Mummy's Little Helper (5 page)

Of course, one of the things I was aware was in our brief was to gently re-train her to accept that she was a child and, as such, needed to reclaim a childhood. Which obviously meant accepting the normal child–adult roles, which, on the evidence of her first twenty-four hours in our company, was going to be something of a challenge.

But it was early days, so I decided I would let her have a degree of autonomy. For today at least. I told her we would prepare everything and cook it together, ready for when Mike got home from work.

‘And you should have seen her,’ I told Mike, after we’d finished our tea and I had the chance of a quiet few minutes upstairs with him, while Abby sat and wrote in her new scrapbook. ‘There was nothing she couldn’t do. She knew how to crack the eggs, whisk them, open the bean tins, and use the correct bowl for them, work out the microwave – absolutely everything.’

Mike grinned. ‘And it tasted good too! Sounds like we’ve lucked out with this one,’ he joked. ‘A dream, by the sounds of it, certainly compared with young Spencer! More like a housekeeper than a foster child, given half a chance!’

It obviously
was
a joke, and she certainly wouldn’t be
given
that half a chance, but even so, I was struggling to see where the challenge in this challenging child lay. Yes, she would have all sorts to deal with in the coming weeks, but compared with the sort of kids we usually looked after, this just didn’t seem to be even on the same scale.

But as later that evening we sat and watched her pulling strands of hair out again, a part of me – the rational part – knew better. She was also, we noticed, clock watching – or watch-watching, more accurately. Checking the little pink watch on her wrist again and again and again; looking at it, tapping the face, then pulling her sleeve back over it, then looking and tapping and covering it again. What she was watching for, what precise timing was being monitored, we didn’t know: when I asked why – if there was something she needed to remember to do – she coloured. Yet she continued to do it, right until the time she went to bed.

No. I knew better. However benign, compared with other kids’, her problems seemed to me, she was with us for a reason, as John had pointed out.

And we’d find out the extent of it soon enough.

The visit to see Sarah, Abby’s mother, had been arranged for around four the following afternoon and, having seen Abby off to school, I spent much of the day wondering what I was going to find when I met her.

Meeting family members in my role as a foster carer was something I’d learned I could never second-guess. It was such a singular and unnatural situation. In some circumstances, of course, you never got to meet the birth parents of a child you cared for, because all contact had been stopped by social services. Other times the relationship was civil, even if tense. Sometimes a parent was angry and downright hostile – we’d had a baptism of fire in that regard, for sure.

You never knew what to expect. Each situation was different. I’d been sworn at, I’d been threatened, I’d been genuinely scared, often, but the experience that had left the most lasting impression had been a couple of years back, with our second foster-child, Sophia, who had come to us after her mother had fallen down the stairs, and ended up in hospital, in a coma.

Like Sarah, Sophia’s mother had been on her own, with very little in the way of family, which was why Sophia, after a period of being looked after by an uncle, had finally had to come into care. Visits to Sophia’s mother, by the time she had come to live with us, meant visits to a room in a hospice. She was on a life-support system, in a persistent vegetative state, and seeing her for the first time was profoundly shocking. She was so beautiful, and so young, like a sleeping Disney princess. It was an experience I would never forget.

I wasn’t expecting anything quite so dramatic – or, indeed, distressing – today. In fact I was looking forward to meeting Sarah. Most kids are in care because they can’t be left with their families, more often than not because the families in question were unfit, for whatever reason, to care for them.

This was different. Sarah clearly loved her daughter. It was just cruel fate that had conspired against the pair of them. It was frustrating, certainly, that she’d felt unable to ask for help up to now – and the results of her over-reliance on her little girl were obviously a problem – but who was I to say I wouldn’t have done the same in her situation?

And perhaps the illness had crept up on her – multiple sclerosis was like that, wasn’t it? And the situation at home – the way everything had been arranged for Abby to do everything – had obviously grown up over a number of years. And if I knew anything about anything it was that if a situation developed gradually, it could easily become just another version of ‘normal’ – you sometimes didn’t notice it as anything that odd. Perhaps, up till now, Sarah had, to her mind,
been
coping, and it had taken this crisis to show her she was not.

Much as I looked forward to meeting her, however, I had realised I was woefully ignorant when it came to having a clue about the specifics of her disease.

Mike likewise. ‘Incredible, really,’ he’d commented the night before, once we were in bed. ‘Not to mention lucky.’ He was right. There was no one in the family who’d had multiple sclerosis, and neither of us knew anyone who had either. ‘I think the only person I know of who has had MS is that guy at work – d’you remember?’ said Mike. ‘The one they thought had a drink problem, and almost got sacked? Poor guy. I wonder what happened to him in the end.’

