5

TAKE FIVE

Jimmy and I passed a teenage boy on our way to the playground, a young man I’d never seen before. The kid smiled at Jimmy, gave him a high five, and kept walking. I looked at Jimmy, “Hey, who’s your friend?” Jimmy looked away, still smiling. As a single person in her thirties, the anonymity of a big city had given me the freedom I needed to meet new people, move between groups of friends, and find myself—it was liberating. As a new parent to a nine-year-old boy, that same anonymity terrified me. No way was I going to be able to keep track of Jimmy’s influences in the city. And with Ruby starting middle school next fall? Holy crap.

Soon after, Dan told me the Bureau called and offered him a transfer to a small office upstate forty miles from our lodge. “They’ve given us twenty-four hours to decide,” he said, “what do you think?” I took it as a sign. “I’m in! Call and tell them we’re going. This is no place to raise our family. Outside the city we would have more space, more resources, more time, less stress . . . ” Dan interrupted me, “What about your career?” My heart stopped. I mumbled, “It’ll be okay.” It would have to be.

After we went to bed, I woke in the middle of the night thinking about our move and the sibling group still living in that foster home: The boys, Jason and Anthony, ages nine and five, had muscular dystrophy. Their sister Susie was seven. They’d been cleared for adoption for over two years.

“Dan? Dan? Can you please wake up?” He rolled over, “Are you okay?” My mind was spinning. “I don’t know, I just keep thinking about, well, I mean, I know we are in over our heads here, but I can’t stop thinking about those other three kids in the foster home.” Dan was silent. I went on. “I mean, if our kids went through half of the stuff they’ve told us, then not only are the other three still in danger, they all survived that crap together! For six years! I think they should have each other, Ruby and Susie shared a bed, for Chrissake. Ruby talks about Anthony like he’s her brother. I know it’s crazy. I don’t know what the hell I am thinking, I just keep coming back to it.”

Again, silence. Then quietly, “I already made the call.”

I bolted up into sitting. “You WHAT?”

“To inquire.” He smiled.

“You called the agency to inquire about the other three kids? I can’t believe you!”

“I inquired about their status.”

“Oh my god, Dan! You inquired about their status?” The pitch of my voice was rising.

“And to offer our home as an adoptive resource.”

“WHAT?” Louder.

“To feel out where the process was.”

“AND?” Yelling.

“They’re in a tough spot, Ann. The agency can’t find a permanent home for them and they’re being hit in the foster home.”

“Oh my God.” I flopped back down on the bed, breathless. “Oh my God.”

The British songwriter Billy Bragg said, “The most important decisions in life are made between two people in bed.” And there we were, in bed, in the middle of the night, Dan and I making an indefensible, emotional decision to adopt three additional troubled children we had not even met.

* * *

Siblings are as siblings do. These five were bonded siblings in every way but biologically. It was my dream that in our sympathetic home, these five could empathize about a past that Dan and I couldn’t even imagine. As our children grew and began processing those years in foster care, they could witness for each, fact check, love and care for each other.

Once decided, I started to tell our loved ones about our decision. Our friends shook their heads, “It’s too much.” My brother laughed and said, “Well, if you’re going to do it, overdo it!” Not the encouragement that we wanted, but we were committed.

We met with a social worker who actually cried when she learned we wanted all five, “It’s been our dream, we never thought it could happen!” Placing siblings together is a challenge but placing five foster children from two different biological homes? “It’s a miracle.” When the kids were legally up for adoption, the foster parents declined their right of first refusal. Social workers asked Ms. Smith, the foster mom, why she didn’t want to adopt them, and she said, “It’s fine now, but what about when they are teenagers?” Good point.

We began our matching process, the kids’ mini-reunion taking place on the sidewalk outside the agency. The five of them ran to each other, a mass of screams and hugs, then fast, loud talking, playful pushing and laughter. I heard Susie ask Ruby under her breath, “Do they have a TV we can watch?” Ruby rolled her eyes and said sarcastically, “Don’t ask!” We took Susie, Anthony, and Jason for the spring break, then three weekends in a row, the matching process was condensed and so intensified our desire to adopt.

During these weekends, Dan and I were very active with all five: camping, traveling, playing, Ruby and Jimmy teaching the young ones how to swim and ride bikes. After each visit, I would walk the children back to the foster home and record in a marbled composition notebook a description of every scratch, bruise, and abrasion the children incurred on my watch and then sign at the bottom. It was a courtesy I had offered to Ms. Smith, with whom I had a cordial if superficial relationship. She had told me she was under investigation for child abuse through ACS stemming from allegations at Anthony’s school. “Thank you, Ms. Ann. You have no idea what I am going through.” Ms. Smith was busy. She was finishing school and had four bio kids of her own, three teenage boys and a four year-old girl. She complained of back pain. The husband worked. The foster kids were mostly supervised by the parents’ teenage sons. Ms. Smith’s sister lived in the basement apartment with her own children. These systems felt strange and unfamiliar to me.

Every time I entered the foster home, I would scan for information that might help me understand my children’s experience, memories, and childhood: lighting, layout, floor coverings, smells, the little plastic table in the kitchen corner “where the foster kids ate,” loud music, cockroaches. I would immediately shelve my observations without reflection and deliberately avoid forming opinions. I am a terrible liar. I wanted to be someone that Ms. Smith could talk to, confide in, even trust. I had to be able to look her in the eye.

After the matching period, we made a formal request to adopt the three children, have them placed permanently in our home, and move with us upstate. There was some turnover in the administration at the foster agency and we were suddenly met with resistance. Our social workers, whom we knew quite well, apologetically clammed up and were reassigned. We were told that the three younger children would not be able to leave New York City until the end of school in June. Our moving date was May 15. If we left the city without the younger three, we would not be able to advocate effectively for them.

