The Girl with the Suitcase

by Angela Hart

  ‘He just does it to torture me! He’s a creep! He didn’t even want my clothes! He just hid my bag to be a total bastard and to wind me up! And they say I’m the wind-up! It’s a big, fat lie!’

  Grace’s language and her whole way of talking changed whenever she went home, and I had to keep reminding her not to swear. Jonathan commented on how demoralising this was.

  ‘It’s like she takes one step forward when she’s with us, and two steps backwards when she goes home.’

  My mother noticed the change too. She came over for a Sunday lunch and was shocked to hear Grace displaying bad table manners and being impolite.

  ‘Shall we play a board game?’ Mum offered after lunch.

  The other two girls were enthusiastic and pulled out our old Cluedo game.

  ‘No, that game sucks. It’s boring and I’m not in the mood,’ Grace said, curling her lip rudely.

  ‘She’s like a different little girl,’ my mum said to me quietly, looking puzzled. ‘She’s not herself at all. Has she fallen out with a friend, dear?’

  We never gave Mum any personal information about the kids and she always seemed to be blissfully ignorant about the myriad of problems a child in care might be facing.

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s just not in the mood. Sorry, Mum.’

  Grace had a hula hoop and she went in the garden and played with it for ages, counting the number of times she could twirl it around her slim waist. I watched her from the kitchen window as I was washing up. She was spinning the hoop so furiously it was exhausting to watch. When she did pause, she stood in a trance-like state for about twenty seconds each time, staring into space.

  ‘She’s not right,’ I said to Jonathan. ‘She needs to talk to someone, sooner rather than later.’

  By now Grace was on a waiting list to see a child psychologist. This had been arranged with the agreement of Social Services in response to various issues that had cropped up since Grace had moved in with us, and particularly the concerns we had raised about Lee.

  ‘You’re right. Let’s chase up that appointment.’

  I did this the very next day but was told there was an extremely long waiting list and Grace would simply have to wait for a letter to arrive in the post. It could be several months before an appointment was available.

  In the meantime, Grace’s teacher called me in again to discuss her forgetfulness and lack of concentration. Grace’s problems seemed to have escalated after her visit home. In the space of about ten days she lost her pencil case and her PE kit, including a brand-new pair of trainers; she turned up for disco dancing without the correct leggings and leotard; she was in trouble for knocking a reception child off a chair when she was running in the lunch hall, and she completely forgot to do two important pieces of homework. In addition to this, she was lagging behind in maths. I volunteered to buy some extra books and work with Grace at home, as she was in the bottom group and the teacher thought she could do better.

  Frustratingly, it was difficult to be sure whether Grace was underperforming because of her academic ability or because she had missed so much school due to her frequent moves between foster homes.

  I continued to make a concerted effort to cut out as much sugary junk and processed food from Grace’s diet as I could. She didn’t seem to be allergic to any particular foods, it was more a case of noticing she became hyperactive and less focused when she had sugary snacks and drinks and highly processed foods. Conversely, she was calmer when she stuck to wholesome, home-cooked food. The food diary I’d kept helped me see this and, on the whole, I felt her diet was helping her moods. When she went home for the weekend, I’d mentioned to Colette that it would be helpful if she could stick to the same rules I followed, but Grace told me she had frozen pizza, microwave chips, cans of Coke and a stick of rock that weekend. She developed toothache soon afterwards and I took her to the dentist, where we discovered she’d pulled out a piece of a filling and had to have it replaced. The dentist asked her if she was cleaning her teeth twice a day, to which she replied, ‘Yes, when I’m at Angela’s.’

  After the success I’d had at home, using wholesome foods and home-cooked recipes to help curb Grace’s hyperactive behaviour, I started to read as much as I could about the other issues she had, namely the disorganisation, the lack of concentration and her forgetfulness. One day, in the fostering magazine I subscribed to, another carer had written a piece about a child who sounded quite similar to Grace. The carer described an exercise she’d asked this little boy to perform and how he had fared. I decided to ask Grace to do the same thing.

  ‘Can you place the blue book on top of the red book and then place both books to the left of the green book?’

  She tried three times before giving up, totally defeated, despite me repeating the instruction every time, as she asked me to.

  ‘That’s stupid!’ she said, though I could tell she was more frustrated than annoyed. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t get her head around this simple task.

  I mentioned the exercise to Grace’s teacher. ‘Do you think the time has come for her to be assessed by an expert? Perhaps an educational psychologist? She’s a clever girl but I’m convinced something is holding her back. I think it’s something we need to get to the bottom of.’

  As I’d done previously with the GP, and with the social workers, I recapped on all of Grace’s symptoms and voiced my concerns that we might be missing something and she might need extra help.

  Mrs Lacey listened carefully and agreed, and Grace’s name went on another long waiting list.

  In November, Grace spent another weekend at home. Jonathan and I were not looking forward to it, or at least to her return. True to form, she came back overtired, moody and angry with her siblings. This time, she was also critical of her mum, and of her stepdad Malcolm.

