by Rosie Lewis
‘And there’s nothing we can do to keep her, I’m afraid,’ I told Jamie as we sat side by side on the sofa, the night after New Year’s Day. I was due to meet Maxine, Phoebe’s new foster carer, later that week and decided I couldn’t put off telling Jamie and Emily any longer. The news had hit my son hard and he reacted angrily, gutted the one member of the family who could always be relied upon to be wicket keeper, backstop or whatever other role he had in mind was being taken from us. Not only that, but I think, like the rest of us, he felt protective towards Phoebe.
‘What if we leave Bright Heights and register with the local authority? It won’t cost them any extra for Phoebe to stay where she is then, will it?’
Resigning from our agency and transferring to the local authority was something I had considered, but quickly dismissed.
‘We’d have to face a panel at Bright Heights to be released and it would take at least six months to transfer to the local authority. They’d need to do all the checks and interviews again. The bean counters want to start saving money immediately, Jamie – they wouldn’t allow it.’
His eyes filled with tears and he swiped at them with the back of his hand.
‘So we won’t ever see her again?’
‘Of course we will,’ I said, swallowing an anxious sigh. I could hear how unsure I sounded. As I reached an arm out to hug him, my heart lurched. ‘Don’t be upset. She’ll be going into long-term care, to a place where she can spend the rest of her childhood. That’s a good thing.’
‘But she could have stayed here forever,’ Jamie insisted gloomily. He shrugged me off and said good night, going off to bed voluntarily for the first time in 11 years. Sighing again, I switched on the TV and tried to find a channel that would absorb me enough to still the swirling guilt I felt at exposing my children to another painful ending.
But it wasn’t just Jamie’s reaction that had churned my emotions – I still had to break the news to Phoebe. Like police officers, foster carers have to accept that imparting bad news comes with the territory. Whether it’s telling a child that their parent hasn’t made the effort to turn up for contact or that a judge has decided they must spend the rest of their childhood in foster care, being the bearer of bad news is never easy and I wasn’t at all sure how Phoebe would take it.
Going into long-term care is a daunting experience for vulnerable children and, besides the upheaval of moving house and perhaps area, they must also cope with the trauma of saying goodbye to their foster family too. Children who are already struggling to cope with a sense of loss are sometimes left with a lifelong feeling of being unlovable. It’s human nature to want to belong and rejection is difficult for anyone to deal with, let alone a child like Phoebe. Adults who have been made redundant sometimes struggle to come to terms with their feelings. I couldn’t help stewing over how much more devastating it must be for a child with Phoebe’s experiences. Giving up on the TV, I tried to read a book but the words shimmered on the page in front of me. There was nothing I could do to soothe my anxiety.
So the next day, as soon as I set eyes on Maxine, I felt my whole body sag with relief. Des had accompanied me to the local authority offices and as we made our way up to the canteen on the second floor I was glad of his company, not only for the moral support (I always seem to imagine the worst when meeting long-term carers) but also his gregarious nature. Des was the sort of person who roused people into banter, wherever he might be – at a bus stop, supermarket or dentist’s waiting room. I knew he could be relied upon to recharge any lapse in conversation.
The social worker, who must have noticed our lingering stares as we entered the café, pushed her chair back and smiled broadly. Dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved top, she walked over to greet us with her hand extended.
An attractive woman in her early 40s, she wore her dark hair pulled back from her face and piled up into a wide clip at the top of her head so that her eyes, bright blue and intelligent, sparkled as she smiled. The small wire-framed glasses she wore suited her delicate features and I realised with a jolt that she actually looked like an older version of Phoebe. When she shook my hand it was with vigour, a full-bodied, friendly greeting.
We spent the next hour chatting about Phoebe and the journey she had made so far. I found myself with so much to say that Des barely got a look in: Maxine was fascinated by the Applied Behavioural Analysis and in turn I was comforted to find that she truly seemed to want to continue working through the programme with Phoebe. The social worker came across as solid, resourceful and above all, she had a wicked sense of humour, something she might need to rely on in the first few weeks while Phoebe settled.
