‘Like I said, we’re still sifting through the information but we need to make sure that nothing like this happens again.’
‘How do you suggest I do that – handcuff her to the bed?’ Admittedly it wasn’t the subtlest of replies but I was in no mood for diplomacy.
‘There’s no need to take that attitude.’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that but I’m afraid there’s no way I can guarantee her safety, Lenke. Her problems are too severe. As it is I can’t take my eyes off her in the day, not for a minute. How am I supposed to keep her safe during the night – lock her in a padded room? And don’t you think it’s time to bring CAMHS in now? Something has to be very wrong for her to feel the need …’
Lenke interrupted me. ‘Phoebe is already under the consultant for the autism.’
I gripped a handful of hair and pulled it back from my forehead as I listened to her, pacing the patio with impatience. ‘Self-injury is common in sufferers and the hospital have no concerns about her home life. I’ve discussed this with Mr Steadman and he said that her symptoms were bound to be more troublesome during times of change or stress. He says that is all the more reason for the foster carer to be extra vigilant.’
Sighing, I stopped mid-pace and leaned my head against the glass, shielding sunlight from my eyes to get a clear view of the living room: the beanbag was empty. With a sinking feeling, I yanked the door open in one swift motion, hurrying from room to room.
‘So anyway, since we’ve discussed Phoebe on the phone, I’ll log this call as one of my visits, yes?’
‘Fine, yes,’ I agreed quickly, saying a hurried goodbye before I realised what she was actually asking. Where on earth was Phoebe? Charging up the stairs, I finally found her standing stock-still in the middle of her room, a guilty grin spread across her face.
‘What have you been doing up here, Phoebe?’
‘What have you been doing up here, Phoebe?’
I sighed, not realising that in less than 10 minutes I would find out why she was looking shamefaced.
Even in the context of the last, difficult week, when I went downstairs and opened the post the kicking, smearing, mimicking, even the self-harming, paled into insignificance next to the contents of one of the letters. The envelope was hand-written and so, as I knew it was unlikely to be a bill or circular, it drew my attention immediately.
I tore it open, immediately registering the signatures at the bottom of the page: Will and Carolyn x.
It was Tess and Harry’s new parents, who had recently adopted the two toddlers I had fostered. A slow nausea rose in my throat as the words, ‘very sorry’, ‘clean break’ and, ‘really feel it’s for the best’ jumped out at me. Confused, I scanned the letter over and over again, trying to take in its contents. Slowly the message surfaced – they had come to the ‘difficult’ decision that it was best not to allow me to stay in touch with the children.
Will and Carolyn had been advised not to cut ties with me when they adopted the siblings since children can suffer lifelong depression if early attachments are severed. Scrutinising the letter again, I began to absorb their apologetic reasoning. It seemed Tess and Harry had spent their first few weeks searching for me – in cupboards, behind doors – unable to take in their loss. Now, five weeks later, they finally seemed to accept their circumstances and their new parents were concerned that seeing me would set them back and start their grieving process all over again.
Sinking into the sofa, I gripped the letter in my hand and held it to my chest. It was horrible to think that the children I had cherished for nearly three years had been searching for me. A wire of guilt passed through me at the thought of them feeling so abandoned. In turmoil, I tried to absorb the prospect of never seeing the siblings again.
Sensing someone near, I looked up and noticed Phoebe hovering in the doorway. She was staring at me strangely and I assumed she was confused by the look on my face. Slowly, she drifted into the room and sat beside me on the sofa, close enough for me to feel the warmth from her thin body. Was she seeking comfort after the tribulations of this morning or had she somehow intuited my despairing mood? Whatever the reason, I was touched and grateful for her gentleness. Instinctively I responded, wrapping my arm around her shoulder.
It was then that she slipped her hand into my own, tilting her face up to smile at me. The grotesqueness of her twisted features hit me first, before I registered the slippery feel of her palms against my own and the dank, acrid smell rising from my lap.
Phoebe had soiled in her own hand, catching me completely unawares.
By dinnertime my nerves were so shredded that when Phoebe made a grab for Jamie’s fork I felt my hackles rise. ‘Put that down,’ I snapped. ‘You only need a spoon for porridge.’
‘Fuck off!’ she spat.
I raised my finger and, waggling it in front of her face, I burst out: ‘Don’t talk like that in this house,’ oscillating emotions making my voice quiver. It wasn’t the swearing that unsettled me so much as the look in her eyes. Not simple defiance, something far more disturbing: pure, unequivocal hate. ‘Now, go to your room and stay there. Do you hear me?’
Her gaze remained bold and challenging but I was relieved to see that she wasn’t going to put up a fight. She slipped quietly from her chair and left the room.
It took some heavy-duty self-coaching that night to convince myself to stick with the placement. Phoebe had looked at me with such hatred that my instincts were screaming at me to put as much distance between her and the rest of the family as possible. Digging deep, I forced myself to draw on my drive to heal, on my past experiences, and the amazing turnarounds I’d witnessed before, so that I could turn the dislike I was feeling into empathy. She must have been hurting badly to feel so much hatred, her self-harming told me that. Once I felt more forgiving, I decided that the first thing I should do was to broach the subject of self-harm with her.
After rehearsing the conversation in my mind overnight, I invited her to sit next to me on one of the fluffy beanbags in her room once she had washed and dressed, hoping she was in one of her more coherent phases. Since she flipped from rational to illogical several times in any one hour, catching her at the right time was simply a matter of chance.
I nudged her playfully with my shoulder. She smiled, nudging me back. It was a positive start.
‘How’s your arm feeling this morning, honey?’
From her hesitation and the way she stared at her forearm, almost in surprise, I got the impression she was thinking, what on earth is that bandage doing there? After a moment she shrugged and reached for a shiny bracelet on her bookshelf that had grabbed her attention. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, making a move to get up.
I decided to move the focus to a previous, fictional placement. In the past I had found that children were fascinated to hear about others in a similar position to their own, particularly when I regaled them with tales of naughty exploits. It somehow helped them to conceptualise their own situation without the associated pain.
‘I looked after another little girl once. She was about your age …’
Phoebe swung back to face me again, immediately interested. ‘What was she like?’
‘She was VERY badly behaved,’ I said dramatically.
Delighted, Phoebe giggled. ‘Was she? What did she do?’
‘She painted our cat red. When I told her off, she cut off all the buttons from her school coat and dropped them down the toilet.’
Phoebe gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. It was funny