  ‘They were drinking all the time,’ she said. ‘Dad . . .’ her voice trailed off. ‘Malcolm drinks whisky. I really hate whisky. It fuckin’ well stinks! Do I have to go home for Christmas?’

  ‘No, Grace, you don’t have to go home for Christmas. It’s up to you. Please try not to swear.’

  ‘Grrr! Well, I want to stay here. It’s nicer here.’

  I was quite nervous about how this would go down with Colette, but when I mentioned it she didn’t turn a hair. In fact, I got the distinct impression it was convenient to her not to have to make arrangements or put Grace up. She didn’t make any mention of presents, and the whole of December came and went without Grace seeing her family. There was a brief phone call on Christmas Day, which Grace seemed grateful to get out of the way, and she didn’t question the fact she had no gifts from her family.

  By New Year, Grace was in a really good place. I’d go as far as to say she was better than she had been since she moved in. She was really looking forward to going back to school and her eleventh birthday was coming up. She’d asked for an ice-skating party, and we’d allowed her to invite several friends for a skate and a birthday tea at the ice rink in the next town. All the girls accepted straight away, and Grace was counting down the days. Happily, Grace limited the invitations to the girls in her form, which seemed to be the done thing at the school, and so there was no awkwardness about Briony. Inevitably, their promised play date had never happened. Grace had mentioned it a few times but she’d either forgotten or given up asking by this time. Both girls had made lots of other friends, but they still went dancing together and their friendship had become very casual and easy-going.

  The same could not be said of Jill and me. She made a beeline in the opposite direction whenever she saw me, and I had not spoken to her since the day I saw her in the school car park and attempted to invite Briony for tea. I think her prejudice may well have been compounded by the fact she joined the Parent-Teacher Association and got in with a group of mums who organised all the school fetes, coffee mornings, fundraisers and so on. At the Christmas fair I’d spotted Jill manning the cake stall. Next to her was none other than Lena’s mother, Shanno
n. I could only imagine the conversation the two of them had had. When I walked past they exchanged glances, tried to pretend they hadn’t seen me and made a show of being suddenly locked in conversation.

  I hadn’t seen Shannon since the barbecue and had no idea Lena was a pupil at the same school, a couple of years below Grace. In normal circumstances, I’d have made a point of talking to her. Shannon had never phoned me after I asked my neighbour, Gail, to pass on my phone number, and I would have taken this opportunity to have a chat and draw a line under the whole unfortunate incident. I knew from Gail that Lena needed stitches but was fine. Nevertheless, I would have made the effort to speak to her mother, but instead I carried on walking, straight past the cake stall. Willing Christmas fair volunteers Jill and Shannon may have been, but it was very clear to see that the season of goodwill was not going to extend to me, or Grace.

  During Grace’s ice-skating party I managed to snatch a few minutes of peace and quiet to myself. Jonathan was on the ice, helping to supervise the girls, while I was in the cafe overlooking the rink, organising the cake and party bags. As I folded napkins and stuffed the bags I looked at Grace giggling with her friends. The other two girls we were fostering were with family members that day, which was a shame as all three girls had been getting on well lately. They were never going to be best buddies but the other girls had become more accepting of Grace and had wanted to spend time with her. I’d heard them having a few laughs together and it would have been nice for them to join in with the party. Grace and her friends were having lots of fun, skating to the beat of the disco music that was being played from giant speakers, and as I watched them I found myself smiling and thinking back over recent events.

  Grace had settled into school very well after the Christmas holiday. We hadn’t heard from Colette for weeks and Grace hadn’t mentioned her mum or indeed any members of her family. I wasn’t concerned about the lack of communication because, for the time being at least, this appeared to suit Grace. We’d had very few outbursts or episodes of sulking recently, and she seemed to be on a fairly even keel in terms of her moods and emotions.

  I watched Grace pulling silly faces and making her friends laugh. It was obvious to me that her confidence and self-esteem had been steadily rising, and it was impossible not to notice this improvement had happened when she stopped visiting home.

  Colette hadn’t attended the last placement meeting we’d had, and it was left to Jonathan and me to share information with Barry and Jess and discuss plans going forward. I was in no rush to talk about arranging the next weekend contact visit when Grace appeared to be doing so well, and had not brought the subject up.

  When Barry had asked Grace if she was happy living with us, she told him she ‘definitely’ was. My heart swelled when I heard that. I was so pleased that Grace was happy in our home. She had a questionnaire to fill in this time, which Barry had brought to the meeting at our house. It was a standard form, asking her various things about how she felt the placement was going, how happy she was at school and so on. Grace had boxes to tick and was positive about everything.

  I felt proud of her as I thought about all the good news I’d shared with the social workers during that meeting. She had been working very hard on her maths at home and at school and had been moved into a higher set. All her predicted grades for the end of Year 6 had risen, which was excellent news, as these would be shared with whichever secondary school she went to in September. Grace had also joined the netball team and loved it. The only problem with her playing netball was that her trainers didn’t last five minutes, as the soles seemed to come detached every time she wore them. I took two pairs back and complained before I realised that she would stand on one foot and twist it around continuously, causing the sole to detach! Anyhow, she enjoyed netball so much that she had even started talking about going to one particular secondary school in our area when she moved up next year, saying she liked the fact it had a very sporty reputation.

