at U.C.Berkeley now, and the two young ones, 8 and 9 years old, were adopted and in the home doing well. The Hurley’s had dealt with a schizophrenic child, an autistic young boy, a run-a-way, a young street child who was prostituting at age 10, and a boy who at 9 was a skilled thief and part of a thieving gang in the ghettos of Oakland. They were accomplished in providing for the emotional and safety needs of really disturbed kids, and we counted on them to mentor our incoming couples as much as they could. They were more than happy to field many a barrage of questions from distraught new fost-adopt parents.
Jessie Hurley greeted me at the door, eight year old Mara in tow. Mara was a beautiful biracial child – Asian-American - who was pleading very nicely to be able to stay up and watch another half hour of TV. She didn’t get her wish, but was sent to bath and bedtime story with Bill, Jessie’s husband and Mara’s new “Daddy.” I knew Mara well: she had been through our Evaluation Home and had spent a year in our Treatment Home Program, so she whined a little at me in hopes of getting me to step in and give her more TV time. I didn’t, her Mom didn’t, and with a slight pout, she took off upstairs to her bath, her bedtime story with Dad and sleep.
After we had talked through several of the parents’ concerns about their kids, about some house repairs they felt needed to be done, and just plain gossiped over coffee and cookies, I told the story of our Nutmeg and spelled out her needs. They listened attentively, nodding and smiling and showing some concern as I told the story of a little girl whose mother had given her up after cutting off her finger to “let the devil out” at three months. I explained how quickly she had come around after failing an adoption, and told them about the Black couple that had tried to adopt her, and her total refusal of them as her family.
Bill Hurley walked in and sat down as I was talking about Nutmeg and interrupted. “Aw, bring her here … what’s one more? We’ve had so many bi-racial kids, one more don’t matter. They all get used to each other pretty quick here.” While that was true, I well knew that the “one more” made three, always a lot more difficult than two, but I didn’t say no. I did ask Jessie what she thought about Bill’s idea, and she laughed. “We can manage … don’t matter how many,” she said. They were wonderful folks and it was good to know I could fall back on them if I had to, but I didn’t feel this was the right home for Nutmeg. For one thing, the appearance of her to-be parents seemed of prime importance to Nutmeg, and this couple was all black, something she had seriously rejected not too long ago.
“Well, spread the word,” I asked. And they all agreed they surely would.
Thursday was a busy day of supervising some parent visits to kids in our care. Some of our children who came from abusive homes still had court-ordered visits from parents, these always being supervised in our offices as was court-ordered. Even though the courts had severed the legal bonds between parents and children, and children had often been placed or were in treatment prior to placement, these attachments still existed and needed to be honored, no matter how abusive parents had been in the past. This was a least favorite part of my job, for many legally separated parents still tried to tell their children they would come home to them one day – and of course, that wasn’t going to happen.
I was glad to see the day end and looked forward to a nice weekend and a short Friday.
As I came into the office Friday morning, I found Marci, along with Nutmeg, waiting for me.
“Well, Good Morning. How come you are not in school today?” I asked Nutmeg. “Oh I had to see Doc,” she replied, “and on the way back to school, I had a question Marci said she couldn’t answer, but you pro’lly could, so we came by to see you. You’re LATE!”
“Yes, late today, but I had a late night last night, Nutmeg, so I’m allowed by the rules to take a few hours to myself in the morning!”
“Oh -- special time for you,” said the little wise one.
“Yes, exactly. Now what’s your question?”
“Well, I wanted to know if we could go to that place for dinner tonight and talk some more about my new family. And some other stuff.”
“Uh -- well, actually, no, Nutmeg, we can’t do that. You see, I have a date with my husband and my daughter this evening.”
“Oh," she sighed and a little tear formed in the corner of her eye.
“Was there something special you wanted to tell me?” I asked.
“Yup there is ... but it’s a secret and I can’t say it here.”
“A secret from Marci? Hmmm. We don’t keep secrets from our house parents, Nutmeg. I am sure Marci will keep your secret. So you can tell us.”
“Nope -- not gonna tell.” Nutmeg had put on her now famous “stubborn face” and crossed her little arms over her chest. “Not gonna.” Nutmeg was expert in grabbing us by being stubborn and refusing to engage, I was not about to be caught in her trap. I had work to do, and she needed to learn that adults won’t always engage in coaxing her.
Marci stifled a grin as I did. “Well, OK, then,” I said gently. “Then give me a hug and we’ll talk about it next week. You have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday evening at our family meeting. If you can’t tell it then, you can tell me after the meeting when you get ready for bed.” I said.
“OK. That’s OK… I’ll tell you then.” While she voiced agreement, Nutmeg still looked more than a little upset.
“Right … now scoot along and have a nice weekend.” I bent down and gave her a big hug, and signaled to Marci it was time for them to go. “It’s time for me to get to work here.”
I made a mental note and one in my appointment book to remember to discuss Nutmeg’s secret with her Monday evening after the family meeting, got a cup of tea from the conference room and went to my desk to go through the referrals and paperwork waiting for me. A south California county had a three year old in need of evaluation and placement. He had been severely burned and psychologically abused, and Social Services didn’t think he’d tolerate a foster home in their county. He had apparently become mute, physically resistant and extremely difficult to handle. He often refused food, and there was concern for his basic growth and health needs. The County was pleading for an immediate placement. They had no suitable place for him and he was currently in a hospital pediatric ward for his own safety.
Much as I hated to tell them that we couldn’t accommodate this child immediately, I knew it would be a minimum of two more months before we’d have a space in the Evaluation Program, and I wasn’t really sure we could meet his needs given our current population. I made the phone call to his Social Worker, who was as distressed as I that there seemed no solution for this child’s problems at the moment. Some days are difficult.
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My husband and I took off late Friday afternoon for Lake Tahoe. We were both exhausted from several difficult weeks, and we needed a break. At such times, we often escaped from Marin County to the lovely mountains at Lake Tahoe high in the Sierra Mountains. As we drove through three climates to get to the resort some 8000 feet in the sky, we went through drought, rainy places and finally mountain snow. As we drove the winding road through the carved piles of snow, with the sun glistening off the jagged peaks. My shoulders came out of my ears and I felt the warm sun streaming through the car window relax me. I needed this space away – we both did.