Crying for Help (3 page)

John was, of course, relentlessly apologetic. He apologised for not being able to find out more about Sophia’s background or her illness. He apologised for not knowing the doctor was so far away. He apologised for not knowing about the apparently worrying prospect of what might happen if she got a little ‘stressed’. And he promised that he would do everything he could to find out more – because forewarned was forearmed.

We reassured him that we weren’t going to take it personally – because it wasn’t
his
fault, was it? It was just going to be a challenging sort of placement, we all agreed, and challenges, we also agreed, were what we were all about. Even so, as Mike and I waved John off from the doorstep, I couldn’t help feeling that there were challenges and there were challenges, and that this one might not be to our liking.

‘You know, love?’ I said to Mike, reaching out for a hug. ‘I was really looking forward to having a new child to foster, and now, you know what? I’m not sure I am any more.’

He pulled me in. ‘I know, love. It all looks a little daunting, doesn’t it? But I suppose that’s exactly what we get paid for. We’ll just have to do our best, eh? See how it goes. And remember just how much she’s had to cope with in her life. She’s probably feeling angry at the whole world.’

Mike was right, of course. We both knew we had to see past the behaviour and remember that she was a child who had not yet hit her teens, and was without a mum – without any family to speak of. Couple all that with what sounded like a very complicated and, possibly, life-threatening condition, and it was no wonder she was angry and demanding. I sighed as it hit me just how difficult this might be. And not just because Sophia would be a difficult child to manage. It was because I had a sixth sense – no, I
knew
– that all the efforts we made at establishing boundaries, which we badly needed to, had the potential for being undermined at every turn by the team of professionals who seemed intent to let her have her way all the time and, in doing so, turn her into a monster. Couldn’t they see they weren’t helping her development? They were just adding to her sense of entitlement, her bad manners and her unrealistic expectations; not a great recipe for a happy adult life.

I could only hope one thing, that we
could
make a difference. Even if it seemed, on the face of it, like a tall order.

‘The coast is clear!’ I told Riley, over the phone, twenty minutes later. ‘Can you come round with Levi and cheer me up?’

Bless her, my daughter is an absolute sweetheart, and I knew seeing her and my lovely grandson would make the prospect so much less bleak. I set about making lunch for the three of us – Riley, Mike and me – before Mike had to rush off back to work.

‘So was she awful?’ Riley asked, as soon as she arrived. ‘You sounded pretty down on the phone.’

I’d certainly felt it. As I’d said to Mike before she’d arrived, I now felt pretty silly, having gone so bloody overboard on the bedroom. And I had – well, me and Riley had – to a ridiculous degree. There were pink fluttery butterflies hanging in the window, two layers of contrasting pink curtains, with silver sequins dotted over them, matching bed linen and fluffy pink cushions. The bed had also been transformed by a glittery pink canopy, which hung from the ceiling and flowed over the pillows. The walls sported an array of butterflies and fairies, and the offending football-adorned bookcase was now gleaming white, and sat among mushrooms (Riley’s idea – garden ornaments), upon which sat more fairies … It really was a room fit for a princess. Trouble was, what we seemed to have was less a princess than a little madam.

But as Mike had pointed out, aiding that transition was our job. But he’d looked at me gloomily, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Screw the room, Casey,’ he’d said. ‘That’s the least of our worries.’

It was good to have Riley here to break the tension. ‘Tell you what,’ I said now, ‘I’ll go and dig some toys out for Levi. Mike, why don’t you tell Riley all about it, love?’

I went off to the blanket box under the stairs, knowing Mike would be able to stick to the facts and not get over-emotional, like I would. I didn’t want to seem overemotional about it, as I knew the kids would just fret even more about whether we’d done the right thing.

Funny, I thought, pulling out the box and lifting the lid, how you have expectations in life, without any evidence to back them up at all. I’d collected a lot of these toys when we’d first discussed fostering, mistakenly thinking we’d have lots of little children around. Naïve, really – it was the older kids who needed our kind of specialist help. The ones a way down the line; the really damaged ones. Still, I thought, pulling out a singing pig for Levi, maybe the toy fairy knew I’d soon have my first grandchild. It was a nice thought after a troubling kind of morning.

When I returned to the kitchen, Mike and Riley, thank goodness, were both laughing.

‘Sounds like you’ve got a proper little madam on your hands!’ Riley said, echoing my own thoughts.

‘Dad’s filled you in, then?’ I asked her.

‘Yes, he has,’ she confirmed. ‘Though don’t worry, Mum. You’ll soon have her learning our ways. No airs and graces in this house!’

