Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story (28 page)

After our daily activity was over, we went to the kitchen for dinner, and by 7:00 we had to be in the living room of the women’s quarters for our nightly meeting. Rehab wanted to introduce us to the routine of regularly attending meetings in place of using drugs or alcohol. All of the meetings had outsiders attending. It took me a minute to understand who these people were and why they were there. I had never been to a meeting before, so I didn't know how they worked. Different organizations participated: Cocaine Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, and Narcotics Anonymous.

I quickly determined that I liked the Narcotics Anonymous meetings the best because I felt like the people who attended were super non-judgmental and down to earth. They weren't afraid to crack a joke, and they were totally honest with themselves and the group - not worrying about their image so much as their recovery. By the time the nightly meetings were over, I was extremely exhausted from the day. I brushed my teeth and jumped in bed as fast as I could. My time in treatment went by much quicker than jail, and it was way more productive.

I was still able to keep in touch with Derrick through mail, and he was able to come and see me on Sundays for four hours. My first visit with him was amazing. We hugged and couldn’t stay away from each other. I missed him so much, and I just wanted to go home so he could participate in the rest of the pregnancy with me. I wanted him to be able to feel our baby move, and I missed sleeping next to him despite his obnoxious snoring. It was like how we were at the beginning of our relationship. He found a better job that was paying a much higher wage than his last one. Our landlord owned a construction business and hired him when she learned that he had experience in the field. He was making almost twenty dollars an hour. He was paying the bills and even spoiling me as much as he could while I was away. Everyone else who had family visiting seemed happy and excited. The on-call counselor announced that if we wanted to, since it was such a nice day, we could walk to the beach and have our visit outside of the house. It was about a 20-minute walk, and Derrick and I held hands the whole way.

We stopped at a convenience store on the way, and he let me get a 2-pound bag of buttered popcorn flavored jellybeans. The lake was sparkling and beautiful, and the temperature at the beach was perfect. Everything was so beautiful and perfect. Being in jail for so long put a damper on my senses, and now they were all in overdrive. I just wanted to lie on the sand and stare at the clouds. Derrick was lying next to me and put his hand on my belly. For the first time he felt our baby kick. He was really excited and stayed intently focused on my stomach for the remainder of the visit. I thought it was funny that such a tough-looking guy was suddenly emotionally in-tune with our relationship. He must have missed me pretty badly. The visit came to an end when we returned from the beach. I was sad that he was leaving, but I was excited that I only had a few weeks left before I could go home.

On the last week of my stay in rehab, my appetite went insane as my baby was growing more and more. We weren’t supposed to eat during the classes in the morning, but I felt my blood sugar getting low so I had no choice. I pulled out a bear-claw from my sweatshirt pocket and as quietly as I could, I unwrapped the snack. The instructor’s name was Michael. He was in his late forties, and he seemed very cocky and set in his ways. I always paid attention but avoided asking too many questions because of his reputation for putting people on the spot and embarrassing them. “Ms. Jeter! What are you sneaking over there?” he loudly asked. I thought I would make light of the situation, because surely he would understand since I was in my last trimester. “Sorry! My baby got hungry, so I had to eat something!” Everyone in the class laughed, even the guys. “You can’t blame your actions on your child! Maybe if you kept your legs closed you wouldn’t be having to interrupt my class by breaking the rules!” he yelled. I raised my eyebrows in shock. Most of the other women had a look of disbelief on their faces. I could not believe what I was hearing. I didn’t argue any further, because I was going to go above him and do everything possible to get him fired. I was so sick of these “professional” people thinking it was okay to humiliate and degrade me. My situation was none of their business. I started writing a letter to give to the director of the facility as soon as the class was over. As soon as I was done, I asked my roommate what I needed to do to get it sent to the right person. I found out that the director was dating Michael. Damn it! I thought. I gave up on my quest to get the idiot fired and tried to let go of what he had said.

On the second to the last day of my treatment, our afternoon class was a women’s-only session. The lady leading the group was someone I hadn’t seen before. She was really nice, and she made the group fun and interesting. Before the class ended, she had us complete an exercise. We were to write a one-page “goodbye” letter to our drug of choice. She said the exercise would help us put why being sober is a positive thing into perspective, and it would help us let go of the drugs. She said that many people went through a grieving process as they became clean and drug-free. We were going to share our letters with the class when we were done, then burn them in a fire pit as a symbolic method of letting go. “Okay ladies! You will have twenty minutes to write your letter, starting now.” The clock was ticking and I was getting nervous. I honestly could not find it in me to write a goodbye letter to meth. It didn’t even deserve that much from me. I was mad at the drug - not missing the damn drug! I was missing my babies. So instead, I wrote a poem to my girls. Subconsciously, my mind needed to say goodbye because it never had that chance. At this point, I had not seen them in three months. It was hard controlling my tears as I was writing, but I managed to hide my pain. I wasn’t sure how I would read it out loud and still hide it.

