Please Don't Take My Baby

by Cathy Glass

  Epilogue

  I love happy endings and none could have been happier than the ending of Jade’s story. She and Tyler became engaged two weeks later – on Jade’s eighteenth birthday – when Tyler gave her his grandmother’s ring. In September of the same year Jade began studying for three A-levels – a part-time course over two years at the local college.

  She and Tyler were married in June the following year (when Jade was halfway through her course), but she kept studying right up to the day before the wedding and then began again a couple of days afterwards. The wedding was small, to keep down the cost – just Jade’s and Tyler’s families at the local register office. Jade’s father and his partner were also there. I saw the wedding photographs the next time I saw Jade, and Courtney looked very sweet as the bridesmaid. She wore a long peach-coloured lacy dress and carried a little bouquet of flowers that matched her mother’s bouquet. Jade wore a full-length cream dress and had little white flowers in her hair. She really did look like a fairy-tale princess, and with her prince beside her, looking very smart in a grey suit, the tableau was complete.

  Two months after Jade and Tyler were married Courtney was taken off the child-protection register, which Jade said was the best wedding present ever. Rachel’s visits then stopped, as the social services were no longer involved with Jade, Tyler and Courtney. On my next visit I was relieved to find that the flat was noticeably less tidy – more lived in – and Jade was far more relaxed now that she felt she was no longer being ‘watched’. I was also relieved when Jade told me she had found out that Tracy’s baby, Jason, was being brought up by an aunt and Tracy was happy with the arrangement, as she could still see him regularly.

  Jade passed three A-levels with good grades, and was then accepted on to a one-year course to train as a teaching assistant (TA). Courtney began school the year Jade qualified and Jade did some voluntary work as a TA at the same school as Courtney, although not in the same class. A year later Jade was offered a part-time teaching assistant post at the school, mornings only, which worked out very well, as Jade could take Courtney to school with her in the morning. Tyler completed his apprenticeship and was awarded a City and Guilds qualification in motor engineering with distinction. His boss gave him a pay rise and, with Jade also working, money at last became less tight. When Courtney was six the three of them went on their first holiday – a week in Majorca. They sent us a postcard and I still have it.

  I saw Jade, Tyler and Courtney regularly for four years after they’d moved into the flat. Sometimes I visited them and other times they came to see us – usually at the weekend, as Jade was at college and then working, and Tyler was at work. They often stayed for a meal. I always gave them a ‘goody bag’, although the contents changed over the years. When Courtney became dry I replaced the nappies, first with pens, paper and vouchers for the books that Jade needed for her studying and then when she qualified with little extras – for example, a potted plant or bunch of flowers – and of course I always included the chocolate biscuits and cake Jade loved. A couple of times we bumped into the three of them while shopping in the mall on a Saturday morning and we went to a burger restaurant for lunch. Tyler said it reminded him of our day out to the castle. The family outing that had been Tyler’s first had made such an impression on him that he said he planned to take Jade and Courtney there as soon as he passed his driving test and bought a car.

  As time passed we gradually saw less of Jade, Tyler and Courtney, for clearly they had their own lives to lead. But we kept in touch and continued to see each other a couple of times a year, usually around Courtney’s birthday and Christmas. I wondered if Jade and Tyler would have another child so that Courtney had a brother or sister, but no baby came along. Then one day Jade confided in me that they’d been trying for a baby and she’d had some tests at the hospital and been told she couldn’t have any more children. Thank goodness she had been able to keep Courtney, I thought; what a double tragedy it would have been to lose the only child she could ever have. Jade continued to say that she and Tyler had discussed the possibility of fostering, but they were worried her past would count against her in the assessment for becoming a foster carer. I said I didn’t think it would; indeed the fact that she’d overcome her problems and had turned her life around showed her strength of character and therefore should count in her favour.

  ‘Also, you’ve had first-hand experience of being in care,’ I said. ‘You’ll have empathy based on your own experience, so you’re in an ideal position to help the children you foster.’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’ Jade said. Then she looked thoughtful for a moment before exclaiming, ‘Oh my! I hope I don’t have to foster anyone as bad as me. I was awful. I don’t know how you put up with me, Cathy.’

  I smiled and took her hands between mine. ‘Because I saw the person you could become: the person you are now. I’m very proud of you, Jade. Well done, love, you made it through.’

  Jade’s story had a happy ending but it could so easily have been different. The majority of babies placed for adoption come from young single mothers. More needs to be done to educate boys to take responsibility for their sexual relationships, while girls need to understand that having a baby isn’t the answer to their problems. Far from it – a baby is likely to add to them. While I am overjoyed for Jade, my heart goes out to the thousands of other young mothers whose stories can’t have happy endings. We still see Jade, Tyler and Courtney and they are all doing very well. There is an update about them on my website: www.cathy glass.co.uk

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  Chapter 1

  The article in the newspaper was tiny, considering the crime. It told of a six-year-old girl who had lured a local toddler from his yard, taken him to a nearby woodland, tied him to a tree and set fire to him. The boy, badly burned, was in hospital. All that was said in what amounted to no more than a space filler below the comic strips on page six. I read it and, repulsed, I turned the page and went on.

