Fear of Falling

by Cath Staincliffe

  She’d been climbing on the jungle gym.

  ‘We’re going to go back and see Rita,’ I’d told her.

  She came down one of the ladders, lost her footing near the bottom and fell.

  I dashed to pick her up. She screamed, arching her back, thrashing her arms. She flung her head back, clouting me on the nose. Pain exploded through me, and a hot anger at being hurt.

  Rita had told us the only way to deal with an outburst was to give her space and wait it out.

  Flustered, I tried to sit Chloë in the pushchair but her spine was rigid.

  ‘Put her on the grass,’ Mac said. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  I sniffed and tasted copper in the back of my throat.

  I walked to the grass and laid her down. It was horrible watching her smack her head on the ground, hearing her scream and scream. Two women and their children were watching us from across the play park.

  Freya had tantrums when she’d stomp and wail but they usually dissolved into crying jags. She could cry for a long time, a whining, grizzling sort of crying. Bel would snap at her, ‘For Chrissake, Freya, give it a bloody rest. You’re driving me insane.’ And when that didn’t work Bel would try bribery.

  We had crouched at either side of Chloë, not too close to be oppressive, and waited. Now and then I said quietly, ‘It’s OK, Chloë, we’re here.’

  Gradually the bucking and the head-banging slowed, then stopped. The screams dwindled into cries. A few spasms shook her.

  ‘Here’s Snoopy.’ I handed her the stuffed toy. ‘We’ll go back to Rita’s now.’

  She didn’t answer but got upright and went to stand beside the pushchair.

  ‘Are you going to push?’ Mac said. ‘You going to push Snoopy?’

  She climbed into the pushchair, the toy on her lap.

  ‘Right, then,’ Mac had said. ‘Off we go.’

  Now Chloë clambered into our car and plumped herself into her car seat. Rita leaned in to fasten the straps.

  ‘Bye-bye,’ Rita said briskly, and shut the door. Watching in the wing mirror, I saw her turn and walk away, hands in her pockets, shoulders slumped.

  *

  At home we tried to keep things calm, very low key, knowing the experience of leaving her foster-home and joining us would be overwhelming enough for Chloë.

  ‘You hungry?’ I said, once we got in. ‘Let’s make you some toast.’

  A nod.

  ‘Good. Here’s the kitchen again. Here’s your chair. We’ll have some toast, then put your things in your room. And we’ve got The Tigger Movie to watch.’ We had the whole day planned out, a routine as similar as possible to the one she’d been used to. We’d brought Chloë’s pillow from Rita’s as well as her clothes. They all smelt strongly of that fabric conditioner. The familiarity might help her settle in so we wouldn’t wash anything until it really needed it.

  I cut the toast into fingers as we’d done at Rita’s. It had been strange, strained, doing those tasks in someone else’s house, with them offering advice and comments.

  Chloë took a bite of toast from one finger and left the rest. She drank her milk.

  She was silent throughout the film, though she reacted to the rhymes by nodding. Mac sat sketching some designs for work. Once or twice I saw her peeping at him.

  After tea, I ran her bath. We’d bought bath toys for her but I just got one out, a soft squashy turtle that made a whistling sound when you squeezed it.

  While Mac showed her that, I tried to get her undressed as efficiently as I could with as little touching as possible. She was tense, flinching each time I put my hands on her.

  ‘We need to lift you in now,’ I said. She took a step away, her back to me. I saw the wings of her shoulder blades, the little knots of her spine.

  ‘Shall I just go for it?’ I said to Mac.

  ‘Hang on.’ In the corner of the room there was a wooden box where we kept hot-water bottles. ‘This can be a step,’ Mac said.

  He pulled the box in front of the bath. Quick as a flash, Chloë stepped up and climbed into the bubbles.

  I knelt on the floor, reached into the bath and gave the turtle a squeeze. ‘It’s nice and warm in there,’ I said.

  She just sat there, showed no sign of wanting to play. Her face was grubby, smeared with food. ‘Chloë, here’s a little sponge, you wipe your face. Like this.’ I rubbed it on my own. ‘Wipe your nose and mouth.’