I nodded. ‘But I am worried about Kieron,’ I confessed. My son has a mild form of Asperger’s syndrome, which makes him vulnerable in lots of little ways. He doesn’t see bad in anyone, much less any kind of guile, and I suspected, with him being young, not to mention tall and good looking, that he might be a target for Sophia’s attentions. ‘I think he’s going to find her a bit overwhelming,’ I said. ‘She seems a bit over the top in the touchy-feely department – you saw the way she was with that Jack, didn’t you, Mike? She’s definitely a bit flirty around men.’

‘A bit?! And he was mortified,’ Mike agreed. ‘So we’ll just have to prepare Kieron. You know, make it clear that he’ll need to keep his distance.’

‘And put some rules in place, for definite. Even if she’s not going on the programme. She needs some guidelines more suitable for a girl of her age.’

Which was what we did, over the course of the next twenty-four hours, as well as filling Kieron in on how unlike most 12-year-old girls she was, and how running around in boxers might be a very bad idea. I also contacted my old school – the one I’d worked in before the career change into fostering – and secured Sophia a place there to start the following Monday. Finally, I spent a little while on the internet, trying to find out what I could about Addison’s disease. It seemed to be as described – something life-long and incurable – but which, with tablets, seemed straightforward to manage. The only alarming thing I read was that people with the disorder could have ‘crises’, when the levels of hormones fell so low they could die, if not treated immediately by injection. That sounded worrying, and I made a mental note to ask the doctor a bit more. Then I called John Fulshaw, to fill him in too, and was taken aback by his response.

‘Oh, Casey, I can’t tell you, I’m so grateful to you and Mike. After yesterday morning I really thought you’d be calling me to say you’d changed your minds.’

‘Not at all, John,’ I told him. ‘We’re giving this a go. It’ll be different, for sure, but we’ll find a way through it.’

All that done, and with Mike at work and Kieron at college – he was there doing a course in music and media, which he was loving – I trotted off to the conservatory for a sneaky cigarette. I must try to stop, I chided myself, as I did every time, but I couldn’t seem to. I smoked very little, but that emergency packet of twenty that I kept above the fridge-freezer was an absolute lifeline in times of great stress. And I
was
stressed, I thought, as I opened the patio doors and lit one.

But if I’d known just how much
more
stressful my life was soon going to become, I think I would have booked myself in for an asbestos lung replacement, ready.

I was feeling pretty confident when I woke up on the Wednesday morning. I didn’t know why, exactly, but I was certainly glad of it. I glanced at the alarm clock – it was just before seven – and decided I would quickly nip downstairs, grab the morning paper and a coffee, and come back up to bed for half an hour. Mike had already gone to work; he had to go in for about an hour. Then he’d be back by nine, ready to welcome Sophia and her entourage, before our long trip to see the Addison’s doctor.

You deserve this, I told myself, as I slipped back under the cosy, still-warm duvet. So enjoy it. Got one heck of a lot of challenges ahead …

I was downstairs, showered and dressed, by eight thirty, with my hair, which is black and curly, tied in a ponytail. Some days there was nothing else I could do with it. This was one of them. Typical, I thought, as I put the kettle back on. But no matter. I looked calm and casual, I knew, in leggings and a warm baggy jumper, but, sadly, my rush of confidence had gone the way of the shower gel – down the plughole – as thoughts of the day ahead began claiming my attention. A long drive, a lecture on Addison’s, another long drive, then the reality of welcoming Sophia into our home and lives.

I glanced at my watch. Just time to sneak a cigarette and coffee in the conservatory before Mike returned home and the cavalry arrived. I shivered in the cold as I stood there and smoked it, and wished I’d put the heating on an hour earlier. I also wondered who’d turn up with her this time. Surely not all that lot who came on Monday? I put out the cigarette and wandered back into the living room to see.

Yup. It
was
all that lot, it seemed. By the time I got to the window I could see that three cars had already pulled up in the road outside. But, looking closer, I could see that this time there were fewer people in them. Or rather, getting out of them: John Fulshaw from one car, Linda Sampson from the second and Sam Davies from the third. Sophia herself was already standing by my open gate, seemingly directing operations.

She was dressed to the nines – fur coat, matching hat, her face caked in make-up – and holding the gate open for her retinue to pass through. I stood, open-mouthed, as I watched the tableau before me. I simply couldn’t get my head around the quantity of luggage that seemed to be spewing from the various car boots. I counted them out: four huge suitcases, at least six cardboard boxes and what seemed to be a stack of canvas paintings. I was gobsmacked. Where the hell was all this stuff going to go? And more to the point, why had she brought all this with her, when it was going to be such a short placement?

Equally unbelievably, and I could hear it all clearly from the window, was that this 12-year-old seemed to be barking orders at the adults – and, more incredibly, they seemed to be listening.

