I Miss Mummy (14 page)

‘Lots,’ Mr Jones said, shaking his head sadly, ‘but what’s the point when we’re not being believed?’

‘You don’t know what she’s like!’ Sharon pounced, referring to Leah. ‘You haven’t seen her when she’s off her trolley. Chris has, and she’s a nutter.’

‘Of course Chris has seen her like that!’ Mr Jones retaliated. ‘He gave her the drugs that made her that
way!’ He was wagging his finger across the table at Chris, while Mrs Jones was close to tears again. The meeting looked as though it was going to finish as it had begun – with both sides of Alice’s family shouting accusations.

‘This is not helping,’ the chairperson intervened. ‘I thank you all for coming and I am closing the meeting.’ The room fell quiet as he set a date for the next review, in three months’ time. He then suggested Mr and Mrs Jones left first, and Sharon and Chris waited behind until Mr and Mrs Jones had had time to leave the building, to avoid confrontation in reception. It was like dismissing naughty children from the classroom.

As we watched, Mr Jones tenderly helped his wife to her feet and she linked her arm through his. I smiled at them as they passed. They looked so sad and dejected, as though they hadn’t a hope in the world. Mr and Mrs Jones left the room and the rest of us waited in awkward silence until the chairperson deemed enough time had elapsed and said that Chris and Sharon could go now. After they’d gone I left with Kitty and the chairperson.

‘Leah is very unstable at present,’ Kitty confided outside the committee room. ‘She phoned me this morning on her way to the doctor. She was threatening suicide, and also said that as she’d nothing left to lose she might as well take Alice again. I’ve alerted the school. As far as I’m aware, Leah doesn’t have your address, Cathy, but obviously if you see her in your street, phone the police.’

‘The poor woman must be desperate,’ I said. ‘I do hope she gets the help she needs.’

The chairperson and Kitty nodded; we said goodbye and went our separate ways. Later, that afternoon, I was to see for myself just how desperate Leah was, for when I went to collect Alice from school Leah was waiting outside.

L
eah was standing, half concealed, behind the large oak tree on the opposite side of the road to the school, as she had been two months previously when she’d wanted to catch a glimpse of Alice dressed up for the Easter parade. Now, as I walked along the pavement towards the tree to cross the road at the crossing, she stepped out from behind its protective cover and straight into my line of vision. All manner of things flashed through my mind at that moment as our eyes met, and my pulse soared with anxiety. There was no sign of the tender, warm openness that I was used to seeing in the photograph Alice had in her room. Taken the previous Christmas, Leah had been cuddling Alice on her lap and they were both laughing. Now her face was set hard, and the wildness and anger in her eyes said she was desperate and out of control. For a second I thought she was going to attack me.

I stopped. Leah was a yard or so in front, blocking my path, and it crossed my mind to dart round her, over the road and into the school, where I could call the police.
But I didn’t. Perhaps I saw something behind her eyes that said although she was angry and out of control she was also very scared, and reachable. Without Alice with me I felt I could take a chance.

‘Hello, Leah,’ I said evenly. ‘How are you?’

She started with surprise – that I recognized her?

‘I’m Cathy,’ I continued in the same even tone. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last.’ I smiled and, closing the gap between us, offered my hand for shaking. She didn’t take it; I hadn’t really expected her to, but I was hoping that being polite and non-threatening would defuse the situation and that she might respond.

Leah continued to stare at me; then she looked around, her lips moving as though she was trying to think out what to say, but she didn’t speak. Although, like Alice, she was an attractive girl, she was now very unkempt and clearly hadn’t been looking after herself. Her slender frame looked thin and malnourished, and her long brown hair hung limp and lifeless around her shoulders. She was very pale, and her once-delicate features now looked gaunt, which seemed to deepen and accentuate her large brown eyes. Her gaze flickered back to mine.

‘Leah,’ I said gently. ‘I know how much you miss Alice, but you can’t see her here, love. You’ll get into trouble.’

She shrugged, despair and dejection replacing her previous anger. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘I need Alice. I love her.’