  She did, after a fashion, a dab here and there.

  ‘Well done. That’s very clever. Good girl. Nice clean face. That’s lovely. Out you come.’

  It was harder for her to climb out, she couldn’t raise her leg high enough.

  I put my hands out. ‘You hold my hands and I’ll swing you up and out.’

  She didn’t move. Would it be easier if I lifted her under her arms? Would she freak out? ‘Let’s count – one, two, three – and then I’ll lift you onto the box.’

  She gave a shiver. I could see her ribs, the veins that traced blue over her neck and shoulders.

  ‘Pass the towel,’ I said to Mac. I took it from him and draped it over my hands then said, ‘Here we go.’ Quickly I picked her up and swung her over the edge of the bath onto the box, then wrapped the towel all round her. ‘Let’s go find your pyjamas.’

  Once she was dressed, she got into bed. There was just room for me to sit next to her on top of the covers, Snoopy acting as an additional buffer between us.

  I read to her, Where’s Spot? Chloë looked absolutely shattered, her eyes hollowed out, daubs of blue beneath them, face pale.

  ‘You lie down now. We’ll leave the light on and the door open,’ I said. Chloë lay flat on her back, her hands clasped together under her chin.

  ‘I’m going to be downstairs with Daddy, and then we’ll go to sleep in our bed. If you want me you can come and find me or you can call me. Call Mummy and I’ll come. I’ll put your songs on, now.’ She had a CD of lullabies.

  ‘Night night, lovely girl,’ I said. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Downstairs Mac and I hugged wordlessly.

  ‘Wine?’ he said, when I pulled away. ‘Food?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  We’d made several meals to freeze ahead of time. Mac reheated a lamb and turnip dish in the microwave. While we ate we picked over the day, interpreting every incident, measuring it against our expectations and our fears.

  Mac showed me a sketch he’d done. ‘She’s like a little dandelion,’ he said. ‘Her hair all fluffed up.’

  He had captured perfectly that elfin face and tentative smile. He’d dressed her in a tawny gown with draped sleeves and fur around the cuffs. ‘That is gorgeous,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see if she’s asleep.’

  She was in the same position, eyes closed, breathing so softly I had to watch intently to see if she was moving. The CD had finished and I switched the player off.

  I watched her for a little while. My daughter.

  I really hadn’t expected to sleep that first night but I did drift off and started awake to the sound of Chloë crying.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said to Mac, who was stirring. I was the primary caregiver now. I had to be there whenever she needed me.

  She had turned onto her side and was pressed up against the wall.

  ‘Chloë, I’m here,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. Mummy’s here. You sound sad. I’ll stay with you.’ She kept crying, a deep, desolate weeping.

  I sat on the bed beside her, longing to hold her, to cradle her, to stroke her back and rock her in my arms. None of these things would comfort her so I sat and listened as she wept, my heart aching. And I wondered how I could ever show my love for her if I couldn’t cuddle her.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Adrian came to see how things were going. I told him about the crying.

  ‘She’s mourning,’ he told us. ‘I know it’s hard to hear but, if you think about it, it’s a natural response to what’s happening.’

  ‘And the touching. I can’t comfort he
r. Was she . . . was there any abuse?’

  ‘No. Not that we can establish.’

  ‘So there might have been?’ I was dismayed.

  ‘We don’t think so. Physical anxiety is also a sign of neglect, and we do know Chloë was neglected. All those normal developmental stages of bonding, of communicating and getting needs met, physical contact, eye contact, talking, singing – because they didn’t happen, her emotional wiring didn’t develop as it would for a baby who was properly parented. It’ll take time for your parenting and your love to help her heal. It’s early days, but she’s very young, young enough to learn all those things she missed out on.’

  While he talked, Chloë lay on her stomach on the floor, watching television. She had ignored Adrian, which made me feel slightly better. Not just me, then. A twinge of guilt followed the thought. It wasn’t about me, none of this was supposed to be about me, but it was hard to hold onto that at times.

  ‘To some degree it’s also about control,’ Adrian said. ‘Chloë had no control over anything. She was completely helpless so anything that threatens her sense of being in control is very frightening for her.’

