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I take my phone and pull up the search engine just in case I’m able to stumble upon some magical solution.
What I find is a website created by a family lawyer in Waterbury called CONNspiracy, and it doesn’t take me long to realize it’s a website made for people like me. It offers advice—tons of advice—for parents whose children have been taken by the state of Connecticut’s DCF, or who are being threatened with an investigation.
As I read, I am filled with both hope and fury. I learn that I didn’t have to agree to anything. I didn’t have to accompany the police yesterday from CVS, and I’ve never even had to let Susan into my apartment, not once—something she never mentioned to me during her impromptu visits.
In any state in America, you have to have a search warrant to enter a person’s home. DCF, the website tells me, gets around this with their so-called emergency orders, but you should always request to see the actual order before you
allow anyone inside. I haven’t seen anything.
The website goes on to say how caseworkers wheedle and trick and basically lie to get you to do what they want. They’ll worm their way into your home and ask your kids condemning questions and all the while state that they are trying to be helpful. Just as Susan did. But what they really want is to take your kids away from you, to be in control.
I’m not so naïve that I don’t realize this guy has a serious axe to grind, but still. There’s a lot Susan should have done that she didn’t, and that fires me with purpose. Forget the lawyers, I have a case. I have a right.
Reckless yet filled with determination, I call Susan’s cell right then and there. She answers on the second ring.
“Beth?”
“Susan.” My voice comes out as hostile as it was this morning, maybe even more so. “I wanted to let you know that I will not be signing any voluntary placement contract.” I think of how many times she’s shouldered her way into my home, without even informing me that she needed my permission, and for a second I can’t speak for the sense of rage and violation I feel. And she said she was on my side.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Beth.” Susan sounds quiet, a bit resigned, as if she was expecting this.
“I’m sure you are,” I choke out. There are so many things I want to say, but I don’t, because I’m going to save them for my day in court. I’ll be my own damned lawyer, if I have to. “Are you going to file for an order of temporary custody?” I try to sound as if I really know what I’m talking about, but a few minutes scrolling various websites hardly makes me an expert. I don’t actually know what happens next.
“I believe that is what will happen, yes. If you don’t agree to the voluntary placement, there will be a preliminary court hearing within ten days.”
“Ten days!” I practically yelp the words, my ignorance revealing me. “I thought you were only allowed to hold him for ninety-six hours.”
“After that period of time, we have to file for the order. He remains in custody until it is resolved by the court.”
I swallow hard, absorbing this. Ten days isn’t six weeks, but it still feels way too long. Why can’t he come back to me until it’s resolved by the court? Why does DCF have all the power and I, his mother, have none?
“Beth, you really don’t have to do this,” Susan says. She sounds weary rather than earnest now. “Remember, with the voluntary placement, you can take Dylan back whenever you—”
“No, I can’t, because you told me DCF can take legal action to keep me from it.”
“Yes, but—”
“Why should I believe anything you say?” I practically spit. “You’ve lied to me all along.”
“I haven’t lied,” Susan replies with dignity, and I am so filled with rage at this that I am shaking with it.
“Yes, you have. All along. What about not informing me that you had no right to come into my home?”
“I always asked if I could come in, Beth.” Susan sounds tense, and I wonder if she’s worried I’ll make a legal complaint. Perhaps there will be an investigation—not into my parenting, but into her professionalism. The thought is intensely satisfying.
“You never told me that you couldn’t unless I let you,” I tell her coldly. “I am not just rolling over and taking this, Susan. I contest the ninety-six-hour hold, and the order of temporary custody, and whatever else you throw at me.” For a second I am flooded with power and triumph; I am dizzy with it. “I’ll see you in court,” I declare, and then I disconnect the call.
8
ALLY
“So how is it?”
My neighbor and best friend Julie’s eyes are wide over the rim of her wineglass as I take a sip from my own and relax into her sofa. It’s been three days since Dylan came to live with us, and while nothing terrible has happened, they’ve felt somewhat endless. I am grateful to be somewhere other than home, watching Dylan and walking on eggshells.
“It’s been okay,” I say, because in truth it has. Mostly.
When I heard Dylan scream again that first evening, I raced upstairs. Nick and Dylan were in the guest bedroom, Dylan wrapped only in a towel that fell to the floor as I wrenched open the door and he continued to scream.
