Damaged (4 page)

What had I let myself in for?

Chapter Four

A New Little Sister

F
oster carers aren’t saints. We’re just ordinary parents with space in our homes and hearts for one more. But as I turned on the shower, and helped Jodie out of her clothes and her soiled underwear, I wondered if my heart was truly big enough. I put her under the shower of hot water and began to sponge her down. My stomach lurched as the heat intensified the smell, and I closed my mouth and tried to breathe through my nose. I cleaned her face and hands, then between the folds of pale skin around her middle. Jodie was pear-shaped, which is unusual for a child, and she had hips like a middle-aged woman. She was docile, though, lifting her arms in the air and making no effort to help. She seemed to enjoy being treated like a baby. I consoled myself that at least the rest of the family weren’t home to witness the new arrival’s house-warming trick.

I couldn’t help feeling puzzled by it – she hadn’t been distressed by her accident at all, and it was unlikely that someone of her age had no bowel control and wasn’t aware of when they were about to do a poo. So had it been deliberate? Surely not. It was probably anxiety.

I helped her out of the bath and wrapped a towel round her. ‘Dry yourself, Jodie, while I put these in the wash.’ I scooped up the soiled clothes and carried them downstairs to the washing machine. I added a few drops of disinfectant to the soap, and turned the dial to 80 degrees. The sound of Jodie talking to herself floated down from the bathroom and I could hear her muttering isolated words and phrases which didn’t string together, and didn’t make any sense.

Returning down the hall, I took the largest suitcase and heaved it upstairs. ‘You OK, Jodie?’ I called, as I crossed the landing.

Silence, then, ‘Yeah,’ before she lapsed into gobbledegook once again.

In her bedroom, I unzipped the case, and picked out joggers, a jumper and underwear, and carried them through to the bathroom. She was standing as I’d left her, wrapped in the towel but still dripping wet.

‘Come on,’ I encouraged, ‘dry yourself. You’re a big girl now.’

She shook her head sulkily, and I started patting her dry. She was like a seven-stone infant, and very cumbersome, and I was sure some of this was due to the rolls of fat.

‘Don’t want those,’ she said, spying the clothes I’d brought in.

‘OK, when you’re dry we’ll find some others. You’ve got lots to choose from. Now come on before you get cold.’

She pulled out of the towel and darted naked along the landing to her room, where she began rummaging through the clothes. She held up a pair of pink shorts and a T-shirt. I tried to explain that they weren’t suitable for the chilly weather, but I might as well have been talking Russian for all the response I got.

‘How about these jeans?’ I said, holding them up. ‘And this blue top is nice and warm. Now find yourself some underwear and get dressed, come on, quickly.’

She held up a pair of knickers and struggled into them, then continued picking over the clothes. She was chattering continuously, but when I tried to join in the conversation she would stare at me blankly, before continuing with her search, and the next unintelligible monologue. Finally, she settled on a pair of black trousers and a grey jumper, and stood waiting for me to dress her. Just to hurry things along, I gave in to this demand, then began clearing up the heaps of discarded clothes, folding and hanging them in the drawers and wardrobe. Jodie had said nothing about her bedroom, and when I asked if she liked it, she responded with a blank, dismissive stare. She picked up a soft toy, and hurled it at the door. ‘Not mine! Don’t want it!’ Her face screwed up in anger.

‘OK, but don’t throw it. I’m sure you’ve got lots of your own. I’ll put these away and find some of yours. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?’ I gathered up the other toys and moved towards the door.

‘Where you going?’ she demanded, her scowl intensifying.

‘To put these away and bring up some of your own toys.’ I smiled and left, aware another scene had been narrowly averted.

I dropped the unwanted toys on to my bed, then went downstairs and opened some of the holdalls. They were filled with clothes, a ridiculous amount; she couldn’t possibly have worn them all if she’d changed three times a day for a fortnight. The next bag I opened was crammed full of small plastic toys: dolls, animals and gifts from McDonald’s. It was like a school fête tombola. I lugged the bag upstairs.

‘Have a look at these,’ I said brightly, ‘while I sort out the rest of your clothes. There’s a toy box under the bed, you can put them in there.’