  When he left, Chloë ran into the hall and sat by the door.

  ‘I think she wants to go with him,’ I said to Mac. ‘She probably thinks he’ll take her back to Rita.’

  I tried to explain: ‘Adrian has gone back to work. You’re staying here with Mummy and Daddy. We’ll have some dinner soon, watch The Tigger Movie again after.’ She kept her vigil for over an hour, rocking a little, Snoopy at her side. I kept the kitchen door open so I could see her and she could see me while I tidied round.

  Mac had gone upstairs, taking the opportunity to shower and shave.

  There was knocking at the front door and Chloë scrambled to her feet.

  It was a delivery, a huge bouquet. I took the flowers, closed the door and Chloë screamed. She flung herself down, her face reddening and furrowed. She hit her head against the skirting board. I was terrified she’d crack her skull. I felt hot and sick. I dropped the flowers and grabbed her feet, pulling her away from the wall. She kept screaming and banging her head.

  Mac appeared at the top of the stairs in a towel. ‘You OK?’

  I waved him away. I sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, saying, ‘I’m here. Mummy’s here,’ every so often.

  My teeth were forced together, my jaw aching. A voice in my head was willing her to shut up. I yearned to walk out, to escape, just wanting it to stop.

  When the screams weakened and the thump of her head on the carpet stopped, I said, ‘Time for dinner, Chloë. We’ve got some chocolate pudding, too, for afters.’

  She sat up, her eyes swimming with tears, snot thick under her nose.

  ‘Wipe your nose.’ I reached out with a tissue.

  She jerked away.

  ‘Can you do it?’ I held out the tissue. She wouldn’t take it, just wiped the back of her hand across her face smearing the mucus over her cheek and her hair.

  I wanted to laugh. Or weep. ‘You’re a funny little thing. Come on, then.’ She trotted into the kitchen and climbed up into her chair.

  ‘Hello, Dandelion,’ Mac said. ‘Toast coming up and we have jam or honey. Have a taste?’ He put a smidge of jam on a spoon. ‘Try that, Chloë.’

  I sat down, my stomach gurgling with hunger.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ Mac said to me. ‘Soup? Cream of chicken?’

  ‘Great,’ I said, trying to keep the exhaustion and tension out of my voice. Was that right? I knew keeping calm was important, but hiding my own feelings?

  ‘And this is honey.’ Mac passed another spoon to Chloë.

  ‘Who sent flowers?’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ They were still in the hall. I went to fetch them. It was a luxurious bunch. White roses and stiff stems of lilac sea lavender, sweet-smelling purple stocks, some sort of thistles, pink daisies, ferns and grasses.

  I opened the card, read aloud: ‘“Congratulations and welcome to little Chloë. Love from Bel and Freya. PS Stock up on the Calpol and gin. You’re going to need it.”’

  ‘Make a change from a Bloody Mary,’ Mac said, buttering the toast. ‘I’m not sure Calpol works as well as tonic water, mind. Now, Chloë, jam or honey?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Both. Grand. Half and half.’

  It was only day two. It was just midday. And I felt like weeping with tiredness. I looked at her, the tear-streaked face, a patch of hair stuck with snot, holding the toast in her fine little fingers. Looking sideways at me, like some wild creature. Her eyes haunted. My daughter.

  When Chloë had been with us for three months we applied to get an adoption court order. It would make the adoption legal, permanent, giving us all the rights and responsibilities of parents.

  Adrian came to meet me at the community farm where I took Chloë every Tuesday morning with my mum. ‘I wanted to tell you in person,’ he said. ‘Debbie’s contesting the adoption.’

  I felt a jolt of alarm, like electricity under my skin. ‘No!’

  ‘It’s not uncommon,’ Adrian said. ‘Birth-parents want to show they’re doing all they can to keep the child, fighting for them, even if everyone accepts that adoption is the best option.’

  We were sitting on a bench in the sunshine, an Indian summer. I watched Chloë follow a hen that was foraging for food. She was fascinated by the animals, the pigs particularly, wrinkling her nose at the smell, even tolerating being picked up to see over the wall into the sty.

