by Rosie Lewis
So excited was Phoebe when we returned to the living room a few minutes later, adorned with one of my sequined scarves around her neck and a purple sash at her waist, that she couldn’t keep still, although it was a general wriggle rather than the peculiar arm flapping/eye rolling routine. Jamie completed her delight by offering her one of his swords. When he suggested they build a camp in the garden I thought she might burst with the excitement of it all.
Although it was a joy to watch the pair as they erected blankets and duvets between the trellis and the horse chestnut tree, charging loudly in and out of their makeshift camp with swords aloft, I couldn’t help but puzzle over yet another swift change in Phoebe’s behaviour. Until now it had been impossible to interest her in any form of imaginative play and yet there she was, playing as if she’d never been any different.
As I poured myself a glass of lemonade and sat on the swing at the bottom of the garden, I was beginning to regret that the placement might soon end. The rest of the day passed quickly and without any tantrums or trying behaviour. At tea time Phoebe was thrilled when my mother made a special visit to wish her ‘Many Happy Returns’ and even ventured to try a few mouthfuls of her own birthday cake. She sat calmly by my side that evening when I read her a bedtime story and as I wished her goodnight the trial of the last few weeks was all but forgotten.
How naive it was, I realised all too soon, to let my guard down so easily.
Chapter 14
It was with a renewed sense of enthusiasm that I woke the next morning, surprised to find that Phoebe was still quiet in her room, despite the time. She was usually the first awake and yet it was 6.45am and there was still no sign of her. I was halfway across the kitchen with a full kettle in my hand when a lurching sensation in my stomach stopped me in my tracks.
Instinct drew me back up the stairs. A memory of the recent bloody scene following her self-harming incident advanced my rising panic and I charged into the room without bothering to knock. My breathing gradually returned within safe limits as I scanned the room. There was no horrific smell or bloody sights and Phoebe lay serenely beneath her duvet, although she didn’t look too well. Pale and sickly I can cope with, I thought, before an uncomfortable twist in my stomach nudged another possibility to the forefront of my mind.
‘Phoebe, have you eaten something you shouldn’t, honey?’
Her eyes were wide with hesitancy as she stared back at me, shaking her head.
‘You won’t be in trouble,’ I said, crouching beside her bed in an unconscious gesture of supplication. If she were to trust me enough to tell me what she’d done, she had to understand that I wasn’t going to be angry with her. ‘But I need to know, now. You really don’t look too well.’
She began to cry. ‘I’ve got a tummy ache,’ she croaked in a sickly voice.
Manoeuvring my way through the piles of half-opened presents still spread across the floor, I threw open the curtains and knelt back beside her bed, crouching to get a better look at her. ‘You must tell me what you’ve eaten,’ I said calmly, sunlight highlighting the paleness of her skin.
With effort she propped herself up on one elbow, wincing and clamping a hand to her stomach. She looked about ready to throw up but I didn’t want to encourage that until I found out what it was that lay in her stomach. If it was a harsh substance it might burn her throat on the way back up. ‘Phoebe, tell me,’ I demanded, furious that she’d tried to hurt herself again.
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. There was a long hesitation before she finally lifted her free hand and pointed under the bed. Down on all fours, I lowered my head to the carpet and gasped. The space between the floor and the slats of her bed was littered with all sorts of containers. Craning my neck, I stuck my arm in as far as it would go and in a long fanning motion I swept them out so they were spread out on the floor in front of me.
Colour burned my cheeks as I took in the sight. There must have been almost 20 bottles of various shapes and sizes there, some full, others almost empty. ‘Which one was it?’ I asked, no longer able to disguise the urgency in my tone. ‘Tell me!’
Leaning over, she pointed to a half-empty bottle of shampoo.
I snatched it up. ‘This one?’
She nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘How much did you drink?’
