To the End of June : The Intimate Life of American Foster Care (9780547999531) by Cris Beam Page B

can make something out of anything,” she said.
    Allen returned with a small blue bottle and a rubber band. “This is my Blue Shooter!” he shouted happily and scurried up the stairs next to Bruce, who was on the front stoop, to aim at the two concrete lions.
    Tom, Bruce told me, had skipped out on the adoption hearing where he was supposed to formally turn over his rights to the Greens. The hearing had been canceled—but that hadn’t stopped Tom from coming around the house. Bruce said he didn’t harbor any bad feelings. He knew it was hard to sign that last paper.
    â€œTom’s like a kid himself; he comes over, watches TV, has food, and gets to have family and community,” Bruce said, adding that he and Allyson weren’t worried about the botched hearing; if anything, it had reinforced their status as stable providers. This was September, and the next “final” court date had been arranged for November—with or without Tom, and long past the ASFA deadline.
    â€œDaddy!” Allen shouted. And there Tom was, as though summoned by our discussion, grinning at the bottom of the stairs. He’d replaced the missing earpiece on his glasses. Tom nodded his hellos, and Allen jumped on his back to piggyback inside the house.
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    In steamy Bell County, Texas, Oliver’s custody hearing had been slated for the middle of August. In the two weeks since I’d left Texas, Caitlin had missed both scheduled visits with her son. One time, she didn’t have gas money, and another, she called Steve in the middle of the night saying her boyfriend, Rick, was in the hospital being treated for a potassium deficiency; she couldn’t possibly make it the next morning. Surely, Steve reasoned, these blunders would count against her.
    They did, but not enough to terminate her rights; the judge decided to give Caitlin one more chance. At the hearing, he scheduled another court date for October, six months shy of the ASFA cutoff, admonishing Caitlin with a warning: if she skipped even one more visitation, she would lose her son. Even for work? she asked. At that point, Caitlin was still living with Rick and his parents. Rick’s mother testified that Rick had lost his job; Caitlin’s shift at McDonald’s represented the household’s sole employment. The judge wasn’t swayed; he told her plenty of good parents survived on welfare.
    So at first, Caitlin made her visits. Caitlin didn’t drive, but Rick got himself a car, thereby doubling Caitlin’s chances of appearing (Rick’s mother was her other chauffeur). But then, during one drop-off, while Steve was informing them of Oliver’s switch from formula to milk, Rick’s mom interrupted. She was hosting evacuees from the latest hurricane, she said proudly.
    Steve immediately called Oliver’s guardian ad litem, the person hired by the state to represent Oliver’s interests; nobody was supposed to be in Caitlin’s house without having a criminal background check. The guardian ad litem sent a social worker, who discovered Oliver didn’t have a crib. The guardian ad litem also checked up on Caitlin’s therapist, who was tracking her emotional health.
    The therapist, who had originally recommended the overnight visits, had been observing Caitlin’s interactions with Oliver since April and had issued a report for the court. In it, she claimed that Caitlin “did not know how to properly parent a child.” This, Steve wrote to me, might finally do it; even the therapist found Caitlin unfit. Still, he said, “We’re not getting our hopes up. The judge might extend again. This just represents how the system sits on its ass until the last second and plays with everybody’s emotions on every side until it’s all over.”
    The path to terminate a parent’s rights may seem endless—and it often does take months or even years—and yet it’s possibly the