When I finished sharing my letter, I looked up to see every woman including the counselor, quietly sniffling with tears rolling down their faces.

Chloe and Zoe,

I am writing to you from a place far away

Your hearts are with mine, no matter where you stay

I hurt for your pain, the mistakes that were made

I was lost in my world, too young and afraid

Never in this world did I want to see you cry

Never in my life will I ever say goodbye

My babies, my gifts, my heart and soul

No breath I breathe in, can ever be whole

Until you were gone, I was so very blessed

Your hugs, your laughs, your cuddles on my chest

I miss you, I ache, every minute, every day

I never imagined you would be sent away

All in God’s time, you’ll come back to me

Like the butterflies who fly, setting our hearts free

My prayers he hears, unanswered I will wait

No matter the time, it will never be too late

To hug, to laugh, to smile and to hold

I will trust in our God for our lives to unfold

I got through the poem with only crying a little bit. I had to release that pain and fear. I was still unsure of what my fate as their mother was going to be. I was stunned that every single female in the group was touched enough to cry. Maybe they were relating to their own losses. I knew that when I got out of treatment I wanted to find a way to help other people through similar painful situations.

The day for me to return home arrived before I knew it. I woke up that morning extra early so I would have time to make myself extra pretty. I was not allowed to have makeup there, but I did get to have my curling iron. I wore the cutest outfit that I had and eagerly waited for eight o’clock to arrive so my counselor could complete my treatment plan and release me. I cleaned up my area, gave all of the women a hug and wished them luck, and hauled my duffel bag over to the same building I checked into thirty days earlier. If it weren’t for Gina, I would still be stuck in jail. She was the only staff member in the entire jail who had cared enough to see that I got out of there. I hoped that I would see her again so I could thank her.

My counselor asked a few questions for the end-of-treatment questionnaire. It was only ten minutes before she handed me the phone to call Derrick to pick me up. He was there within minutes, and I was so excited to be going home. Derrick helped me survive one of the most miserable experiences of my life and we were connected even more from the circumstances. I was convinced that he definitely was not the person who hurt my daughter.

He walked in and grabbed my duffel bag for me.  I followed him out to the car, and he kissed me in a way that said he needed me. I needed to be needed. My girls were gone and probably didn’t need me anymore. At least someone did. I excitedly hopped into the Jeep and we took off. It was so cool to be driving down the road and know that I was actually going home.

I walked into our tiny studio, and I was very pleased that Derrick had taken the time to clean it up for me. He was usually sort of a slob. I walked in and I noticed that it smelled like my Grandparent’s home had smelled when I was little. It was a combination of laundry detergent, second hand smoke, and cat litter.

Derrick announced that he had a surprise planned for me. We woke up early the next day and drove to the Bay Area where he grew up. That was where we first fell in love and officially said the L word. It was awesome to get out of town and be surrounded by people who didn't know what was going on and could not judge us. We spent the weekend catching up with his friends, shopping and driving around San Francisco. One thing that we had in common was that we both loved to spend money and shop like we were rich. We were both spontaneous and loved to randomly get out of town, even if it was just for a day. After the weekend trip was over, it was time to get down to business. I had three months to prove to the Court that I was worthy of being reunited with my girls, and they would not need to take custody of the new baby because everything would be safe. I had the constant fear that they would take my baby away when she was born, and I was prepared to do everything possible to make sure that didn’t happen.

I continued my treatment at the Outpatient Facility, and my first six weeks were intense. It was Monday through Friday from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. I wondered how the other people in the group were able to hold jobs with that kind of schedule. Part of my outpatient treatment was to attend three meetings a week on my own time. I went to the Narcotics Anonymous meetings and occasionally Derrick went with me to show his support. I thought it was pretty bad that he was such a good liar and that the Court thought I needed drug treatment even more so than Derrick. He wouldn’t even admit that he was ever addicted to drugs! At least I could set my ego aside to admit the truth.

Derrick and I both decided to sign up for a parenting class at the Women’s Center. We wanted to make the Court happy for the Hearings on Chloe and Zoe’s living status, and we wanted to avoid another case with our new baby. We consistently attended every week for the duration of the ten weeks required and were issued our certificates as proof. I had a Court Hearing coming up, and the Judge wanted to know what progress I had made since being released from jail. My Public Defender sat down next to me when the case was called. I tried desperately to hide my pregnancy. Derrick had bought me a big winter-weather jacket and it did a good job. I was eight months pregnant, though, and if anyone noticed, no one said anything.

