The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (15 page)

1.  Her physical or
mental condition is seriously endangered as a result of the inability of her
parent to supply the child with necessary food, clothing, shelter, medical
care, education, and supervision, to wit:

a.
     
Nicole Stephan was born
to Nancy Stephan who is a minor and a ward of this agency.

b.
     
The infant was born
12-22-80 at the afore mentioned hospital and returned with her mother to her
foster home.

c.
      
The mother is a minor
and has no means with which to support her child.

WHEREFORE, your
petitioner prays that summons is issued to said child, Nancy Stephan, requiring
her to appear before the Superior Court, Juvenile Division, or the Judge
thereof, and show why said child should not be dealt with according to the laws
of the state.

I’ll take
my baby and run away
. 
Silly as it was, that was my first thought.  I had refused adoption because I
wanted to remain my mother’s daughter, but I would have to choose adoption if I
wanted to be my daughter’s mother.  It was an awful trick to make me choose,
but the choice had to be made, and absolutely no one was going to take Nicole
from me. 

Once I was
adopted, Nicole and I became permanent residents of the foster home.  Nicole
was safe, but as I was beginning to learn, nothing ever had a simple fix, and
the consequences of my adoption led to months of grief for Erma Lee.

As foster
parents, the Daniels were licensed to care for a limited number of children at
any one time.  Now that Nicole was permanent, the number of children in the
home exceeded the number allowed by their license.  Another child would need to
be removed. 

Michael was
a biracial child of about two years with big eyes and a heavy mound of black,
curly hair.  Even though the caseworker denied it, Erma Lee believed he had
been born to an addicted mother because he would cry—shrill, ear-piercing
screams—all the time, for no apparent reason.  Erma Lee had grown quite fond of
him, but the caseworker called and said to have his things ready the following
afternoon.

The next
day, his caseworker came, put his things in her car, thanked Erma Lee for
caring for him, and pulled away with Mikey screaming in the window.  Erma Lee
stood on the porch wringing her hands as they drove away.  Even though she never
would’ve allowed Nicole to be taken, it didn’t make it any easier for her to
give up Mikey.

Life would
be difficult for the next month, most of which time Erma Lee toggled between
anger and sadness.  She knew that adopting Mikey was out of the question because
she’d already adopted another baby, Ruxnell, against all odds.  Child Services
had fought against that adoption because Erma Lee was already 55 years old.

Ruxnell was
born to a teenage mother, and her parents forbade her from keeping him.  He was
brought to the Daniels straight from the hospital.  Like most of the children
that were brought, he came with nothing; he was just a newborn in a blanket. 
Like I’ve not seen with any other child that she fostered, Erma Lee loved him
immediately and profoundly. 

Within a
week of his arriving, however, Rux became very ill.  He had diarrhea so badly
that when we changed his diaper, we didn’t bother fastening the tape, and we’d
wrap a towel over the diaper because his legs were so bony that the diarrhea
would squirt out through the leg holes.  Erma Lee rushed him to the clinic, and
Dr. Morris told us to take Rux straight to the hospital.  He remained in the
hospital for weeks.  Erma Lee stayed with him from sun up to sun down, and she
often spent the night. 

When it was
obvious that his condition wasn’t improving she began to question the doctors’
motives.  “They got needles in his head, they constantly runnin’ that medicine
through his veins, they ain’t feedin’ him, so how in the world is he still
runnin’ off?”  It was 1978, and with Tuskegee
[8]
never far from the minds of those from that generation, she suggested that the
doctors were intentionally keeping him sick.  She decided that Rux’s recovery
was up to her.

Coming home
in the evenings, she would go in the kitchen, crush some type of herb into a
fine powder, simmer it, mix it with another concoction, and then draw it up
into little oral syringes.  She’d place the syringes into sandwich bags and put
them in her purse.  “When the doctors and nurses finish with him,” Erma Lee
said, “I pull the curtain and squirt that medicine in his mouth.  Then I lay my
hands crossed his tiny body, and I plead the blood of Jesus.”

