by Casey Watson
He met my enquiring gaze with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Then lowered his own gaze. ‘I can’t go back to that place.’
I made a mental gear change. I’d obviously touched a nerve with him now. Because this was definitely not the response I’d expected.
I sat down on the bed and patted the space beside me. He climbed on to join me. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘no one’s going to make you go back there. Not back to your old home. We wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll be going to Mrs Gallagher’s – your auntie Maureen’s. She’s looking forward to seeing you. I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said again. ‘Aren’t you looking forward to seeing her again?’
Now he nodded. Picked at the duvet cover. ‘I s’pose.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
‘I just can’t go back there.’ There were tears in his eyes now. And had it been physically possible, I could have kicked myself. As it was, I could only berate myself, soundly. Of course he was stressed about going back to his old life. To all the sights, sounds and feelings – to igniting memories he was so keen to forget. Because he wasn’t like his siblings, was he? He had all his other challenges. And it really hit me now that, in all the weeks we had cared for him, he’d said almost nothing before this – not to us, not to Colin – either about his siblings or his mother. All we knew for sure was that a ‘bad man’ had scared him and hurt him. That he had, briefly, had a puppy. That he had developed a deep need for his ‘dog cage’. Of his human family, on the other hand, he had told us precisely nothing. They had been the elephant in the room that we’d always stepped around. When the time came, and he was assessed by CAMHS, and (hopefully) allocated a counsellor, they would no doubt make gentle steps to confront that particular element. But for the time being, if Sam didn’t want to talk about his old life then it was central to my job that I not try and make him. To take my lead from him, rather than lead him into choppy emotional waters.
And, here, for only the second time, he seemed to be dipping a toe in.
‘Can you tell me why, Sam?’
In answer, he didn’t speak at first, but snuggled up against my chest. I put my arms around him, feeling his hot little hands against my back. ‘Please let me come with you and Mike,’ he whispered. ‘Please. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good. I don’t want to go nowhere. And you have to look after me.’ His voice began to rise now. ‘You can’t send me away. It’s your job!’
He certainly picked his moment to understand that I had one. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, shocked by the urgency of his pleading, ‘you’re not going back there. You’ll be staying with your auntie Maureen, like I said. And she told me you used to go and stay with her all the time. That you used to love it. She said you really loved her lemon buns – so she’s going to make some for you specially. She’s –’
He pulled back. ‘But you’re not supposed to. You’re supposed to look after me. I’ll be a good boy, I promise. I could call you Mummy, if you like, so no one will even know I’m not your real kid. Please let me come.’
I leaned back too, touched by both the gesture and the logic. ‘Sam, love, can you tell me why you don’t want to see your auntie Maureen?’
‘I do want to see her,’ he said, crying now. ‘But I told you. I can’t go back!’
He scrambled off the bed then, out of the room, and across the landing to his own room. The door slammed. Then silence. I got up and followed him. What on earth?
I knocked softly on the door. ‘Sam?’
‘Go away! I hate you!’ came the answer.
My thoughts floundering, I hovered at the door for a few moments in case I heard evidence of things being thrown around. I really didn’t know what to make of it all. Was this connected to his autism? No, I doubted it. More likely – most likely – simply a fear of returning. Which was, after all, a perfectly rational response. We had probably been naïve in imagining he’d be okay with it. To be so close to the place where he’d been abused by this nameless ‘bad man’ would, after all, be an enormous challenge for him.
I headed back downstairs, deep in thought, having a major rethink on what we’d organised. I’d clearly been labouring under a misapprehension. That to spend time with his neighbour – who, admittedly, he didn’t seem to have any issue with – would, or at least could, become a positive in his life.
Instead it seemed as if the idea had plunged him off a new emotional cliff. He’d been coping with his traumas by living completely in the moment, and here we were, trying to force him back to the horrors of the past. Perhaps we needed to think again.