Her eyes widened but she didn’t answer, instead throwing back the duvet and rushing to the toilet. She threw up almost constantly for 10 minutes solid, while I perched on the edge of the bath, rubbing her back and offering her sips of water. Every now and then she rested her head on the toilet seat in exhaustion and the anger I had felt towards her transferred to myself.
How could I have let the peace of the last day or so lull me into a false sense of security? And how on earth did she get hold of such a stash of products when I’d locked everything away from her? Then, with a fresh wave of anger at myself, I realised that she must have searched through the bags of presents from her parents and taken them from there. How stupid of me not to check through the contents before leaving them in her room.
Guilt and anxiety rivalled for my attention as I plucked a few sheets of tissue from the roll and offered them to a trembling Phoebe.
The staff at our GP surgery had always wholeheartedly supported me in my role as a foster carer and that day was no different. As soon as I explained what had happened they told me to bring Phoebe straightaway to the surgery, promising to squeeze her into their already-full schedule of patients.
After dropping Emily and Jamie at school I wrapped Phoebe in a warm coat and walked her around the corner to the surgery, supporting her as she shuffled along the pavement. It occurred to me that anyone behind us might have mistaken me for the carer of a frail old lady, the way her feet were dragging so lethargically. Inside the surgery I thanked the receptionist, who smiled kindly, before dropping her jaw in astonishment. ‘No, don’t do that, dear,’ she said, alarmed. Whipping around, I saw that Phoebe had ducked her head under the antibacterial alcohol gel that was fixed to the wall, licking at the dispensing spout with outstretched tongue.
‘Phoebe,’ I groaned. How could she possibly contemplate adding to the concoction already swirling in her stomach? I anguished as I pulled her away.
‘I need it,’ she said as I pulled her away to the waiting room. She spoke with desperation, her tone salvaging something in my mind that I had stored away without fully considering. Lenke was wrong when she said that Phoebe ate things that weren’t food; she hadn’t eaten anything inedible since she came to me. She had only drank, I realised, with a rush of blood to my ears. My mind stuttered as I tried to follow what the pitching sensation in my stomach was prompting. Phoebe had ingested soap, shampoo, shower gel and now liquid alcohol gel.
I’d been so busy thinking about the signs and symptoms of autism that perhaps I’d missed what was staring me in the face. Did she feel dirty? I wondered, watching as she sank heavily into one of the hard-backed chairs and pulled her legs up towards her stomach. Could it be that the poor child was trying to cleanse herself from the inside out?
Any further revelations were forestalled by the appearance of her name on a flashing screen above our heads.
Doctor Kenwick was old school and thorough, hence his surgery always ran at least an hour behind his other, younger colleagues’, so I was grateful that the receptionist had decided to allow us to jump the queue. ‘What can I do for you today, young lady?’ the doctor asked, peering over the top of his spectacles. He was so overweight that his stomach protruded over his belt and the buttons of his shirt appeared dangerously close to popping open, but the cheeriness of his expression more than made up for it, his deep jowls moving independently of each other as he smiled at his new patient.
‘What can I do for you today, young lady?’ Phoebe repeated, causing his smile to rapidly vanish.
‘I’m sorry, doctor,’ I said, marvelling that in spite of her delicate condition, she was still capable of mimicking stra
ngers. ‘Phoebe drank some shampoo during the night and now she has a bad tummy ache,’ I said, producing the bottle from my bag. ‘She’s been sick several times this morning. We’re not sure what time you drank it, are we?’ I looked at her but she was in that other world of hers, flapping and rolling her eyes. ‘Autism,’ I said under my breath, raising my eyebrows and inclining my head towards her. I couldn’t help but register the look of disgust Phoebe gave me when I said it.
‘A-hh,’ he nodded. ‘I don’t have Phoebe’s notes with me as we just have her down as a temporary patient at the moment. Any idea how long she’ll be with you? If it’s going to be longer than 12 weeks I’ll request her full notes from the previous GP. Might be helpful to have the full picture in front of us.’