  Six weeks later, Ed, the special education director, phoned me. It was early January, the day we were returning from our Christmas break. “There’s going to be a new girl in your class. Remember that little girl who set fire to the kid in November …?”

  I taught what was affectionately referred to in our district as the “garbage class.” It was the last year before congressional law would introduce “mainstreaming,” the requirement that all special needs children be educated in the least restrictive environment; and thus, our district still had the myriad of small special education classrooms, each catering to a different disability. There were classes for physically handicapped, for mentally handicapped, for behaviorally disordered, for visually impaired … you name it, we had it. My eight were the kids left over, the ones who defied classification. All of them suffered emotional disorders, but most also had mental or physical disabilities as well. Out of the three girls and five boys in the group, three could not talk, one could but refused and another spoke only in echoes of other people’s words. Three of them were still in diapers and two more had regular accidents. As I had the full number of children allowed by state law for a class of severely handicapped children, I was given an aide at the start of the year; but mine hadn’t turned out to be one of the bright, hardworking aides already employed by the school, as I had expected. Mine was a Mexican-American migrant worker named Anton, who had been trawled from the local welfare list. He’d never graduated from high school, never even stayed north all winter before, and certainly had never changed diapers on a seven-year-old. My only other help came from Whitney, a fourteen-year-old junior high student, who gave up her study halls to volunteer in our class.

  By all accounts we didn’t appear a very promising group, and in the beginning, chaos was the byword; however, as the months passed, we metamorphosed. Anton proved to be sensitive and hardworking, his dedication to the children becoming appar
ent within the first weeks. The kids, in return, responded well to having a man in the classroom and they built on one another’s strengths. Whitney’s youth occasionally made her more like one of the children than one of the staff, but her enthusiasm was contagious, making it easier for all of us to view events as adventures rather than the disasters they often were. The kids grew and changed, and by Christmas we had become a cohesive little group. Now Ed was sending me a six-year-old stick of dynamite.

  Her name was Sheila. The next Monday she arrived, being dragged into my classroom by Ed, as my principal worriedly brought up the rear, his hands flapping behind her as if to fan her into the classroom. She was absolutely tiny, with fierce eyes, long, matted blond hair and a very bad smell. I was shocked to find she was so small. Given her notoriety, I had expected something considerably more Herculean. As it was, she couldn’t have been much bigger than the three-year-old she had abducted.

  Abducted? I regarded her carefully.

  Bureaucracy being what it is in school districts, Sheila’s school files didn’t arrive before she did; so when she went off to lunch on that first day, Anton and I took the opportunity to go down to the office for a quick look. The file made bleak reading, even by the standards of my class.

  Our town, Marysville, was in proximity to a large mental hospital and a state penitentiary, and this, in addition to the migrants, had created a disproportionate underclass, many of whom lived in appalling poverty. The buildings in the migrant camp had been built as temporary summer housing and many were literally nothing but wood and tar paper that lacked even the most basic amenities, but they became crowded in the winter by those who could afford nothing better. It was here that Sheila lived with her father.

  A drug addict with alcohol problems, her father had spent most of Sheila’s early years in and out of prison. He had no job. Currently on parole, he was attending an alcohol abuse program, but doing little else.

  Sheila’s mother had been only fourteen when, as a runaway, she took up with Sheila’s father and became pregnant. Sheila was born two days before her mother’s fifteenth birthday. A second child, a son, was born nineteen months later. There wasn’t much else relating to the mother in the file, although it was not hard to read drugs, alcohol and domestic violence between the lines. Whatever, she must have finally had enough, because when Sheila was four, she left the family. From the brief notes, it appeared that she had intended to take both children with her, but Sheila was later found abandoned on an open stretch of freeway about thirty miles south of town. Sheila’s mother and her brother, Jimmie, were never heard from again.

  The bulk of the file detailed Sheila’s behavior. At home the father appeared to have no control over her at all. She had been repeatedly found wandering around the migrant camp late at night. She had a history of fire setting and had been cited for criminal damage three times by the local police, quite an accomplishment for a six-year-old. At school, Sheila often refused to speak, and as a consequence, virtually nothing was contained in the file to tell me what or how much she might have learned. She had been in kindergarten and then first grade in an elementary school near the migrant camp until the incident with the little boy had occurred, but there were no assessment notes. In place of the usual test results and learning summaries was a catalog of horror stories detailing Sheila’s destructive, often violent, behavior.

