by Casey Watson
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t thinking that long term. I get that. I was just thinking for now.’
‘But that’s not fair on Sam. I don’t need to tell you that.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Because it would just make it all the harder when he did need to move on. No, it’s a new family for Sam, without delay.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I thought of Sam and how he wanted to call me Mummy. How quickly it could seem as if this was his forever home. How hard it was going to be for him to understand why he must leave us. How hard the whole bloody kit and caboodle of it all – of saying goodbye to him – was going to be for me.
‘So, going back to what I was saying,’ Christine said, with Mary Poppins-like briskness, ‘you see what a predicament we are all in? Neither CAMHS nor any school will even consider seeing him until he’s in his long-term placement and settled there. It would be pointless to do any of that till then, as you know. And, besides, there’s still the small possibility that he won’t be in this area, in which case he’d need to be assigned to a whole new team.’
‘So he might lose Colin too?’ I asked. Though it wasn’t really a question. Unless they found a home locally, of course he’d lose Colin. And would they find him somewhere locally? Unlikely. There were so many kids needing forever homes, and so few forever homes available. Try as I might – and I did – to avoid politics, you’d have to be living under a rock to avoid knowing that, increasingly, the numbers didn’t work. For some, fostering challenging children long term was a vocation. But not for enough. So chances were that he’d be spirited away, far away. That was just the way it was.
‘Yes,’ Christine said. ‘He might lose Colin. But maybe not. I really hope not. And so does he.’
Now it was my turn to gape. ‘So he’s in on this too? And what is this? Have you someone in mind yet?’
Her expression changed again. Was she toying with me? ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘I hope probably.’
‘As in who?’
‘As in a couple who are currently considering it as an option.’
‘Already?’ I was obviously as far out of the loop as it was possible to be.
‘Already. Which is where you come in. I met with them yesterday. Lovely couple. With an “in for a penny in for a pound” mindset.’ Now she leaned forward. ‘Casey, they’re the couple who are caring for Sam’s siblings.’
If Christine had had a moustache I was sure she would have twirled it. As it was she didn’t, so instead she simply lifted one hand, crossed her fingers and grinned at me.
‘I had a cunning plan,’ she explained. ‘And it might just come off. They’ve been fully briefed and they’re certainly up for giving it a go. So, first a visit, then a couple of sleepovers, obviously, then –’
‘Hang on. Hang on. You mean this has already been put in place?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No, not quite. They were going to have him in the first place, don’t forget.’
‘How exactly could I forget something I didn’t know?’
‘Oh, yes, that had been the plan. When the children were removed they were primed to take all three of them. They’re childless, sadly. Keen to make a family. Always happy to be considered for a sibling placement. It was never their decision to leave Sam out of the equation; that was our call, following the younger ones’ distress at him going with them. Hence Steve and Kelly having to step in. And you know what he was like then – more than I did. More than they did. Hindsight is wonderful, but at the time of his removal, remember, it was genuinely thought that he was so mentally unstable, so feral, that no home environment would work for him.’ She smiled. ‘Casey, I don’t think you realise just how far you’ve come with him. And now we know what we know, it changes everything, doesn’t it? He should be with his siblings.’
‘Obviously,’ I agreed. ‘Of course he should be with them. That was one of the reasons I was happy for him to go to Maureen Gallagher’s. So there was a chance that he could still have some contact. Wow,’ I said. ‘Genuinely. I’m almost lost for words.’
‘No words required,’ she said. ‘You know what I said the other day about how quickly things can change in this game?’
I sure did. That was how we got Sam in the first place. Not the troubled teen we’d been expecting. Not the mini-break. Sam. And as suddenly as he’d come to us he’d be leaving us?
It seemed so.
‘Well, there you have it,’ Christine said as – ugh – she gulped down the last of her cold tea. ‘So brace yourself. Because this here is what’s known as the game changer.’
Chapter 25
When Christine left, I spent a few minutes back at the table, just sitting. Reflecting on the tornado that had swept me up all those weeks back and whisked me off, tossed and buffeted, to Planet Sam. That’s so often how it goes, particularly with a child who needs your all. You put your life on hold for a bit – how long had it been now, just shy of four months? And then, at some point, you are dropped back down to earth.
I don’t know why it felt like such a bump on this occasion, because I knew this was exactly how it often happened. Had happened to me, before, certainly, when something seismic changed the game – the ying to the yang of the other kind of parting; where a child was moved on in gentle stages, to a new forever family, and we all had time and space to adjust to that change.
Not so in this case. But in one of the best ways – Sam reunited with his siblings. A new Sam, a happier Sam, a Sam who’d been unburdened. A Sam who I didn’t doubt, once the plan was set before him, would embrace it unreservedly and, even if he did fret about leaving us for a bit, would immediately feel the benefits of having his family restored to him. No, not his mother, but his kin, his blood brother and sister. And if I believed anything was set in stone – well, as much as it could be in the complicated world of human relationships – it was that the bond between brothers and sisters was one of the bedrocks of a person’s security. They could depend upon it into adulthood, and way, way beyond. Just as it always comforted me to know so could Riley and Kieron. Yes, they had their own family units now, and those were obviously sacrosanct, but that bond between them would never break; they would be there for each other always – including the time in their lives when Mike and I were long gone.