And so it went on. Though, once again, being in the dark was not a new situation for us. When Sophia had come to us with Addison’s disease, we’d had to learn a lot of medical stuff in a very short time just to be sure her illness was kept under control. Were it not, we’d been warned, she could die. This, thankfully, was different. Physically, Abby was just fine. And Sarah wasn’t our responsibility. But we still felt we needed to understand things a little better if we were going to help Abby through this stressful period. At the very least there was the central – and still unanswered – question about what was going to happen with Sarah long term.

In the end, I’d gone downstairs and got the laptop, so we could get a better picture of what we were dealing with. And having familiarised ourselves a little with the mechanics of the condition, we’d spent what turned out to be a dispiriting half-hour, reading about the many ways multiple sclerosis could disable a person. Not the most edifying kind of bedtime reading.

But there was no point in being negative. One thing our reading had surprisingly thrown up was a prevailing sense of optimism. Though some people had the disease very aggressively, others seemed to have a cycle of illness and remission, with a few lucky ones living long and mostly manageable lives. Perhaps all would be well after all.

Abby came home from school and just had time to run upstairs and change out of her uniform before it was time for me to drive her to the hospital. Sarah was a patient at the big general hospital in the next town to ours and it would be at least an hour’s drive. Thankfully we’d be doing it just before the rush hour, and would have missed the worst of it by the time we travelled back. I’d packed some sandwiches and a drink for Abby and brought my usual pile of gossip magazines. Apart from pleasantries, my role was essentially one of chauffeur. Supporter too, of course, but beyond that, this was all about them. It was completely new territory for me, this situation – a very unusual circumstance – and I’d already asked how I should play it. Both John and Bridget had told me that I had to take a back seat, and unless Sarah wanted to ask me anything about Abigail’s day-to-day routine, then I shouldn’t get involved, because one fact still applied: this child was in care now, and all decisions about her welfare were the responsibility of social services.

‘So, all excited?’ I asked Abby now, once we were in the car and under way. She’d changed into some jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying her
Glee
backpack. I’d suggested she bring the scrapbook we’d made together so she could show her mum what she’d written and the pictures she’d drawn. I saw her face form a look of enquiry now.

A look of hopeful enquiry, too. I cursed my choice of words. ‘Oh!’ she answered, her eyes widening. ‘Is Mummy coming home tonight now?’

‘Sorry, sweetheart. No, I’m afraid not. Not yet. I just meant were you excited about
seeing
Mummy. Bet you are, eh? And I bet she can’t
wait
to see you.’

Despite my knowing Abby knew that this wasn’t going to happen, it was sad to see her looking so crestfallen. She fell silent and began to chew the skin around her fingers, staring out of the window at the leaden February sky.

‘There’s a sandwich in the box there, I said. ‘And a banana, if you’d like it. And a carton of juice. I think it’s –’

‘Will they have given Mummy tea yet, d’you think?’ she interrupted. I watched her tap her watch face for about the fifth time since we’d got into the car. Perhaps the hands stuck sometimes.

I looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Not yet, I think, no. It’s still a bit early, so –’

‘But it’s teatime,’ she said plaintively. ‘If she doesn’t have her tea now, they’ll be all behind with her bath. And it’s
Coronation Street
tonight.’ She frowned, and then seemed to think of something else to worry her. ‘D’you think they even
know
what days are Mummy’s bath days?’

‘Love, I’m sure Mummy will have told them. Anyway, it’s a hospital and in hospital they tend to give you a bed bath
every
day.’

‘What’s a bed bath?’

‘It’s what they do when you can’t get out of bed.’

This seemed to horrify her. ‘Don’t they
help
her?’

‘Yes, I’m sure they do. When she needs to get up, of course they do. They –’

‘I think I should write a list for them,’ she decided, unclipping her seat belt.

‘Sweetheart, don’t undo that –’

‘But I have to get some paper, so I can do a list for them. I’ve got some in my backpack. It won’t take a second.’

‘Love, please do up your seat belt. It’s against the law not to wear your seat belt …’

But needless to say, by the time I had said this, she’d made a grab for her backpack and was already buckled up again. ‘I think I
must
,’ she said firmly, rootling for a pen.

I let her sit and write for a few minutes, conscious that she was right – she probably did need to, if only to transfer her anxieties to the page.

‘All done?’ I asked, once it seemed she’d run out of things to add to it.

She seemed happier now. ‘I think so. I’ve had to leave some of the food things. Do they have a list for the whole week on that menu card you told me about?’

I tried to dredge up a memory of when I’d last seen one. It had been a very long time back. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think it’s a new one for each day.’

‘That’s a bit silly,’ she said. ‘It would be much easier if they did it for the week, wouldn’t it? Then they’d know what to buy. Much more organised.’ She began scribbling something else.

I could have given her five minutes’ worth of hospital catering arrangements, and how patients came and went and how it wouldn’t be practical, but as I didn’t think it would calm her down any I decided against it.