So when I picked Phoebe up from school later in the week I wasn’t feeling quite as anxious as I might have been about breaking the news to her that she was going to move. Sitting side by side on the sofa that evening, I flicked the TV to mute and told her that Lenke had been in touch with some news.
A flicker of sadness crossed her face before I said any more and I realised she was expecting news of her parents. ‘It’s alright, there’s nothing to worry about,’ I told her. Of course it was a daft thing to say, knowing that it was highly likely that the news would cause her to worry. ‘Lenke has been in touch with a lady who would love to meet you. She has a lovely house and no children of her own …’
Her eyes widened in alarm and so I hesitated, feeling a lump form in my throat. Giving a child news knowing it will cause them pain was really one of the most awful aspects of fostering and I detested doing it. ‘She’d really like you to go and stay with her.’
A spread of colour appeared on her cheeks. Her feelings were evident from the pain on her face but quickly she tried to cover it, twisting her expression into an ugly sneer. Reverting to her old behaviour, she stuck her index fingers in her ears and mimicked me, ‘She’d like you to go and stay with her.’ And then after that, every time I tried to talk to her she screeched, ‘la, la, la,’ her fingers still rammed in her ears, although she wasn’t so accomplished at retreating behind a wall of bizarre behaviour as she had once been – her voice wobbled and then a twin track of tears appeared on her cheeks.
The painful resentment in her eyes stabbed at my heart and I felt treacherous. How cruel life can be, I thought, not for the first time feeling a childlike rage at the unfairness of it all.
As the first day of introductions approached Phoebe regressed, her arm flapping and spinning returning with a vengeance. She also fired insults at me under her breath, telling me how much she hated me, how she longed to leave. I knew it was an attempt to sever our bond in a way that would cause her the least distress but the fact that she was hurting broke my heart and although I didn’t want her to leave, I longed for the pain of the move to be over, for everyone’s sake. It had been so long since she’d behaved in that way and it was such a bizarre sight that we all couldn’t help but gawp at her. Her nerves, expressed so physically, became contagious and so the night before Maxine was due to visit, I felt nauseous with anxiety.
When I woke Phoebe the next morning she seemed terrified and I couldn’t blame her. She barely touched her breakfast and when I tried to encourage her, she barked loudly at me. The doorbell rang and I wondered how Maxine would react when she saw her new charge staggering behind me with a bizarre gait and howling like a wolf.
I should have had more faith in her. Maxine breezed in and pulled me into a friendly hug. We had arranged to welcome each other with the enthusiasm of long-lost relatives, knowing children find it easier to move on if the person they feel loyal to approves of their new carer. Phoebe hung around behind me, rumpling up the fabric of my blouse with fidgety fingers. Intrigued by all our affectionate greetings, she dared a peep around my shoulder, ducking back again when Maxine smiled and said hello.
As I prepared refreshments for everyone Phoebe remained glued to my side. The ritual of lining up the cups and boiling the kettle didn’t dispel the nervous flutter in my stomach although I was grateful that, for
now, Phoebe had stopped barking. As I stirred the drinks, I noticed my hands trembling, the hot liquid spilling over onto the worktop.
Phoebe looked even more anxious than I felt, overwhelmed by Maxine’s attempts to engage her in conversation, but there were two pink spots on her cheeks and her eyes were shining. She looked prettier than I’d ever seen her before.
The social worker seemed to take Phoebe’s mimicking in her stride, continuing to chat with me and trying to include her as much as she could, although on the way out Maxine asked if she could have a quiet word. I put the door on the latch and we walked out onto the driveway. Maxine cupped her hand under my elbow and leaned in to ask under her breath, ‘How often does she, you know, repeat what you say?’
I could sense her apprehension and for a fleeting moment I was tempted to say, ‘Every time anyone opens their mouth.’ I remembered how Phoebe’s mimicking had really got under my skin in the early days after her arrival, making me feel tense and irritable and, unfairly, I was hoping that Maxine might flee and leave our happy family unit undisturbed. Forcing myself to put my own selfish agenda aside, I hesitated then answered honestly, ‘She hasn’t parroted us for months, really – she’s only doing it because she’s nervous. As soon as she’s settled, I’m sure she’ll stop doing it. Oh, and the funny walk will vanish as well.’