But with less than forty-eight hours to go, what were the chances of finding alternative care for him? And even if we did, wouldn’t dumping him with a stranger (which is how he’d see it, no question) just make everything one hundred per cent worse? No, it seemed to me that we had only two choices now. Either we took him to the wedding with us, or I stayed at home. Which I’d obviously have to run past Mike once he was home.
Though I already knew what his thinking would be. So while Sam stayed in his room – where I was happy to leave him, given that he had a lot to try and process – I went rootling in the spare room for something smart for him to wear.
But if I’d been surprised by Sam’s reaction (albeit less so once I’d thought about it) I was even more surprised, when he appeared later that afternoon, by just how much thinking he had clearly been doing as well.
Tyler was home by now, and the pair of us were sitting in the kitchen, having a catch-up about the vagaries of our respective days.
‘Alright, mate?’ Tyler said to Sam as he hovered in the kitchen doorway.
‘Cool,’ Sam replied, then turned immediately to me. ‘Casey,’ he asked, ‘if I go to auntie Maureen’s, how many stars will I earn?’
His look was open and guileless, and because the question was so unexpected, I dithered for a bit before deciding how best to answer. This was such a U-turn and I wasn’t sure quite where it had come from. Or, more importantly, where it might be headed. The last thing I wanted was to drag him there against his will, if to do so would set him back emotionally.
‘Hmm …’ I said, pretending to calculate, but I dithered so long that Tyler clearly felt obliged to answer for me. It was only a matter of seconds but they had obviously seemed to stretch.
‘Oh, a lot, I should think,’ he said. ‘Ten, you reckon, Mum? Twenty? What’s the plan, mate?’ he added. ‘Are you saving stars for something special?’
Sam nodded. ‘But it’s a secret.’ He looked at me once again. ‘And Casey,’ he added, ‘if I go to auntie Maureen’s, can it just be for the daytime? So I’m not gone too long? Maybe Sampson could collect me and bring me home again? I’ll be a good boy till you’re back again, I promise.’
Home again. It made my heart melt. But what was this all about? And was that the answer? To bite the bullet and just drive up and back on the day? I’d yet to speak to Mike, of course, but I’d pretty much decided now that Sam would simply come with us after all. That I’d ask the B&B we’d booked into if they had a put-you-up bed he could sleep on, next to Tyler.
‘Love, we can’t leave you home alone. And, you know, I thought you could perhaps come with us after all. I have to speak to Mike, but –’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll be a good boy and go to auntie Maureen’s, and earn lots of stars.’
He really had thought all this through. He was bargaining with me.
‘Well, as I say, love, I’ll have to speak to Mike,’ I said. ‘Let’s see when he gets home, shall we?’
He nodded. Emphatically. Straight-backed, like a little soldier. ‘It’s fine,’ he said again. ‘Auntie Maureen will look after me.’
‘Of course she will,’ I agreed.
‘And I’ll be good, and she’ll play with me. She likes playing with me. She has painting stuff and dinky cars and Lego and all sorts.’ And with that li
ttle pronouncement, he trotted across the kitchen. ‘Look, Tyler,’ he said, ‘have you seen how many stars I’ve got? And now I’m going to earn even more. Are there any difficult jobs for me to do, Casey?’
Sam loved his ‘difficult’ jobs – particularly sorting the recycling. But I wasn’t quite so keen on the difficult job I had myself. To decide whether to take Sam at his word. It was just gone eight, and growing dark, and as I pulled the living-room curtains, I was still trying to fathom what was happening in Sam’s head. What had changed. Because something clearly had. Since he’d made his pronouncement, he’d become really chatty about auntie Maureen, describing the games they’d played, the songs they’d sung, the TV programmes they’d watched together, the fairy cakes they’d made and the deliciousness of her lemon buns. Had having time to reflect made him realise he missed her? Had that overridden his fear of re-visiting a place that was so close to his former home?
But then there were the stars, and the secret. I really didn’t know what to make of it.
‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it either,’ Mike said, rubbing a hand over his stubble. ‘He clearly has a plan on, but what? And why? What’s his motivation? Perhaps we should just forget the whole thing and take him with us after all.’
