Crying for Help (12 page)

I felt so miserable when I woke up on Monday morning that I seriously doubted my own sanity. I was a morning person. Always had been. A dyed in the wool lark. Always first up, radio blaring, breakfast on the go. But my first thought on waking had been such a grim one. Last night my dear son had packed his bags and left home. Not for ever, I knew that – and he would one day soon anyway – but it was the circumstances of the leaving that hurt; that he’d left because I’d forced him to. I knew it wasn’t as straightforwardly damning as that, but it was still my fault, my choice to bring kids like Sophia into his life.

I dragged myself from my bed anyway – Mike had already left for work – and went downstairs, hoping that the watery February sunshine might go some way towards lifting my mood. I also had to remember it wasn’t Sophia’s fault either. She hadn’t asked to come to us, either, had she? She’d been happy (though ‘happy’ wasn’t the right word – far from it) to stay with Jean, in whose care she had clearly felt safe. And what
of
Jean? What was that all about really? I had so much to discuss with John Fulshaw this morning that I had half a mind to make myself a list.

I was carefully removing poached eggs from the pan when Sophia came down. I’d put them on when I’d heard the shower pump go off. To her credit, she wasn’t generally any bother on a school morning. Always got up with her alarm, was dressed and ready on time. How many parents would give their left arm for that luxury?

‘Eggs this morning,’ I said, my back to her as I dished them up. ‘All right with you, love?’

I got only a mumble in reply and turned to see her rummaging in her school bag at the kitchen table. I noticed she looked drawn and slightly dishevelled compared to her usual, carefully pulled-together appearance. ‘You feeling okay, Sophia?’ I asked her. ‘Taken your pills yet?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, can’t you leave me alone for five minutes?’ she barked irritably at me. ‘No, I haven’t taken them yet, okay? Because I feel sick.’

I racked my brains for some memory of what the literature said about nausea. ‘But doesn’t that mean you need to take them?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, we’re the expert now, are we?’

I decided to ignore the rudeness and focus on the Addison’s. I still didn’t know anything like enough about her illness. Whether I was right or not, I simply didn’t know. ‘Look, love,’ I said. ‘If that’s the case then I think I should ring school and tell them you won’t be in till later. Let’s wait till you’re feeling well enough to go.’

She looked world weary. ‘I’m fine, Casey, really. I just get like this sometimes. Look, I’ll take them when I get to school. I promise. Just as soon as I know I’ll be able to keep them down.’

I made a mental note to call her consultant, or someone at the hospital, at any rate, so that I could get advice from a real expert about what should happen if she felt sick. There was just so much information and so many different aspects to her condition that I felt I needed to take a flipping GCSE in it. ‘Okay, love,’ I said, as I placed her breakfast in front of her anyway. ‘Sorry you’re feeling rough. Perhaps if you try a nibble of something you’ll feel better. Could it be your blood sugar?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I hope so.’

She ate very little, but I couldn’t force it down her. So I just made sure I reminded her to eat a bag of peanuts if she needed them. Then I went out into the hall with her to wave her off and wish her a nice day, as had become my habit. I knew these little rituals mattered, even if she didn’t. They all helped to give her a sense of security that I suspected she’d had little of in her young life.

She surprised me by hovering in the doorway, and I sensed a mood change. ‘I’m so sorry about yesterday, Casey,’ she said, confirming it. ‘I really am. Are you still angry at me?’

‘No, love. I’m not. I’m just confused. You see, I know Mike and Kieron as well as I know myself, and the things you said, well, they were just upsetting for them. We’re just not like that in our family, that’s the thing, love. And it hurts when people make those sorts of remarks.’

She chewed on her lip and nodded. ‘I’m really sorry. It was only supposed to be a joke. That’s how it started. But it went too far, didn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid it did, love. And it wasn’t a very funny joke, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘But listen, you’re going to be late for registration if you don’t get off now. How about we have another chat about all this when you get home? Like I say, I’m not angry, and I’m so glad you’ve apologised. That was very mature of you.’

This seemed to cheer her up. ‘Okey dokey,’ she said, grinning. ‘See you in a bit then.’