Pursing my lips, I was about to reply when Phoebe suddenly ceased all movement, butting in. ‘Not long. I hate it here – her house is tiny. I’m going home next week.’
‘I see.’ He gave me an amused wink before surveying her. ‘Right, young lady, let’s see what trouble you’ve got yourself into.’
Mercifully she sat in silence while he looked down her throat, checked her ears and listened to her chest.
‘Well, nothing too much to worry about there. Let’s get you on the couch and have a feel of your tummy.’
As soon as those words left his lips Phoebe began arm flapping again. ‘Let’s get you on the couch and have a feel of your tummy,’ she said with a nasty sneer, and then, ‘No, young lady, let’s not get on the couch and have a feel of your tummy. No, no!’ she snapped, before falling into a round of barks so deep that the doctor pushed his glasses further up his nose and leaned back in his chair, his lined face frowning.
‘Now, now, none of that,’ he said eventually, standing briskly and gesturing to his examining table. ‘Over you come.’
Following his lead, I rose and made to move towards him as he leaned over and pulled a protective sheet of blue tissue from a wide roll fixed to the wall, covering the white leather couch with it.
‘I’ll come with you, Phoebe. There’s nothing to worry about – the doctor won’t hurt you.’
‘No, no, no,’ she cried, weeping and clinging tightly to the arms of her chair. ‘Please, Rosie,’ she implored. ‘Please, I don’t want to.’
‘OK, it’s alright.’ Returning to my seat, I reached out and took hold of one of her hands. It was damp with sweat and her legs were trembling visibly.
‘Sorry, doctor, do you think you could check her over if she stands up next to me?’
Holding up his hands in surrender, he returned to his chair.
‘Alright. No need to work yourself up, my dear.’
After a brief examination of her tummy, Doctor Kenwick confirmed that there was probably no long-term damage and recommended that Phoebe eat natural yoghurt for the rest of the day. It might have been the look on Phoebe’s face as she clung to my arm, or perhaps sheer gut instinct, but as we left the surgery and headed for the mini-store, I became convinced that our visit to the GP had signalled a turning point in our relationship.
Sure enough, Phoebe was unusually affectionate that night as I sat beside her and read The Little White Horse, leaning deliberately close to me. When I reached the end of the second chapter and announced it was time for bed she looked up, staring at me in a way that made me feel as if she was sizing me up.
‘Why didn’t you let that man examine me?’ she asked eventually.
‘The doctor, you mean?’
She nodded and lowered her head as if in shyness, a trait I hadn’t seen in her before. Defiance, yes, stubbornness, certainly, but never reserve. Puzzled, I stared at the top of her head, her hair now a shining and silky golden brown, having been washed and brushed through so many times since her arrival.
‘Well, you were upset,’ I said gently, ‘and I wouldn’t let anyone do anything to you that you didn’t feel comfortable with, would I?’
It was a statement rather than a question but she raised her head and shook it, watching me with that same scrutinising expression. Smiling, I held out my hands with the offer of a hug. Edging her bottom closer, she laid her head against my chest, giving me rarely granted access into her personal space. Wrapping both arms around her, I drew her into an embrace and puzzled over her reaction. It was almost as if she had only just realised that she could trust me to protect her. She nuzzled her head into the space between my neck and shoulder, rubbing her cheek against my cardigan.
Minutes later, as I stood at the door and watched her climb into bed, I was once again filled with an ominous sense of dread, hoping to goodness that the thoughts darting around in my head were completely and utterly off-target.
Chapter 15
I had to collect Phoebe from school early the next day, as she had an appointment at the hospital for an initial health assessment. All Looked After Children were checked over by a paediatrician within 28 days of coming into care and I was quite looking forward to going to the hospital, eager for the opportunity to gather more information on Phoebe’s history and original diagnoses.
As it turned out, my efforts the previous evening in compiling a long list of questions about her condition were a complete waste of time. The doctor’s remit was to assess Phoebe’s physical health and make sure she was not disadvantaged or suffering in any way due to her stay in foster care. Her emotional health was touched upon but when I tried to direct the focus towards Phoebe’s autism, the paediatrician, a smart Asian man with impeccable English, swiftly returned to the structured form he had to complete.
