by Casey Watson
He continued grinning. ‘Just you,’ he said. ‘And for what it’s worth, I agree with you. But she’s a funny little thing, isn’t she? I meant to mention earlier. Have you noticed that thing she does with her sleeve?’
‘What thing?’
‘I noticed it yesterday, and then again this morning. She always pulls her sleeve over her hand when she opens a door. Like this –’ Mike pulled his jumper sleeve over his own hand to demonstrate. ‘And one time yesterday, I noticed, when she didn’t have a sleeve long enough, she spent about five minutes trying to do it with her elbow instead.’
‘I hadn’t,’ I said. ‘But it fits with everything else we know, doesn’t it? The health and safety obsession and so on. The million times a day she seems to need to wash her hands. It definitely figures.’
‘I was going to mention that too,’ Mike said. ‘Endlessly.’
I sighed. ‘Poor little thing. I mean, I know in the grand scheme of things it’s not so bad, really. I mean, not when you compare her to someone like Justin, at any rate. But even so.’
Justin had been our first foster child and I loved him dearly. We still saw him regularly – he’d never stop being part of our family – and if ever there was a child with the world on his shoulders, it had been him. The child of a drug-addicted mother, he’d been in care since he was five, when he’d burned down the family home.
How damaged did you have to be to do such a thing? We soon learned. He’d then spent the next few years bouncing back and forth between his feckless mother (who would pick him up and drop him with as much care as an inept knitter) and countless children’s homes and foster homes. His eventual tally of 20 failed placements was a shocking number for a span of just five years – and he’d grown steadily more damaged with every move. By the time we got him, aged ten, he’d been given up on by just about everyone. No, compared with Justin, I reminded myself, Abby’s problems weren’t that bad.
Except, of course, they were. Or soon would be, if her life wasn’t straightened out. It wouldn’t take much for this traumatised child – missing her mother, adrift, anxious, friendless and bewildered – to become irretrievably psychologically disturbed. In some ways, I thought, social services had shown great prescience in addressing that fact, because her mother clearly hadn’t.
And it was our job to try to stop that happening. I drained my cup of coffee in determined mood. ‘But that’s what we’re here for, eh?’ I said, as much to myself as to Mike. ‘And look at the time. She’s got to be clean by now, even by her exacting standards.’
‘Even if her clothes aren’t,’ commented Mike, looking at the filthy heap on the kitchen floor.
Having scooped up the offending items and filled the bowl with water to soak them, I was just about to go up and see how Abby was doing when she reappeared. She looked pink and fresh again, and with an expression that was marginally brighter. Perhaps now she’d had a soak she could accept that the scratch on her hand was only minor. Or perhaps she was just resigned to whatever fate was in store.
She glanced at the bowl. ‘I’m really sorry, Casey,’ she said, her expression serious. ‘I was being silly, running off like that, wasn’t I?’
‘Oh, no harm done,’ I said lightly. ‘It’s been an upsetting time for you, sweetheart. We understand, really we do.’ I was on my knees under the sink by now, pulling out my plastic box of heavy-duty laundry aids, and when I looked up I saw her wan smile turn to one of relief and pleasure. Well, that was what it seemed to be, at any rate. Even if I couldn’t work out why.
She came across and joined me on the kitchen floor, looking almost joyful. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I was wondering where you kept all this stuff!’
I might just as easily have pulled out a box of Barbie dolls or cupcakes. ‘It’s my magic box,’ I told her. ‘Full of all my lotions and potions.’ I did a little witchy cackle. ‘All eventualities covered. Though spells and hexes only by arrangement.’
I was pleased to see I’d conjured a big grin from even her. She peered into the box excitedly. ‘Are you going to do some cleaning? Can I help you?’
‘Well, I was just going to find some stain-removing powder, so I can soak your jeans and hoodie before I wash them.’