And then she was off, now happy as Larry again, it seemed like. Case closed. I returned her last wave before closing the door and watched her trot off down the road looking every inch the innocent schoolgirl. This child really was such an enigma, I thought, one minute coming on as this voracious sultry temptress, the next this angelic little girl. Did even
she
know who she was? I didn’t think so.

I ignored the washing up and headed straight for the phone. Time to get back on to John Fulshaw. Make his Monday.

John listened patiently while I described the events of the previous day.

‘And it’s not so much the sexual impropriety,’ I told him. ‘I’ve plenty of experience with kids who’ve been sexually precocious. It’s all the other stuff she does. All that talking to herself. It’s as if she goes into this trance; I’m not sure she even realises she’s doing it. But you can flip a switch, almost, and she becomes someone else. I think she needs help, John. Psychiatric help, I mean. Anyway, have you managed to find anything else out?’

‘Nothing specific about the abuse allegation, sadly. Not as yet. But I have at least been able to establish a bit more family background.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said, sitting down on the bottom stair. ‘Shoot.’

‘Sad story,’ he began. ‘Aren’t they all? But essentially, her mum had her at 16.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. She looked hardly any older than Riley when I saw her.’

‘Because she wasn’t. What would she be now, 28? Anyway, the father, as you know, has never been in the picture. Never seen or heard of again after that one-night stand, far as I know. May not have even known Grace was pregnant. What we do know, however, is that the parents were mortified. They lived in another part of the country altogether when their daughter fell pregnant, but moved the whole family, lock, stock and barrel, up here. Including the younger brother – this is the guy who fostered Sophia originally, her Uncle James – who was by all accounts none too happy about the move. Seems he married young and moved his wife well away from it all.’

‘Away from what?’

‘From the parents, is what I’ve been told by social services. They were very controlling, apparently. Particularly the mother. Not short of a bob or two either. Quite well to do. Which fits, because they apparently installed Grace and little Sophia in a flat and, financially, she wanted for nothing.’

‘Bit odd.’

‘I thought so too. But apparently that was the set-up. As far as we know, she never really had any sort of job. Just lived off the bank of her mum and dad. Sophia had pretty much anything she wanted as well … hmmm, well, materially, at least. Which would obviously explain why she comes across as being so spoilt. As you say, a strange sort of set-up. And of course then Sophia’s Addison’s disease was diagnosed – not sure quite when that was, but quite young – so that dominated things a fair bit.’

‘And with such a young mother, and a lone one …’ The picture was becoming clearer now. ‘I wonder how supportive the parents were? They certainly seemed in bits – particularly the grandmother – when they accosted us.’

‘Well, the impression social services had, having spoken to the uncle, was that the daughter was something of a shameful secret – hence that move two hundred miles away. And though she and Sophia were financially supported, she never had much of a life. Pretty young girl, whole life in front of her and everything … but completely without direction, and single-handedly looking after a sick child. My instincts tell me Sophia’s mum was something of a mummy’s little princess herself, who rather tarnished her crown by getting pregnant. And you know, Casey, of course you do, how throwing money at a kid with problems often just makes them worse. Had she had to fend for herself a bit more, maybe she would have been more motivated. Got a job, got a life.’

Got over herself and perhaps focused on her child, for that matter. ‘You are so right,’ I agreed.

‘But as it was, it seems she was mostly directionless – and by all accounts highly promiscuous, too. Pretty girl. Constant stream of boyfriends coming and going. And the consensus, and certainly the brother would seem to corroborate this, was that she resented Sophia greatly, for having ruined her life. As did the grandparents.’ John sighed. ‘I know we see this sort of thing all the time, but it never gets any less upsetting, does it? These poor kids. Anyway, that’s why the brother took her in when her mum had her accident. No choice. Because the grandparents pretty much disowned her.’

‘That’s so shocking. And then he did as well.’

‘It wasn’t that so much. I don’t think he wanted to. He just couldn’t handle her. Big difference. Wife pregnant, this sick child, all the baggage with his parents …’

‘I suppose. And, if current form’s anything to go by, she was one hell of a lot to take on. And speaking of which, how
is
Jean doing?’