So though I felt a little shell-shocked that the fostering rug had been pulled out from under me so suddenly, I couldn’t be anything less than thrilled for our tornado child.
Which was not to say that I didn’t feel a smidgen of pique about everything. I knew it was what it was – my role was to look after Sam, day to day, and theirs was to decide what was best for him – but though I accepted that my input was a big part of that (those endless three-page daily emails that were my forte) it still rankled that, when it came to it, I didn’t get a seat at the big table, and be in on the strategy-deciding stage.
So I did what I always did in moments of such irritation. I called Mike at work and had a bit of a moan.
‘But, love, this is great news,’ Mike told me. Irritatingly. ‘It’s the best outcome imaginable. There is not a single downside.’
I agreed. But I didn’t say that. ‘Well, unless it doesn’t work out,’ I pointed out. ‘And he’s brought back to us, all dejected and angry again.’
‘Love, you know that’s not going to happen. Why on earth would it? Sam’s a changed kid. Already was, even before everything came out. You’ve done wonders. We’ve done wonders. The programme has done wonders. What on earth makes you think it will all go tits up now? Yes,’ he went on, before I had a chance to rummage around for an answer, ‘if he was being moved on to a new family, that would be a consideration, because he’d obviously feel, yet again, that he’d been abandoned with strangers. But that’s not the case, is it? He’s going back to his own family. Yes, unfamiliar carers, but living sid
e by side with his own flesh and blood. I think he’s going to thrive, I really do.’
‘I know,’ I conceded. ‘It is the best outcome. I just wish they’d run it by me first.’
‘Because it’s knocked you for six,’ he said. ‘Because you thought we’d be hanging on to Sam for a bit longer. But mostly because of FOMO.’
‘What?’
‘Fear of missing out,’ he began.
‘Mike, I know what FOMO means, thank you very much.’
‘Then you should recognise it in yourself, love. You just can’t bear not being consulted.’
‘Justifiably – who exactly has been doing all the hard work here?’
Mike burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you’re priceless,’ he said, a tone that was far too jaunty. ‘Love, you’re not the queen of the kingdom! You can’t be at the centre of every universe. I tell you what – I should give you my PowerPoint presentation. So you can understand management structures, deployment of resources, chains of comm–’
‘Right, that’s it!’ I huffed. ‘Now I’m going to put the phone down.’
Mike blew me a kiss. ‘Love you!’ he sang.
I put the phone down, feeling much better. I knew it would do the trick.
Because Kieron and Sam hadn’t yet returned from their football, I then took the opportunity to call Colin for a debrief. (See, Mike, I thought, I already know all your management jargon.) Not so much because I needed to particularly, more that I could put my marker down. After all, it was me who’d mostly be in charge of the process – more jargon – ‘on the ground’.
But it seemed I was wrong there as well. ‘Ah, hi Casey,’ he said. ‘Were your ears burning or something? I’ve just come off the phone to Christine, and she’s filled me in on your meeting. So I was thinking I could come over for a bit – perhaps tomorrow? – so we can tell Sam the good news, and get it organised ASAP. Jim and Debbie are pretty cool with early next week. Even the weekend, if it doesn’t interfere with any plans.’
‘“Jim and Debbie”?’
‘As in “Jim and Debbie, the new carers”.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I said quickly. Thinking ‘harrumph’, and more. ‘Um, well, yes. Yes, that’s fine. Do you want to take him off somewhere to talk, then?’
‘No, not at all. I was thinking we could tell him together. Maybe take him to the park? Maybe with Flame? Would your neighbour be okay with that? Or maybe to that pub again? As a treat? I really don’t mind. It’s your call, this. You’re the boss.’
Finally, I thought, reining my ‘harrumphs’ in just a little. ‘I wish,’ I said. ‘But yes, either of those ideas is fine. As for the visit, I’m pretty free. Will these be at family centre initially?’
‘Yes, the first one will, of course. But we’re hoping we can get him round there sooner rather than later. No point dragging things out. Full immersion as soon as practicable, really. But you don’t need to worry,’ he added. ‘I’ll be doing all of that.’
‘You’ll be taking him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want me to?’ I asked, not adding ‘because that’s what usually happens’.
‘No, no, I’m going to. It seemed best, given the circumstances. I’ll obviously be continuing with him, so we felt it best that I support him through this process.’
Which I absolutely agreed with, but couldn’t quite say. God, I thought, I’m actually feeling jealous here.
‘Yes, of course it is,’ I managed eventually.
‘What’s supernumerary?’ Sam asked. ‘Is it a superhero power or something?’
It was the following afternoon, and we were indeed in the local park. We’d both felt that, since it was such a gorgeous sunny day, it would be nigh on criminal to be sitting at a table, in the dark, by a big indoor play area. Open space was the thing. Room for Sam and Flame to play.
