Betrayed

by Rosie Lewis

  Helen continued a running commentary. ‘Aw, the little cutie is sucking its thumb,’ she said, running her index finger over the screen.

  It really was a beautiful sight and, mesmerised, I stared at the silvery form, squinting a little until it came into focus. Floating serenely against a backdrop of black, the baby held a tiny fist to its mouth. Despite the circumstances, I found myself smiling, just for a moment. But then I glanced at Zadie’s face. Her eyes were still screwed tightly together and she was grimacing as though in pain. I thought of all she would have to endure in the coming months and of all the decisions that would have to be made and my heart was swept away on a wave of pity.

  ‘Can you tell how far along things are?’ I asked gently, stroking Zadie’s hand as I did so in an effort to cushion the reply.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Helen said, her tone still chirpy but gentler. I could see the sympathy in her eyes as she took in Zadie’s anguished expression. She glanced at me and shook her head slightly as she clicked the button on a probe in her other hand. ‘I’m just doing some measurements and I’ll let you know.’

  I took a few deep breaths, bracing myself.

  ‘Baby’s due date is predicted for 6 November, so that puts you at around 25 weeks by my reckoning.’

  I’m not sure if Zadie realised the significance but she let out a muffled sob. Helen looked at me and tilted her head to the side, her eyes soft with compassion. I had worried that the medical staff might not be able to conceal their disapproval of such an early teenage pregnancy, but everyone, from the receptionist who registered us, to Suzanne, the midwife who had checked Zadie’s blood pressure and weight on arrival, treated her no differently than I imagined they would behave towards a woman in her twenties.

  After the scan we returned to the antenatal unit to see Suzanne. The midwife was somewhere in her thirties, with a high, bouncy ponytail and deep dimples, visible even when she wasn’t smiling. She was wearing a light-blue uniform with a white plastic apron over the top and moved with a purposeful cheeriness. ‘Right, lovely,’ she said brightly as she ushered Zadie into a small side room. ‘Now we’ve got your dates confirmed we can get you booked in.’

  Zadie hovered in the doorway, bewildered. ‘Can you do the rest for me, Rosie?’ she asked tearfully. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  She raced off before I’d managed a nod. My eyes met Suzanne’s and she shook her head in pity. ‘Poor girl. You realise it’s too late to consider a termination?’ she asked in hushed tones.

  I nodded, pressing my eyes together and opening them slowly. ‘What will it do to her, putting her body through childbirth at her age?’ To me, what Zadie was going to have to endure was too awful to think about.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ the midwife said with a grim smile. ‘Girls much younger than Zadie have gone through labour. Somehow nature sees them through.’ She looked at me, pursing her lips. ‘It’s not unusual to find girls in Africa who are grandmothers before they reach adulthood.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, waving the information away. It was heartbreaking. My eyes pricked with tears and I cleared my throat, choking a little cough.

  ‘We’ll take the very best care of her we can,’ Suzanne said, placing her hand on mine. ‘I think she’s very lucky to have someone like you on her side.’

  That evening the children went to bed early and after giving Megan a dream feed I ran a bath, hoping to soak my anxiety away. On the way home from hospital Zadie had retreated into a daze, going straight to her room as soon as we got home. I thought about the difficult decisions that lay ahead, strangely relieved that the option of a termination wasn’t open to her. What would I have advised? I wondered, not even certain myself of the right thing to do. And even with that option removed, there were still some tough decisions to be made. Whatever Zadie decided might resonate with her for years to come, perhaps even for the rest of her life. Some girls Zadie’s age kept their babies, I knew that – there were lots of them in mother and baby placements up and down the country – but this conception was so different. Zadie’s baby would be born, not only out of rape but incest as well. What would giving birth do to her young mind, in those circumstances? I heaved a heavy sigh with the thought that, after going through labour, she would then have to decide whether to try and keep the baby herself, with all the conflicting emotions that might stir up, or offer the baby up to strangers.

