by Cathy Glass
‘Feeling better?’ I asked, but she gave no acknowledgement. I opened the curtains, took her jeans and jumper from the wardrobe, and laid them on the bed. ‘Put these on, pet, and I’ll make you a snack, then we could take your bike to the park for a bit. You’d like that.’
Usually she was adept at telling me exactly what she did or didn’t like, but this time she made no sound or movement. I looked closely at her, then I perched on the bed and eased the duvet from under her chin. ‘Jodie, are you all right, sweet?’
Her eyes were focused on some distant point above her head. I tried chivvying her along. ‘Come on. Get dressed while I make you a sandwich, then we’ll go out.’ She remained staring, giving no clue that she’d even heard me.
I decided it was probably best to leave her, in the hope that she’d think about the park, and rally round. A quarter of an hour later, when she still hadn’t appeared, I went up to check on her again. She was exactly as I’d left her: flat on her back and staring into space. I sat on the bed and started talking, reassuring her that I understood how difficult it was, but that eventually everything would be sorted out; she had her whole life ahead of her. Still she said nothing, and remained immobile. I tried firmness, then coercion, then bribery, then finally I tried to physically lift her from the pillow, but none of it worked. She flopped back like a rag doll, and I was really starting to worry. I hovered in the doorway, then, leaving the door wide open, went to the phone in my bedroom. I called Jill and told her about the day’s events.
‘It could be part of the post-traumatic shock,’ she said. ‘The flashback she had at school could have caused her brain to shut down for protection.’
‘So she’ll come out of it?’
‘She should be recovered by the morning. I suggest you let her sleep it off. If you need help during the night call the emergency social worker, but I doubt it’ll be necessary.’
I returned to Jodie’s room and tried once more to rouse her. When this failed, I reluctantly closed the curtains and came out, leaving the door ajar. A little later the children arrived home, and I explained what had happened. They came with me as I checked on her every half hour, but there was no change, and an eerie hush descended on the house, as music and televisions were kept low. By the time I went to bed her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping. I left her light dimmed and her door open, and went to my room.
* * *
At four in the morning I was woken by a small voice outside my bedroom door. ‘Cathy, Amy’s wet the bed.’
I leapt up and hugged her. ‘No problem.’ At least some part of Jodie was back. I changed her sheets and pyjamas, as she continued chattering in her baby voice. ‘Amy’s good girl. She tells Cathy. Amy wants potty.’ I didn’t mind; anything was better than that dreadful comatose silence. I tucked her in, then left her snuggled up with a teddy, contentedly sucking her thumb.
In the morning I was surprised to find Amy was still in occupation, and she remained so throughout breakfast.
‘Stop babbling in that silly voice,’ Lucy eventually snapped; she was never at her best first thing in the morning.
I shot her a warning glance. ‘I’m sure she’ll be gone by the time we get to school,’ I said. But an hour later, as I kissed Jodie goodbye and passed her over to Miss Walker, she toddled off still in character as Amy, with the tottering gait of an infant just learning to walk.
As I drove home I got stuck in traffic, so I phoned Jill from the car and updated her. She asked me to email my log notes over as soon as possible, so she could forward them to Eileen, the guardian ad litum and Dr Burrows. It was after midday by the time I’d finished typing, and I was about to make some lunch when the phone rang. Please let it not be the school again, I thought. I hadn’t even started the housework yet, and I still had to do the supermarket run.
It was the school. ‘Hi, Cathy,’ the secretary said, and I braced myself for the bad news. ‘Mr West asked me to call to let you know Jodie’s been fine today.’
‘Thank you,’ I sighed with relief. ‘Thank you very much.’
* * *
Jodie’s good behaviour continued through the evening, but it turned out to be a false dawn. The next morning she was sobbing uncontrollably and despite my best efforts I couldn’t get her to tell me why. As I sat on her bed, watching her weep, I again felt completely ineffectual as a carer, and tried to remind myself that this was no ordinary childhood trauma.
