The Girl with the Suitcase

by Angela Hart

  ‘How was it?’ we’d always ask.

  ‘Fine. What’s for tea? Is there netball practice tonight?’

  ‘If there’s something you’d like to talk to us about, you know you can ask us anything at all. Or you can talk to me, or to Jonathan, on your own.’

  ‘I know. But it’s fine. I’m fine! Can we go swimming at the weekend?’

  We were never given any information about what was discussed or even what was concluded, though the fact the psychologist was happy to sign Grace off after three sessions gave us a good indication that there was nothing too serious to worry about; at least, that’s what we hoped.

  After her sessions with the child psychologist Grace seemed more relaxed and had a new sort of lightness about her that was very satisfying to see. For the most part it was really good to be around her. She still had mood swings and bad days – we had a particularly terrible trip to the park when she refused to walk with us and nearly ran in front of a car – but the negatives were outweighed by sunny moods and good days. Though I certainly didn’t want her to lose touch with her family, it was still apparent to me that the more distance she had from them, and the longer the gap between visits, the better Grace behaved and the happier she seemed in herself.

  When her second set of appointments came through and Grace saw the educational psychologist, things improved even more. After attending several appointments on her own, Jonathan and I were summoned from the small waiting room to the consulting room upstairs. I’ll never forget that day. Grace was sitting on a wooden chair in a very small, old-fashioned room. There was a tiny, metal-framed window looking over rooftops at the far side of the town. The room was slightly chilly and dimly lit, and there was a musty smell in the air.

  In the midst of this rather uninviting scene, there was Grace, positively beaming. She had the biggest grin on her face I’d ever seen and her eyes were shining.

  ‘I believe Grace has ADHD,’ the young female psychologist told us.

  ‘I see. I’ve never heard of it.’

  It seems unbelievable that there was ever a time when I hadn’t heard of ADHD – we’ve since looked after many children with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But as I said earlier, this was more than twenty years ago and most people had never heard of it. The psychologist patiently explained that ADHD was a behavioural disorder that included symptoms such as hyperactivity and inattentiveness. She talked about fidgeting, difficulty sitting still, running everywhere, climbing, talking too much and being moody or temperamental. Forgetfulness and clumsiness were also common symptoms, she said. We recognised all the symptoms she talked about and it came as a very welcome relief to know this disorder had a name, and that we were no longer in the dark, muddling through it alone as we had been doing for many months.

  Jonathan and I looked at Grace and instinctively found ourselves smiling too.

  ‘So I’m not a wind-up merchant. See! I have a thing. I have this . . . thing! What’s it called?’

  ‘ADHD,’ the psychologist reiterated.

  Grace looked liberated; I can’t think of a better way to describe it. She looked like she’d just walked out of jail or cast off shackles. She had a ‘thing’. It had a name. She was not the deliberately disruptive, aggravating child she had been accused of being so many times. She had ADHD, and it affected the way she behaved.

  ‘What can we do to help her?’ I asked. Not knowing anything about ADHD, I had no idea what to expect in terms of medication, therapy or anything else.

  The psychologist talked about how Grace could use lists and create visual reminders to help with forgetfulness, as we’d already started to do. She also talked about maintaining a healthy, natural diet and using exercise to burn off her energy. Regular sleep was also important, to help boost concentration and to generally improve Grace’s mood. No medication was offered; I’m not sure anything was available back then and, in any case, the psychologist was confident Grace could manage her symptoms naturally.

  ‘It sounds like you’re already on the case,’ she said. ‘It really is a question of more of the same.’

  I wanted to ask about the background to ADHD. Was it something you were born with, or did environmental factors play a part in how it developed? We’d seen for ourselves how Grace’s symptoms worsened when she went home for the weekend. The change in diet, lack of exercise – she had often reported that the family ‘just stayed in and watched telly’ – plus the late nights and sleep deprivation clearly had an adverse effect on her mood.

  The session was nearly over though, and the psychologist seemed keen to call in her next patient. She got to her feet and held out her hand to shake.