  Watching her whizzing along on the ice, throwing herself into the skating so energetically as she did with all physical activities, I thought that Grace would be well suited to a school where sports were prioritised. In fact, being active and enjoying sports was incredibly important to Grace’s overall wellbeing. She needed to be busy, and to have an outlet for all her energy.

  I remembered how Barry had commented that it was a very good sign that Grace was talking about attending a secondary school in our catchment area, as it showed that she had accepted she was staying with us now and not moving back home any time soon, as that would not be happening for another eight or nine months.

  I felt a little pang in my heart when I remembered the next thing Barry had said: ‘By the way, I trust she’s finally unpacked?’

  He had said this with a big smile on his face, giving one of his friendly winks. Clearly, Barry didn’t think for one minute that Grace would still be living out of her suitcase several months after moving in with us, but we had to tell him that unfortunately this was one mountain we still had to conquer. Grace continued to cling on to her old grey suitcase. I’d hear her zipping and unzipping it at night as she got ready for bed and my heart would ache. From time to time I’d nudge her to unpack it but despite always promising she would, she never did. As ever, I didn’t push her. I hoped to goodness that she didn’t think she was going to be uprooted again at a moment’s notice and I reminded her frequently how much we loved having her living with us. Jonathan wondered if the suitcase had become something of a comfort blanket: after all, it had been her constant companion on her journey through care. We both hoped that was the truth, and that she wasn’t living in an anxious state, constantly on alert and thinking she would be moved on to another foster home.

  ‘Angela!’ Grace called. She’d spotted me watching from the cafe and gave me a big wave as she skated by.

  I waved back. She was flourishing, I thought, and she’d settled in so well. That suitcase would be unpacked soon, I was sure of it.

  When Grace and her pals came off the ice to have the party tea, her clothes were soaked through.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I fell over a lot!’

  It turned out that not only had she got herself wet, but both her knees were black and blue because she had clattered so hard into the walls of the rink whenever she wanted to stop.

  ‘I think we need to teach you how to stop yourself without using your knees as brakes,’ Jonathan teased.

  ‘You can talk!’ she retorted. ‘You used your whole body as a brake!’ This got a huge laugh, as it was true that Jonathan had taken several tumbles on the ice, much to the girls’ amusement.

  The party was a great success and Grace said she absolutely loved it and asked when we could go skating again. She went to bed earlier than normal that night and fell asleep almost immediately.

  ‘I had the best party ever,’ she told me when I went up to say goodnight.

  ‘That’s good, Grace. I’m so pleased. It was lovely to see you having such a great time.’

  She screwed up her face and seemed to be trying to remember something. ‘I’ve never had a birthday party like this before. Thank you, it was very kind of you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Grace. I had a great time too. It’s wonderful to see you enjoying yourself.’

  I felt very emotional when I left her that evening. This was the real Grace, I thought. She was a lovely person with a good heart. Sometimes those fundamental truths about her were obscured by so many other factors, such as her moodiness and hyperactivity. More than anything else, I wanted to keep bringing out the best in Grace, and to give her every chance to be the best she could be.

  The following week, when Grace came to write her thank you cards, she had a complete brain fade and couldn’t remember who had been at the party. She got about six names and had to look at the photographs to help her remember the other three girls. This was quite typical; I’d learned that visual aids and lists really helped Grace, as did piecing in
formation into small, bite-sized chunks. It was so obvious that her brain worked in a different way to most people’s. This knowledge, garnered simply from spending time with Grace, observing her and tuning in to her, was incredibly helpful. It meant I always stopped and thought about how she might see things, and how I could help her deal with situations in the best way. That said, having a diagnosis or a name for whatever it was that caused her brain to work differently was still something I felt was very important to pursue. We couldn’t have too much information, that’s how I saw it.

  Incidentally, there was no card or present from any member of Grace’s family, and Colette didn’t even call her on her birthday. Grace made no comment about this at all. When her mum phoned her a few days later Grace didn’t mention the party, which I could understand. It was sad, but I felt she had no expectations and was therefore able to accept things the way she did.

  Grace went home a few weeks later, in early February, having not seen her family since before Christmas. She didn’t seem keen to go but didn’t make a fuss, and afterwards she said very little about the visit, though she was moody and seemed irritated. I had the feeling that Grace had come to accept that visiting her family was something she had to get on with, rather like she’d had to accept the way her mum had ignored her birthday.

  In late February, the first of Grace’s appointments finally came through. She had three sessions with a child psychologist that seemed to go well. Jonathan and I dropped her off and collected her each time, and though she didn’t discuss anything with us, she appeared to take the sessions in her stride. She was always calm afterwards and never seemed agitated. In fact, she didn’t seem to dwell on what happened during the sessions at all.