And now he’d rocked up, just as Colin and I were having another, more thoughtful debrief. And I’d surprised myself by opening up to him – this lad half my age – about the feelings that came with the ending of a placement, especially when an end, even if a good end, turned up so suddenly. ‘It’s just that difficult feeling of going from being at the centre of everything to suddenly being no longer needed,’ I’d mused.
‘I remember my mum saying that when I went off to uni,’ he said. ‘She said it was like she’d been made redundant. She wasn’t, of course –’ he added, grinning. ‘Yes, I always took my washing home. For her sake, you understand – just to make her feel useful.’
‘Mike was made redundant once,’ I told him. ‘I remember the letter like it was yesterday. They said he was supernumerary. We had to look it up in the dictionary.’
I turned to Sam now, who was apple-cheeked, his fringe in damp fronds. I hoped they wouldn’t make him cut his hair. At least not yet. ‘No,’ I said, ‘not a superpower. Actually the opposite of a superpower. It’s like when there are so many superheroes that they have more than they need. So they have a spare one knocking about, with nothing to do. And when that happens, he or she would be known as “supernumerary”.’
Sam thought for a moment. ‘So it’s a real word?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So it really happens?’
‘I suppose it could do.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. There can’t ever be too many superheroes, can there, Sampson?’ There’s way not enough.’
No, there aren’t, I thought. And, God, how I’m going to miss you.
‘No, you’re right, there can’t, mate,’ he said.
I’d brought the last of the flapjacks and made up a big bottle of squash, so, once we – or rather Sam – had exhausted Flame, at least for the moment, we sat down on the grass, just on the edge of the big stand of trees, to eat and drink and rest. And to chat. About what was coming, and how exciting it was going to be, to first visit, and say hello to, and, a little while later, to go and stay with, and then, ultimately, live with Sam’s brother and sister.
Colin took the lead; I was the supporting act. Which was exactly what I should be. ‘So, how’d you feel about that, mate?’ Colin asked Sam once he’d run through what was going to happen. I’d been watching Sam intently throughout, to try and gauge his reaction, and was reassured to see a growing excitement in his face. But there was also, I judged, a bit of understandable anxiety. Whatever else was true, I was still convinced that Sam was on the spectrum, and this ‘game change’ obviously just meant more change for him.
‘Like for a long time?’ he asked.
‘Yes, for a long time,’ Colin answered.
‘So leave Casey and Mike and Tyler?’ He looked at me. ‘Leave mummy Casey?’ I swallowed hard and nodded.
‘Yes,’ Colin said. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep in touch with them. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Casey?’
‘Very much,’ I said. Or, rather, ‘Ahem, very much, sniff.’ (I was, of course, fighting back tears.)
‘And Flame?’
‘Yes, and Flame. But it won’t be for a few weeks yet. And, guess what? A little bird told me that Jim and Debbie have a dog too. And since you’re going to be the oldest brother, I imagine you’ll be given lots of extra dog-walking duties. You up for that?’
I sniffed again, and quietly ‘harumphed’. Out of the loop again.
‘A big dog or a little dog?’ Sam asked.
‘A medium-sized dog.’ Colin said. ‘Like Flame.’
‘Good, I like medium-sized dogs the best,’ Sam said.
He gulped his glass of squash down, and then stroked Flame’s head.
‘Did you say a few weeks yet?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ Colin said.
‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘Because, mummy Casey, you know my points? Will I be able to earn lots more? And get pennies for them instead of treats?’
‘I don’t see why
not,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said again. ‘Because I think I’m going to have to really buy that dolly now, aren’t I? And something for Will. A backpack. I think he’s going to need to have a Spider-Man backpack, like I’ve got. So he and me and Sampson can go on adventures. How much do you think they cost? Lots?’
There are all kinds of love, I thought, but they have one thing in common. They always, always come at a cost.
‘Oh, not too much,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to earn enough, sweetheart.’
He shot an arm up, skywards. ‘Because – rarrr! – I’m a superhero!’
And he was.
Epilogue
Mike being Mike, he had no truck with my whimperings and, knowing me as he did, he came back from work that evening and immediately fired up the family laptop, while Sam and Tyler set the table up for tea.
‘Come here, love,’ he said, beckoning me to join him. ‘I’ve spoken to the boss and booked the first week in June off. There you go,’ he said, shifting it round a bit, so I could properly see the screen.
It was an airline website, open on the page that said ‘choose your destination’. And a map, on which lots of little planes swooped from Britain to all over Europe.
‘Pick a mini-break,’ he said. ‘You have five minutes to choose.’
Those last weeks with Sam – just under three, as it turned out – went as well as anyone could have hoped for. There were two meetings at the family centre, then a day spent with his new family, then a sleepover, then a weekend, then the day came for him to move in permanently – complete with the dolly he’d bought for Courtney and the Spider-Man backpack he’d bought for Will.
And, as sometimes happens, I never met any of them at any point. As he’d told me he would, Colin took charge of everything. Though I did, at least, write and email a few pages to my fellow carers, just to give them a flavour of what to expect, and some notes about what Sam liked and disliked.