Betrayed

by Rosie Lewis

  She sagged in grateful relief when I reassured her that I hadn’t mentioned anything and my heart went out to her, knowing how humiliated she must feel. As soon as we got in she wanted to go to her room, and after transferring a sleeping Megan from the car seat to her crib I followed Zadie upstairs, noticing a faint swell beneath her robe as she reached for her dressing gown. Though it was barely there, in my mind it became fluorescent, neon letters spelling the message, HOW ON EARTH DID YOU MANAGE TO OVERLOOK THIS?

  My insides swirled with fury and disappointment in myself. I think most foster carers worry that they might miss signs of illness or other conditions when caring for other people’s children, which is partly why they can often be found sitting in doctors’ waiting rooms. I remembered the previous year when the local authority had given Rachel a hard time over the head lice in Katy’s hair. Her birth mother had reported that the child was ‘running alive’ with them and made a formal complaint. Rachel was mortified that she hadn’t noticed, but how I envied that scenario now. Zadie’s situation was infinitely harder to fix.

  Supporting Zadie by the arm as she eased herself gently into bed, all I could think of was how terrified she must have been, keeping such a secret shut away in her young mind. Tucking the duvet up beneath her chin as I would with a much younger child, I felt fresh bubbles of anger surfacing. Children like Zadie seemed to have the chance of living a normal life removed from them when they were so young. All the teenager had done was obediently follow the plans mapped out for her by the adults she was supposed to be able to trust, and that path had led her to a place of turmoil, where every apparent choice would lead to more heartache. She was so young; her head should have been full of dreams. I blinked a few times, trying not to think about it. Sometimes, when fostering, you just had to put on a virtual set of blinkers and get on with the job.

  ‘Thank you, Rosie,’ she said, dabbing at her damp eyes with a tissue. She was still trembling slightly from the trauma of the day.

  ‘Please don’t thank me,’ I said, biting down the words. I don’t deserve it, I told myself silently, but I didn’t say anything. The last thing she needed burdening with was my own feelings. Sitting down beside her, I brushed back a tendril of dark hair from her face. ‘Are you ready to talk?’

  She gave a little resigned sigh. I think she realised that the days of ignoring it all and hoping it would go away were over.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  Tears ran from the outer corners of her eyes and down towards her pillow. She shrugged, her fingers working over the damp tissue so that it began to crumble. Tiny particles fluttered down to rest on the duvet. ‘I’m not sure. It feels like I’ve been worrying about it for months. My monthlies stopped and I felt sick all the time but I just kept hoping there was something else wrong with me, like cancer or something.’

  I put my hands up to cover my mouth and left them there. ‘Oh, Zadie,’ I said, ‘how can you say that?’

  ‘Papa wouldn’t be angry with me if I was ill, would he? But if he finds out about this –’

  I let out a loud whistle of air, nauseous with the thought that a child would rather face a serious illness than upset her family. Dropping my hands to cup my chin, I locked eyes with hers. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t feel able to tell me. I should have noticed something.’ I released my hands and left them dangling, as if trying to clutch hold of an explanation for my blindness.

  ‘I wanted to,’ she said earnestly, taking one of my hands and giving it a little squeeze. ‘But I didn’t want to say the words. I just kept hoping that if I …’ she stopped, a wariness crossing her features.

  ‘You thought that if you starved yourself and threw yourself around enough it might all go away.’

  She nodded and bit down on her lip.

  ‘Can you tell me who the father is?’ I asked as gently as I could. Neither of us had the stomach to put words to the final attempt she made to rid herself of the problem.

  She froze, her fingers closing around the shrinking ball of tissue. Her eyes flicked from me to the wall and back again. ‘A boy from school,’ she whispered, holding herself very still.

  I tilted my head and gave her a doubtful look. She glanced away. However much I thought about it, I just couldn’t imagine the girl in front of me even voluntarily holding hands with a boy, let alone conducting a secret sexual relationship. It hurt that Zadie still didn’t feel able to confide in me. That was my responsibility and it was a failing that didn’t sit easily. I thought back to the foster carers’ ball and the award I had received for my work with Phoebe. You’re certainly not in the running for any commendations this time around, Rosie Lewis, I chided.