Rux
recovered.  I hadn’t seen him since the day we’d rushed him to the hospital, so
when I came in from school and saw him on Erma Lee’s lap, I couldn’t believe it
was the same baby.  He was so fat, it looked as if his clothes would burst at
the seams.  To accommodate the IV needles, his head had been shaven on both
sides leaving him with a fluffy Mohawk. 

The doctors
had prescribed a special formula that was quite costly.  Nutramigen, it was
like powdered gold, and every morning Erma Lee would count the cans to make
sure he had enough.  And when she would brag to others about how God had healed
Rux, she would always mention the special formula, which she insisted on
calling Neutrogena.  People would say, “I didn’t know they made baby formula,”
and she’d say, “Oh yes, and it’s very expensive.”

Now that Rux
was home and doing well, we received a phone call that none of us was
expecting.  His caseworker was coming to get him, to place him in a new home
where a
young
couple was ready to adopt him.  Erma Lee was to gather his
things and have them ready.  She gathered a lot of things that day, but none of
them belonged to Rux. 

She gathered
documents and phone numbers, faith and courage, and she went on a phone-calling
campaign that lasted hours.  She opened the phonebook and called every single
number listed under the Department of Child Services.  She caused such a
commotion that the caseworker’s supervisor called and said they’d hold off on
removing Rux from the home until his case could be fully reviewed.  That period
of “holding off” was just the break Erma Lee needed. 

A couple of
years earlier, I’d won on award for an essay I’d written on President Woodrow
Wilson.  The contest was sponsored by The Daughters of the American Revolution,
and I’d taken first place.  “I want you to write a letter to the head man down
to Child Services,” Erma Lee said.  “I want you to write as good as you done
when you won that medal.” 

So I
listened as Erma Lee told me what she wanted to say.  “Now you go ‘head and
word it the right way.”  So at 12 years old, and to the best of my ability, I
did.  When Erma Lee heard from Child Services again, it was to tell her that
Rux was eligible for immediate adoption, and she and Paw-paw had first option.

The day of
the adoption, we all woke up early and dressed nicely.  Erma Lee bathed Rux and
before dressing him in his navy sailor suit, she held his naked, brown body in
the air and said, “Is you ever seen a finer baby?  Look at the muscles on him…
built like a Mack truck.”  Then, still holding him under his arms, she turned
him slightly and kissed him on his bottom.  “If he ever grow up and say nobody
loved him, you tell him not only did I love him, but I kissed his butt.”

The eight of
us (Paw-paw, Erma Lee, a son that had already been adopted, Rux, and four
foster children, including me) piled into Paw-paw’s brown Ford LTD and headed to
the courthouse.  We gathered around a table in a posh conference room where
Erma Lee and Paw-paw signed the necessary documents.  Ruxnell was ours.  After
the ordeal with Rux, Erma Lee knew that adopting Mikey was out of the question,
but she’d hoped that he would’ve been allowed to stay and grow up in the house
without being adopted, very much like I had, but it wasn’t to be.

“She jumps
off things.”

“How do you
mean?”  The doctor asked.

“The front
porch, furniture, stairs…”

“I wouldn’t
put too much thought into it.  Toddlers like to push the boundaries; it’s how
they learn their limitations.”

“See that
gash on her chin?”  I asked him.  “She jumped down the stairs and landed bottom
side up on the heat grate.  I thought she’d never stop bleeding.”

“Well,
sometimes they learn the hard way, but at least now she knows that jumping down
the stairs is dangerous.”

“But that’s
just it; the next day, she was right back at it.”

“You’d
better keep an eye on her then.”

That’s all
the doctor could tell me, keep an eye on her, which was quasi-doable.  But she
would start school soon.  Then what?  Nicole was more intrepid than any child
I’d ever seen.  Perhaps school and the structure it provided would mellow her;
at least that’s what I told myself.

