Laurell, Aliyah find home, but reunion short-lived
Laurell Florence moved to Phoenix without a job or a place to live but with the hope the desert air would be good for her daughter, Aliyah Randle. After a night in an emergency room, she realized a van was no place for a little girl. Laurell left her daughter in a short-term shelter and set out to find an apartment. This is Chapter 2 of a six-part series.
Dec. 31, 2015
Aliyah Randle was out of breath, running in from the basketball court to her bedroom. Her mother wouldn’t arrive for hours.
She bounced onto her bed, the one nearest the door with sheets covered in peace signs and a blanket with pink poodles on it.
The 7-year-old liked living at Child Crisis Arizona. There were lots of kids to play with.
“It’s like a pajama party every night,” she told visitors.
It was so much better than sleeping in the van, where it was cold, and her mom snored.
She did a headstand on her pillow, balancing her feet on a purple wall. On the opposite wall, in white painted script, were the words: “We are defined by the choices we make. Choose wisely every day.”
Aliyah had adjusted well to the rules and routines, the regular times for meals, showers and bedtime.
She pulled drawing paper out of her pink Barbie backpack and tugged off her pink-and-white striped socks. They were too hot.
She drew a face and then circled it with hearts. She felt safe there.
Her mom, Laurell Florence, did not feel as safe, but she didn’t tell Aliyah. The little girl would worry.
After a stretch of bad luck, Laurell finally found an apartment, a two-bedroom in Phoenix, a nice place to raise Pooh, her nickname for Aliyah.
She paid $80 for a background check and $150 for the application. They would move in on Dec. 31, but only after the inspector from the federal housing program signed off on it.
Laurell worried if the apartment wasn’t inspected in time, she’d lose it, along with her money.
With some help, she found the $811 for the deposit. She received $300 in housing assistance from Central Arizona Shelter Services in Phoenix. Torrie Taj, executive director of Child Crisis Arizona, gave her $300.
On Dec. 30, Laurell turned 43 with no celebration. By the next day, there had been no inspection.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Laurell said.
A month passed before the inspection was completed. The new move-in date was Jan. 22, 2016.
But in that month, Laurell bought food and gas. She was short $50 for the deposit.
She felt defeated — case manager Nancy DeMoss could hear it in her voice. She was on the phone with Laurell, sympathetic but firm.
DeMoss reminded Laurell that if she gave up, she would have to start over.
“You can do this, Laurell,” DeMoss told her. “We’re willing to help you, but you have to do your part, too, honey.”
She could hear Laurell gulp at the air. Just breathe, DeMoss told her. In and out.
Laurell caught her breath. “No one has ever believed in me before.”
Laurell found the money. She helped unload a truck and made $60.
She arrived at the shelter in her blue van to pick up Aliyah. The keys to the new apartment already dangled on a key chain.
Aliyah said goodbye to the other kids. The staff gave her an art kit and a Littlest Pet Shop playset.
“I hope you get to have fun with your mom,” one boy told Aliyah.
“I hope you succeed in life, get a scholarship and go to college and become really rich,” another boy said.
Laurell hugged Aliyah. “I’m so happy,” she said, her voice catching. “Don’t cry,” Aliyah said.
Each time Laurell left the center, she was in tears. This time was different.
“They’re tears of joy, not tears of anger, not tears of despair,” she said.
Case managers helped load donated household items into the van. Aliyah was inside, her seat belt buckled.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can’t say it enough,” Laurell said. “You guys are lifesavers. You didn’t judge me. You only wanted what was best for me and my daughter.
“I made a good choice coming here.” At the apartment complex, Laurell and Aliyah climbed three flights of stairs, black trash bags slung over their shoulders. Laurell pointed out the playground and swimming pool.
She unlocked the door, and Aliyah ran from room to room. She found her bedroom, the smaller of two, and pointed down the hall to the master bedroom.
“Mommy, that’s your room!” She dragged a mattress wrapped in clear plastic into her bedroom.
The two beds with box springs and mattresses were donated by the shelter. The social worker at Aliyah’s school collected household items and clothes.
The apartment was mostly empty. It would feel more like home when Laurell unpacked and hung pictures.
Aliyah put her bed together and was dragging Laurell’s mattress down the hallway.
“You want me to help you?” Laurell asked.
“No,” Aliyah called back.
“I like that,” Laurell said. “That’s called ‘independent.’ ”
She had promised to make spaghetti for dinner. Aliyah hugged her from behind.
“We’re home, baby,” Laurell said.
“We’re home.”
But not for long.
Laurell told Aliyah to pack a bag. Aliyah’s face fell. “Why?” she asked.
Laurell met someone. A nice man, she told Aliyah. She’ll like him. They’ll stay with him tonight.
“I want to stay home,” Aliyah said. Laurell ignored her.
February 2016
A month later, it all fell apart. Laurell was running a temperature of 102 degrees. Aliyah was coughing hard.
Laurell drove them to a nearby urgent care. Aliyah didn’t want to go in. She fought Laurell, kicking and screaming. Laurell dragged Aliyah through the door.
“If this was a skyscraper,” Laurell told the staff, “I’d jump out of the window.”
She didn’t mean it. It was her sense of humor. But the staff took her seriously. A nurse called police.
Laurell said the officer asked if she was under the influence of drugs. Was this some kind of joke? she thought.
What did the officer mean, saying Aliyah wasn’t safe with her? She told him to call DeMoss at Child Crisis Arizona. DeMoss would vouch for her.
A short time later, a state child welfare worker arrived and took Aliyah.
Laurell went back to their apartment alone.
“They took my baby,” Laurell sobbed two weeks later. “They took my baby for no reason.”
A caseworker had been to the apartment. Laurell could see her daughter twice a week, on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, at a library near Aliyah’s foster home in Tolleson.
It was a 45-minute drive at the start of rush hour. Sometimes Laurell was late. Sometimes she didn’t have enough gas money.
Before Aliyah could come home, Laurell had to complete a parenting class. She also had to take random drug tests. Her first one came back negative. How many more hoops would she have to jump through?
Laurell finished unpacking, hanging Aliyah’s clothes in her closet. She wondered if they would fit still when she returned. Kids grow that fast.
On a visit in March, Laurell braided her daughter’s hair and said quietly in her ear: “You’ll be home soon.”
In her mind, she could hear DeMoss reminding her not to make too many promises.