  Tuesday was the quietest time. Chloë couldn’t cope well with crowds, with strangers and unpredictability. Sometimes I wouldn’t realise how much stress she had been in until we got home and then she’d explode. At others the meltdown came in public. The shrieking, the head-banging, the rolling on the floor. Some people mistook it for a fit, asked if it was epilepsy.

  ‘Could Debbie win?’ I said.

  ‘Surely not,’ my mum said.

  ‘Extremely unlikely,’ Adrian said. ‘It will delay things while there’s a reassessment by her social worker but you really needn’t worry.’

  Adrian asked about the tantrums.

  ‘I’m getting a bit better at spotting when she’s overloaded. She becomes frozen, a blank expression. Like she’s shutting down. But she’s actually building up to an outburst. And I’m better at avoiding difficult situations but we’re still having rages almost every day.’

  ‘And the crying?’

  ‘Most nights. Sometimes she’ll wake and come into our room. We’ve a cot mattress on the floor there now. She comes in and she’ll go to sleep but often she wakes again and cries. Not for as long.’

  The hen flapped its wings and flew up onto the fence. Chloë watched it from a distance.

  ‘None of them get any sleep,’ my mum said.

  ‘Mac does, if he goes and sleeps on the floor in her room. We’ve a mattress there too.’ I shook my head.

  ‘It’s worth one of you getting some rest,’ Adrian said. ‘It can grind you down.’

  ‘I wait for him to get in from work, I watch the clock. He comes in the door and he knows the rest of the evening he’s in charge,’ I said.

  With the hen out of the way, a pair of sparrows alighted, pecking at the ground, cocking their heads at each sound or vibration, taking flight as Chloë turned back to watch them. She’s like the sparrows, I thought, needing space, everything a threat. On high alert all the time, hyper-tense, heart beating fast and light like theirs.

  ‘You’re making progress,’ Adrian said. ‘I know you probably feel it never gets any easier but baby steps are all we can hope for.’

  ‘She sat on my knee last week,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t believe it. I think she’d almost forgotten it was me, just treated me like a chair. She was busy playing this little harmonica and she just hauled herself up on me. I didn’t move an inch.’ I knew if I put my arms round or shuffled her closer or anything she might throw a tantrum. ‘She blew some notes and slid off. I keep waiting for it
to happen again.’

  ‘It will,’ he said.

  Adrian went over to say goodbye to Chloë. He held his hand out flat, sometimes she would pat an open palm. Today she ignored him.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said as he left us. ‘As soon as we hear. And, honestly, there is nothing to worry about.’

  A mother with a baby in a buggy and a toddler at her side, a boy who looked a year or so older than Chloë, came into the farmyard.

  The boy ran up to Chloë, shouting something, some game he was playing. Chloë stilled. I went over as quickly as I could. ‘Come on, Chloë, time for dinner.’ I smiled at the mother, who looked a little affronted but I didn’t have time to explain – if we don’t go now my daughter just might destroy your morning.

  ‘Chloë. Come on, Grandma’s waiting. Chloë.’

  She ran then, over to my mum, and got into the pushchair. Crisis averted.

  ‘How is she with Bel’s little one?’ my mum asked.

  ‘It’s like that.’ I nodded back towards the boy. ‘They won’t play together. Freya’s very keen. Too keen sometimes. She doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Ah, they’re still very young. I remember Steven was very much off on his own, till school really. Then he was thick as thieves with Matthew. Do you remember Matthew Ollershaw?’

  ‘No.’ The comparison really didn’t help. I’m sure it was intended to reassure, finding parallels, but it actually annoyed me. I’d noticed it with other people too, with Bel and Pattie. Why couldn’t they see that Chloë’s rages were not the same as the tantrums Freya had, that her crying at night couldn’t be equated to Pattie’s son teething?

  Look at her, I wanted to say. She was left in a cot in a cold room on her own for hours on end. When she cried, no one came. When she was hungry, no one fed her. When she was dirty, she was left like that. Then she’s taken away from everything she knows and moved to foster-care. She’s getting used to that and we take her away again. She’s lost everything. She can’t trust anyone. When she cries or screams now, she has all that to cry about.