  My thoughts circled and eventually the tension in my neck eased. By then the water was barely tepid. Shivering, I climbed out and, hearing the telephone ring, I dried myself quickly and pulled on my long flowered dressing gown. Running down the stairs hoping that the shrill tone hadn’t woken Megan, I snatched up the receiver and whispered a soft ‘Hello’, surprised to hear Sofia apologising for the late hour.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I told her. ‘I wasn’t in bed.’

  ‘Oh yes, very good,’ she said in her deep velvety voice. ‘I had to call. You see, I have some news.’

  What she said took my breath away.

  ‘We’ve found her, Rosie. We’ve found Nadeen.’

  Chapter 17

  The timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous. The morning after Sofia’s call I heard from Peggy. The social worker had passed news of Zadie’s pregnancy on to her father, although he hadn’t been told that Chit was responsible, and his reaction was to pronounce her ‘dead to him’. Astonished and furious with him, Peggy and I had decided that Zadie should only be told the barest of details, and only if she pressed for information. I could understand that her father must have been shocked, but how could he possibly abandon her, just when she needed him the most?

  But at least she might be on the way to having one close family member on her side, I thought, almost bursting with the longing to tell Zadie. I held myself back, having promised Sofia that I wouldn’t mention anything until I heard more. Sofia had located Nadeen through a women’s rights organisation but hadn’t spoken to her directly – we needed permission from Peggy to share Zadie’s personal information with anyone, even her sister – and so had no idea whether she had any desire to reconnect with Zadie. Peggy agreed that Nadeen could be contacted and suggested that she be pre-warned about the pregnancy before any face-to-face meeting was arranged. We already knew how strongly Zadie felt about finding her sister but the longing wasn’t necessarily mutual. It was possible that the teenager would prefer to sever all ties with the past, and if that was the case we wanted to shield Zadie from the rejection.

  There was another piece of news that needed to be shared, though. With Zadie’s due date confirmed and the possibility of a termination removed, I had waited for an opportunity to tell Emily and Jamie that someone new would soon be moving into our little house. It came the following evening, when Zadie went up for a shower.

  ‘Woowha, I didn’t see that coming,’ Jamie said, mouth gaping. ‘I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. How did she keep that quiet?’

  Behind him, Emily simply stared in silence, lips parted in shock.

  I looked down, my lips pressed together.

  ‘Zadie’s far too shy for anything like that. I don’t think she would …’ Emily stopped in mid-sentence, the implications sinking in. She looked at me and her eyes misted over. ‘Oh no, Mum. Why would anyone do that to her? She’s younger than me!’

  ‘Do what?’ Jamie asked, blinking. ‘Oh,’ he said, his eyes rolling as the penny dropped. ‘You mean someone made her do it?’

  ‘Shhh,’ I said, waving my hand between them. ‘Keep your voices down. All you two need to know is that she’s going to have a baby. You mustn’t question her about it or anything,’ I said, looking pointedly at Jamie.

  ‘Why are you looking at me?’ he asked, nursing an injured expression as he flumped himself onto the sofa and picked up the TV handset. ‘As if I would …’

  ‘Sick, that’s what it is,’ Emily growled under her breath as she stormed after me into the kitchen. Nostrils flaring, she was staring at me in disbelief as I rifled around in the
cupboard for a bag of flour. ‘Mum, what are you doing?’

  ‘Bright Heights is having a cake sale at the weekend. I promised to make some jam tarts.’

  ‘Jam tarts?’ she screeched. ‘I don’t get how you can just stand there and make jam tarts! How can you be so calm about this?’

  Her fury counterbalanced Zadie’s quiet acceptance and I listened to her tirade with an unexpected feeling of satisfaction as I pulled a pack of butter from the fridge. She was expressing the outrage I myself was feeling, and as I measured out the ingredients for the pastry and cut the butter into small squares my own anger began to quell.