Her face softened, and we worked side by side for a few minutes, although I sensed the peace was tenuous. I wasn’t wrong. Five minutes later she threw a plastic crocodile into the box, then ran out of the room, and into Adrian’s bedroom next door.

I followed. ‘Jodie, would you like to look around now? We can unpack later.’ She was pressing the buttons on Adrian’s mobile, which he’d left recharging by his bed.

I went over and gently took it from her. ‘We won’t touch that, it’s not ours. This is Adrian’s room.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘He’s my son. He’s at school. You’ll meet him later.’

She dropped the phone on the floor, then took a flying leap on to the bed, where she started clumsily bouncing up and down. I reached for her hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the other rooms, then fix you some lunch.’

The mention of lunch sealed it, and with another leap she was beside me, floorboards juddering, and then she dashed out, along the landing and into the next bedroom.

‘This is Lucy’s room,’ I said, catching up. ‘She’s fifteen. She’s been with us for two years and you’ll meet her later too.’

She rushed out of Lucy’s room and round to Paula’s, where she spotted Paula’s rag-doll pyjama case propped on the bed.

‘Mine. Mine!’ she cried, snatching it to her chest. ‘I want it.’

‘It’s Paula’s,’ I said gently. ‘It’s special, she got it for her birthday.’

‘Mine,’ she growled. ‘I want it. Get me one or I’ll kick you.’

I frowned and gently prised it from her arms. Was that how she’d accumulated all those toys: buy it or I’ll kick you? I repositioned the doll on the pillow, then took her hand and led her out. I opened the door to my room just enough for her to see in. ‘This is where I sleep, but of course it’s private. All our bedrooms are private, and we don’t go into each other’s unless we’re asked.’

She grinned, with a strange grimace that gave her an unpleasant, malevolent air. She stared at the double bed. ‘Have you got a man?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I’m divorced. I have a big bed all to myself.’

She threw me a pitying look, and I decided she’d seen enough of my bedroom, and closed the door. On the landing I took the opportunity to reinforce our privacy rule. ‘Jodie, we all have our own bedrooms and they have our special things in them. No one will come into yours, and you mustn’t go into anyone else’s without being asked. Do you understand?’

She nodded vigorously, but I suspected her acquiescence was more to speed lunch along rather than a genuine commitment. ‘I’m hungry! I want crisps and chocolate.’ She lumbered down the stairs, bumping into the banister. I caught up with her in the kitchen, as she flung open the drawers and cupboards.

‘OK, wait a minute, I’ll find you something.’ I took down a multipack of variety crisps and let her choose one. She wrenched open the packet of smoky bacon, and started cramming fistfuls into her mouth. ‘What would you like in your sandwich? Ham? Cheese? Peanut butter? Or Marmite?’

‘Marmite and chocolate spread.’

I laughed. ‘Not in the same sandwich, surely?’

But she just stared at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘I want a drink.’

‘Can I have a drink, please?’ I corrected, deciding it wouldn’t do any harm to introduce some manners. I made one Marmite sandwich and one chocolate spread, then took down a glass and added some orange squash.

‘Me do it,’ she said, grabbing the glass from my hand.

‘All right, but gently. Don’t grab, it’s not polite.’ I showed her how to turn on the tap, then waited while she filled the glass. ‘Do you like to help, Jodie? Did you used to help at home? At your other carers’?’

She plonked the glass down on the work surface, then adopted the pose of an overburdened housewife, with her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out, and an expression of resolute grumpiness. ‘Cooking! Cleaning! And you bleeding kids at me feet all day. Don’t know why I ’ad you. You’re a pain in the arse!’

I could see she was role-playing, probably repeating what she’d heard her mother say, but I suspected there was also some truth behind it. As the eldest of three, she was likely to have had some part in bringing up her brother and sister while her parents were too drunk or drugged to care. It reminded me why we were going through this experience, and the flash of insight Jodie had given me into her past helped me to gather my energy and face the volatile moods and constant demands that I knew were coming.

* * *

The afternoon passed, I’m not certain how. We didn’t unpack, as all my time was taken up with trying to keep Jodie’s attention for longer than two minutes. I showed her cupboards full of games, which we explored a number of times, trying to find something that would engage her. She liked jigsaws, but the only ones she had any hope of completing consisted of a handful of pieces, and were designed for two-year-olds. I had seen developmental delays before in children I’d fostered, and was used to dealing with learning difficulties. Nevertheless, I was beginning to suspect that Jodie was closer to the ‘moderate’ spectrum than the ‘mild’ that Gary had described.