By 9.00 a.m. she was no better, so I phoned the school and told them she wouldn’t be coming in for the morning, but that if there was an improvement I’d bring her for the afternoon. There wasn’t. Nor the following day. By the end of the week Jodie had been in school for a total of one and a half days, and she was deteriorating before my eyes. When she wasn’t crying she was staring into space, removed and distant from anything I could say or do. She was hardly eating, and my previous policy of restricting sweet and fatty foods went out of the window.
‘What about a chocolate biscuit?’ I asked, trying to get a spark of interest out of her. ‘Or there’s ice-cream in the freezer?’
But nothing could tempt her, and she was surviving on the odd mouthful of sandwich and occasional handful of crisps.
It was extremely distressing. I’d never seen any child like this before and I was at a complete loss to know how to deal with it, or how to help Jodie. I phoned the only person I could think of who could give me support and advice at a time like this. Jill agreed to come round at once.
‘This can’t go on,’ she said when she saw Jodie’s state, which alternated between the heart-rending crying and total blankness. ‘She needs help. Now.’
She phoned Eileen, but was told she was on annual leave once again, and the new team manager, Gail, was in a meeting. Jill left a stern message, requiring a call back as soon as she was free.
‘Jill?’ I asked. ‘Is it possible for a child this young to have a nervous breakdown?’
‘There are cases, yes, but it’s very rare.’
We looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. The extent of Jodie’s abuse was rare – so why shouldn’t she be suffering a nervous breakdown? If there was any child who was a prime candidate for a complete mental collapse, it was her.
Jill tried talking to Jodie, who’d spent all morning propped on the sofa staring silently into space. It was a slightly different approach to mine. Jill didn’t ask her any questions. Instead, she just recounted stories of various children she knew, hoping these would prompt a reaction. However, the end result was the same: a blank stare, which eventually gave way to silent tears. I did the only thing I could: I held her tightly, and reassured her it was going to be OK. Jill had nothing else to offer, so she left, saying she’d phone regularly, and promised to alert Dr Burrows.
The doctor phoned within the hour and asked to see Jodie first thing Monday morning. She said she’d cancelled an appointment to fit her in, and although I was grateful I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to get Jodie out of the house. I asked if she could make it a home visit.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied apologetically. ‘I’m only allowed to see children at the centre, because of the insurance.’
I said I’d make sure Jodie was there.
The weekend passed, and Jodie showed no improvement. The whole family spoke in whispers, in recognition of her suffering. We took turns sitting with her on the sofa, reading her favourite stories or trying to involve her in games, but not even the Mary Poppins video could produce a reaction. All she wanted was to go to bed, where she now spent an increasingly large part of the day, and from which it was a struggle to coerce her in the morning.
I prayed that Dr Burrows would have some answers for us.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Assessment
On Monday morning I washed and dressed Jodie, then watched as she sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. Eventually I threw away the porridge she hadn’t touched, tucked a packet of crisps into my bag and helped her on with her coat
and shoes. I had told her we were going to see Dr Burrows, but she was as lifeless as ever. I helped her out of the house, strapped her into her seatbelt and turned up the volume on her favourite singalong cassette. As we drove to the clinic she stared straight ahead at the seat in front of her, and said nothing. She was completely unreachable, and I wondered if she even knew where she was.
We arrived at the clinic and I gave our names to the receptionist, who told us to go straight through to the consulting room. I knocked and entered; Dr Burrows was arranging crayons on the child-size table. As soon as Jodie saw the doctor, her previous lethargy vanished and she erupted into a violent tantrum.
‘Don’t want to! Go away!’ She kicked the small plastic chairs across the room.
‘All right, Jodie,’ Dr Burrows soothed. ‘There’s nothing to be worried about. I’m here to help you.’
‘Don’t want your help! Piss off!’ Jodie covered her ears, screwed up her eyes and screamed for all she was worth.