‘I know you do, and she loves you, lots. But you are going to have to do what your social worker and solicitor tell you and see Alice at supervised contact for now.
I can’t let you see her here. Really I can’t.’ I glanced towards the school gates, where other mothers were going in to collect their children. I knew if anyone mentioned that Leah was outside or a member of staff saw her, the school secretary would call the police – they couldn’t afford to take any chances. ‘You must try to cooperate and do as they say,’ I said again, although I didn’t know if Leah was thinking rationally enough to do so.

‘I can’t go to contact,’ she said, rubbing the back of hand over her forehead in a gesture of despair. ‘They want me to see Alice for an hour and then say goodbye. I can’t cope with that. I want Alice, I need her. She’s my life. I need to look after her. I promise I’ll be a good mother.’ Tears welled in her eyes. I felt so dreadfully sorry for her.

‘You were a good mother,’ I said, touching her arm. ‘I’ve told the social worker and your parents that. You brought up Alice beautifully; she is a credit to you. But you’re going to have to do as you are told now – cooperate with the social services and see Alice at contact. Trust me, it’s the only way forward.’

‘But can’t I just see her for a few minutes, now, please?’ Leah nearly begged. ‘I won’t cause a problem, I promise. I’ll just say hello and give her a kiss and a cuddle. I won’t make a fuss.’ My heart cramped; at times like this I hated my role as foster carer.

‘Leah, it’s not my decision, honestly, love. It’s your social worker and your solicitor you need to see. I can’t help you. Please don’t wait here for Alice to come out, because if you approach her I will have to tell your social
worker and call the police, and that won’t do anyone any good.’

She shrugged despondently as though she’d half guessed as much and clearly thought that in the ‘them and us’ situation I was one of ‘them’. I felt wicked stopping Leah from seeing her daughter, but realistically there was nothing I could do. I dearly hoped she would heed my warning and not approach Alice, for I would have to report her. ‘Leah, please try to do as I say,’ I said. ‘Alice needs to see you too – she misses you dreadfully – but you can’t meet her here. Go home, contact your social worker and solicitor, and say you want to see Alice at contact.’ It was the only advice I could give her.

As I looked at her a large tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand in the same gesture of despair.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, touching her arm again. ‘Please do as I say, for Alice’s sake. Go home or to your parents, but don’t wait here.’ Another tear fell, and another; then, completely defeated, she turned and walked away.

I watched her go and my heart ached. Although I was relieved she’d taken my advice and gone, and I knew I’d acted correctly and professionally, I felt no less wretched. I waited until she’d disappeared along the pavement and was out of sight before I crossed the road and went into the playground and towards the nursery. I sincerely hoped Leah wouldn’t return and wait outside, for if she did I would have no alternative but to call the police. With Alice with me I couldn’t do anything else; Leah was desperate and I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t try to snatch her daughter again.

In the nursery I greeted Alice, as I always did, with a bright, ‘Hi, have you had a good day?’ Usually Alice answered and chatted away about all the things she’d done at school. Sometimes she didn’t want to talk, and my question was met with a small nod, but that’s normal for most children at the end of a tiring day. Now Alice was very quite and pensive, silently slipping her hand into mine. As we walked across the playground towards the main gate, I was watching out for any sign of Leah. Outside, on the pavement, I looked over the road to the tree, and then up and down the street, but it was all clear. Nevertheless I hurried Alice across the road towards the car and was relieved once she was strapped in her seat and I was driving away. I would have to make a note in my log that I had met Leah, but I wouldn’t be drawing it to anyone’s attention. Alice hadn’t seen her mother and no harm had been done, so I felt justified in striking my meeting with Leah from my conscious recollection. And while I wanted nothing more than for Alice to see her mother again, it was essential that any contact took place in the safe confines of the family centre, where it would be supervised and monitored for Alice’s well-being.

I didn’t know if Alice had picked up my anxiety or had somehow sensed her mother had been close, but she was unusually quiet for the rest of the afternoon; even Adrian couldn’t raise a response when he offered her his palm for slapping and said ‘Give me five,’ which Alice usually loved. Then when I called everyone for dinner Alice sat at the table with her hands in her lap
and refused to eat anything. I encouraged and cajoled her to eat but without effect. When I asked her what was the matter she said resolutely, ‘If I can’t see my mummy I don’t want to eat anything ever again.’

And she kept it up for two days.