Dan met with the new social workers a few times and was growing increasingly verbal in his frustration. I called a few times myself just to do damage control. I would say things like, “Yes, certainly, my husband does feel passionately about these children and I agree that he does have a way with words,” and we’d all laugh a little.

Despite our efforts, it looked as if our plan was becoming another casualty of the system. The agency called, “The matching meetings with the children are being terminated. The current foster mother has requested the children be removed and we only have ten days to find a new home.” I said, “They can move in with us.” They hedged, “it has to be an approved foster home.” Dear Lord, give me strength to not go apeshit on these people. “We are an approved foster home,” I said, “currently fostering two wards of the state on behalf of your agency.” There was a pause. “You are a foster home?” I felt contempt. “Yes,” I said, “we are approved and would like to adopt all five children.” Silence. “We’ll call you back.”

The agency called the next day, “We’ve found a temporary home for them and believe me, that’s not easy to do for three kids on such short notice!” Hmm. Wouldn’t finding an adoptive home be even harder? “Do you understand we are willing to adopt these children?” I asked, incredulous. “We’ll consider it.”

Furious, I called a lower level worker at the agency that I had become friendly with over the months. “I need to know where they are moving the three kids.” My buddy laughed, “They’re not moving! They convinced Ms. Smith to keep them for now.” I was shocked, “They said Ms. Smith sent in her ten day notice.” He said, “She sent the notice, but forgot to sign it. It has to be signed to be legal.” Dan was listening on speakerphone, biting his tongue. We had two weeks to solve this before the movers came.

A moment of inspiration: “Wait!” I said to Dan, “watch this.” I grabbed my phone, “Hello, Winnie? It’s Ann Fox.” I always called Ms. Smith by her first name, “How are you? How is your back?” I asked about her family, how’s school coming along, then, “By the way we heard you are keeping the three younger kids. We know you are in a tight spot with the investigation and everything, and wanted to you to know we told the agency they could stay with us.” There was a pause. Winnie was angry. “They told me they had nowhere else to go. Come and get them!”

I nodded encouragingly at Dan and said, “Okay, first you have to send a request for removal.” Ms. Smith said in a low, controlled voice, “I already sent the request.” I waited, holding my breath. “They told me you didn’t sign it.” There was silence and then an explosion, “I did sign it! They are lying! Come and get them. Get the children out of here!” I nodded again at Dan and said, “I will call the emergency supervisor at the agency. We can’t do anything without permission.” She yelled, “Call the supervisor and get them out. NOW!” We hung up and I called the supervisor explaining the situation. The supervisor confirmed, “We will have social workers there first thing in the morning.”

Dan woke me up that night and whispered quietly, “Are we going to be able to do this?” I smiled. “Absolutely. I was made for this.” You what? I could not believe I said that, it just came out. Dan kissed me and rolled back to sleep and my mind played it out. Ann, you’re a musician and historically self-absorbed. You’ve never even had a house plant! What makes you think you can do this? Shh. I’m just latent, that’s all. Those maternal instincts are going to kick in once those kids are here. What if they don’t? Five kids, Ann! What if you fail? I have my family and I have Dan. They won’t let me fail.

At ten the next morning, Dan and I became the proud parents of five beautiful children. It was the first of May, 2008. Mayday, mayday.

* * *

Our three new kids were in three different schools in three different neighborhoods. To get them there, Dan and I drove two hours each way through the Bronx and Long Island City with no parking and no margin for error; the schools locked their doors within fifteen minutes of each other. Dan would wait in our van while I ran in and signed each child out. We had sitters picking up Jimmy from school and meeting Ruby at her bus.

The first day I picked up Jason, numerous teachers, security guards, administrators, and aides came up to me, hugging me, thanking me, and crying openly. They handed me cards with their phone numbers, “This is my cell, call if you have any questions. I would have adopted him but we just couldn’t, not with all his siblings.” At Susie’s school, her teacher pulled me aside, “Please keep in touch, call me anytime.” Office staff stood up and called out, “God bless you,” as I walked past holding the hand of my new daughter.

At Anthony’s school, the physical therapist met me at the security desk and walked with me through the school halls, giving me instructions on how to care for him. Anthony’s bus monitor interrupted us, hugged me, and started crying, “I would have adopted him if I could!” Then the nurse came over, “Thank God you are here, his teeth are rotting in his mouth, he has marks all over him, we call the police but nothing happens . . . ” Anthony was waiting for me in the cafeteria, working on a yogurt with one of his aides. He recognized me and held out his arms. “Pick up!” I picked him up.

Five and a half years old, twenty-eight pounds and pre-verbal, Anthony had pale white skin with dark circles under his eyes. He wore metal hip to ankle braces over his pull-up diapers. As I carried him into the hallway, children and teachers started coming out of the classrooms. “Anthony! Yay Anthony! Hi Anthony! Is that your new Mom?” Anthony waved, as more students and teachers poured out into the hall, following us as we walked to the exit.

Teachers were crying and wiping their eyes. Anthony was smiling, waving to everyone. I kept walking, my eyes burning, fixed on the exit doors, feeling my part in this giant moment in a tiny life; little Anthony was free at last. They followed me out onto the steps, cheering and clapping while I buckled him into his brand new car seat. “Wow,” said Dan, staring out the van window at the teeming, cheering crowd. I wiped my eyes, “You’re not kidding.” Dan turned to me from the driver’s seat, tears in his eyes, “We’re doing the right thing.”