The doctor motioned for me to do nothing, so I stayed where I was, as the cry reverberated around the walls in an agonizing crescendo. Eventually she ran out of breath, and the scream ended as abruptly as it had begun. She lowered her hands and darted to the table, throwing it against the wall. She overturned the toy boxes, kicked the contents across the floor, then turned to the filing cabinet, which had one drawer half open. Dr Burrows intercepted her.
‘No. You can’t go in there,’ she said calmly, placing herself between the filing cabinet and Jodie. ‘That’s mine and contains important papers. Not in there.’
To my surprise, Jodie accepted this, but her unspent anger turned inwards, upon herself. She grabbed a clump of her hair and tore it out. At this, I got up and restrained her. It might not have been the correct approach in the doctor’s eyes, but I wasn’t prepared to stand by and watch her harm herself. I held her wrists, then crossed her arms, enfolding her as I did at home. She struggled, spat and then finally went limp. I led her over to the sofa and put my arms around her. Whether Dr Burrows approved or not, I couldn’t tell. She sat opposite, and the room was quiet. I looked at the mess; the floor between us was covered in debris, a sea of destruction.
We sat in silence, then Dr Burrows leaned towards Jodie. Her voice was soft and low, and she was searching for eye contact. ‘I know you’re hurting, Jodie, and I want to try and stop that hurt. You let Cathy help you. Will you let me help you too? It would be really good if you did.’
It was a relaxed, non-threatening approach, which I was sure had worked with countless children before, but although Jodie was quiet, it was a silence I recognized as being withdrawn.
Dr Burrows gave me a reassuring smile, then repeated her request. Jodie didn’t move, and gave no indication that she’d even heard. The psychologist tried again, this time rephrasing it. ‘Jodie, Cathy has told me about how brave you’ve been; you’ve had an awful lot to deal with. But I think you’re finding this problem is too big to fix on your own. That’s why Cathy’s here, and that’s why I’m here too. Will you let me help you?’
Jodie continued staring at some indistinct point a yard or so ahead, remaining as closed off and removed as ever.
Dr Burrows sat back, and opened the notepad on her lap. ‘Cathy, perhaps you could tell me how Jodie’s been since we last met. I know you’ve been worried about her.’
I assumed this was a strategy to encourage Jodie to share her feelings, so I explained that she’d been doing extremely well, but that horrible memories from her past had been making her unhappy. I gave a couple of examples, to make it clear to Jodie that Dr Burrows knew her history and that she could be trusted. I said that the whole family was very worried; Adrian, Lucy and Paula cared a great deal for Jodie, and didn’t like to see her upset. Dr Burrows leaned forward again.
‘I see lots of children who are upset and angry because of things that have happened. It’s not their fault. I know ways to help. I help them get rid of some of the hurt, so they can be happy again. I’d like to help you, Jodie.’
The nature of our visit appeared to have changed from assessment to therapy, but unless Jodie engaged, and the pathway of communication opened, it would all be in vain.
‘I’d like you to help us,’ I said, hoping the ‘us’ might spark Jodie’s confidence, but she remained inert, staring straight ahead. Dr Burrows made another note in her pad.
‘Would you like to play a game, Jodie?’ she asked. ‘I could bring in the doll’s house.’
I looked at Jodie hopefully, but she made no move.
‘How about a drawing? You drew a lovely picture on your first visit. I’ve still got it.’
Jodie didn’t even look up.
‘I tell you what.’ The doctor rose from her chair. ‘Before we do anything, Cathy and I are going to put these toys back in the boxes. We’d like you to help us, please.’
I took my cue, slipped my arm from Jodie and joined the doctor on the floor. Presumably the aim was to engage Jodie in physical collaboration, in the hope that it would ease her into saying something. But as we repacked the toy boxes and picked up the crayons I could see out of the corner of my eye that Jodie wasn’t even looking at us, perhaps wasn’t even aware of us. A few minutes later we finished, and returned to our seats. Dr Burrows made some more notes in her pad, while I sat with my arm around Jodie. I couldn’t begin to guess what she was writing, but I supposed to her professional eye there were indicators, and possibly even a diagnosis, despite Jodie’s non-cooperation.
