Kitabı oku: «Angels in Our Hearts»

Helpless

‘Course, I seen it all, love,’ Bob, my police escort, says as we drive through the cold November night towards the hospital. ‘Twisted car wrecks, stab victims, the lot, but I couldn’t do what you do, not for twice my police pension.’

Smiling, I re-check the contents of the hurriedly packed nappy bag on my lap, mentally running through the items I might need to get through the next twenty-four hours. Bob’s reaction isn’t surprising. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the prospect of being permanently on duty? When I’m fostering, every second of my existence is dominated by the needs of the damaged child, but I don’t mind. Like many foster carers, I’m driven by a powerful need to ease their pain.

I remember myself as a child, walking by our local newsagents on the way to school. Outside the shop stood a little wooden figure of a beggar boy with polio, both legs fixed in metal callipers and a forlorn expression painted on his face. He held up a sign saying ‘Please give’ and there was a slot in the top of his head for pennies. Undeterred by the bird droppings across his shoulders, I would give him a quick hug, longing to take him home and make him better.

My pulse quickens as we pass over a deserted bridge lined with old-fashioned street-lamps. After seven years of fostering I still feel an intense excitement when taking on a new child. It’s only been a few days since my last placement ended and already I’m itching to fill the void.

As we drive past the riverside council blocks I’m reminded of one of my previous charges – three-year-old Connor, a boy who spent a large part of his day roaming the second floor of the grim building with his overfull nappy hanging at his knees while his mother familiarised herself with a string of violent, resentful partners. How fragile their lives are, I think, when nothing is certain and the events of one day can turn everything familiar upside down.

Soon we turn into a main road and the functional, rectangular building of the city hospital looms into view. Bob pulls the police car into the large parking area outside the maternity wing and I reach for the infant seat with trembling fingers, gripped by a sudden fear that I’m too out of practice to care for such a young baby.

Coming in from the knife-like wind, the warmth of the maternity unit engulfs me like a blanket. Another police officer stands guard outside the delivery suite and the sight causes my stomach to flip. What if the birth family find out where I live? Am I putting my own children at risk?

Bob seems to sense my apprehension, gently cupping my elbow and leading the way to reception. I show the midwife, a young but harassed-looking woman, my ID card. ‘I’ll call Sister for you,’ she says, checking her bleeper and hurrying off down the equipment-lined corridor.

My stomach churns as I pace the stark white corridors like an expectant father from another era, back in the days when convention kept men out of the delivery suite. A faint cry and the rhythmic thud of sensible shoes signals another breathless charge of adrenaline. Craning my neck, I catch a glimpse of Sister as she rounds the corner, a small, ruffled blanket in her arms. The weak cry gradually increases in volume until it sounds like an ailing but furious kitten. I suddenly feel light-headed and realise that I’m holding my breath.

‘Hello, dear,’ the middle-aged woman says, raising her voice to compete with the mewing. She lifts her glasses and squints at the ID badge hanging around my neck. ‘I’m told you’re a specialist carer?’

I nod, biting my lower lip. When I took the call at midnight from my fostering agency there was no mention of the need for specialised care. My pulse rises again, wondering what could be wrong – HIV? Hepatitis? I know from experience that foster carers are sometimes the last to find out such vital information.

Sister leans in conspiratorially. ‘We’d generally hang onto the poor mite for a bit longer but, well, you’ve probably been told, the family are making all sorts of threats.’

I nod again. Foster carers are often required to liaise with intimidating and hostile parents but tight budgets don’t usually stretch to the luxury of police escorts.

‘I suspect little Sarah has the tail end of something nasty in her system. We’re not entirely sure what Mum was on, though she claims to be teetotal.’

Don’t they all? I marvel, my heart sinking like a lift with a snapped cable. If she is withdrawing there’ll be a tough time ahead. For a split-second I wonder at my choice of career, until I feel her warm weight in the crook of my left arm. I’m taken aback by how light she feels, as if there’s nothing wrapped in the blanket but air.

Momentarily disorientated by the move, the baby stops shrieking and blinks around in surprise. The skin on her face is wrinkled and reddish. Milky eyes return my stare, narrowed pupils betraying the harsh substances running through her veins. Her expression is filled with a puzzlement that says, ‘Am I safe with you?’

Without warning she winces and her eyes screw up, the crescent of lashes disappearing with a wail of desperation. Her chin trembles, tiny fingers balling into tight fists. I begin to sway, aware of a grinding ache in my solar plexus; a longing to soothe the pain from her brow.

