I recalled Flip’s last words to me when I’d kissed her goodnight; a hug and then a completely guileless and affectionate ‘I love you, Mummy.’ What a complicated business her disability was, I decided, making a mental note to find time for a session at the computer the following morning, just to gen up on things more comprehensively.
I closed the file, dropped it on the rug and switched the bedside light off. Still, I thought, as I wriggled down and put my head gratefully on the pillow, at least she was whacked out and sleeping soundly, and tomorrow was another day – one which I was actually rather looking forward to. Get a plan going, get a chart going, start getting to know our new charge a little better. First, however, sleep. A good solid eight hours till the alarm.
Though it turned out to be only two till her ear-splitting scream.
‘What the hell?’ Mike said, shooting bolt upright in the bed just as I was leaping out of it.
I switched on the bedside light and checked the time. It was just after half past one in the morning. ‘I’ve no idea, love,’ I said. ‘But you try and get back to sleep. I think Flip must be having a nightmare or something.’
Mike sighed and snuggled back down under the duvet as I grabbed my dressing gown and left the room to investigate. The door to Flip’s bedroom was ajar and as I approached I could already see her, sitting crouched at the top of her bed with her back to me, holding on to the headboard, still screaming.
‘Shhhh,’ I soothed as I rushed to sit with her and stroked her back. ‘What is it, sweetie? You had a bad dream?’
Flip recoiled from my touch and shrieked even louder as she squashed herself further against the headboard. It seemed clear she didn’t know where she was or who I was.
‘It’s just me,’ I said softly. ‘Casey, you remember? Mummy.’ She twisted her head; her eyes were like saucers. I didn’t touch her this time. I just smiled and hoped that she’d recognise me enough to calm down. She really did look terrified and I imagined she’d had a nightmare. Perhaps reliving the terrifying events of the last few days. I’d also heard about night terrors in toddlers and very young children, and as she seemed unable to regain full consciousness and shake off whatever had terrified her, I decided to add some research on that to my ‘to do’ list.
In the meantime, however, she needed to wake up. It seemed nothing else was going to stop her screaming. I cast around, my eye fixing on Pink Barbie, still on her pillow. ‘Flip,’ I said in a voice that I hoped was akin to that of a diva like the eponymous Barbie, as I held the doll close to her face. ‘Flip,’ I said again, moving Barbie’s head to suggest she was the one talking. ‘New mummy is sad because you’re screaming, and you’re making me scared now as well.’
The effect was almost instantaneous. The screaming stopped as abruptly as it had apparently begun. And much as I was concerned about this vulnerable little thing apparently deciding I was her new mummy, my hunch at that moment was that it was the right word to choose. I continued in my Barbie voice. ‘Oh that’s much better, Flip,’ I trilled. ‘Now, why don’t we tell this new mummy what’s wrong?’
To my surprise, Flip immediately launched herself straight into my arms, and with such force that I nearly fell backwards on the bed. More bizarre was that she giggled then, all fear forgotten. ‘It’s you, Mummy!’ she said. ‘I forgotted what you looked like an’ I was frightened.’ She raised her eyes towards mine. ‘I am a silly sausage, aren’t I?’
I laughed, more out of sheer surprise than seeing any humour in the situation. ‘Yes, you are a bit of a silly sausage, sweetie,’ I agreed, stroking her hair. ‘Did you have a nasty dream?’
Flip lifted her head again, and shook it. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, seeming to be struggling to remember. ‘I know,’ she said brightly. ‘I need a picture by my bed, don’t I? Could I have a photo picture of you? In a frame? So I can put it by my bed? Then I’ll remember.’ She paused. ‘And a mirror? Can I have a mirror as well?’
‘What, now?’ I asked, bemused by this unexpected shopping list. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, gently disentangling her from me and passing her the doll. ‘If you and Pink Barbie get back into bed and go back to sleep, I promise I’ll get you those things tomorrow for you, okay?’
But she clearly wasn’t ready to hop back into bed yet. ‘Could you just take me to the toilet then?’ she asked. ‘Just to look in the mirror?’
What, now? I thought. This was something I’d never come across before, and I was intrigued. What on earth was wrong? I stood up, holding my arms out to her. ‘Come on then, miss,’ I said, ‘But quietly. And then straight back to bed, before Tyler wakes up.’
Indeed, it was a miracle he hadn’t already, I mused, as Flip threw herself at me, this time straight onto my hip, curling her legs around my waist like a little koala bear. She planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Thanks, Mummy,’ she said.
Once in the bathroom, and with the door closed so the light wouldn’t spill out into Tyler’s adjacent room, I held Flip in front of the mirror above the sink. What struck me most forcibly was the intentness of her expression as she traced a finger around both her eyes, then down her nose and then around the curve of her narrow chin. I then had to struggle with my own troubled expression as a single tear fell from her left eye and slid noiselessly down her cheek. She turned away from the mirror then and buried her face into my neck. ‘I’m still ugly, Mummy, aren’t I?’ she said.
I continued to hold her where she was. ‘Flip, you’re not ugly, not at all, sweetie. You’re very, very pretty. Look. Look at your beautiful wavy hair. It’s just like Pink Barbie’s, isn’t it? And those lovely lips – just like a rosebud – they look just like Barbie’s too.’ I kissed her forehead, thinking wryly how this was so entirely off message. Girls, in the main, needed to know that beauty was only skin deep; that being beautiful on the inside was the only thing that really mattered. But not in this case. This was something different. This was a deep-rooted canker. I wondered where – or whom – she’d absorbed it from. ‘Now,’ I whispered, ‘one thing I do know for sure is that pretty girls need their beauty sleep. Have you heard about beauty sleep?’
Flip shook her head. ‘Is it a special sleep that makes you pretty?’
I nodded. ‘Even prettier. You are already very pretty. But a good night’s sleep makes you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and that is especially beautiful. Now, then. Are we ready to go back to bed?’
Flip’s mouth bloomed into a smile. ‘You mean like a squirrel? Now you’re the one being a silly sausage, Mummy, aren’t you?’
Quite possibly, I thought ruefully, as I slipped back under my own duvet some ten minutes later. Mike was fast asleep, and, having looked in on him en route, I could see why Tyler hadn’t woken up; he’d fallen asleep with his earphones in, listening to music, as per.
It took me a good while to get back to sleep myself, my head full, as it invariably was when we took on a new foster child; of all the questions that popped up about the multitude of whys and wherefores and how we’d go about unlocking the mystery behind whatever psychological muddles lay behind her challenge in living an easy life. And, in this case, physiological muddles also. That much about FAS I already knew. But what, if anything, could be done about it?
Over the next few days I began to at least gain more understanding about the problems our latest foster child was facing. Night terrors and what seemed to be unfathomable bouts of screaming seemed to be as