‘I wish I could decide what’s best,’ I said. ‘Because he really seems keen to go now. I’m just really anxious now about him being away from us overnight. What if he has one of his night terrors? I think I might call Christine tomorrow. And maybe Colin, too. Get their perspective on it.’
‘I doubt they’ll have anything to offer that we haven’t already considered, love. It’s your instinct I trust, so whatever you decide is fine by me. And I’m genuinely happy to go up and back in a day if you decide that’s best.’ He grinned. ‘Look on the bright side, it’ll spare the kids the embarrassment of my dad-dancing, won’t it? And it’ll spare you one of your epic Prosecco headaches. And don’t look at me like that. Because that’s exactly what you will have.’
He was right. I rarely drank, so when I did, I always suffered. And I knew my sister would egg me on, too. ‘Or maybe we do just take him.’
‘As I say, it’s up to you, love. On recent evidence, for what it’s worth, I think he’ll be fine at the wedding. When was the last time we had a meltdown? As in a major-maelstrom meltdown? And I don’t for a minute think Donna will mind if he tags along. Nor Chloe – unless she’s come from a completely different planet, she’ll be on Planet Bride, so, chances are, she’ll barely notice he’s there.’
By the time I woke up on Friday morning, I was pretty much decided. I’d feel happier if we simply took Sam with us. But would it mean him missing out on a great opportunity? Because I truly felt a continuing relationship with Mrs Gallagher could be good for Sam. I also knew it might help preserve another connection. An even more important one: that with his siblings, something I’d been thinking about a lot.
I knew the official line would remain the same till Sam was formally assessed – that he was so unstable, and violent, that they were better off without him. And possibly he them – after all, he was down as query autistic, and, as night followed day, there would be an automatic assumption that he’d find it hard to form attachments, and that he might end up in residential care anyway.
But once they saw the progress he’d made, they would surely rethink. It might not make a huge difference – it was likely that, at some stage, they would both be adopted; they were both still young enough, anyway – and if that happened the council would have no control over whether a relationship with Sam would continue. But it was surely worth fighting for, wasn’t it? And all the time he was in foster care, it would still be on the table. And, in Mrs Gallagher, there was an ongoing link which might otherwise cease to exist.
I said as much to Christine when I called her to update her on developments.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Which is why I think you should stick with Plan A. Yes, it’s obviously going to be stressful for him, but perhaps confronting things will help him to open up a bit more. By the way, I was going to email you – there’s been a smidge of a development. As in a drug dealer who is already known to the police, who they’ve established used to supply Mrs Gough with cannabis.’
‘So she was definitely doing drugs, then?’
‘Seems so. A late admission that has come as a surprise to precisely no one. Which is not to say she doesn’t have long-standing mental health issues, because she does. But it does call into question her honesty. Anyway, it’s obviously your call, Casey. I can’t make the decision for you. But if Sam says he’s happy to go to Mrs Gallagher, I’d let him. Linda says she’s been a definite force for good for the other little ones, and I’m sure she will be for Sam too.’
No vacillating there, then. So perhaps I was just being over-anxious. And neither was there from Sam. He still wanted to go to Mrs Gallagher, no question.
‘I know,’ he said, after breakfast, while he was helping me load the dishwasher. ‘I should do her a painting. She loves my paintings.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘I bet she’d really love that.’
So we got out my art box and he spent half the morning creating a picture for her – of him, Luna and Flame in the park. And as the day unfolded, and his mood remained sunny and cheerful, I began to set aside my concerns about that first, distressed reaction. Though since Mike had offered, and I knew myself well, I did make the decision to confine our trip to the wedding day itself. Yes, it would be a long one, but the days were longer too now, so it wasn’t as if we’d have to drive all the way home in the dark. Plus, Mike was right: I didn’t need a Prosecco headache right now.