  ‘Goodbye Grace, and good luck. It’s been lovely meeting you.’ The psychologist said something about writing up her final report and sending a copy to Social Services.

  ‘So that’s it?’ I asked. I was surprised at how swiftly the session had ended, and that the psychologist wasn’t going to see Grace again.

  ‘Grace really doesn’t need to see you again?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘No, not at all,’ the psychologist replied kindly. ‘As I said, this can all be managed at home and you are already doing well. I wish you all the best of luck. Are you happy, Grace?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Very happy!’

  In many respects, nothing had changed. We simply needed to continue doing more of what we’d already started. Having a professional give us this diagnosis meant we felt more confident about what we were doing, but there were no dramatic changes to be made in the day-to-day way we managed Grace, and she would not be prescribed medication, or be statemented. Despite this, it felt like everything had changed.

  When we walked outside the sun was shining and Grace punched the air. I thought to myself that it looked like she had grown that day. Her head was held high and she looked like she was walking on air.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell everyone!’ I’m not sure exactly who she was talking about, but I imagine she wanted to let her mum and the rest of the family know that she had a ‘thing’ called ADHD and that she was therefore not the deliberate troublemaker she had been made out to be.

  I had so many questions and wished I had more answers. In my mind the journey was far from over, it had simply taken a new turn. I wanted to start researching ADHD in order to help Grace in every way possible, but right now it was time to focus on Grace’s overwhelmingly positive reaction to this news. She was no longer the misunderstood little girl she had been for so many years. I realised she must have carried around so much confusion before this diagnosis, knowing that she wasn’t aggravating people or being scatty on purpose yet not recognising her symptoms or understanding how to deal with them.

  After the appointment we went for a bite to eat in town, choosing a small cafe that specialised in homemade sandwiches, scones and fresh juices. We all had a very simple meal, but I remember it as if it were a slap-up celebration in a fancy restaurant. The atmosphere was fantastic because Grace was on cloud nine, and Jonathan and I were buoyed by her joy and optimism.

  Later that day, I asked Grace to bring the washing in while I put the shopping away, as showers were forecast. She ran to put her trainers on and then I watched as she got to the back door and stopped dead. She stared into space and then turned to look at me.

  ‘What is it?’

  I’d seen her do things like this before, but normally she gave no explanation or looked embarrassed.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, scrunching up her little face. ‘I can’t remember what you asked me to do!’

  ‘I asked you to bring in the washing, because it might rain.’

  ‘Oh yeah! OK!’ She shot out, then ran back for the peg basket she’d forgotten to take with her. ‘Washing. Yes. I’ll bring it in!’

  Grace’s life improved in leaps and bounds. She hadn’t been given a magic cure, of course, but by understanding that she had something called ADHD she might just as well have been.

  ‘I’m different,’ she’d say wh
en she got muddled. ‘It’s not my fault!’

  Colette was informed about the diagnosis and I really hoped it would be an eye-opener to her, and that she would be more understanding of Grace’s behaviour. Only time would tell.

  I started to read anything and everything I could get my hands on, which wasn’t a great deal in those days. I relied on library books and borrowing the odd article or cutting from other carers at our support group. Gradually, I started to pick up useful tips and helped to put as many aides-memoires in place as I could. For example, we had Grace’s timetable printed out in triplicate and pinned it on the kitchen noticeboard and a corkboard in her bedroom, and also made sure she kept a copy in her book bag.

  We had a list inside every bag she used for sports so she could check she had the correct kit. There was a chart on her wall for homework, a chalkboard and a new calendar she could use to jot down notes, important dates and reminders. Of course, I made sure the school was informed of the diagnosis, and while this would not mean she would get any extra help in the classroom or be statemented, at least the teachers might understand her better. Having said that, at the time ADHD was new to the teachers as well.

  We encouraged Grace to keep up her dancing and netball and made sure we got out for long walks and bike rides whenever we could. She also joined the swimming club at the same pool where she had her lessons. Grace was a very good swimmer and had mastered the front crawl like a natural, and very quickly too. Of course, I carried on making sure she ate as healthily and naturally as possible, and it became second nature to me to read food packaging and avoid artificial additives when I did the shopping.