‘Careful with that artwork!’ I heard her bark at John, as he passed her. ‘Any tears in those and you’re going to have to pay for it!’ She then clapped her hands together – this was beginning to feel like some bizarre slapstick movie – and said, ‘Chop chop! I don’t have all day!’

Sophia turned then and saw me gaping out of the window. She smiled and waved at me, and then, if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, actually clicked her fingers to beckon me to the front door. Upon which I, on some mad autopilot, and in keeping with her other minions, almost fell over my own coffee table in my rush to get to the hall.

‘Hi, love,’ I said, emerging from the door just as she’d sauntered down the front path. ‘Good grief, you have a lot of luggage, don’t you? Can I help? Do you need a hand with anything?’

‘Hi,’ she responded, marching straight past me. ‘No thanks. You can just tell them to take everything up to my room. I don’t do carrying,’ she then finished, sweetly.

Them?
Now I recovered at least some of my senses. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, speaking also to the adults who were now assembling, partly obscured by the procession of belongings. ‘We’ll just leave it all in the hall for the moment, I think. We can take it –’ and by which, I made a mental note, I
meant
we ‘– all up to your room later on.’

Nothing terrible happened. No explosion. No strop. She just shrugged and wandered off into the living room, leaving me, mouth slightly agape again, standing in her wake, while she muttered something to herself about ‘the incompetency of idiots’. It honestly beggared belief.

But it was also so absurd as to be hilarious with it, especially as I watched John wrestling with two pink suitcases, which he half hauled, half threw into my hallway. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and his withering expression only made it worse. He gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t,’ he said under his breath. ‘Okay? Just don’t.’

We all congregated, eventually, in the living room, where I invited everyone to take a seat while I made some hot drinks. The hilarious expression on John’s face had really lightened my mood, and I was chuckling to myself as I pulled mugs from the cupboard.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked a voice. Sophia had joined me in the kitchen.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, glad she’d felt able to come and join me, at least. ‘It was just seeing John grappling with those cases of yours. You okay, love?’ I glanced across at her. ‘Feeling all right?’

Her expression changed to one of what I could only describe as condescension. ‘
Derr
,’ she said in an exasperated voice. ‘You don’t have to look at me like that, you know. I’m not
dying
!’

‘I know,’ I said nicely, through my slightly gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t think so for a moment. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. After all the upheaval of
moving
, that was all.’

Her face back-tracked slightly, even if her voice didn’t. ‘Hmmph,’ she muttered. ‘Yes, well, I’m fine.’

And with that she turned and sauntered off back to the living room, leaving me once again staring after her, agape. Right, I thought, making my mind up at that moment. No more Mrs Nice Guy from me. I needed to let this child know who called the shots around here and put an end to all this pussyfooting around. It would do her no favours –
had
been doing her no favours. It made her unpleasant to be around, and that wasn’t going to help her. It wouldn’t help
me
to help her either. I finished making the drinks and took the tray into the living room, where the three adults were sitting, Sophia back among them, trying to make small talk among themselves.

‘Right,’ I said cheerfully to one and all. ‘Here you go. Help yourselves to biscuits, by the way.’

Sophia’s glance towards Sam was as pointed as she could make it. ‘Sophia doesn’t like to be around biscuits,’ Sam explained nervously. ‘It’s her Addison’s. She has to be really disciplined about sugar, because the steroids she takes give her a really huge appetite, and if she indulges …’ She looked back towards Sophia as if for help. Then I noticed her and Linda exchange glances. ‘Well, it’s obviously not terribly good for her to get fat.’

I picked up the plate of biscuits and offered it only to the adults, equally pointedly. She clearly needed to learn discipline, period. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I clearly have a lot to learn, don’t I?’

‘Yes, you
do
,’ Sophia answered, folding her arms across her chest.

‘Now, Sophia –’ began Sam, sounding nervous about even speaking. Jesus, what was the matter with these people?

‘Come on, sweetie,’ she added, leaping up and putting her arm around her, as if she wasn’t standing there smiling but in huge floods of tears. ‘D’you want to show me your room? I could help you make a start, carry some things up. Leave the others to sort out the boring paperwork, eh?’

I could have happily slapped Sophia’s social worker then. Not only was she undermining me – bad enough in itself – but she was also disregarding the girl’s rude behaviour. Which wasn’t very professional of her at all.

As soon as they’d left the room, I rounded on Linda, the supervising social worker, who, right now, seemed to be supervising nothing. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘pandering to her every whim isn’t going to help her. She needs boundaries, a bit of discipline …’

‘I agree,’ John chipped in. He could see how cross I was and seemed keen to support me. It wasn’t too late, I thought, for us to change our minds, and he knew it. But that wasn’t his motivation, I decided. He was genuinely trying to second a valid point. ‘She does seem to wrap everyone around her little finger,’ he continued.