Her shoulders slumped with relief and she thanked me profusely before climbing into her car.
A week later the introductions were progressing well. Maxine had visited several times and Phoebe was warming to her, so much so that she stopped parroting and was actively engaging in conversations, even volunteering information without being prompted. On the following Monday, Maxine collected her from school for the first time and when they got into the car, it was to her that Phoebe chattered about the day’s events.
I fussed around offering them snacks and refilling their glasses but they took little notice of me, already forming their own tight-knit group. According to our handover plan, today was to be their first outing without me accompanying them. I suggested the local park and then back for dinner, but it seemed that they had already settled on going for a pizza.
Even though I had spent several nights praying that Phoebe would be happy in her new situation, witnessing it happening before my eyes felt jarring, so much so that I left the room for a few minutes, busying myself in the kitchen. I only returned once they were dressed in their coats, ready to embark on their trip. Maxine gave a little wave as she left but I was choked to see that Phoebe barely glanced backwards. Tormented by my sudden anonymity, I tried to rationalise my feelings, but I was still struggling when Des popped around later in the day.
‘It’s like the last nine months didn’t happen – she’s almost as distant as the first day she came.’
‘And that’s exactly as it should be. She’s moving on, Rosie. She has no choice in that. Phoebe knows that she’s losing you and she’s letting you go in the way that’s going to hurt the least.’
‘I know, I know that. It’s just that …’ How could I put into words that Phoebe moving on reconfirmed my own dispensability? Of course I knew that the day would come, but it had happened so abruptly that my emotions hadn’t quite caught up. And with the arrival of someone new in Phoebe’s life I felt more protective of her than ever, just as I was going to have to relinquish her. As usual, it was as if Des could hear my internal musings.
‘She’ll always remember you – you know that, don’t you? What you’ve done for her won’t just disappear because she’s leaving.’
Still rankled, I answered with a sniff. Des smiled and took me by surprise, drawing me into an unexpected hug. I laid my head on his chest and for a moment I allowed myself to relax into him, aware that he had begun to stroke my hair. Feeling the tears forming, I abruptly pulled away, repressing my longing for someone kind and capable to take control. Briskly I assured him that I was fine.
‘Rosie,’ he said softly, his voice slightly hoarse. He shook his head as he walked down the path and I felt, not for the first time, that I had disappointed him.
Alone in the house, I got to work on Phoebe’s life story book. In the past, when children came into the care system, foster carers often didn’t think to keep the mementos that a loving parent would – cinema tickets, photos, cherished cuddly toys etc. And so care leavers often had nothing tangible from childhood to remind them of special people and memorable moments in their life. Nowadays foster carers are taught the importance of keeping memories safe and encouraged to keep a full record of the time they spent together.
Besides filling a memory box for Phoebe, I prepared one for Emily and Jamie, so that they would have a physical reminder of their time with her. As well as a photograph album, my own children’s box contained items that I couldn’t possibly have put in Phoebe’s: the empty bubble bath bottle she drank from and alarmed us all into thinking she was poisoned, a cut-out corner from a box of porridge and a take-away pizza delivery leaflet. I hoped to make them laugh but I wouldn’t allow them to open it until Phoebe had moved on, through fear of offending her.
Phoebe was delivered back in time for dinner, rosy-cheeked and looking happy. She didn’t volunteer much, even though I framed my questions in many different ways. I supposed that I had to get used to being an outsider; she was transferring her attachment and that entailed severing the one she shared with me. It was natural.
The night before the final handover we all sat on the sofa watching a comedy, even though none of us were in the mood to laugh. Phoebe was staring at the TV, but like the rest of us, she wasn’t really watching. When I noticed that her lips were shiny with saliva and the tears on her face I leaned over and tried to draw her into a hug but she pushed me away. I was used to being rejected in the last few days of a placement – I think children sense that the way to survive the separation is to slowly withdraw, which is what Phoebe was doing. Even though I understood, it still hurt: she looked so sad and alone.