On the third day, nearly out of my mind with worry, I phoned Jill. ‘Alice is on a hunger strike,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t eaten a morsel for three days and says she won’t eat unless she can see her mother.’

‘Little madam,’ Jill said. ‘She certainly knows how to put the knife in!’ I knew what Jill meant: Alice couldn’t have chosen a more effective way to make her point, for, as I’d already found out with Lucy, nothing brings a parent or carer to their knees faster than a child refusing to eat. ‘Try not to make an issue of it,’ Jill advised. ‘Give her the meals as you usually do, and then clear away at the end. Check with the school and see if she’s eating her lunches.’

‘I have,’ I said, ‘and she’s not, which is why I’m so worried. She can’t go for much longer without anything to eat.’

‘But she’s drinking?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s more important. You can go for quite a few days without food but not without fluid. Look, Cathy, carry on as you have been doing – prepare her favourite foods, but keep it low key. Serve the meal, give Alice a reasonable length of time to eat it and then clear away. We’ll give it another couple of days, and if she still hasn’t eaten by the end of the week we’ll seek medical advice.’

‘Thanks, Jill,’ I said. It was at times like this – when I was in the middle of a crisis and too emotionally involved to view the situation dispassionately – that I really appreciated Jill’s advice and support.

‘I’ll phone tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Take care and try not to worry.’

I did as Jill suggested – made Alice’s favourite meals, allowed a reasonable time for her to eat it and then threw it (untouched) in the bin. Two days later, when Alice had gone five days without food, she began eating again, although even then I’m not convinced she would have done so without Lucy’s input. Dear Lucy, who had her own eating difficulties, and was aware what it felt like to be in foster care, identified with Alice in a way the rest of us couldn’t, and knew what to say. Leaning conspiratorially across the table as though she was letting Alice into a big secret, she whispered, ‘I’m not seeing my mum but I still eat. If you don’t eat, when it is time to see your mum you won’t be strong enough to go, and how sad would that be?’

From the corner of my eye I saw Alice pick up her knife and fork and start to eat. Before long her plate was empty and she was asking for more. I smiled a thanks to Lucy, and motioned for everyone not to say anything. For while we were all relieved that Alice was eating again, I didn’t want Alice thinking that refusing to eat resulted in lots of attention and praise, which was a short step to using food refusal as a tool for manipulation. But while Alice had started eating again and would continue to do so, it was as though something
had sealed itself in her mind, a resolute, almost morbid acceptance, and it wasn’t healthy.

The following morning she announced, quite matter-of-factly, ‘I haven’t got a mummy any more.’

I
t was a little after 9.30 a.m. on Saturday, and Paula,

Alice and I had just finished breakfast. Lucy had spent the night at her friend’s and I was going to collect her at 11.00, while Adrian had already left for football practice. Paula was upstairs in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Alice was helping me clear the breakfast things from the table when she made her announcement. I knew immediately she was feeling rejected.

‘Of course you have a mummy,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s just that it isn’t possible for you to see her at present. Think of all the happy memories you have of you and your mummy, and have a look at that lovely photograph on the shelf in your bedroom. Mummy is still out there, and she’s thinking of you.’

Alice concentrated on handing me the breakfast plate, which looked huge in her tiny hands, before she answered. ‘No,’ she said almost defiantly. ‘I don’t have a mummy, not any more.’

‘You do, love. She’s ill, and we’re hoping she’ll get better and be well enough to see you soon. I can
understand why you’re angry with her, but try not to blame her – you’ll make yourself unhappy.’

Alice shrugged and changed the subject, and I knew she hadn’t accepted what I’d said. I’d looked after children before who, for many reasons, had been unable to see their parents and, feeling rejected, dealt with it by rejecting the parent(s) to the point where they no longer existed. It was an understandable but unhealthy form of denial, and it was often very difficult to persuade the child out of it. It was especially difficult for Alice to accept being separated from her mother, for she was very young and had had a good relationship with her. I could only hope, as with so many losses, that given time, or when Alice began seeing her mother again, the damage done by the separation could be undone, although it would take patience and a lot of reassurance. But feeling that her mother had rejected her was only a short step away from Alice feeling the same rejection from her grandparents, whose contact with her was so limited.

That evening when we phoned her nana and grandpa, Alice was clearly set on punishing them by making them feel sorry for her.