  On Mother’s Day I woke up to a wonderful surprise. Grace had made me a beautiful card with a picture of a vase of tulips on the front. In it she wrote, ‘To my foster mum Angela. You’re the best! Lots and lots of love from Grace. XX’ She brought me a cup of tea and told me she had a present for me too, but that she hadn’t wrapped it up yet.

  ‘How exciting,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait.’

  After breakfast I went up to the children’s bathroom to make sure it was clean and tidy. Grace shot out of her bedroom when she heard me on the landing. ‘It’s ready!’ she said before dashing back into her room and slamming the door shut behind her. Typical Grace, I thought. She’s such a ball of energy.

  ‘Here it is!’ she said finally, emerging from her bedroom once more. She was fizzing with anticipation as she handed me a small, neatly wrapped box with a pink bow on top. I untied the bow – it was one I recognised from our shop! – and peeled back the paper. She’d used a lot of Sellotape and the paper ended up in tiny pieces.

  ‘Turkish delight! My favourite. Thank you Grace, that’s so kind and thoughtful.’

  I was very touched. I hadn’t expected to receive anything for Mother’s Day. I put the box on the windowsill for safe keeping, as I still had jobs to do upstairs, and I scrunched the torn paper into a ball.

  ‘Can I pop this in your wastepaper basket? I’ll be emptying all the bins shortly.’

  Normally Grace had no problem about me going into her room, but a worried look flashed over her face as I took a step towards the door. I wondered if I’d offended her by making such a mess of the wrapping paper, or if there had been a gift tag I’d missed.

  ‘No!’ she blurted out. She seemed to have suddenly lost her composure and her voice was strained and unnatural. ‘I mean, yes. I can take it. Give it to me. Give it to me, Angela!’

  Grace had flushed bright red and I noticed her eyes were flitting everywhere. This was a habit she had when she was feeling hyper or stressed and probably needed to burn off some energy. She thrust her hand out.

  ‘Give it to me!’ she repeated. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘It’s OK, I can do it. I need to empty the bin in any case.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she insisted. ‘Stay there.’ She said this quite desperately.

  ‘Is something wrong, Grace?’

  ‘No. Why should there be?’

  My instincts were telling me I needed to go into Grace’s bedroom. She was uncharacteristically uneasy and embarrassed; something wasn’t right. I do try to respect each child’s privacy as much as possible, but Grace had shifted herself backwards in an attempt to physically block the doorway now, which made me even more suspicious.

  ‘No, Grace, I don’t see what the problem is. Let me in, please.’

  ‘No. I’m, er, in the middle of something,’ she panicked. ‘You can’t go in. Angela, no, you can’t go in.’

  ‘Grace?’ I fixed her with a look that told her I knew she was up to something, and she moved out of my way, very reluctantly. She was breathing heavily now, and there was a sheen of sweat on her brow. I pushed open her bedroom door and took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Grace!’ I gasped. ‘I, I can’t believe it! What’s happened?’

  Grace stood wide-eyed and speechless. I tried very hard not to cry.

  17

  ‘She doesn’t care!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Angela. I’m really sorry. You weren’t meant to see this.’

  I really couldn’t believe my eyes and my heart rate went through the roof. Grace’s bedroom looked like it had been ransacked by an extremely messy band of burglars. The dressing table was piled high with knick-knacks, books, jewellery, hairbrushes, flannels, hairbands and various items of stationery. The clutter was covering every inch of the shiny glass top. Clothes were strewn across the carpet. T-shirts, jumpers, leggings and jeans were jumbled up together in untidy piles. Drawers hung open, stuffed with underwear. Dresses, skirts and flip-flops were in a heap on the rug. The wardrobe doors were bulging, clothes and toys hanging out of them. The bed was stacked with magazines, a skipping rope, CDs, puzzle books, more books, a collection of toiletry bags, pencil cases, cuddly toys and a portable radio and CD player.

