Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 33 Of 41

ACT V. JENNIFER: THE VISIT

Six white garbage bags and three shopping bags filled with toys, dolls and
other trinkets sit on Jennifer's floor, lined up against the couch.

Some of the contents are old items -- diaries and photo albums -- that
Jennifer has been keeping for two years, waiting for the chance to return
them to her girls. The rest are presents that she's bought during shopping
sprees over the past several months.

Jennifer sits cross-legged on the floor, packing and unpacking the bags and
going over the inventory: lip gloss and pocket-books, crayons and a framed
psalm from the Bible.

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord," the verse says.

Her oldest daughter once recited those words in church.

Today, after two years of anguish while fighting the court system, Jennifer
will get to see her girls again - for an hour, under social worker
supervision at a Virginia Beach Methodist church.

If the visit goes well, Jennifer could see them every month and on special
occasions, such as when her baby is born.

After an appeals court denied Jennifer's petition to regain her parental
rights, she started asking the social workers to let her visit the girls.
She realized that until they are 18, this would be the only way to see them.

A few weeks ago, the social worker handling Jennifer's case started to relent.

"What are your expectations of this visit?" she asked.

"To let them know that I'm OK and I'm clean," Jennifer said, "and anytime
they want to come home, they can."

The social worker agreed to the visits as long as they didn't become too
difficult for the children. She told Jennifer that she must play a
"grandmother role" in their lives, and she said Jennifer couldn't cry in
front of the girls. The last condition irked Jennifer - an emotional soul
by nature - but she agreed.

Now Jennifer sits quietly in her living room, waiting for the social worker
to pick her up. She looks at her latest ultrasound, which she plans to show
the girls so they can meet their unborn sister, to be named Benesha.

Finally, the social worker arrives and they load the bags in the trunk and
the back seat. Jennifer sits silently in the car as they drive off.

They arrive at the church about 4 p.m. on a warm, sunny day. The girls
aren't there yet, so Jennifer waits in a lounge area decorated with a
couch, a recliner and a table. A little after the appointed time, a truck
driven by the foster mom pulls into the church parking lot.

The older daughter walks into the church first, wearing the necklace and
bracelet that Jennifer sent for her last birthday. She is now nearly as
tall as her mother. They even wear the same shoe size.

"You got big," Jennifer says.

Her daughter notices Jennifer's tongue ring and, in a voice changing with
puberty, asks whether it hurt.

A few moments later, her younger daughter rushes into the church, calling
out, "Mommy, Mommy!" Jennifer hugs her, then she sits down on the couch,
putting a girl on either side.

The girls open their gifts while Jennifer takes pictures with a Polaroid
camera. They talk about the inane and the serious. The girls touch
Jennifer's stomach and look at the ultrasound. And Jennifer does what a
mother is supposed to do - she tells the girls to stop biting their
fingernails.

Some of the moments are awkward. When one of the girls asks, "Why can't I
come home with you?" Jennifer struggles to respond, not really giving an
answer. The girls don't press the question.

One day, she would like to tell her daughters about drugs - warn them about
the allures and dangers. One day, she would like to explain how crack made
her a different person, and how it kept her from giving them a proper home.
But right now, she doesn't have an answer.

"When I turn 18, can I come live with you?" the oldest asks.

"The day you turn 18, I'll be there at 11:59, waiting for you," Jennifer says.

"Can I come, too, Mommy?" the youngest asks.

"You're not old enough, honey," Jennifer says. "We're not going to forget
about you."

Through it all, Jennifer does not cry. Eventually, though, she has to step
out to the car to gather her emotions. The oldest comes up, forcing
Jennifer to turn her head.

"What's wrong?" the daughter asks.

"Nothing," Jennifer says. "I think I'm getting a cold."

The hour melts away, and it's time to leave. Jennifer and the social worker
depart first.

As they drive past the church, Jennifer looks back and waves. The girls are
blowing kisses from the door.

In many ways, the visit is agonizing for Jennifer. Later that day, she
seizes mostly on complaints that the girls made about their foster mom, and
she directs much of her frustration at the system she's been fighting
practically since her daughters were born.

"In a way, I wish I hadn't seen them because I feel so much anger toward
these people," she says later. But when the anger fades, her memory of the
time she spent with the girls becomes precious.

"It is a good day," she says. "I can't wait to see them again. I can't wait
for these four weeks to be up."