  It was only then, as I was berating myself for being such a fraud, that I remembered what had been troubling me on the night of the ball. Picturing myself as I climbed up onstage, I remembered the cold rush of unease as I puzzled over Chit’s preoccupation with Zadie’s sleeping habits. And then the truth was refracted through that night with such force that I felt stunned, as if I’d been staring, unprotected, into bright sunlight. I closed my eyes, my thoughts scattered and scorched. I rubbed my temples and took a deep breath, trying to slow everything down. And then my eyes popped open, a tide of fury surging through my veins and making my face glow hot. Zadie was staring at me in alarm but I got to my feet and paced the room, knowing that I should allow my thoughts to settle before confronting her. Rubbing a hot hand over my forehead, I stood still for a moment, making myself count slowly from one to ten.

  I think it was the look on my face as I turned around that told Zadie there was no use in pretending any more. With all of her secrets finally stripped away she immediately dissolved into tears, the sound of her sobs and the naked shame on her face confirming the truth as clearly as if it was written on her bedroom wall.

  And then, as we sat side by side on the edge of the bed, she told me everything; how Chit began his slow grooming of her by showing her pornography. Revolted, she tried to avoid him, but there were so many times that she was left in his care while her father worked that there was no escape. ‘It got worse after Nadeen left,’ she spluttered. ‘He made me watch films and stuff on the computer. He couldn’t stop; it was like he was possessed.’

  By the time she fell silent she looked so fearful, so vulnerable and lost that my anger melted away, for the moment at least. I gathered her in my arms and held her, my mind running over events haphazardly.

  ‘Does your father know?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no. No, no,’ she said, shaking her head manically. ‘He mustn’t ever know, he’d be so hurt.’

  That was it. A fresh wave of fury hit. I remembered Chit’s refusal to shake my hand and an ice-cold fury slivered through my chest. He was so chaste that he couldn’t shake the hand of a woman, yet he was somehow able to justify the rape of his sister. What appalled me most was her quiet acceptance, her desire to protect her family after all that had been done to her. I wanted her to rage, shout and scream but instead she twisted herself gently away from me, raising her head and wiping her face on the arm of her robe. Dark blotches were left behind by her tears.

  Still gripped by a fierce anger, it was several minutes before I could trust myself to speak. ‘I should have realised. I’m sor —’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said, moving closer and lowering her head to my shoulder.

  ‘We have to report him, Zadie,’ I said after a moment or two.

  She jerked her head away from me, flinching as though she’d been slapped. Her body began shaking.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, crying again. ‘Papa will never forgive me.’

  ‘I’ll support you,’ I said, trying to keep my tone soft and reassuring as I explained that I had no choice but to report her disclosure to Peggy. I traced a path from her cheek to her forehead and back again. She closed her eyes and let the tears come.

  ‘I want to die,’ she said, opening her eyes and fixing them on mine.

  My stomach did a somersault. I remember
ed reading in the newspaper years earlier about the child chess prodigy who was so tormented by the prospect of giving evidence against her own father, who had been accused of raping her, that she drank heavily and fell to her death from an eighth-floor balcony. Her family had known she was under stress but never suspected that she might try to harm herself.

  I stared at Zadie. It wasn’t her words that speared my chest with ice so much as the tone she used. There was no hysteria or self-pity. She spoke calmly, in a flat, non-attention-seeking monotone. I got the feeling that she was informing me of her intention, and after what she did to herself yesterday I had every reason to believe she was capable of it.

  I took her chin in my hand, holding firmly. ‘I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,’ I said briskly, realising that the tone I was using sounded just like my mother’s. ‘That’s just panic talking.’ The soft skin of her neck rippled against my knuckles as she gulped. ‘This is as bad and as scary as it gets, honey. And you’re not alone in this. I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘What I need you to do is think of one thing that makes you happy. Just one thing. It doesn’t have to be anything big. Just something you enjoy doing or a place you like to go. And then I need you to hold on to that thought for the next few hours. Can you think of something?’