‘Um, not entirely sure, to be honest. Okay, I think. I’ve not heard anything to the contrary, certainly. How are
you
doing, that’s the main point. Are you coping?’

‘Just about,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not at all happy about the thing with Kieron.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m so sorry to put you through all this, Casey. I know it’s hard … But be reassured. You have your safe care agreement in place, and –’

‘John, you know as well as I do that’s just a piece of paper in a file. Means nothing when things like happened yesterday happen.’

‘I know, Casey. Look, here’s a thought. Do you think it would be helpful if I came round and had a chat with Sophia myself? You know, just ran through what’s acceptable and what’s not with her, pretty damned firmly?’

‘I don’t think it’ll make any difference at all, John. She’s already apologised for yesterday and I’ve told her that’s the end of the matter. The problem is that I honestly don’t think she wants to do and say these things. It’s just like it’s instinctive with her. Like a learned behaviour. Which, after what you’ve told me, would seem to fit. And there’s also the Addison’s. Do you know much about it?’ John admitted that he didn’t. ‘Well, I do. I’ve been reading up on it big time, as you can imagine. And there’s this symptom of “brain fog” – well, that seems to fit, doesn’t it? But I also read that in a few cases – when there’s extreme stress of some kind – patients can develop mental health problems. Depression, even psychosis.’

‘That sounds serious.’

‘Exactly.’ I glanced at the clock on the hall wall. The morning was disappearing fast. ‘Look, don’t worry, okay?’ I said. ‘I just want you to be aware, really. We’re coping okay. It’s just good to know you’re at the end of a phone, John. And it’s great to have a fuller picture of her background now. That helps.’

‘Well, I’m still on it. They’re still tracking down the files from the night of the accident. We’ll see what that throws up. And, well, in the meantime …’

‘I’ll hang in there, John. Don’t worry.’

I felt a lot more positive after speaking to John. Hearing Sophia’s background put flesh on some bones, and what I’d learned from him certainly put some of her behaviours into perspective. What a start in life! And wasn’t that always the case? Being born into a heap of problems, not of her making, had created a near monster out of this poor child. No wonder she had issues that needed resolving.

I decided then and there that from now on I would focus on the positives. Soon, in a few weeks, perhaps, she’d be reunited with her long-term carer. In the meantime, I would do my very best for her.

I got up from the stairs, stretched out my legs and rolled both my sleeves up. An early spring clean was in order. For me, there was nothing quite as cathartic as getting stuck into some serious grime-fighting. I turned the radio right up – well, there was no one there to be annoyed by it, was there? – and set about making the house really sparkle.

I was about two hours into it when I heard the phone ring. I was in the conservatory by now, having a quick break for a glass of milk, and had to sprint back into the hall to catch it before it rang off. I was hot and sticky, despite the season, as I’d been giving it so much welly, and had to wipe sweat from my forehead as I snatched up the phone.

‘Mrs Watson? Casey? It’s Tina Williams here …’

Oh, God.
That meant school. Tina was the school secretary and I knew her well from when I’d worked there.

‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘That sounds ominous, Tina. What’s happened?

‘She’s had some sort of fit, we think. Or a collapse. We’re not sure. We’ve phoned for an ambulance, of course, but we don’t know how long it will be, so we’d really like you to come up too, as there’s no one here who can administer her emergency medication.’

‘Of course,’ I said, my heart once again in my boots. ‘I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes, okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Tina. ‘See you in a few minutes.’

As I dashed around, pulling off my pinny and grabbing my handbag and car keys, I remembered that I had planned to call her specialist this morning, and had completely forgotten. Sidetracked by John, I thought, then too busy polishing.
Stupid woman!
I berated myself angrily.

As I drove towards school I felt increasingly nervous. All that talk about how it would probably never happen, and here it was, happening – it was real! She might slip into unconsciousness. And unless the ambulance got there first, this was my bag. I might have to inject the steroid medicine into her myself, and the idea made me queasy. It was one thing to be told how straightforward it would be, but quite another to actually have to do it to a person.

