After a Slip, Parents Find Renewed Focus
Rebounding from a Return to Drugs, Couple Fights for 'Little Angel'

By Mary Otto
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, December 21, 2006

In the fourth in a series, staff writer Mary Otto recounts one couple's journey through the Family Recovery Program, an experimental Maryland court attempting to help drug addicts get clean, then get their children back from state custody. The story reflects scenes the reporter witnessed or, when noted, were recalled to her. In the previous segment, Stacy Coleman wanted to forfeit her parental rights; Keith Cromwell was furious.

February-April 2006

On the first Friday of February, Keith Cromwell leaves the courthouse and finds Stacy Coleman waiting for him.

She hasn't been going to court. She has abandoned recovery and gone back to their old life, to the drug habit that cost them their daughter, now 7 months old and living in foster care in the Baltimore suburbs.

Coleman starts to walk with Cromwell, and he desperately feels himself also slipping back. And then, as if in some kind of nightmare, they use drugs again.

Afterward, he recalls telling her: "Stacy, we cannot lose this child. We can't let the state take our child because we are using drugs. We've got to let the drugs go."

He is anguished by his lapse. And it does not go unnoticed in the courtroom the following Friday.

"You tested positive on Feb. 3," Judge Martin P. Welch tells him.

"All my nevers came through," Cromwell says, almost weeping. He says he used drugs to try to reach his girlfriend, to bring her back.

"I tried to help her," Cromwell says. "I didn't get in this by myself. I wasn't planning on having a child. She came into my life. This happened. There is no excuse for what I've done. I took a chance. I cared too much. I went through that to save her."

"You may have to get out of this without Stacy," the judge tells him, sternly. "We are going to look at some more treatment options for you. Are you ready for that?"

"No," Cromwell says. "I made a mistake."

"Is this about you?"

"This is about us," Cromwell says. "I didn't have a child by myself."

"Is this about you or Stacy or Keyona?"

"It's about all of us."

"I'd like to think it's more about you and Keyona."

Cromwell refuses to concede the point. "A child deserves a mother and a father."

"Are you going to deprive Keyona of both?" the judge asks. "You have to step up to the plate, because Stacy has not."

Late in the hearing, Coleman arrives. She is wild-eyed, her face appearing heavy and swollen. She nervously picks at a sore on her lip.

"Come on up," the judge says, rising from the bench. "What made you come today?"

"I'm ready to go to treatment," she blurts out.

The judge reacts cautiously.

"You guys have got to figure this out," Welch says. "You may be poison for each other. It's not about just losing your child. It's about losing your life."

Coleman is sent to Chrysalis House, a program in an airy, rambling house in rural Crownsville, where she joins other recovering women, sharing cooking and housekeeping duties and learning how to care for children. Cromwell is at Recovery Network in a big old house in Baltimore he shares with about 16 other men.

When Coleman gets permission to visit Cromwell, they take a walk along the Inner Harbor. Cromwell asks her to marry him and gives her a heart-shaped ring. They return to treatment and focus on sobriety, and on Keyona.

A day comes in April when Cromwell rides two buses across town, and his daughter is waiting.

The 9-month-old girl is in the drab lobby of the social services building, buckled into a car seat and swaddled in a teddy bear blanket that says "Hug Me."

Cromwell falls to his knees.

"Hey, honey," he coos. "Did you miss me?"

She fastens her gaze on her father with her large, steady eyes.

Cromwell unbuckles her from the car seat, and she settles into the crook of his arm.

He offers her a bottle of formula, sent by the foster mother. Then he changes her diaper with the skill of a man who helped raise several younger siblings in Baltimore public housing. He plays and cuddles with Keyona, and suddenly, the hour is up.

Reluctantly, Cromwell wraps the baby back into her blanket and buckles her back into her car seat.

"I love you," he tells her. "See you next time."

Two weeks pass. Coleman arrives at the courthouse. She is marking 60 days of sobriety, and she is dressed in a flowing, silky frock. In her arms is Keyona, wearing a green and white dress. They settle into the bench next to Cromwell, looking like a family.

"Look at the pretty outfit, Daddy," Coleman whispers. "You are getting ready to walk, ain't you?" she croons. "Keyona, Keyona."

Cromwell takes the baby and kisses her. Takes a deep breath. Puts his arm around Coleman's shoulder.

Welch beams.

"That must be Keyona," he says.

"My little angel," Cromwell replies.

"That's who you are working for," Welch says. "You light up the room with your presence and your smile. You are walking on air. All I can say about you is that you are doing stellar."

"I just want to thank God I woke up to see another day," Cromwell says.

"Amen to that," Welch says.