“Hi Elizabeth.” Laura said. She looked like she was going to say something bad. She had a look of sympathy on her face, and that was not a good sign. She was a tough bulldog and wasn’t the type to have sympathy for many people, but she knew how hard I was trying. “The Social Services knows that you’re with Derrick, so they want to put in for a motion to terminate your parental rights,” she quietly said. “I don’t understand how they can do that when no one has been arrested for what happened. We still don’t know what happened, and I just completed rehab and everything. Derrick and I are going to submit a hair follicle drug test to the Court to prove our stability and recovery,” I pleaded with her. I would do anything to prevent this and she knew that. “The fact is, Elizabeth, that you are with Derrick after you accused him. They don’t know what to make of it and still think the girls would be at risk,” Laura said in a sympathetic yet factual manner.

The Judge looked at the paperwork with my proof of completion of classes and programs. He made a note to the Court to have the transcriber get it on the record. “Ms. Jeter has made considerable progress, and I want to recognize that. I am going to set the motion for two weeks from now, and I will submit her documents to the Court for evidence.” It was a quick hearing, and the bailiff handed me a card with my next Court date. I was hoping that since the Judge noted my progress they would extend the next hearing date and give me extra time to finish up whatever it was that they wanted. I was extra busy after this hearing. I checked in with Probation and asked for a document saying that I had been compliant. I did several voluntary urine analysis drug tests, and Derrick and I began to log my three times a week meetings. I was trying to complete every request that I thought CPS could possibly request of me. That way, it would not be possible for them to deny me my girls.

As the Court date neared, I was getting anxious and scared. I was almost nine months pregnant and my hormones were getting the best of me. Derrick had moved us down the street into a house that his friend used to occupy. It was a two-bedroom house, and it had a fenced back yard. It wasn’t huge, but it was much better than what we had been living in. Now our baby would at least have its own room. When Chloe and Zoe came home, there would be more room for all the girls. Everything, at that point, was just an intense and miserable wait.

The Judge ordered the Social Services to schedule a visit with the girls the last time I was in Court. My mom picked me up on a Saturday, and we made the long five-hour drive to see them at a park in the town they were living in. I was very nervous and afraid that they would not remember me. It had been four months since I had last seen them, and when kids are that young, four months can feel like a lifetime. I hoped that it hadn’t been so long that they had forgotten me. My mom’s car was making me carsick, and I was glad when we arrived. We had brought presents for them. The CASA worker was supervising the visit, and I really hated her. She didn’t even have kids, and I wondered why anyone thought she was so qualified to be an advocate for a child who could hardly even talk! Chloe was only three and she did talk, but it was that cute three-year-old babble that usually only parents can translate. Right when my mom approached the swing set, the girls dropped everything they were doing and ran her way. They had grown. They had grown a lot, and Zoe didn’t even look like a baby anymore. She had a lot more hair and was talking very well. Chloe was gorgeous and tall and skinny. She had her dad’s physique, but her face was all mine. The girls were hugging my mom’s legs as she was digging into her bag for their presents.

I got down on the ground because I read that kids communicate better if you get down to their level. As tears were accumulating in my eyes, I put a smile on my face. “Hi beautiful girls!” I softly said. “I miss you so much! Are you having fun today?” I asked. I didn’t know if I should expect a response or what would happen. They continued to hug my mom’s leg, and as I spoke to them they had confused smiles on their faces. I could see it in their eyes that they were hurting and hesitant to reattach themselves to me. It was really sad, but as the visit progressed they warmed up to me a little bit.

Zoe was calling Mary mommy at this point. I wanted to cry the first time she said it but I didn’t. I tried to appear as level headed as I could because the CASA worker would report any little incident to the Court in a flash. Chloe called Mary by her name. Part of me didn’t blame Zoe. She had to have someone to call mommy, I thought. It just hurt that it wasn’t me. Towards the end of the visit, I walked with Chloe over to the swing set and pushed her. “Chloe, mommy is very sorry, okay? I love you so much, and I will always love you! Are you happy?” I asked. She knew exactly what I was saying to her, and she said a quiet “Yes.” Zoe was all over the park, reminding me of her ADHD father, but Chloe was more shy and reserved. I hoped that Chloe understood what I meant and would remember me saying those things to her even after the visit.

Everything in my life was so unpredictable at that point, and I did not know if I would ever see them again. It was all so sad and strange. The close bond that we had shared was lost, and I prayed that I would have the chance to repair it. When the visit was over I gave both my girls hugs and told them how much I loved them and how sorry I was. I kept my statements as simple as possible, hoping that they could understand what I was saying. I didn’t handle the goodbyes well, and they cut deeper and deeper as time went on. As my mom was saying goodbye to them, I walked back to her car, not wanting to give the CASA worker the satisfaction of seeing me cry. So many people were making decisions for me. Why did they have the right to decide the fate of my children after all I went through to make it right? I was about to discover exactly what that fate would be.