  At the end of the file was a brief summary of the incident with the toddler. The judge concluded that Sheila was out of parental control and would be best placed in a secure unit, where her needs could be better met. In this instance, he meant the children’s unit at the state mental hospital. Unfortunately, the unit was at capacity at the time of the hearing, and thus, Sheila would need to await an opening. A recently dated memo was appended detailing the need to provide some form of education, given her age and the law, but no one bothered to mince words. Her placement was custodial. This meant she had to be kept in school for the time being, because of the specifics of the law, but I need not feel under any obligation to teach her. With Sheila’s arrival, my room had become a holding pen.

  Youth was my greatest asset at that point in my career. Still fired with idealism, I felt strongly that there were no problem kids, only a problem society. Although initially reluctant to take Sheila, it had been because my room was crowded and my resources overstretched already, not because of the child herself. Thus, once I had her, I regarded her as mine and my class was no holding pen! My belief in human integrity and the inalienable right of each and every one of my children to possess it was trenchant.

  Well, almost. Before she was done, Sheila had given all my beliefs a good shaking and she started that very first day. As Anton and I were sitting in the front office that lunch hour, reading Sheila’s file, Sheila was in our classroom scooping the goldfish out of the aquarium and, one by one, poking their eyes out.

  Sheila proved to be chaos dressed in outgrown overalls and a faded T-shirt. Everything she said was shrieked. Everything she touched was broken, hit, squashed or mangled. And everyone, myself included, was The Enemy. She operated in what Anton christened her “animal mode.” There was not much “child mode” present in the early days. The slightest unexpected movement she always interpreted as attack. Her eyes would go dark, her face would flush, her body would take on alert rigidity, and from that point it was a finely balanced matter as to whether she would fight, or panic and run away. When she was in her animal mode, our methods were a whole lot more akin to taming than teaching.

  Yet …

  Sheila was different. There was something electric about her, about her eyes, about the sharpness of her movements that superimposed itself over even her most feral moments. I couldn’t articulate what it was, but I could sense it.

  I loved my children dearly, but the truth was, they were not a very bright lot. Most children with emotional difficulties use so much mental energy coping that there simply isn’t much left for learning. Additionally, other syndromes often occur in conjunction with psychological problems, either contributing to them or resulting from them. For example, two of my children suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome and another had a neurological condition that was causing a slow deterioration of his central nervous system. As a consequence, none of the children was functioning at an average level for his or her age, although undoubtedly several were of normal intelligence. Thus, it came as a surprise to me to discover during Sheila’s early days with us that she could add and subtract well, because she had managed only three months of first grade.

  A bigger surprise came days later, when I discovered she could give the meanings of unusual words. One such word was “chattel.”

  “Wherever did you learn a word like this?” I asked when my curiosity finally overwhelmed me.

  Sheila, little and dirty and very smelly, sat hunched up on her chair across the table from me. She peered up through matted hair to regard me. “Chattel of Love,” she replied and added in her peculiar dialect, “it be the name of a book I find.”

  “Book? Where? What book?”

  “I don’t steal it,” she retorted defensively. “It be in the garbage can. I find it.”

  “Where?”

  “I do find it,” she repeated, obviously believing this was the issue I was trying to explore.

  “Yes, okay,” I replied, “but where?”

  “In the ladies’ toilets at the bus station. But I don’t steal it.”

  I smiled. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m just interested in hearing about it.”

  She regarded me suspiciously.

  “What did you do with the book?” I asked.

  Sheila clearly couldn’t puzzle out why I wanted to know these things. “Well, I read it,” she said, her voice full of disbelief, as if I’d asked a very silly question. There was a worried edge to it, however. She still sensed it was an accusation.

  “You read it? It sounds like a rather grown-up book.”

  “Well, I don’t read all of it. But on the cover
it say Chattel of Love and so I do be curious about it, ’cause of the picture,’ cause of what the man be doing to the lady on the cover.”

  “I see,” I replied uncertainly.

  She shrugged. “But I couldn’t find nothing good in it, so I throw it away again.”

  With an IQ we soon discovered to be in excess of 180, Sheila was electric all right. Indeed, she was more like nuclear.

  Discovering Sheila was a highly gifted child intellectually did nothing to change the facts of her grinding poverty, her abusive background or her continuing and continually outrageous behavior. Uncertain where to start when there was so much that needed improving, I began with the very smallest things, those I knew were within my power to change.

  Sheila’s hygiene was appalling. She literally had only one set of clothes: a faded brown-striped T-shirt and a pair of worn denim overalls, a size too small. With these went a pair of red-and-white canvas sneakers with holes in the toes. She had underwear, but no socks. If any of these were ever washed, there was little evidence of it.

  Certainly Sheila wasn’t washed. The dirt was worn in on her hands and her elbows and around her ankles, so that dark lines had formed over the skin in these areas. Worse, she was a bed wetter. The smell of stale urine permeated whatever part of the classroom Sheila occupied. When I quizzed Sheila about washing facilities, I discovered they had no running water.

  This seemed the best place to start. She was so unpleasant to be near that it distracted all of us from the child herself; so I came armed with towels, soap and shampoo and began to bathe Sheila in the large sink at the back of the classroom.