  Emily was still ranting when the doorbell sounded about ten minutes later. Checking my watch with sticky fingers, I walked to the door, wondering whether Des had decided to carry out one of his unannounced checks – we were supposed to have at least two surprise visits a year and I was well overdue for one. It was gone 7 p.m. though, a bit late, even for Des.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jenny said, looking bereft as she stood on my doorstep. ‘I just didn’t know who else to turn to.’ Even before she stepped into the hall I could see that she was trembling. ‘Aiden’s away and …’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, slipping my arm around her shoulder, being careful to keep my flour-covered hands away from her expensive-looking black shawl. She looked awful, her fine-boned features speckled with blotches, so unlike her usual immaculate self. Her eyes were rimmed with dark splodges of mascara, there was a heavy crease in her brow and her wavy hair was almost as crumpled as my own. ‘My goodness, you’re shaking like a leaf,’ I said as I drew her into the kitchen.

  The sight of Jenny seemed to take the wind out of Emily’s sails. She stared at her for a moment, then lifted a hand to say ‘Hi,’ before discreetly leaving the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. It’s just such a shock,’ Jenny said as she sank down on one of the stools, breathing into a tissue.

  ‘What is?’ I asked, hastily washing my hands under the tap and reaching for a towel. I wondered what on earth could have happened. Perhaps Aiden had walked out on her, I thought, quickly dismissing the idea. Whenever I saw them together the affection between them was almost tangible. Maybe there was something wrong with one of her children?

  ‘It’s Billy,’ she managed to croak before breaking into a sob. ‘He’s g-gone.’

  My heart lurched with fear as I took the stool opposite her, remembering those forbidding statistics about the vulnerability of children in care. But Jenny was one of the most dedicated, attentive carers I had ever met. She wouldn’t allow any child in her care to come to harm. If my own children had to be taken into care, Jenny was the foster carer I would be hoping for. An uneasy knot formed in my stomach. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Gone,’ she repeated, a little hysterically, flapping the sodden tissue through the air. Her nose was now a deep mottled red. ‘They’ve taken him.’

  ‘Who has?’ I asked, trying desperately to keep up with the conversation. I had only spoken to Jenny a couple of days earlier, and although the siblings had moved on to long-term carers Billy’s case hadn’t even been listed to be heard by the adoption and permanency matching panel.

  ‘Social services,’ she wailed miserably. Between sobs, Jenny went on to tell me that the couple who were being considered as adopters for Billy had plans to emigrate to Australia. Jenny, knowing how attached Billy was to her, had decided to apply to make an Annex A application directly to the court, a right that foster carers gain once a child has been in placement with them for over a year. ‘I told his social worker what I intended to do the day before yesterday,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering again, ‘and so they came before he had his tea this evening and removed him so that I wouldn’t have a chance to make my application.’ She continued crying softly into her tissue.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, my fingers touching my lips. I rubbed her knee with my other hand. ‘What an awful shock for you.’ And for him, I thought to myself, but I didn’t say anything. Instead I asked, ‘How did he react?’

  She looked up at me. ‘Oh, Rosie, you should have seen his face. He was so bewildered, clinging to me as I packed up his things. What must he have thought? They wouldn’t even tell me where he was going. I asked if he could come to you but they looked at me as if I had no business even suggesting it.’ She gave a bitter snort. ‘Now I understand how birth parents feel.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ As I drew her into a hug I thought of the wine hidden away at the back of the top cupboard, still untouched from last Christmas. Brushing off the dried noodles clinging to the bottom of the bottle, I remembered the lengthy process I went through to register as a foster carer and my desperation to avoid saying the wrong thing.

  My assessing social worker was a serious woman in her late thirties with mousy hair and a permanently stern expression. During one of our counselling sessions she asked me about my drinking habits and where alcohol is stored in the home.

  ‘Oh, it never lasts long enough to need storing,’ I joked. Her thin lips drew so tight they became almost invisible, and since then, if anyone ever brought a drop of alcohol over the threshold I would scurry away with it, burying it somewhere dark and out of sight.