‘I haven’t done anything all day,’ Alice said in a feeble voice when her nana asked her for her news and what she had been doing.

‘Nothing?’ her nana said. ‘You must have done something, Alice.’

‘No,’ Alice said, scowling. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Tell Nana about how we went to the park, and your new shoes,’ I encouraged.

But she didn’t. Alice sat beside me on the sofa, her face glum and her lips tightly shut against anything that might have been reassuring for her grandmother to hear, while her nana continued to talk and prompt Alice, trying to elicit some good news. After a while, when the most Alice had said was a grunted ‘No’ and I could hear Mrs Jones growing anxious, I took the phone from its cradle, cutting off the speaker, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jones, Alice is feeling rather rejected at present. I’ve been talking to her and have reassured her you love her very much, but I know she’s finding the separation very difficult.’

Mrs Jones was obviously concerned, and very disappointed that Alice didn’t want to talk to her, but she was also very understanding. She suggested she put on Grandpa. ‘Alice is sure to want to talk to him about the football,’ she said. ‘Did Alice watch it?’

‘Oh yes, and so did Brian the Bear.’

Mrs Jones gave a small laugh. ‘Thank you, Cathy. I’ll just fetch Martin.’

Before I returned the phone to speaker I said to Alice, ‘Your grandpa is coming to the phone. Please make sure you talk to him. It’s upsetting for your nana and grandpa if you don’t talk to them; they look forward to your phone calls.’

But of course upsetting them, and therefore punishing them for not seeing her more often, was exactly what Alice was doing. When Mr Jones came on the line and began talking about the football, the skill of a winning goal and how pleased Brian the Bear must
have been, he was met with the same stony silence and the occasional grunted ‘No’.

‘Alice, answer your grandpa,’ I said, but Alice was resolute in her withdrawal and punishment. Eventually I took the phone from its cradle and apologized to Mr Jones.

‘Is she all right?’ he asked, very concerned. ‘She sounds upset.’

‘She’s missing you both,’ I said. ‘But she’s had a good day. I’ll have another chat with her when we’ve finished. I think she’s blaming you and your wife for not seeing her more often. You have contact next week and I’m sure when she sees you she will be fine, but for now I think it’s probably best to end this phone call. I appreciate how upsetting it must be for you to hear her sounding so sad.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Mr Jones confirmed. ‘Can I just say goodnight to her?’

‘Of course.’

I returned the phone to its cradle. ‘Say goodnight to your grandpa,’ I said.

‘Goodnight, Alice, love,’ Grandpa said. ‘See you on Wednesday.’

Alice forced a very small and dejected, ‘Goodnight,’ and that was it – no kisses were sent or caught.

I said goodbye and, severing the line, turned to Alice: ‘Look, love, I know you’re hurting, but it isn’t nice to punish your nana and grandpa by not talking to them. It’s not their fault they can’t see you more often, and it must be very upsetting for them to listen to you sounding so sad. You’re not sad most of the time, are you? We’ve had a nice day.’

‘I am sad,’ Alice said. ‘You don’t know. I’m sad inside, but I don’t always tell you. I smile and laugh but inside I’m sad.’ Her face puckered and I put my arm around her and, drawing her to me, hugged her.

‘I do understand, love, honestly I do, but try not to hurt your nana and grandpa. It will just make you unhappy.’

First thing on Monday morning, after I’d taken Alice to nursery, I phoned Kitty. I asked her why Alice’s contact with her grandparents had been set so low, and if it was possible to increase it, as Alice was finding the separation more difficult to cope with the longer it went on. Kitty said contact had been set low in preparation for Alice going to live with her father and Sharon, which had been expected to take place within a month of Alice coming to me. She also said it would be inadvisable to increase the contact now, because if Alice went to live with her father (which was still the care plan) then contact with her grandparents would be reduced further – to about once a month, and then three times a year. I knew from looking after other children that this type of reduction in contact was usual, and was designed to encourage the child to bond with the family they were going to live with – that is, their permanent, forever family – and reduce their dependence on any previous family or care giver. All very well in theory, but it wasn’t always so easy in practice.