And I felt vindicated when I tucked Sam up in bed that night; a routine which, as is the way of such things, by now had its own unique order of events. First, a story, then a hug, then the actual tucking. Always super-tight, because Sam loved to be tightly tucked in – ‘Like a sausage in a roll!’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, when I told him he’d be going on a day trip rather than a sleepover. ‘Because you’re definitely the best tucker-in, ever.’
‘I have a certificate in tucking-in,’ I said as I kissed him on the forehead. ‘With an actual gold star.’
He smiled sleepily at me. Then floored me completely. ‘Casey,’ he said, as I got up to leave the bedroom, ‘you know that thing I said about calling you Mummy yesterday? So, like, people wouldn’t know I wasn’t your proper boy?’
‘Yes, love,’ I said, feeling a familiar achey feeling.
‘Can I call you Mummy anyway? Just, like, for normal stuff as well?’
This, of course, was the sixty-four-million-dollar question. The local authority view – as you’d expect – was that we should tread carefully if this came up, as it was dangerous territory. Certainly, though they’d turn a blind eye, they’d never officially condone it. I also knew from personal experience; ‘Mummy’ is such a powerful word, after all, and for a child to ask if they can use it speaks volumes.
So, more often than not, I would happily agree to it, while pointing out, where appropriate, that the child already had a mummy, even if they weren’t living with them anymore. For some kids, it was a big deal for pragmatic reasons – they’d feel less different if they could refer to you as Mum at, say, the school gate.
In others, however, it was an expression of need. They wanted to call you Mum because they felt so insecure. Because, in a time of great upheaval, it represented stability. It was also, more often than not, an expression of trust. And trust was a very precious commodity.
What to say, then? To this child who would one day all too soon be moving on from us? Though to where? Till he was fully assessed, I couldn’t even guess, much less know. And right now, I was happy keeping him for myself. One thing was clear though: I wasn’t his mum, nor would I ever be. Yet, how could I refuse him such a simple, heartfelt request?
With no answ
er to that question, I could only respond to him on instinct.
‘Yes, sweetie,’ I whispered. ‘Of course you can.’
Chapter 20
Sam looked every inch the intrepid adventurer when we set off the next morning. He’d dressed in several layers, despite it already being warm, and accessorised his get-up with his Spider-Man backpack, and a new addition – something I’d not seen on him yet – a slightly too big Jurassic Park baseball cap.
‘You expecting a run-in with a T-Rex, mate?’ Tyler asked him, grinning, as Sam marched into the kitchen ready for the off.
‘I like to be prepared,’ Sam told him, his expression serious. I looked up from where I was finishing off a bit of last-minute wrapping (our wedding gift for Chloe and her fiancé having only arrived the previous day). Seeing Sam’s face took me straight back to the evening he’d arrived on our doorstep, and it occurred to me that this was almost as much of a big deal for him – it would be the first time I’d left him for more than a couple of hours since he’d come to us.
‘Don’t forget your painting for your auntie Maureen,’ I reminded him. ‘Well, assuming there’s any room left. What on earth have you got in there?’
‘Extra clothes,’ Sam told me. ‘In case I get messy. And a couple of books, in case I get bored.’
‘I doubt you’ll have time to get bored with all the fun things I know are in store for you,’ I said, ‘but you’re right, being prepared is always sensible. Here, tell you what, love, why don’t I roll it up for you? I’ve got a bit of raffia ribbon here that we can tie it up with, as well.’
I rummaged in my wrappings box and found a length of discarded yellow ribbon, and between us we soon had the painting neatly tied with a bow.
‘There,’ I said. ‘It should slide into the side pocket now.’ But Sam shook his head. ‘I’ll carry it separately. I don’t want it to get all crumpled on the journey.’
Tyler rolled his eyes. ‘Mate, I totally feel your pain,’ he said, a touch more dramatically than was strictly warranted. ‘I’ve got to do a hundred and fifty miles in the back of Dad’s car, and then spend the whole day in a horrible itchy suit. Wish I could go with you, to be honest – I reckon you’re going to have a blinder of a day.’