She closed her pad and smiled kindly. ‘That’s enough for today. Thank you both for coming. I’ll be in touch.’
I was taken aback, and wondered if this was another ploy to spark Jodie into communication. The psychologist stood up. ‘I’ll see you again soon, Jodie.’ The session was definitely finished.
I looked at Jodie, who was still motionless, wearing the same impenetrable stare.
‘OK, sweet, we can go home now.’ I took her hand and lifted her from the chair, as the doctor opened the door. As we walked out into the daylight I had an awful sense of foreboding.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Therapy
My sense of foreboding persisted through the following day. Jodie and I sat on the sofa as I read her one of her favourite rhymes by Shirley Hughes. ‘Bathwater’s hot, seawater’s cold. Ginger’s kittens are very young, but Buster’s getting old.’ In the past she had turned the pages eagerly, repeating the words, enjoying the pleasant sound of the rhyme. Now she seemed impervious; deaf and mute.
Jodie’s disturbance had reached a new level and I knew that what I could offer was grossly inadequate. There was something frightening as well as deeply saddening about watching her distress. How far could a personality fracture before it was impossible to put it back together? Where would all her misery and hurt take her in the end? It seemed as though it was leading her to a place of darkness and silence where, finally, no one would be able to reach her. I knew she needed help urgently. But what kind of help? And how could I comfort her?
I put the book down and held her close, as I replayed the previous day’s session with Dr Burrows in my head. I hadn’t expected a miracle cure, but I had hoped for at least a hint of progress. Instead the session had only served to demonstrate how disturbed Jodie was, and how powerless even the psychologist was to reach or help her. I stroked a few strands of hair from her forehead, and looked at her pale, unresponsive face. Was it possible that she would be trapped like this forever?
‘I feel so helpless, Jodie,’ I whispered. ‘I wish I could do something. I wish I was a fairy godmother and I could wave a magic wand so all your troubles would go away.’
I looped my arms under her shoulders, eased her on to my lap and rocked her gently. She remained impassive. My gaze drifted to the window as a rogue snowflake floated past. It was followed by another, and then another. They drifted down as if from heaven, and then melted as they touched the patio.
‘Look, Jodie!’ I raised her head towards the window. ‘
It’s trying to snow and it’s April!’
She looked up, and her eyes seemed to focus for a second.
‘Shall we go outside and have a look? You like snow, don’t you? Please look.’
But the moment passed, and she turned her head back to the floor, showing no emotion or recognition.
I put her to bed at seven and, with the girls at their piano lessons and Adrian coming home much later, I had the house to myself. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I put on a CD of classical music, but it only made me sad. In the end I sat watching TV, keeping the volume low so I could hear if Jodie stirred. I went to bed early and, as I lay awake, I prayed for the first time in thirty years.
In the morning I fancied there was some small improvement. Jodie came downstairs on her own, and managed a few spoonfuls of Weetabix. Sadly, though, it didn’t last. Half an hour later she was curled foetally on the sofa again, silent and withdrawn.
Jill phoned at 9.30. The new team leader had called an emergency planning meeting for 11.00, and my presence was required. She didn’t know exactly why the meeting had been called, but said it suggested things might be starting to move. Dr Burrows may have recommended that therapy start immediately. Alternatively, if we dared hope, new evidence might have emerged that would finally put Jodie’s abusers behind bars. Jill’s colleague, Lisa, had offered to babysit, and would arrive in about an hour. Finally, some action, I thought. I looked down at Jodie, and felt my hopes begin to rise.
Lisa arrived in good time, and I introduced her to Jodie, who did at least manage to look in her direction. I showed her where the coffee and biscuits were, then left, as she began reading a Barbie magazine to Jodie. I’d changed into my smart ‘meetings’ suit, and my spirits continued to lift as I drove to the Social Services. Perhaps something good was going to come out of this; finally other people had begun to understand what I had known for some time – that the extent of Jodie’s troubles was extraordinary and that she needed specialist help and immediate therapy. Someone had to know how to unlock her and restore her to life.