Later, she rested her head on my shoulder to say goodnight, holding it there for longer than she needed to.
Chapter 35
It was a bitterly cold day when I drove Phoebe to a village on the borders of Birmingham, the grey sky reflecting my own downcast mood. During the journey to Maxine’s house I kept up a steady stream of jovial chatter, though it was a strain, and by the lack of response from Phoebe in the back of the car, I could tell my efforts were failing.
As we pulled into the drive I noticed a small movement of the curtains in one of the downstairs windows. When I turned in my seat and caught the look on Phoebe’s face a ripple of pity twisted through me. She looked so young and full of angst.
‘Will I ever see you again, Rosie?’
She asked it in a straightforward way but the question really stirred up my emotions again. I hadn’t told her anything about the siblings I had cared for, so she had no idea of the poignancy of her question.
‘Of course you will. I’ll be Auntie Rosie and you can see me whenever you like.’
I hoped that would be the case. Having met Maxine, I was sure it would be.
Any further conversation was stopped by the opening of the front door. Maxine walked towards our car, smiling as Phoebe and I clambered out. The social worker reached out her arms. All Phoebe had to do was walk a few feet towards her and yet she hesitated, turning to fix her eyes on me. It was as if the distance between Phoebe and her new carer was a bridge and as she contemplated taking the steps towards her new life I couldn’t help but think that the drawbridge would be drawn up after her, as it had been with Tess and Harry.
Phoebe’s eyes darted between us and I wondered if a fear of being disloyal was holding her back.
‘Go on, Phoebe. It’s cold. Don’t keep Maxine waiting,’ I told her. It was a strain to keep the emotion out of my voice but somehow I managed to sound light-hearted. She gave me a nervous smile and I nodded reassuringly. And so she edged towards Maxine, tiptoeing as if this would be a safer way of embarking on this new a
dventure.
Suddenly she was by my side again, howling and clinging tightly to my coat. Turning her tear-streaked face to mine she said, ‘I’ll miss you, Rosie.’ Her voice was hoarse with emotion.
‘I’ll miss you too, very much.’ I kissed the top of her head, my own eyes now misted with tears.
Briskly she pulled away and went to Maxine, who was clearly moved herself. She dabbed her eyes on her sleeve and Phoebe turned to glance back at me. After giving me a small wave she allowed herself to be guided into the house. Maxine mouthed a ‘thank you’ and smiled warmly before she closed the door.
And so it was done. Another ending.
As I drove home I allowed all the anxiety I felt for Phoebe to wash over me. The tears flowed as I fretted about the adjustments she was going to have to make – the relocation to an unfamiliar area, strange house, new carer, change of school. After all she’d been through it seemed like too much for a young girl to have to cope with. And what if she regressed – would Maxine be able to manage her? I wondered. It wasn’t always easy being a single carer, as I well knew.
Every time I slowed or stopped in traffic I wondered what the drivers in the other cars around me must think of the sobbing woman with wild blonde hair and a swollen face. Keeping my eyes on the road, I leaned over to the glove compartment and reached for the box of tissues I always kept in there, but it was almost empty, reminding me of the drive I took with Phoebe and the trust she had placed in me when she finally told me what her father had done. The memory brought a fresh wave of tears.
When I got home it felt eerily quiet, so much so that I was actually grateful when the telephone rang. I was surprised to hear Lenke’s voice, calling to find out how the handover had gone.
‘As well as we could have expected, I think, Lenke – she’s a brave girl.’
There was a sigh, a pause, and then she surprised me even more by apologising for her initial reluctance to open the family up to close scrutiny – ‘We don’t always get it right. I’m sorry to say that I let the wool be pulled over my eyes. Thank goodness she trusted you enough to let us know what was really going on in that house. You did good, Rosie, very good.’ There was a sincerity in her tone that brought warmth to my heart and before hanging up, I thanked her gratefully.