Slipping my right forefinger into her clammy palm I make shushing noises. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ I whisper, my heart lurching.

‘Has she been given any methadone?’ I ask, without taking my gaze away from her tiny face.

Sister shakes her head. ‘We’d need to keep her in the special care unit for that and the paediatrician thinks she may just get away with it,’ she squeezes my arm, ‘with a lot of TLC.’

Twenty minutes later I unwind the hospital blanket and dress her in a thick all-in-one coat. Without the stiff swaddling she feels almost weightless, like a terrifyingly vulnerable life-like doll. Her limbs flop in my hands like cooked noodles and I have to take a few deep breaths to calm myself as I set the baby car seat on the floor and secure the straps around her; they seem far too harsh and unforgiving against someone so small and precious. She slumps over, still screeching piteously and I picture her curled up in her mother’s womb, where, even there, she wasn’t safe.

An icy wind hits me as I leave the warm building. I make soothing noises as I secure Sarah’s baby seat in the rear of the squad car but it doesn’t help – she howls constantly and with rising desperation. The sound sets off a siren in my mind flashing the message, ‘DO SOMETHING!’ By the time we pull into our quiet suburban street I’m frantic to get her out and hold her to me – anything to stop the crying.

After thanking Bob, I scramble up the path, surprised to find the front door yanked open in a fever of excitement and anticipation as my children, Emily and Jamie, rush to catch a first glimpse of their new housemate.

My mother hovers behind, as eager as they are to meet her new temporary foster granddaughter. She is one of my registered ‘back-up carers’ and only lives a few minutes away by car, a godsend on nights like this when I have to leave the house without much notice.

‘Ah, look, she’s so tiny!’ My sixteen-year-old daughter lifts Sarah from her seat like a seasoned professional, gently moving the screaming baby to a position over her shoulder and performing an instinctive little dance. Sarah’s cries weaken as her tummy is cradled against her foster sister’s warmth.

Half an hour later, Emily and Jamie reluctantly head off back to bed, Sarah still bawling as my mother cradles her in her lap. ‘Put a drop of brandy in her bottle, that’ll settle her,’ she suggests.

‘I can’t do that, Mum!’ She has no idea of the fall-out if social services even heard those words pass her lips.

‘Don’t look like that,’ she says defensively. ‘I’m only joking. Not that it ever did you lot any harm.’

Rolling my eyes, I swoop the baby up and try to tempt her with a dummy, knowing that sucking will help to ease her stomach cramps. Her lips are as tiny as two petals and surrounded by small blisters, the damage from her harsh screams. Fear grips my insides; what if she refuses to ever stop crying? Her voice is already hoarse. Mum warms one of the glass bottles of milk from the hospital, passing it to me.

‘You haven’t slipped any tea in there, have you?’

‘Course not, but you used to love a drop of tea,’ she says over the din. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it.’

Scoffing, I offer Sarah the milk, grateful for the reprieve as she guzzles hungrily. Mum leans over to watch and we exchange smiles at the cute little swallowing noises she makes.

After taking almost an ounce she falls into an exhausted sleep in my arms, her mouth still attached to the teat. I thank Mum then carefully creep up the stairs, terrified that her eyes will pop open the second I lay her in the hastily constructed crib beside my bed. She whimpers when I withdraw my arms, pulling her legs up to her chest. Even while sleeping, she is clearly in pain.

Switching off the light, I step out of my clothes and leave them in a discarded heap on the floor. Reaching blindly down to the crib, I pop Sarah’s dummy back in for the umpteenth time and slip quietly under my duvet. It has been a long night and, although tired, I feel a profound sense of fulfilment. Before fostering I didn’t quite understand where I belonged. Listening to Sarah’s gentle whimpers as she snoozes in the crib beside me lifts my heart. It is a matchless sensation, reminding me that I’ve found the job that fits me best. Despite the frustrations, interrupted sleeps and endless paperwork, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Twelve minutes later Sarah is screaming again, a piercing high-pitched wail that signals intense pain, not hunger. I lift her from her crib and notice tiny beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Her lower lip trembles and her limbs flail wildly as I cradle her in my arms and hold her close.

Re-adjusting my pillows against the headboard I lean back, cuddling her against my chest. It’s a position my own children relaxed in when they were newborns but Sarah remains so agitated that I have to get up, walk around the bedroom and bob her gently up and down. Her harsh cries subside into little sobs and I begin to fear that her birth mother’s drug of choice may have been crack. It would explain the rigidity in her muscles, the pain etched onto her tiny features.