  I watched Jenny as I poured us both a small glass. She looked so bereft and my heart went out to her but the cold hard fact was that, however strong the bond, foster carers have no say in what happens to the children in their care. The best social workers consulted foster carers and took their feelings into account but they certainly weren’t obliged to and it often didn’t happen.

  We talked until the early hours and Jenny slept the rest of the night on the sofa. By the time she left early the next morning she seemed calmer, though I sensed that letting herself into an empty house would revive the shock of Billy’s removal.

  It was as if the stars had aligned themselves to give Zadie an extra special gift on the most perfect day possible. The moment I had been waiting for came towards the end of August, on her 14th birthday. Zadie wasn’t allowed to celebrate her own birthday since it went against her faith, so I made no reference to it out of respect for her. It had been a struggle to stop myself doing something special in celebration of the day she was born, and so when Sofia called, around lunchtime, I couldn’t have been happier. It seemed that Sofia had personally met with Nadeen, who had been delighted to hear news of her sister. Shocked at the news of her pregnancy, she was desperate to meet up with her and offer some comfort.

  And so it was a gloriously warm day in August when Nadeen walked up the path and knocked hesitantly on our door. It had been two days since I broke the news to Zadie and she had barely sat still since. Leaving her in the living room, quivering with anticipation and anxiously twirling her fingers around the bands on her wrist, I answered the door with my own stomach performing mini-somersaults in excited anticipation.

  Nadeen was standing on the front step, her eyes already glittering with tears. Being older than Zadie, her face was leaner and her cheekbones more prominent; she was striking to look at, beautiful even, despite the grey smock top she was wearing over plain black trousers and absence of any make-up. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, one wrestling with the other in the same way as her sister. The agonised openness in her face and her resemblance to Zadie melted my heart so that instead of standing aside to welcome her in I lurched forwards and pulled her into a bear hug. ‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ I said, a little choked myself. Separating her hands, she hugged me back. As I pulled away there were tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Thank you,’ she spluttered, her eyes drifting behind me, towards the sound of light, hesitant footsteps coming down the hall. I turned to see Zadie standing a few feet away, her face alive with emotion. There was a moment of hesitation and then the two girls flew together, their arms wrapped tightly around one another, each sobbing on the other’s shoulder. Sidestepping the pair of them as I passed them in the hall, I patted their backs and went quietly into t
he living room.

  Eventually they pulled apart and followed me, their hands tightly interlinked as they walked to the sofa. Sinking down in unison and clasping hands tightly at their knees, they both stared at one another in wonder, as if they’d just woken from a wonderful but rather bewildering dream.

  ‘I’m going to make some drinks,’ I said softly. ‘I’ll leave you girls to chat for a while.’

  Zadie nodded gratefully, her face streaked with tears. Nadeen brushed them away with the pad of her thumb. It was strange to see a young woman interacting with her sister in that way, as if Zadie was one of her own children. I guessed that the responsibility of looking after the family had fallen onto Nadeen’s shoulders, as the eldest girl, a habit that hadn’t been broken by their separation.

  In the kitchen I took my time as I made some hot chocolate for the sisters and tea for myself, grateful for the chance to try and regain my composure. Above the sound of the microwave I could hear the soft burr of voices but when I walked back into the living room they fell silent, both regarding me shyly. They were still holding hands, releasing each other only when I offered them their drinks.

  ‘I’m so grateful to you for trying to find me,’ Nadeen said as I sat in a nearby armchair, my tea balanced on my lap, hands resting either side of the mug.

  Freeing one hand I waved it through the air. ‘No need to thank me. Sofia did all the hard work.’ I hesitated for a moment, my eyes flicking to Zadie. ‘We weren’t sure how you’d feel about hearing from us.’

  ‘Oh, I was so happy. It’s been agony having to stay away, but I had no choice.’ Nadeen set her hot chocolate down between her feet and grabbed Zadie’s free hand. ‘You do realise that, don’t you, Zadie?’ Again, she spoke tenderly, like a doting parent to a child.