We sat together on the carpet, but she hardly seemed to be aware of my presence. Instead, she muttered meaningless asides to people called Paul, Mike and Sean: ‘See this bit. In there. It’s a horse. I told you! I know. Where?’

They weren’t the names of anyone in the immediate family that I knew of, so I assumed Jodie was playing with her imaginary friends. This kind of behaviour isn’t unusual in children, even in eight-year-olds, but I’d never seen a child distracted to quite this extent.

‘Who are these people?’ I asked eventually.

She looked at me blankly.

‘Paul, Mike and Sean? Are they your imaginary friends? Pretend ones, that only you can see?’

I was met with another uncomprehending gaze, then she looked menacingly over my left shoulder. ‘Mike, if you don’t watch what you’re doing I’ll kick you to death.’

* * * 

When Paula and Lucy arrived home at 3.30, I was trying to manoeuvre Barbie into her sports car beside Ken. I heard the door close, followed by Lucy’s reaction as she saw the bags I hadn’t had time to move. ‘Christ. How many have we got staying?’

‘Only one,’ I answered.

To prove it, Jodie jumped up and dashed down the hall. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, hands on hips, assuming the grumpy housewife pose again.

The girls said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking. With her odd features and aggressive posture, she wasn’t exactly the little foster sister they’d been hoping for.

‘This is Jodie,’ I said positively. ‘She arrived at lunchtime. Jodie, this is Lucy and Paula.’

She stuck out her chin, in a take-me-on-if-you-dare attitude.

‘Hello,’ said Lucy, with effort.

‘Hi,’ Paula added weakly.

Jodie was blocking their path, so I gently placed a hand on her shoulder to ease her out of the way. She pulled against me. ‘Get out!’ she suddenly exploded at the girls. ‘This is my home. You go!’

I was shocked. How could she believe this when I’d told her about the girls and shown her their rooms? They laughed, which was understandable, but not advisable. Before I could stop her, Jodie rushed at Paula, kicking her hard on the shin. She jumped back and yelped.

‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’ I shouted, as I turned her round to face me. ‘That’s naughty. You mustn’t kick. This is their home as much as it is yours. We all live together. Do you understand?’

She grinned.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked Paula. She’d experienced aggression from foster siblings before – we all had – but never so immediate and pronounced.

She nodded, and I eased Jodie back as the girls went up the stairs. They always spent time unwinding in their rooms when they got home from school, while I prepared dinner. I took Jodie through to the kitchen, and reinforced again how we all lived as one family. I asked her if she’d like to help, but she folded her arms and leant against the worktop, muttering comments, most of which were impossible to follow. ‘They’re not mine,’ she grumbled.

‘The potatoes?’ I responded. ‘No, I’m peeling them for dinner for us all.’

‘Who?’

‘Who are these for? For all of us.’

‘In the car?’

‘No. You came here in the car. We’re in the kitchen now.’

‘Where?’ she asked, lifting the lid on the pan I’d just set to boil.

‘Be careful, Jodie,’ I said. ‘That’s very hot.’

‘I was walking,’ she said, and so it went on, with Jodie mumbling disjointed phrases, as though she had a basket of words and pulled them out at random.

She helped lay the table, and I showed her which would be her place. We always sat in the same places, as the children preferred it, and it made life easier.

‘Paula! Lucy! Dinner,’ I called. Adrian was playing rugby that evening, so his dinner was waiting for him in the oven. The girls came down and we all took our places. Once she was seated Jodie suddenly became angry that she couldn’t sit in Lucy’s place.

‘Lucy always sits there, Jodie,’ I explained. ‘It’s her place. And that’s your place.’

She glared at Lucy, then viciously elbowed her in the ribs.

‘Jodie, no! That hurts. Don’t do it. Good girl.’ I knew I should ask her to apologize, but it was our first meal together so I let it slide. She was still staring at Lucy, who shifted uncomfortably away. ‘Come on, Jodie, eat your meal,’ I encouraged. ‘You told me you like roast chicken.’