The rest of the night passes in a blur as I continuously walk the length of my bedroom, trying to console her. As winter sunlight creeps into the room she finally settles and I ease her into her crib, dummy in position and tightly swaddled. Padding to the kitchen, I reach for the coffee jar like a drowning woman to a dinghy. I’m grateful when my mother offers to feed Sarah if she wakes, allowing me the time to write up my daily record sheet and prepare bottles for the next twenty-four hours. It feels surreal to be sterilising feeding equipment again.

My whole body aches with tension as I wave Emily and Jamie off to school a couple of hours later. Tiredness makes me feel like I’m wading through petroleum jelly and by mid-morning, as my mother gathers her bags, I feel a moment’s panic at being left alone with Sarah.

Mum brushes a kiss on my cheek. ‘Talk later. I hope she settles for you.’

I’m tempted to grip her arm and plead with her to stay but I remind myself that I’m nearly forty, not a teenaged first-time mum. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ I say, smiling with a confidence I don’t feel.

We spend the rest of the morning walking from the front door to the kitchen and then back again, interrupted only by regular pit-stops at the kettle to warm her bottles. She seems to drink more if she sucks while we stroll; I think the movement distracts her from the painful cramps in her stomach. By 1 p.m. nausea sets in and I realise that I haven’t eaten for hours. Lunch is a few hurried handfuls of nuts and a clumsily buttered piece of bread, eaten as we complete yet another circuit of the kitchen.

Emily willingly takes the baton and makes laps of the house when she gets in from school so that I can toss a quick stir-fry together.

‘It won’t be like this for ever,’ I reassure Emily and Jamie as they eat. ‘In a few weeks she’ll be rolling around the carpet and cooing at us.’

‘We know Mum, don’t worry.’

With fostering, there are times when my attention is stretched a little too thinly and, I muse with a twinge of guilt, we have experienced a number of difficult placements over the years. Kissing their heads, I remind myself that there are lots of positives for birth children in fostering families and at least I’m around for them at the end of the school day.

Before her last bottle I attempt a shower. Securing Sarah in her bouncy chair, I flick the switch to vibrate and carry her to the bathroom. She immediately objects, traumatised by the separation. In record speed I remove my clothes and jump into the steamy hot jets, her howls already at fever pitch. Within seconds her face is purple and she’s reached the holding breath stage so I stumble out and wriggle into my dressing gown even though I’m still soaking wet.

We both sigh with relief when she’s back in my arms, her ear pressed against my heart. With pyjamas damp and twisted, I climb into bed, Sarah’s tiny ribs vibrating against mine as her sobs subside. The arm she is resting on falls asleep but she is so peaceful that I dare not move to get the blood flowing. Barely twenty minutes later she starts to howl again, the muscles in her tiny body trembling violently.

By 3 a.m. I shiver with exhaustion as I offer her a third bottle in as many hours. She only seems able to take half an ounce or so at a time, her stomach making sounds like mini-explosions as she feeds. Sinking my head back, I close my eyes and pray for some reprieve, only to be woken minutes later by an inordinate volume of milk soaking my chest. How she manages to bring so much up I’ll never fathom, with her taking so little in.

Back on my feet, I pace the room but this time even movement won’t soothe her. Her piercing shrieks addle my brain and I start to panic, until it occurs to me to sing.

My voice croaky from tiredness, I stand at the window with Sarah in my arms and sing ‘Hush, Little Baby’. I didn’t even realise I knew all the words. Serenading the empty moonlit street, I wonder if I’m the only person awake in the whole of the north of England. My head thuds with exhaustion and I sing with my eyes half-open, just enough to make out her shape through my eyelashes. I’m surprised to find her watching me with a little frown, as if she’s trying to make sense of every tuneless word.

As she clenches a tight hold of my finger and locks eyes with mine, I’m filled with renewed confidence that we’ll both get through this ordeal just fine.

When I wake at 5:30 a.m. the low thud in my head has become a throbbing pain, my crusty eyes aching. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and quickly look away, deciding my time will be far better spent trying to make the house look neater than attempting the mammoth task of tidying myself up. Desmond, my supervising social worker, and Sue, Sarah’s own social worker, are visiting this morning for the placement planning meeting and I want to appear as if I’m in full control. After waving my own children off to school I scan the living room, hardly knowing where to start. I’d forgotten how someone so little can cause such an inordinate amount of chaos.