‘Speaking of being organised,’ I said instead. ‘It’s going to be half-term in a week or so. Is there anything special you’d like to do? Any outings we could go on? Anyone from school you might like to have round to play? Or come and see a film with us, perhaps? I’m sure there’ll be lots of things on.’

Abby shook her head, making her bunches dance around. Her list complete, she was back absently chewing on her fingers. I wondered about drawing her attention to the fact, but decided against. ‘Hmm?’ I urged. ‘What d’you think?’

‘I’m not sure we should arrange anything,’ she said, having given the matter her usual moment of thought. I had never seen a child so young be so measured in what she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is,’ she added. ‘What if Mummy’s home?’ I was about to answer, but before I could formulate the most diplomatic reply she answered herself anyway. ‘And if she’s not, we’ll be going to visit her anyway, won’t we?’

Which seemed to be the end of the matter for her. ‘Of course we will,’ I said. ‘But that won’t be all day
every
day, will it? I’m sure we can find
one
day to go out for a little treat. Maybe bowling. There’s a thought. My Kieron loves bowling. You’ll meet him soon … Yes, there’s a thought. Have you ever been bowling? For a friend’s birthday or something, maybe?’

I was fishing, but she didn’t seem to notice. She took her fingers from her mouth and shook her head again dismissively. ‘I don’t really have time to go out to birthdays.’ She said the word birthday with a slight but discernible air of contempt.

‘What, never?’

She shook her head again. But then her expression changed. ‘I could, if I wanted. I do get invited. But I don’t go. Everyone’s always so silly …’

‘Silly? How?’

‘Just …’ She sighed heavily. ‘Just so
childish
.’

‘But that’s okay, isn’t it? You know. When it’s a party, and you’re playing games and stuff?’

Abby frowned again. ‘I mean just silly
all
the time. I mean the girls are. They just do silly things and talk about silly things. And
boys
… And I just never understand why they find it all so
interesting
…’

Again, the word ‘interesting’ held that slight note of irritation, as if she found herself beached on the shores of a foreign country, and couldn’t seem to get her head around the crazy things the locals did. Which perhaps she couldn’t. And perhaps wouldn’t, given the few things she’d told me. Did she ever –
had
she ever – done any normal kids’ things?

But Abby was spared the pain of any further Casey interrogations as the hospital buildings rose into a grey and brick bulk on the horizon and I became preoccupied, out of necessity, as I’d fully expected to, by the business of working out how and where to legally park the car. It wasn’t a hospital I knew well, but at least it had the usual array of enormous signs, all groaning under the weight of so much necessary information: outpatients, main hospital, accident and emergency, nurses’ accommodation, staff car park, X-ray, chapel, catering services and so on. Plus the reliably unhelpful list of named buildings, all given their titles in homage, no doubt, to various esteemed, long-dead medical notables. I scanned the visual overload and eventually found ‘visitor parking’, which, as I’d also expected, was about half a mile distant and, while bristling with warnings about the consequences of illegal parking, pretty thin on available parking spaces.

We found one in the end, however, after a short bout of anxious circling, and I had just enough coins for the pay and display. I said as much to Abby, as I rummaged in my purse. ‘Next time,’ I said, almost as a mental note to self, ‘we must remember to bring enough change with us.’

I heard the zip on the backpack being opened once again. ‘I’ll make a new list for that,’ Abby reassured me.

I’m not sure what I had expected. Our stint of internet research had thrown up so many images, both mental and visual, that I realised I had no ready picture in my mind for Sarah, just a general expectation that she’d in some way ‘look’ ill.

But she didn’t. Yes, she looked as if some movements were causing her pain – I noticed her wince as she waved a hand to greet us, for example – but if you gave her a cursory glance, you’d never think her ‘ill’. The only evidence that there was something serious going on – though I didn’t know what – was that there was a mound under the blanket, where her legs were, which I presumed was the outline of some sort of cage or box, keeping the covers from touching her.

The ward the duty nurse had directed us to was a six-bedder, the last of several identical bays. There was only one other bed occupied in her section at present, it seemed: a sleeping middle-aged woman, the top of whose bedside cabinet was crammed with cards and flowers. It made the lack of either on Abby’s mum’s bed feel very stark and I cursed myself for not thinking to bring some.

Sarah, who looked to be in her early thirties, was quite well built, which gave her a healthy sort of glow, though I noticed that her hair, which was a caramel to Abby’s blonde, was lank and looked as though it hadn’t been washed for a while. She had the same eyes as Abby, greyish green and deep set, and as we drew nearer I could see dark circles beneath them. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be her – to be so ill that you were separated from your only child in this fashion. And worse, to know she was being cared for by strangers. How did that
feel
? I really couldn’t imagine.