I also asked Kitty if she thought it was at all possible to establish some telephone contact between Alice and her mother if I carefully monitored it, and Kitty said it was something she was already considering. Kitty said she
had been trying to meet Leah so that she could assess if Leah was stable enough to have telephone contact and would know what was appropriate conversation if phone contact was started. It wouldn’t be appropriate, for example, for Leah to talk endlessly about how unhappy she was, criticize Chris or give Alice false hopes of her being able to live with her again. But to date Kitty hadn’t been able to meet Leah, as Leah had failed to keep the three appointments Kitty had set up. Although this wasn’t encouraging news, I felt that at least Kitty was on Alice’s case, was sensitive to Alice’s needs and was doing her best for Alice.

When Alice saw her nana and grandpa at contact the following Wednesday she immediately forgot her anger and ran into their arms. I had thought she would but I was nevertheless relieved and pleased, as were her grandparents. They had a lovely time although, as usual, an hour simply wasn’t long enough and all three were very sad at parting.

But while face-to-face contact with her grandparents remained very positive, the telephone contact continued to be variable. Sometimes Alice would chat happily to her nana and grandpa and at other times she refused to speak to them or answered a sombre ‘No’ to their questions. If Alice had been unresponsive I always spoke to Mr and Mrs Jones and reassured them that Alice was otherwise well and happy. They thanked me and said they understood, although I could hear the great sadness, loss and disappointment in their voices.

But more worrying than Alice refusing to speak to her grandparents on the phone was that Alice remained resolute in her assertion that she didn’t have a mummy; she even told her nana and grandpa she didn’t at one contact, which made them very upset. By then Alice had completely stopped talking about all the happy memories she had of her mother and indeed never mentioned her. Her mother’s photograph, which had sat at the front of the shelf, lost its favoured position and was now in a straight line with the photograph of her grandparents and the one of her father and Sharon – all having equal status at the back of the shelf.

I supposed that in terms of Alice transferring her affection from her mother and grandparents to her father and Sharon (as was intended by the limited contact and in line with the care plan) this ‘realignment’ could be viewed in a positive light, and might have been had the care plan been continuing as it was supposed to. But, perversely just as Alice’s attachment to her mother and grandparents might have been diminishing so that she would be in a better position to transfer her affection to those she was in regular contact with and would likely be going to live with, it was noted by the contact supervisor that ‘Sharon’s enthusiasm for Alice seems to be wearing thin.’

‘What do you mean “wearing thin”?’ I asked Kitty when she told me over the phone. ‘Alice isn’t a new toy where the novelty wears off.’

‘No, but that’s what the supervisor has noted. I suppose you can’t really blame Sharon, as it’s all been
going on for so long. Sharon had expected Alice to go and live with them months ago, and we’re still a way from that. Their parenting assessment isn’t complete yet, and I’m still waiting for the results of some other enquires I’ve made. I take it Alice hasn’t said anything to you about Sharon losing interest?’

‘No, but she has never talked much about her.’

‘I’m going to meet Chris and Sharon next week and see what’s going on. I’m also still trying to find out exactly what happened last August. Mr and Mrs Jones are adamant that Chris reappeared in Leah’s life and was responsible for getting her into drugs, which led to her breakdown. They claim he assaulted her. Chris denies it and says he saw Leah only once, and that was in the street. I wonder if it’s worth asking Alice what she remembers of last summer? She’s smart, and at her age she should have some recollection of a year ago. Do you think you could bring up the subject? Don’t push it if she seems reluctant or can’t remember.’

‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘Although I’m not sure how productive it will be. As you know, Alice refuses to talk about her mother now, even about the happy times.’

‘Try approaching it from another angle,’ Kitty said, thinking aloud. ‘Ask Alice if she remembers seeing her dad last summer. If she does, see if you can find out when, where and how often. I would ask her, but I’ve only been in her life a short while, and she trusts you.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘Thanks, Cathy. If Alice says anything that is relevant, can you write it down and send me a copy, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’

I didn’t hold out much hope of Alice telling me anything if it was connected with her mother. Alice was dealing with her pain and loss by burying all memory of her mother and the years she had lived with her. I didn’t see why mentioning her father would make a difference. But as it turned out, Alice was not only able to remember seeing her father the previous summer, but willing to tell me of the traumatic events that were to change the course of her life.