Tucking her nappies and wipes in the magazine rack, my back strains with the effort of cleaning with Sarah attached to my chest. I decide to give up and let them take me as they find me. I’ll be no use to anyone if my back goes. An hour later, as I make one final effort by sweeping the detritus of the morning into the cupboard under the stairs, the doorbell rings.

‘Hi, Desmond,’ I say, genuinely pleased to see him. Desmond has been my link worker from the fostering agency ever since I registered, and we quickly established a rapport. Only a few years older than me and with a Scottish lilt to his voice, I feel comfortable in his company and able to speak to him with complete frankness, something I fear I will be unable to do in the presence of the social worker who follows him in.

I have never met Sue before – a tall, formidable-looking woman in her fifties with short, permed black hair. As I welcome them into the living room, Sue fills the space with the scent of her musty perfume. ‘Can she breathe in that thing?’ she asks, arching her pencilled-in eyebrows at the harness.

She reminds me of my old religious studies teacher, her disapproving voice strained after years of being hugely irritated by unruly children.

‘Of course, she’s comforted by the closeness and …’ I answer falteringly before trailing off. Sue has sat herself down and is removing a diary from her large canvas bag, not even listening. Desmond raises his eyebrows.

‘Well, I can’t stay long.’ Sue thrusts a copy of the placement agreement towards me and I smile weakly, tiredness minimising my ability for small talk. ‘Check through and sign the last page. I need to get back to the office before lunch.’

Within ten minutes and without even asking how the baby is doing, Sue informs me that I must take Sarah for contact with her birth mother in the morning. Then, with a withering expression, she says goodbye.

The next morning I wake to a leaden, cold sky. It rains hard and steady from 5 a.m. and continues incessantly as I drive along unfamiliar country roads and through the black wrought iron gates of the psychiatric hospital. Stumbling through the sodden lawns with Sarah sleeping in the car seat lodged in the crook of my arm, my socks wringing wet and clinging to me, I feel a stab of irritation towards Sue, Sarah’s social worker.

During her whirlwind visit she neglected to mention that Sarah’s birth mother had been detained under a section of the Mental Health Act 1983 after attacking one of the midwives with her dinner fork. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I stagger across the sprawling grounds towards the hospital, wondering whether the car-seat manufacturer enjoys a practical joke with its customers by putting rocks in the base of their products. Bare trees cast skeletal shadows across the grounds and rolls of barbed wire atop the high boundary walls are a reminder that the hospital building, a large old country house with ivy-covered red brick, is not the setting for an episode of Downton Abbey.

A strong smell of antiseptic hits my nostrils as I enter the cavernous lobby. The receptionist checks my ID and directs me towards the quiet room where I am to meet Sue. A nurse, bespectacled, with a touch of rosacea on her cheeks, gives me a sidelong glance. ‘Can I help?’ she asks in a slightly suspicious tone, probably wondering why on earth I’d bring a baby to a place like this.

Sue suddenly appears in the corridor, flanked by another member of staff. ‘This way,’ she trills. The attendant, a stout, short woman with cropped hair, leads the way down another bleak corridor, this one separated by several iron doors. Reaching for the large bunch of keys hanging from her waist band, she turns to us. ‘Stay near the door so you’ve got a quick exit if you need one,’ she mouths, ushering us into a side room.

Alarmed, I stare wide-eyed at Sue but she waves her hand. ‘It’s alright, I’ll be right beside you.’ Suddenly I find her redoubtable presence hugely reassuring and wonder if I’d be just as forbidding after twenty years doing her job.

The room is small and at the far end an overweight young woman lies face down on a bed. Barely out of her teenage years, she lifts her head slowly as we enter the room, such a delayed reaction that I wonder if she is heavily sedated.

‘Morning, Sam,’ Sue says, briskly. ‘You’ve only got half an hour’s contact so come along, sit yourself up.’

Obediently, Sam rises, her flimsy T-shirt riding up. Deep scarlet stretch marks and sagging skin remind me how recently she gave birth. The young woman glances towards me through a curtain of dark, lank hair with heavy, swollen eyes. She meets my gaze and I smile but she doesn’t respond, looking quickly away. From outside I can hear the constant murmur of voices, the occasional sound of running feet. My palms begin to sweat.

‘Hello, Sam.’ Smiling nervously, I release the baby from her papoose. Sarah immediately objects, drawing her legs to her stomach and yowling. Wary of making any unexpected moves, I glance towards Sue for direction.