We had gone
to St. Stanislaus School during orientation to meet with the sisters and
complete the paperwork.  Only the older children wore uniforms, so on the first
day, I dressed Nicole in a red and white Gingham smocked dress.  On the front,
the letter “A” and the number “1” were appliquéd to a large pocket shaped like
an apple.  She wore white ankle socks and black patent leather Mary Janes.  Her
hair was in two long pigtails.

Though St.
Stan faced Indianapolis Boulevard, many parents parked on Magoun Avenue, which
ran along the back side of the block.  There was an esplanade between the
church and the arboretum that led to the courtyard where the sisters would
greet the children each morning.  As I pulled into a parking space, careful of
the older kids dressed in plaid uniforms, I rehearsed my speech one last time.

I would tell
Nicole that school was for big girls and that it lasted only half a day.  As
soon as it was out, I would be right here waiting for her.  But before I could
take the key out of the ignition, she jumped out of the car and tore off down
the esplanade, a red streak darting in and out of a sea of brown and yellow
plaid.  By the time I reached the courtyard, she was already in line with the
other children, the sister giving firm instructions on how they should conduct
themselves while walking down the hallway.  Nicole never turned around to blow
me a kiss or say good bye.  I watched until she disappeared through the doorway.

After that,
when friends talked about their children’s first days of school, with all of
the hugs and tears and weepy goodbyes, I remained quiet, unwilling to crush the
nostalgia with, “Yeah, my daughter took off like a torpedo and never looked
back.”

By the time Nicole was seven
and we’d moved south, I had grown accustomed to her intrepidness, but when
Nicole was at play with other children, I realized how unnerving for other
parents her grittiness could be.

One summer
afternoon, my friend Sherry and her daughter Laura stopped by for a visit. 
Sherry and I relaxed on the patio while the two girls played.  Suddenly, Nicole
shouted, “Go!”  We looked up to see the two girls running toward the back of
the property at the end of which was a small embankment.  Upon reaching the
edge of the drop-off, Laura skid to a halt, turned around, and backed herself
down the levee.  Nicole, on the other hand, picked up speed and jumped full
throttle over the edge, her arms and legs spread eagle against the sky until
she dropped from sight.  “Oh my God,” Sherry gasped.  Then she spun around to
me, “Why are you just sitting there?”  

“She’s
okay.”

“What do you
mean, ‘she’s okay’?  She could be laying down there right now with a broke
neck.”

Just then,
Nicole scampered back up grinning from ear to ear, twigs in her hair, her face
flushed with excitement.  She giggled to Laura, who was coming up behind her,
“Wanna do it again?”  Before anyone could say anything, Sherry yelled, “No! 
Get over here, Laura LeeAnn Echols.”  Nicole skipped over to me, pigtails
bouncing on her shoulders.  She dropped down in my lap and asked, “What’s the
matter with her?”

“She’s not
used to the way you play.”

“Is Laura
gonna get in trouble?”

“No, her
mother just doesn’t want her to get hurt.”

“Why would
she get hurt?  We were just playing.”

I listened
as Sherry, in her choppy, southern twang, scolded Laura for following Nicole to
the embankment and then turned and scolded me for not putting a stop to it. 
“Does she run around jumping off stuff like that all the time?”  I thought for
a moment.  There was really no easy way to say it.

“Pretty
much.”

“Doing stuff
that’ll get her neck broke?”

“Well, pretty
much.”

She let out
a long sigh.  “I see right now I can’t let those two play alone together.  My
poor child will end up maimed, with a broke neck.” 

Though I was
curious, I didn’t ask her if “broke necks” were a common occurrence in her
family.  But this was Nicole; it’s who she was, how she played, and how she would
live her life—running full speed, savoring the free fall, and giving very
little thought to how she’d land.