When we reached the section covering eating habits I explained that her staple diet was porridge and the doctor, concerned that her height and weight were way below normal levels on the centile chart, recommended Phoebe be referred to a dietician. It was a step in the right direction and might be of use but I left the hospital feeling a little deflated. I wasn’t sure why but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that so much more could be done to help Phoebe. Clearly she wasn’t going to be stretched at school; all her teachers were concerned with was getting her to reach the standard levels of literacy and numeracy expected of all their pupils. Since it was a special school with high levels of learning disabilities, this was hardly an aspirational target. I couldn’t help but feel she deserved more.
We got home early afternoon, before Emily and Jamie. Pleased, I think, to have me to herself, Phoebe invited me to sit with her on the swing at the bottom of the garden. Ignoring the pile of dishes in the sink, I followed her down our weathered sandstone path to the garden swing. The overhead canopy offered partial shade for our faces, the rest of us bathed in the warm sunlight. It was a peaceful spot and Phoebe seemed to absorb the tranquillity, sinking into her seat and resting her head back on the cushions.
‘Did you have a nice morning at school?’
She shook her head. ‘It was boring.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Walked around …’
I knew she hadn’t spent her entire morning circling the playground on her own, but from what I’d seen when I visited recently, there was likely to be some truth in what she said.
‘What else, apart from walking around? Did you read to the teacher?’
She sat swinging her legs and saying nothing.
And after a while: ‘Why didn’t you let the doctor check my tummy?’ There was a watchfulness in her stance, a gauging of my reaction, but she had changed the direction of our conversation so abruptly that at first I was confused.
‘He didn’t ask to check your tummy.’
‘Not this morning,’ she said, with a sigh that suggested I was being particularly slow. ‘Yesterday.’ She lowered her eyes to her lap. ‘After I ate the shampoo.’
Her question, so out of the blue, jolted me. I couldn’t help but feel once again that our visit to the surgery held a special significance for Phoebe, though I wasn’t sure exactly why.
‘I told you before, I would never let anyone do anything to you if you felt uncomfortable about it.�
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She nodded, smiling as if my answer had satisfied her, confirming her own interpretation of events. I mulled over my options: either I could leave things as they were and let her steer the conversation any way she liked, or I could prompt her with some questions of my own. If she had nothing to say, well, no harm could come of it.
Aware that directing her would be irresponsible from a professional point of view and wary of putting ideas into her head, I revived the fictional Jessica again, knowing that, if nothing else, she would grab Phoebe’s attention.
‘Jessica was scared to talk to me at first. I think she felt bad about upsetting anyone, but after a while she grew to trust me. In the end she knew that she could tell me anything and I would keep her safe, no matter what.’
I waited to see if Phoebe would latch on to the conversation but she began humming, swinging her legs as I gently rocked the swing and stared out across the garden. We stayed that way for several minutes, listening to the distant chirp of birdsong, the occasional drumming of wheels on tarmac as cars slowed and accelerated off again on the other side of our hedge. I found myself clenching my teeth, willing her to open up to me.
For a while I had suspected the worst. If there was something in her history that had exacerbated her condition, I longed to help her let it out. Several times she turned to stare at me but as soon as I met her gaze she looked away. A few more moments passed before she spoke in a timid voice.
‘I think I’m like Jessica,’ she said, regarding me with wariness.
Resisting the urge to launch into a barrage of questions, I kept my tone casual.
‘Do you? Why?’
There was a long pause, another few swings of her legs.
‘I’m not allowed to tell.’
It was a time-old giveaway and I couldn’t avoid the involuntary tensing that gripped my upper body. Phoebe noticed, immediately clamming up. After several moments of silence, during which time I cursed myself for not being able to conceal my reaction, I spoke in a soft voice.