‘Yes, go on, hand her over,’ she says in a tone that tells me she is accustomed to being obeyed.

Gently, I lay Sarah in her mother’s waiting arms. A dank, unwashed smell rises from Sam’s body and I feel a moment’s revulsion. Sarah screams and her mother takes this as a signal of hunger, lifting her T-shirt and releasing one of her pendulous breasts. With armpits raised the smell intensifies and I take a few steps back, forcing myself to focus on an unpleasant-looking stain in the middle of the carpet.

Oblivious to my embarrassment, Sam ‘encourages’ Sarah to latch on by slapping her over the face with an engorged nipple. Sarah tries to wriggle away from the mammary onslaught, throwing her head wildly from side to side. She yowls piteously, her skin the colour of beetroot.

Sue remains near the doorway, her expression watchful. Sam groans at her baby’s refusal to co-operate and I can sense her growing impatience. A vein throbs in my temple as maternal protectiveness roars up in me but I set my jaw and force myself to ignore it. It’s easy to forget that I have no rights to this baby. My eyes flick between Sue and Sarah, feeling utterly helpless. The social worker appears too engrossed to perform a rescue, scribbling away in her notebook.

‘I have a bottle in my bag if you’d prefer …’ I offer in a quiet voice.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Sam releases her grip and Sarah’s tiny head, downed with a thatch of hair the same colour as her mother’s, lolls back awkwardly. ‘Why won’t she shut up?’ She looks up at me accusingly. ‘’ere, take her.’

Biting down a sudden spasm of contempt, I take the sobbing baby into my arms and rock to console her. Her sleep suit is damp with perspiration. Had Sam shown some concern for her child, some remorse, I might have felt more empathy. Did she not realise the suffering her addiction had caused?

‘Contact suspended for today,’ Sue announces, snapping her notebook shut.

Sam stares rigidly ahead as I back towards the door, her face expressionless.

It’s funny how quickly our family adjusts to the needs of new arrivals, how normal it all becomes. When Sarah has been with us for almost four weeks, I pick her up from her cot and realise that the wail that was so nauseating in its pitch during her first fortnight has already toned down to an ordinary cry.

Encouraged, once the children leave for school I crank the heating up, then run the bath. Affronted by being undressed, Sarah shrieks, her features crumpling with rage but as I lower her into the warm water, her muscles instantly loosen. Her feet, usually arched in pain, flex and begin to wriggle in the solace of the water. Her legs fall open at the knees and tiny hands stretch to form a starfish.

Wrapped in a towel I take her back downstairs and lay her on the fluffy rug in front of the fire, amazed that she is still lying contentedly despite not being attached to my chest. Rubbing my hands together to warm them, I roll her onto her tummy and her head rests to the side. Confusion crosses her features and she opens her tiny mouth to protest but as I massage the soft skin on her back with gentle fingers she relaxes, expelling a tiny breath of air.

Witnessing Sarah as she blossoms fills me with a sense of achievement, reminding me of the joy I felt a few weeks into my first placement, eight years earlier. I was daunted when the three young siblings arrived. As they sobbed in their beds I buried my face in my hands, almost as bewildered as they were. A few weeks later I realised that trusty old-fashioned love, routine and discipline is often all the expertise that is needed to see a transformation.

When she’s dressed and back in her blanket I drop her next feed into a jug of hot water and hold her in my arms at the garden door while we wait for the milk to warm. Her eyes flicker to our horse-chestnut tree, the bare branches swaying in the winter breeze. ‘When summer arrives we’ll be out there on the grass, warming our feet in the sun,’ I tell her as I brush a kiss on her soft cheek and inhale her sweet, infant scent. Rocked by a sudden feeling of déjà vu, I realise she smells the same as my own babies did.

Her hand rises up out of the blanket and searches the air, coming to rest inside the collar of my cardigan. She clenches it and I coo at her, tilting her up to kiss her cheek. With parted lips, her eyes narrow and she bestows a fleeting, crooked smile. A sudden rush of love besieges me. No, don’t let yourself, I silently counsel.

By the end of our fifth week together, when Emily and Jamie leave the house I light the coal fire to bring a bit of cheer into the living room and turn the radio to Smooth FM. Sarah turns her head and watches as the flames sputter into life, her legs scissoring jauntily in response to the music. I’m thrilled. Clearly the drugs in her system haven’t adversely affected her hearing.