But that might not be necessary in any case. I racked my brain for the correct course of action, hoping all those sessions poring over the leaflets in bed would come back to me now that I needed them. I had to take the syringe out, push the plunger down, insert it into the little bottle, draw up the liquid up, push out any air bubbles, then jab it in her thigh. I must do it quickly, do it decisively, push the plunger fast and firmly. The drug should kick in within ten or fifteen minutes. Was that it? Give or take? Yes, that was it. That was the order. I could do this. I could do this. I could do this.

But when I drove through the school gates I felt a surge of relief. The ambulance was already there. I grabbed my bag and jumped out and ran in through the front doors. With any luck, someone would have done it all already.

I was signed in, and Tina took me down to the medical area, where I was met by a smiling paramedic. Where would the world be without people like that, I thought gratefully.

‘Is she okay?’ I asked.

‘She’s just fine, Mrs Watson. My colleague is in there now,’ he said, nodding towards the adjoining medical room. ‘Giving her a bit of a dressing down, actually. She knows exactly how to control her condition – been very vocal about it – and seemed quite proud, in fact, to tell us that she knew this would happen if she had a bout of vomiting and didn’t take action.’

‘She was sick? I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That’s really my fault. She refused to take her pills this morning because she said she was feeling ill. I should have kept her at home, shouldn’t I? Called the doctor. But she promised me she’d take them when she got to school, and she didn’t seem
that
bad, so … God, I’m such an idiot!’

The paramedic was really sweet and sympathetic. ‘I tell you, I’ve only spoken to her for ten minutes,’ he reassured me, ‘and I can already see that she’s stubborn as well as manipulative. You shouldn’t feel guilty. A lot of kids with chronic conditions like this get, shall we say, a bit arsey at this age. It’s their way of trying to control their condition, rather than it controlling them. But they grow out of it, don’t worry. They soon realise that it’s much easier to try and find a way of living
with
it.’

It made sense, what he said, and, for probably the first time, I had a real feeling for the enormity of what Sophia had to live with on a daily basis. She must feel so different from the other kids, having to monitor her body so closely all the time, and at an age when a child is supposed to be carefree.

It was with this in mind that I joined Sophia in the medical room. I immediately went across and hugged her. ‘Oh, love,’ I said. ‘I was so worried. How are you feeling?’

She wrapped her arms around me and started to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Casey,’ she sobbed. ‘Can we go home, please. I’m so tired.’

I glanced over at the paramedic, who nodded. ‘Fine to go,’ he confirmed. ‘And lots of fluids for the rest of the day. But we’ve made it clear – haven’t we, young lady? – that next time she’s sick she needs to let someone know. Because next time she might not be so lucky.’

I felt Sophia stiffen in my arms as he said this. She carefully withdrew from me, wiped her eyes and then looked directly at the paramedic. ‘Yes, thank you for that, Andrew,’ she said icily. ‘But think I understand how my hormones work. Job done, boys. Bye-bye. See you soon.’

‘Sophia!’ I gasped, shocked by the venom in her voice. ‘That was completely uncalled for! Those men came here to help you!’

The paramedics seemed relaxed, however. With ‘seen it all before’ expressions, they nodded a goodbye to me and left, leaving me stunned by how Sophia could be so rude to them.

Sophia herself simply flopped back into my arms. ‘Please can we go home now?’ she said in a small, pleading voice. ‘I really do feel tired. Really awful.’

Tina gave me a look too – a clear ‘Oh my God, poor old you!’ one – as she duly led me out, armed with more paperwork. This was the ambulance report, to go in my file, and as I tucked it away, having put Sophia to bed, I mused. For a short-term placement, hers was positively bulging.

I spent much of that afternoon musing, in fact. While Sophia slept and I finished my housework, I thought again of her jaw-dropping discourtesy. Was this really just spoilt brat behaviour, was this manipulative, or something more? It seemed so unplanned, so random, so unexpected when it happened. And so often, straight afterwards she seemed genuinely unaware. Unaware, for sure, about quite how inappropriate it was, as was clear every time she apologised for what she’d done. Yes, she was sorry, but she never seemed to have any clear sense of just
how
wrong it was. I began to wonder if we weren’t all too fixated on throwing our hands up in shock and horror to really hear what was happening with this strange and challenging young girl.

Was this a cry for help? And were none of us listening?