  She nodded. ‘I like being with Emily and Jamie.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, blinking back my own tears. ‘Then think about being with them and nothing else. Can you do that for me?’

  She nodded bravely, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand.

  Filled with a longing to gather all of the children to me, safe and snug, when evening came I dragged a camping mattress upstairs and set it on the floor beside Zadie’s bed. Even though her subconscious had perhaps known for a while, I think that acknowledging the pregnancy was a huge shock for Zadie. She was certainly in no condition to heed my warnings against harming herself again, so I decided to keep vigil at her side for as many nights as it took for her to accept the situation. After a while emotional exhaustion and the trauma of the day overtook her and she fell asleep, one small hand lying protectively across her stomach. Megan slept in a carry-cot on the other side of me, blissfully unaware of all that was going on around her.

  I woke before dawn the next morning. Zadie was still asleep, her breathing slow and regular, so, with Megan’s carry-cot tucked under my arm, I crept out of her room on tiptoe. As she was pregnant Zadie wasn’t obliged to continue fasting and so I decided to leave her to sleep, after what she had been through. Downstairs I tucked Megan in the corner of the living room and then sat at the computer and wrote an incident report, firing it straight off in an email to Peggy.

  With the task done, I sat back in the chair, thinking so hard that my head began to thud. Feeling top heavy, I leaned my elbows on the desk and, closing my eyes, I rested my head in my hands. Fostering has the power to catapult carers into a world that doesn’t make sense, and as I sat in the dining room cradling my head in my hands I felt as if there were just one too many things for Zadie to cope with. I kept picturing Chit at the Lavender Fields, his nonchalance, the arrogant tilt of his chin. Nausea rose as I chronicled each hurdle Zadie would have to face because of him and I blew out an angry gasp of frustration.

  Being able to work from home, particularly for carers who have a family to fit around, is a great advantage, but sometimes it can be a drawback. Most people can forget about their job when they leave their place of work, but when tensions are high and placements aren’t running smoothly there is no clocking-off time, no haven to escape to.

  Forcing my thoughts away from her brother, I made myself work through the tasks of the day: packing lunches, sterilising bottles, putting on a wash. It felt calming to go through the motions of everyday life and gave me a bit of breathing space to see things more clearly. I decided not to mention anything about Zadie’s troubles to Emily and Jamie. Zadie had a follow-up appointment at the hospital later that day and I wanted to wait and hear what her options were before involving anyone else.

  Megan woke on the dot of 6 a.m. and with her bottle warmed and ready I gathered her blanketed form in my arms, and settled myself on the sofa. Pressing gently on her chin so that I could position the teat over her tongue, there were a few noisy clicks until I managed to form a tight seal with my fingers and then, as the milk began to flow and I relaxed, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I could tell it was Zadie by the careful hesitancy, as if she were walking on tiptoe. Skirting the walls of the room in her apologetic way, cardigan sleeves pulled down over her knuckles and clamped between tight fists, she drifted softly towards us.

  ‘Morning, honey. I hope Megan didn’t keep you awake?’ The baby had woken twice during the night for a feed but I had swept her quickly out of her cot in the hope that Zadie wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Perching on the edge of the sofa, she glanced at Megan, then looked quickly away, as if the sight scorched her eyes. When I came to think about it, the timing for taking a new placement couldn’t have been worse. But Megan was such a dear little thing, I hoped that the powers that be wouldn’t decide to move her. ‘No, it was fine.’

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, bobbing her head and forcing a smile.

  Zadie toyed with her breakfast and scampered back to her room quickly afterwards, too embarrassed, I think, to face Emily and Jamie. Peggy called soon after they had left for school, even more breathless than usual.

  ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner,’ she said. ‘I was on leave yesterday and no one passed the message on.’ I pictured Peggy’s jaw dropping as she received the news, staying there instead of recovering.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Things have been a little hectic here anyway.’

  ‘Oh dearie me, I can imagine. I got your email. Poor Zadie. How far gone is she?’ she asked, sounding so concerned that I felt an immediate flare of affection for her. She had shown such unquestioning support. Sometimes fostered children can divide foster carers and social workers just as other children may play one parent off against the other. But I felt confident that Peggy and I were united in our determination to take the best care we could of Zadie. It was a relief to feel that I wasn’t a lone voice as I had been when caring for Phoebe.

  I ran my free hand through my unruly curls. ‘We’ll know for definite later today but the doctor thinks around 20 to 25 weeks.’

  Peggy groaned as she realised what the late stage might mean for Zadie. ‘Oh dear. She’ll have to go ahead with it if she’s past 24 weeks.’

  ‘Yes I know, Peggy. I know.’

  We fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Her father will have to be told, of course, but not before I’ve taken some advice from the police. I have a meeting with them later on today. I’m expecting that the brother will be arrested. Can you imagine how the father will react?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said, the muscles in my neck tensing at the mere thought. We fell silent again and when I asked the next question I found myself holding on a little tighter to the receiver. ‘What’s going to happen about Megan now?’ I knew there was every chance that Peggy would want to move her, given the circumstances.

  There was a pause, Peggy making a low humming noise as she gathered her thoughts.

  ‘I know what you say about Zadie’s reaction to Megan, but do you know what, Rosie? If she’s keeping this baby I think it might just turn out to be the best thing that could have happened.’

  I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved for Megan or for myself but I relaxed my grip on the telephone and let out an audible breath, knowing that she wouldn’t have to go through yet another disruption in her early life. And Peggy was probably right, I realised as I wound the curly telephone wire around my index finger. Perhaps, by watching us care for Megan, Zadie might feel a little less afraid of what
loomed in her future.

  As soon as I replaced the receiver I picked it up again. Des needed to be updated on the turn of events. He answered a few seconds after the call connected. ‘Des, there’s a problem,’ I said. It wasn’t the first time I’d started one of our conversations in this way and he replied with a calm, ‘A-ha?’

  ‘Zadie’s pregnant.’ I thought that was probably enough information to be going on with so I waited a few seconds before adding, ‘She cut her stomach and I had to call an ambulance.’ I waited another moment. ‘It was awful, Des. And I’ve just found out that her brother is responsible.’

  ‘A-ha,’ he said slowly. ‘OK. I’ll try and get over in the next few days so we can have a wee chat.’ I realised that while I saw Zadie’s situation as alarming and tragic, in Des’s world it was just another unremarkable day at the office. At first his under-reaction was welcoming and my pulse must have plummeted by at least a third. But then I thought of all of the other Zadies across the country and, though calmer, I felt terribly, unreservedly sad.

  In the ultrasound department I settled Megan’s car seat on the floor at my feet and turned just as Zadie was pulling up her robe to reveal her belly. It was so smooth and taut that I could hardly believe she was pregnant. I tried not to stare directly at her bareness, concentrating instead on the sonographer – a woman in her thirties with spiky blonde hair and sharp, angular features – as she squeezed some gel onto Zadie’s skin. The name on the staff badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck read ‘Helen’. ‘It’s all been a big mistake,’ I was willing her to pronounce. ‘The doctor must have been at the end of a very long shift.’

  ‘There we are,’ Helen said, smiling down at Zadie. ‘Can you see that movement? That’s baby’s heart beating.’

  My own heart responded to those words by sinking a little further in my chest. Zadie, who was lying rigid on the trolley, glanced at the screen, then squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away. Since our arrival at the hospital she had answered all questions awkwardly, with one- or two-syllable whispered words and a pointed look in my direction, willing me to take over. She was pale and looked like she might throw up at any second. ‘Well, goodness,’ I said, pressing Zadie’s hand as I responded on her behalf.