‘But while you’re doing that …’ She pointed towards my trigger bottle of bleach spray. ‘I could do some polishing and stuff …’ she paused and then said shyly, ‘to be helpful.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to be doing that on a Sunday …’ I started. ‘And besides, I’m such a clean freak, you’ll be hard-pushed to find anything to polish!’ But then I thought of what Mike had said about her worrying about germs on the doorknobs. Perhaps it would help her to settle if she cleaned them herself. Yes, that might be a useful plan. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I guess if you really want to, I suppose … yes, I don’t see why not.’
The effect was electrifying. She plunged her hands into the box as efficiently as any professional contract cleaner and, rubber gloves popped back the right way out and quickly donned, had both spray and the correct cloth in hand in moments. And within no time, while I attacked the bowl of muddy clothing in the sink, she set about attacking all the knobs on the kitchen cupboards. I clearly wasn’t the only one who found contentment in cleaning, then.
‘You know,’ I said, once I’d changed the soaking water and added my magic powder, ‘Jackson’s going to be one soon and we’re planning to hold a little party for him. And Mike and I were wondering if you’d like it if we made it a joint one, for your tenth birthday, since it’s coming up soon as well. Would you like that?’
The anxiety flashed in her eyes once again. ‘I don’t have birthday parties,’ she said, almost as if admonishing me. ‘It’s too much for Mummy. We always just have a special tea.’
I nodded. ‘I understand,’ I said carefully. ‘It must be hard, with Mummy’s illness. But while you’re here … and since we’re going to be throwing a party for Jackson anyway. Well, I just thought – why not ask a few friends from school along too?’
Again, I felt her tension. ‘But I might not be here next month, might I? And besides,’ she persisted, ‘there’s no one. No one I’d want to come, anyway. They’re all just silly. I told you …’
She had, too. I couldn’t argue that point. And I wasn’t about to contradict her about when she may or may not be able to go home again. Not right now. And once again I felt saddened at how all this had come about. You didn’t tend to maintain friendships when you were the perpetual outsider. When you never invited any of your peers round to play. And though it wasn’t a nice thought, and a part of me felt guilty for thinking it, it occurred to me that Sarah couldn’t let her daughter have friends round for parties, even if Abby wanted to. If she had, it would obviously mean interacting with their parents, which might mean someone realising the conditions in which poor Abby lived. Which might have profound repercussions …
I was just reassuring Abby that she was under absolutely no pressure to ask anyone round when a key turned in the front door to reveal Kieron, closely followed by an excited and dripping Bob. Bob had been the family dog for getting on for three years now – since the day Kieron just arrived with him, fresh from an animal sanctuary. Though he no longer lived with us – he’d gone with Kieron, to Lauren’s – he was still very much part of our home. Which was presumably why he still had no compunction about doing his drying off by shaking his wet coat in the middle of my kitchen.
‘Hey, Mr!’ I tutted. ‘Thanks for that! NOT.’ I pulled my own rubber gloves off, the cleaning spell clearly now over. What with everything, I’d lost all track of the time, not to mention the fact that Kieron had already told me he’d be popping over. He’d promised to come and sort half a dozen huge boxes containing some of his collection of CDs and DVDs, which, with the house move being so last minute, still required his attention. It was a collection that had been acquired over his entire childhood, and it really needed pruning, the plan being to decide which to take to his and Lauren’s, which should go to t
he local charity shop and which were worth trying to sell on eBay.
Kieron being Kieron, this would be no simple task. With his Asperger’s, he was pathologically obsessed about order, so this would be no simple ‘keep, donate or sell’ half-hour job. Even assuming he’d be able to part with half of them – and there was only so much room for, not to mention sense in, storing them – they would first have to be re-catalogued to the minutest degree.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I said to Bob now, before he could add to his crimes by launching himself – and his filthy paws – over an already cringing Abby. ‘You’re out of bounds till you’ve had a proper rub down!’ I scooped him up – I was still in my muddy jeans, so it didn’t matter. ‘And I tell you what,’ I said to Abby. ‘I think we can call it a day with cleaning, don’t you?’ I grinned at my son, as he shrugged off his jacket, a perfect plan hatching in my mind. To some extent, I realised, these two were peas in a pod. I grinned at Abby while Bob enthusiastically licked my face. ‘I’m betting Kieron here would love the chance to recruit you.’
‘What’s that, Mum?’ Kieron asked, hanging his coat over the newel post. ‘All right, Abby?’ he greeted her. She nodded shyly.
‘Your big DVD sort-out,’ I explained. ‘Abby’s a complete whizz at getting organised, aren’t you, sweetie? So why don’t the two of you crack on while I make us all some tea?’
Abby nodded again. As did Kieron, who was obviously happy to have the company. And as I watched them trot off upstairs, I reflected that, even though, as peas went, they were very differently sized ones, my random thought might just turn out to be the best one I’d had all day. Abby might not have friends at school, but she might just find one in Kieron.
Though quite how much of a friend he’d turn out to be, bless him, I was yet to see.
Chapter 9
‘Good news,’ I told Abby when she returned home from school the following day. ‘Mummy’s feeling well enough again for us to visit her.’
I’d taken the call from Bridget that lunchtime. Sarah was apparently recovering from her fever, and though she was still very poorly she was keen to see Abby.
Abby’s response, however, was typically brisk. ‘About flipping time!’ she blustered, pulling off her backpack and yanking her arms from her blazer, before hanging the latter neatly over the newel post. ‘About flipping time!’
To my delight, the DVD sort-out with Kieron had been a great success. Not only had they cleared all six storage boxes between them, but Kieron had also given Abby the pick of all the kids’ films as a thank you for all her hard work.
‘You should have seen her, Mum,’ he’d told me before he’d set off for home. ‘She was like the cat that got the cream – and all over a few ancient Disney films!’
It had made me think, that. What had been throwaway items, almost – many of Kieron’s movie collection had been picked up at boot sales and charity shops in the first place – were obviously things this child had simply never had. With no family to buy her presents, and a sick, often housebound mother, who was probably chronically short of cash, such luxuries as DVDs might have been in very short supply.
After Kieron had gone I’d dug out an old DVD player for her to use, and set up our old portable for her bedroom. And it was Kieron she mostly talked about on the way to the hospital now. How funny he was and how generous he was. She also mentioned something I hadn’t been aware of at the time – she’d told him how she’d never been allowed to have a pet, and he’d said she could have a ‘virtual one’ instead. He’d taken a photo of her and Bob on his smartphone, and had printed it out so she could stick it in her scrapbook and show it to her mum when she visited. Hearing that, I felt that warm glow you always get when a plan comes together. I was also naturally very touched by what he’d done.
But for all her apparent jollity, Abby lapsed into silence as the hospital buildings loomed into view. I couldn’t blame her. As reminders of ‘grim reality’ went, this was it. It had been one of those dull, drizzly days that make you think the winter’s never ending, and in the dusky pewter light the hospital looked as bleak as could be. It had also started raining pretty heavily.
‘Don’t forget the scrapbook, then,’ I reminded her as we parked up in the usual far corner of the car park. I peered at the heavens, and wished for my son’s attention to detail. No hat and no umbrella, despite my popping the latter on the hall windowsill ready. Though at least Abby had a hood, so we wouldn’t get completely drenched.
I fed the pay and display machine with the usual cobbled-together assortment of loose change, and we hurried up to the hospital buildings, dodging puddles. But if I was glad to get inside and reunite mother and daughter for a bit, my hopes for a fond reunion were to be quickly dashed.
Sarah had been moved to a side room now, which was something of a blessing, because the first thing Abby did on seeing her was to march up to the bed, slam her hands against her hip bones and glare at her mother.
‘How much longer are you going to keep this up, Mummy?’ she shouted. ‘When are you going to have a remission? WHEN?’
Shocked both by her tone and by the unexpected decibel level, I caught up with her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off angrily. ‘Mummy! What’s going to happen to the house? It’s going to go to the dogs! It’ll be disgusting! Come on! We need to GO HOME!’
Sarah’s face, initially registering bafflement, began to crumple.
‘Poppet, I’m so sorry …’ was all she managed to get out before collapsing into shoulder-heaving sobs. And even crying looked painful. My heart really went out to her. ‘Abby, love …’ I began, but by now Abby had burst into tears too, and, once again shaking off my comforting arm, launched herself onto the bed and flung herself across her mother’s chest.
‘Oh, poppet, I’m so sorry,’ Sarah said again, tears streaming down her face as she hugged her daughter. ‘Mummy doesn’t want to be ill. I just can’t help it! Oh, Abby, I miss you so much! I’m doing my best, I promise! Please don’t cry. Please don’t …’
Once again, I could see Sarah’s obvious discomfort. And I was acutely aware of my own, for that matter. I shouldn’t be here, I thought. I was pretty sure Sarah didn’t want me there, either. I took a step back, and then another, and since they were oblivious to me anyway I mumbled something about getting a drink, and scuttled out.
I remembered the brace of vending machines that were stationed just down the main corridor, and headed gratefully for them. Clearly in macabre mood (possibly a side-effect of the gloomy weather) I tried to imagine what it must be like to know you were dying and that you would have to explain it to your distressed, soon-to-be-orphaned child. Sarah wasn’t dying – I did know that – but even so it was still upsetting. She wanted to take care of her child, her child wanted to be with her, yet they were at this horrible impasse, kept apart from one another, with the spectre of being permanently separated ever present. And it seemed that at any moment I was about to find out just how very likely that was looking.
I’d just arrived at the coffee machine and pulled my purse out of my handbag, when I could hear someone approaching behind me.
‘Hiya,’ a female voice said. ‘You just brought Abby up, right?’
I turned around to see a young woman walking towards me. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties, with a bright smile and an enormous patchwork bag. I wondered if she was perhaps Sarah’s social worker. I nodded. ‘Just giving them some time alone.’
‘I’m Chelsea,’ she added, plonking the bag down on the row of seats beside the machines, while I fed coins – my last few – into the slot. ‘I’m Sarah’s occupational therapist.’ Ah, I thought. Not right, but nearly. ‘Well, for the present, at least,’ she added. ‘You’re Casey, right? The social worker mentioned you.’ I nodded. ‘Poor kid. Sarah was explaining things to me. You just can’t imagine how bad it must be for them, can you? Being separated like this. Poor little thing,’ she said again. I was about to answer – in the affirmative – when s
he laughed, and re-grouped her features. ‘Doh! What am I saying? You’re a foster carer!’ She pulled her own purse from a pocket in the bag and started rummaging in it for coins also, then smiled up at me. ‘I’ll bet you’ve seen far worse in your line of work.’
I smiled back as pulled my plastic cup from the holder. The contents looked reliably undrinkable. ‘I’ve seen my fair share, I guess,’ I said. ‘But you’re still right. It’s just so sad, all this, isn’t it?’
Chelsea’s face now formed a professional frown. ‘You’re telling me. Horrible, horrible disease.’
‘So I’m learning,’ I agreed, as she began feeding her own coins into the machine. ‘I’ve been trying to gen up on it. It’s all new territory. I’ve no personal experience of it myself.’
‘Hurrah to that. I have an aunt who has been living with it since her teens. It’s part of the reason I became an OT. And it’s particularly grim in Sarah’s case, of course, now it looks like she’s moving to secondary progressive. Not the best news, all things considered. And God – how unlucky was that wretched fracture? But, yes, grim all round. Though, truth be known, looking at what I’ve seen of her history, maybe she’s never really been in the relapsing–remitting group anyway. Perhaps she’s actually had primary progressive from day one.’
I sipped my grey coffee-flavoured water and duly grimaced. ‘Now you’ve lost me.’
Chelsea smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. I tend to do that.’ She then explained about the various types of MS you could have, and how one could morph into another – and often did – while another was benign (‘Would that every kind were that kind, eh?’), and a fourth – and what it seemed they thought Sarah might have, which was increasingly disabling from the outset, with each relapse causing irreparable damage.
‘So that’s the one they call primary progressive – for obvious reasons. And it would seem to fit. This is certainly proving to be quite a severe relapse, isn’t it? And, of course, given the home situation, it’s all a bit grim, isn’t it? Always difficult when patients have no one to support them at home, obviously. I mean, here by the grace of God and all that – where the hell do they go?’