Linda, unsurprisingly, jumped straight to her defence. ‘I know it seems that way,’ she said. ‘But try to look beyond her behaviour,
please
. Underneath the front, she’s feeling lost and abandoned and alone. She’ll settle down, I promise. Give it a couple of days. Things will be fine. Honestly they will.’

But her tone belied her words. She knew no such thing. This wouldn’t be a team I’d be getting much support from, I decided. Once again, as had been the case with our last child, bar John, we’d probably be on our own. Was that how it worked with our kind of specialist ‘extreme’ fostering? That Mike and I were considered so able they could throw anything at us, secure in the blind faith that we’d cope?

But before I had a chance to say something regrettable, Mike himself walked in, having come back from work. ‘Morning all!’ he said cheerily. ‘Everything okay here?’ The three of us seemed of like mind. End of conversation. We all got our heads down and ran through all the paperwork.

It was only once John and Linda were finishing up and I cleared the mugs that I could have a word with Mike on our own.

‘What’s up, love?’ he asked, once we were both in the kitchen. ‘You could cut the atmosphere in there with a knife!’

‘Oh, just more of the same. Our little madam’s been busy being one again. And it seems no one in her “team” has got the confidence to take her on. I just had a bit of a moment, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. She’ll find things rather different now, starting today. And none too soon, because that lot seem to be creating a monster.’

But once back in the living room I had cause to eat my words. Sophia and Sam had come down from upstairs now, and Sophia was visibly and genuinely distressed as she hugged both the women and said her goodbyes. I felt a pang of guilt. This was a desperate 12-year-old girl, trying to make sense of an appalling situation. Perhaps Linda had been right, and I’d been wrong. I must learn, I decided, that my usual acuity
re
character wasn’t quite as infallible as I thought. I also knew nothing about the emotional toll of being the victim of an incurable disease. Sophia had perhaps been right in that, too. I did have a lot to learn this afternoon. Speaking of which … ‘Look at the time,’ I said. ‘We really need to get off.’

‘Right,’ said Sam, disentangling herself from Sophia. ‘And we’d better leave you all to it. I’ll phone you in a day or so, Sophia, okay? And come to see how you’re doing in a week or so.’

I moved closer to Sophia as everyone trooped back out of the door, automatically putting an arm around her waist. She needed affection, I thought. Physical contact. Even though her manner so often seemed to suggest otherwise, the child inside needed love more than anything.

We waved them off, Sophia rubbing at her tear-stained cheeks with her other hand. Then she turned to me. ‘Where’s your son? Didn’t you say you had a teenage son?’

Her voice was completely different now. As light and sunny, suddenly, as the day was dark and cold.

‘Kieron?’ I said, shocked. ‘Yes. He’s at college today. You’ll meet him tonight. When we get back from your doctor’s –’

‘Okay!’ she said brightly. ‘Coats on then, is it? As you say, it’s a long way. Time to go!’

It was a very, very long three hours, that journey to hospital, as all three occupants of the car – Mike, myself and Sophia – retreated into their own minds and thoughts. I tried several times to start conversations with Sophia initially, all of which were mildly, but decisively, rebuffed by her lack of interest in giving me more than one-word responses. I then tuned the radio station to one I thought she might like, but this, too, was pointedly rejected. She simply pulled an MP3 player from her pocket and plugged herself into that. ‘I think that’s you told,’ whispered Mike.

She’s 12, I kept telling myself, locked alone with my anxieties. (I couldn’t talk to Mike, of course, because she wasn’t six inches from us.) She’s 12. Think back, Casey. That’s what 12-year-olds are like, even 12-year-olds with the most benign of families and backgrounds. She’s on the cusp of adolescence, too; no, that was wrong. Physically at least, she was well into it. So perhaps I was reading too much into things. She’d also been overindulged and was clearly using her disorder to manipulate the adults around her. She just needed guidance, support and that healthy dose of discipline. That, I decided, would help her immeasurably. And as a virtual orphan in the world, boy, did she need help.

But I couldn’t help but wonder at these extreme swings in behaviour: one minute full of herself, the next happy-clappy, and then, out of the blue, appearing really upset. What mood would be on offer when we arrived at the hospital, I wondered? I was beginning to realise that we just couldn’t second-guess her.

‘Happy’, as it turned out, just as soon as we got there. The sullen mask was stashed away along with the earphones for her iPod, to be replaced by what I could only describe as the sweetest, friendliest expression imaginable.

‘Follow me,’ she commanded, though in the nicest of manners. ‘I know this place like the back of my hand! Casey,’ she turned to me, ‘you are
so
going to love my doctor. He’s called Dr Wyatt, and he’s absolutely
gorgeous
.’ She was so excited, she was practically squealing.

‘Right behind you, love,’ said Mike, as we both hurried along in her wake.