  Dumbstruck, I tried to step further into the room but there was nowhere to put my feet. The entire room looked like a scene from a car boot sale.

  ‘What on earth . . .’ I felt panicked, not understanding what had gone on. Grace’s room was always so neat and tidy because of the way she packed her things away in her suitcase every day. Even when she accumulated more belongings she would stuff them in bags and boxes and somehow managed to keep the room looking more like a hotel room than a young girl’s bedroom.

  ‘It was meant to be done first, before you saw it. I’ll tidy it all up, I promise. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, Grace,’ I said, the penny slowly dropping.

  My eyes darted to the top of the wardrobe, and then to the back of the room. There was Grace’s big suitcase, standing by the wall. When I saw it I felt as if stress streamed out of my body. The zip of Grace’s old, grey suitcase was unfastened and one side was flapping open, revealing nothing but the faded satin lining of the case. The rest of her large assortment of bags, holdalls and boxes were also strewn at the back of the room, and they were empty too.

  I feasted my eyes on the hollow shell of the suitcase for a moment before looking at Grace’s pillow. There was her cuddly swan, sitting on top of a dressing gown and a mishmash of pyjamas, as if presiding over this grand event.

  ‘I’ll tidy up, I’m sorry. I was going to do it and then I started wrapping up your present and . . . please don’t cry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Grace,’ I said, hastily trying to compose myself as I helped myself to a tissue from a crumpled box on the floor. ‘I’m not angry or upset.’ I took a deep breath and dabbed my eyes; I hadn’t been able to stop a few tears from escaping.

  ‘What?’ She looked totally confused.

  ‘Grace. I’m just so pleased that you’ve finally unpacked.’

  ‘What? You’re crazy, Angela!’ she laughed. ‘It’s no big deal. I thought you were mad at me for all this mess.’

  ‘No, Grace. You’ve finally unpacked! I’m so pleased. After all this time, I’m so pleased.’

  It had been eight months. I’d wished every day that Grace would stop her heartbre
aking routine of repacking her suitcase and all her belongings, as if she were afraid she’d have to move out any moment. Finally, she’d done it. I had a smile stretching from ear to ear.

  ‘What shall I do with it?’ she said.

  I followed her gaze. ‘Oh, your suitcase. It can go on top of the wardrobe, up there, if you like? If you still want to keep it in your room, that is.’ I said this instinctively, as it occurred to me that it might be better for Grace if she didn’t have the case on show. After all, it was a visible reminder of the many moves she’d made between foster homes.

  ‘Yeah, it can go up there.’

  ‘OK, I’ll put it up for you. But first, you’re going to have to find a home for everything. As it is, I can’t get to the back of the room with all this stuff on the floor!’

  ‘I know. I didn’t want you to see it like this, especially not on Mother’s Day! I thought you’d be really annoyed with me. I’ll tidy up, honest. I had no idea I had so much stuff.’

  She beamed at me and I told her again how pleased I was that she was finally making the bedroom her own.

  ‘Do you need some help?’

  ‘I might do, but I’ll have a go myself. Thanks, Angela. You’re the best!’

  When I walked out of Grace’s room I felt like I was floating on air. This was such a momentous day and I felt buoyed with optimism. The sun was shining, spring flowers were starting to bloom and I felt all was well in the world. I truly had a sense that Grace was going to keep soaring and leave the troubles of her past behind.

  I’m happy to say she seemed even more settled and content from that day on. The fact her ADHD had been officially identified undoubtedly helped. Grace was never afraid to ask for extra support or discuss the fact she had forgotten something or was having difficulty focusing, as she had done in the past. The result was that her confidence grew even more, and she was thriving.

  At Easter Grace joined a musical theatre company and thoroughly enjoyed combining her talents for singing and dancing. Before her first show had finished its short run she was already talking about auditioning for the next. Her weekly schedule would have been exhausting for many young girls, but she thrived on it and loved being busy every night of the week. The noticeboard in her bedroom was a maze of ever-changing reminders: