Authors: Torey Hayden
Silent Boy (42 page)
‘Here, look at my notebook, Torey,’ he said. ‘Mrs Mac took me to the store last night to get it. Look at it. And look here. I got pencils. And three pens. I wanted a cartridge pen. That’s what Dale, this other guy there, has. But she said, later on. See, Tor? Look at all I got.’
He was spilling the guts of the notebook over the front seat as I drove. His voice was rapid and cracked with excitement. And then he stopped. The car fairly exploded with silence after all the chatter.
‘What if they don’t like me? I might get lost. It’s pretty big. What if I get lost?’
I smiled over at him.
‘I must say, I
am
a little scared.’ Then he smiled back.
‘But I am going, aren’t I? I really am going to high school.’
Kevin’s new life fit him. For all the other times that even small changes devastated him, this major alteration in the pattern of his life came naturally.
Being the only nonretardate in the MacFarlane household was a kind of blessing to him. For the first time in his life he was the best at almost everything he tried. The other residents respected him and openly admired his prowess. Their esteem mattered greatly to Kevin. Quickly he learned to do accounts. His math had never been strong, but in comparison to the others, he could learn even that rapidly and soon he had gained the necessary skills to acquire a checkbook and a small savings account. He mastered cooking much more easily and invited me over for a Saturday-night meal, which he had planned and cooked himself with help from the other male residents. It was spaghetti, and I wondered if he remembered, as he served it, what meaning spaghetti had first had for us. He asked and received permission to paint his room a new color. He chose a ghastly shade of lavender and was delighted with it.
Dr MacFarlane soon became ‘Pop’ and Mrs MacFarlane remained ‘Mac’ forever and they did treat him with the tenderness given a natural son.
His greatest pride, however, was his job. Because Kevin went to school and all the other residents had some sort of work during the day, Kevin quickly found himself considerably short of cash in comparison. This caused problems, especially on weekends when the other residents wanted to go to movies or bowling or engage in other activities Kevin couldn’t always afford and had to ask the MacFarlanes for. However, Dr MacFarlane found a solution. Kevin had learned the basic survival skills so easily and well that Dr MacFarlane began to pay him a small sum to be a ‘teacher.’ Each evening for an hour Kevin would sit down with another of the residents and teach and practice basic math and reading skills. Kevin loved it. What it did for his self-image was far more than it ever did for his pocket.
But perhaps the thing that pleased me most was not Kevin at all but another resident named Sally. She thought Kevin was handsome. Pretty soon, Kevin wasn’t thinking Sally was too bad either, and under the watchful eye of the MacFarlanes, Kevin suffered the joys and sorrows of his first romance.
The first few weeks of school were traumatic, to say the least. It was the schedule that nearly killed him. He had had no idea what he was getting into, being at school all day, and he came home exhausted enough to sleep for the first few afternoons. The classes, too, were much harder than he had expected, even the art class. He didn’t understand many of the things presented, simply because he lacked the basic background. He was crushed at the first midterm to discover that he was not getting the best of grades. But he wasn’t failing either, we pointed out, and that was all that mattered. There were some other rocky moments. He was the only resident saddled with homework, and this meant that he missed out on a lot of the home entertainment and even some outings. And of course some of the kids at school did tease him.
But in the end, it worked. Mrs MacFarlane sat down with him every night until the routine was established and Kevin could carry on on his own. He was bolstered at school by an excellent special-ed teacher. And he did his own part. Never once did he fail to answer a question in class when asked. Never once did he lose his temper or rage or act strange. In fact, the kids teased him over adolescent things, over his age, over his shyness with girls. They didn’t appear to suspect that there was anything else very unusual about this boy, other than that he was new and he was a little slow on the uptake. For all intents and purposes, Kevin was like everyone else. And finally, I too had to agree that Kevin’s idea to go to high school was a good one. Because of the nature of the MacFarlane home, this was his main opportunity to associate with his peer group, with youngsters who were normal. Like he was.
I never failed to be awed at this final transition from Seven Oaks to the MacFarlanes’. It had proved to be so flawless.
Unlike when I was a teacher, there was no clear demarcation of the end. No June arrived that forced stock taking of one’s successes and failures and then a final parting. It was kinder here in the clinic, where one went timeless after a while and worked without worry about the start or finish of a thing. I seldom regretted the ends here the way I had in teaching because here they usually came when both the child and I were ready. It was a natural parting, slower and less hurtful.
The end for Kevin and me was almost here. He had found friends at school and he was busy at home. By mid-January our sessions were tapering off. For quite some time we had only seen one another once a week anyhow, and he had been coming to the clinic. I hadn’t been out to see him at the home for four or five weeks, except once at Christmas to take him a gift. But now we were even missing our weekly sessions occasionally. We both knew the end was nearly with us.
We were in my office. Usually we used the therapy room down the hall where there was more space, but Jules had a client interview there, so Kevin and I came instead to the office. Kevin sat in Jules’s chair and spun it around.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I think it’s maybe time for you and me to finish.’
‘What do you mean? It’s only 4:15. I’m here until ten to five.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
He was not happy when he understood what I was talking about. Indeed, he was angry with me, rising from the chair, pacing back and forth before sitting down again.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘It’s just the way I always said it was. You never really cared. You came to see me just because they pay you to. And now you’re going to stop.’
I tried to explain, to defend myself at first, but then I stopped. It wasn’t like that and I knew Kevin knew it wasn’t too.
He fell silent, an angry silence wherein he frowned and grimaced, turning his head away from me. I couldn’t get him off the subject for the rest of the time, nor could I diminish his anger. In the end we had to leave it over until the next week so he could simmer down.
But Kevin knew, as I did, that the time had come. He paused at the doorway as he was leaving. ‘I guess this means I’m well now,’ he said without smiling. ‘I guess that isn’t always good.’
Our last day was a cold, snowy Thursday in February. Kevin came in breathless and red cheeked from the sub-zero temperatures outside. He sat down in Jules’s chair in the office without taking off his coat or boots. Only his ski cap had been jerked off, leaving his hair standing up in rumpled confusion. During the week he had gotten contact lenses and, although I had known it was coming, it was somewhat of a shock to see him without his thick glasses. Against the rosy redness of his cheeks, his gray eyes were shimmery like quicksilver.
We chatted about his plans, about things at home, about the future. I couldn’t tell what Kevin was thinking beneath his cheery exterior. We had decided this would be our last day some weeks earlier, so we had both known it was coming.
When an unexpected pause wandered into the conversation, tears gathered abruptly in Kevin’s eyes. He leaped to his feet. ‘I got to be going. It’s pretty late and me and Denny Crenshaw are going swimming at the Y tonight.’
I nodded.
Backing away from me, he watched me. I could still see the tears, still see him ducking his head to keep them from showing. All the seconds and minutes and hours of the last two and a half years folded in upon themselves accordion-style, and the distance between us filled with unsaid things. I looked down at my fingers and listened to the silence.
‘Torey? Can I ask you one thing?’
‘Sure.’
‘But don’t answer, okay. Just let me ask it.’
‘All right.’
‘Here it is. Well, I want to know if you would, I mean, if I ever got in trouble again … I mean, if I
really
got in trouble again, would you come? Would you be there?’ Then as I leaned forward, he threw up a hand. ‘But don’t answer that. Okay? Don’t tell me your answer.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because, you see,’ he said, paused, then smiled at me. ‘You see, I want to go away from here always thinking that you would. I don’t want to know if you would or not. I just want to know I asked you and you didn’t say no.’
I nodded.
‘I won’t forget you,’ he said.
‘Nor I, you, Kev.’
‘Will you come see me sometimes?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘And I’ll phone you sometimes. Just to see how you are. Okay? I won’t forget you.’
‘I know you won’t,’ I said.
‘Well, I have to be going now. Denny’s waiting downstairs and he’s going to wonder where I got to. Did I tell you, I might get to go on the school swimming team? If they don’t think I’m too old, I might get to.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
The tears were there again, and the last moment passed between us without words. I had risen and come to the door of the office with him. I smiled. He smiled. I smiled again.
‘Well, I’ve gotta go. See you around, okay?’
‘Yeah, Kev, see you around.’
And he turned and walked down the long corridor, where the lights were very bright even on a winter’s afternoon, and so he cast no shadow behind him. I stood motionless in the doorway and watched him. At the very far end of the hall, he paused, turned and waved. ‘Bye, Torey’ he called before disappearing.
Good-bye, Bryan
.
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Emotional Blackmail
T
he phone rang. It was Jill, my link worker from the fostering agency.
‘Cathy, it’s not two carers, but five,’ she said. ‘Five, since coming into care four months ago.’
‘Good heavens.’ I was astonished. ‘And she’s only eight? That must have taken some doing. What’s she been up to?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But Social Services want a pre-placement meeting, to be certain she doesn’t have another move. Are you still interested?’
‘I don’t know enough not to be. When?’
‘Tomorrow at ten.’
‘All right, see you there. What’s her name?’
‘Jodie. Thanks, Cathy. If you can’t do it, no one can.’
I warmed to the flattery; it was nice to be appreciated after all this time. Jill and I had been working together now for four years and had established a good relationship. As a link worker for Homefinders Fostering Agency, Jill was the bridge between the foster carers and social workers dealing with a particular case. She coordinated the needs of the Social Services with the foster carers, and provided support and help as it was needed. An inexperienced foster carer often needed a lot of back-up and explanations of the system from their link worker. As Jill and I
had been working together for some time, and I was an experienced foster carer, we were used to each other and got on well. If Jill thought I was up to the task, then I was sure she meant it.
But a pre-placement meeting? It had to be bad. Usually the children just arrived, with a brief introduction if they’d come from another carer, or with only the clothes they stood in if they’d come from home. I’d had plenty of experience of both, but none at all of a pre-placement meeting. Usually there was a meeting between everyone involved in the case as soon as the child had been placed in foster care, but I’d never been to one held beforehand.
It was my first inkling of how unusual this case was.
The following morning, we went about our normal, quiet routine of everyone getting up and dressed and having breakfast, and then the children made their way off to school. I had two children of my own, Adrian who was seventeen, and Paula, the youngest at thirteen. Lucy, who had joined the family as a foster placement two years ago, was fifteen and now a permanent member of our family, just like a daughter to me and a sister to Adrian and Paula. She was a success story: she had come to me hurt and angry and had, over time, learned to trust again, and eventually settled down to a normal existence where she had only the usual teenage angst to fret about, instead of the turmoil she had known as a child. I was proud of her, and she was testament to my belief that love, kindness, attention and firm boundaries are the basis of what any child needs to flourish.
As I saw the children off to school that morning, I felt a twinge of apprehension. The child I was going to learn
about today would most certainly need all those things in abundance, and if I took her on I would have to be prepared to say goodbye to my relatively peaceful, steady routine for a while, until she learned to trust me and settled down, just as Lucy had. But that was the point of fostering – it wasn’t easy by any means, but the rewards were so enormous. Besides, I had fostered almost continuously for over twenty years now and wasn’t sure I could really remember what life before it had been like.
Once the children had left, I went upstairs and quickly changed from my joggers into a pair of smart navy trousers and a jumper, and headed for the Social Services offices. I’d been going there for years now, and the journey there was as familiar as the one to my own house. I also knew the drab grey décor, fluorescent lighting and air of busy activity and only-just-contained chaos very well indeed.
‘Cathy, hello.’
As I entered the reception area, Jill came forward to meet me. She’d been waiting for my arrival, and walked up to me with a welcoming smile.
‘Hi, Jill. How are you?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. You’re looking well.’
‘Yes – life is good at the moment. The children are doing well, completely wrapped up in their lives and in their schools. Time for another challenge, I suppose.’ I smiled at her.
‘We’d better get along to this meeting. I think they’re ready for us.’ Jill led me along the corridor to the meeting room. As we entered the room, it was obvious at once that
this was a big case: there were already about a dozen people sitting round the enormous oblong mahogany table. What did it mean? From what Jill had told me, I could tell that this was not a run-of-the-mill fostering situation – not many children get through five carers in four months – but then, no child was ever run-of-the-mill. They were always unique and their troubles distinctly their own. Removing a child from its parents was never going to be a humdrum, everyday event; it was always traumatic, emotional and difficult.
Nevertheless, something told me that this was far more complex than anything I’d yet encountered. I felt another stab of apprehension, like I had when Jill first told me about the case the day before, but I was also interested. What could this child be like, to warrant so much involvement from so many people?
Jill and I took the two vacant chairs at the far end, and I felt every eye was on me, assessing my suitability.
The chairman was Dave Mumby, the Social Services team leader, and he began the round of introductions. On his left was Sally, the ‘guardian ad litum’: she was appointed by the courts to represent Jodie’s interests. The lady next to her introduced herself as Nicola, Jodie’s home tutor.
Home tutor? Why isn’t the child in school? I wondered.
Next was Gary, Jodie’s current social worker. He explained that he was about to leave the case, and hand Jodie over to Eileen, who was sitting next to him. I looked at Eileen carefully – if I was going to take Jodie, then Eileen and I would have to work closely together. At first glance she was nondescript: a woman in her forties with an unruffled and calm air about her. So far, so good.
I wasn’t surprised that I was already witnessing a change of social worker. It happened all the time – it was the nature of the job that people had to move on – but it was unfortunate for the children and families involved, who were always having to learn new faces, build trust and forge fresh relationships with endless strangers. Although I knew it was something that couldn’t be altered and was just part of the system, with all its flaws, nonetheless I felt for Jodie. Changing social worker would mean yet more disruption for her, and I wondered how many social workers she’d been through already.
Next, Deirdre introduced herself. She was the agency link worker for Jodie’s current foster carers. Then it was my turn, and the eyes of everyone around the table turned to me.
I looked around the table, meeting the various gazes. ‘I’m Cathy Glass,’ I said, as clearly and confidently as I could. ‘I’m a foster carer from Homefinders Fostering Agency.’ There wasn’t much more I could add at this stage, when I knew so little about what was going on, so I passed on to Jill.
After Jill came someone from the accounts department, followed by a member of the local authority’s placement team. As they spoke, I looked over at Gary, Jodie’s current social worker. He was young, and could only have been in his mid-twenties. How successful had he been at forging a relationship with Jodie? I wondered. Perhaps Eileen, as a woman, would fare better at empathizing with the little girl, so the change of social worker might be for the better in this case. I hoped so.
Once the introductions were complete, Dave thanked us for coming, and gave a brief outline of what had been
happening, or to use the correct terminology: the case history to date. I warmed to Dave immediately. He was gently spoken but forthright, and looked directly at me as he spoke. I made a mental note of the salient points: Jodie had been on the ‘at-risk’ register since birth, which meant that Social Services had been monitoring the family for eight years. Although there had been suspicions of emotional and physical abuse by Jodie’s parents, no steps had been taken to remove her or her younger brother Ben and sister Chelsea. Then, four months ago, Jodie had started a house fire by setting light to her pet dog – I shivered at this, struck by the peculiar cruelty of such an act – and that had been the catalyst for Social Services to take her and her siblings into care. Ben and Chelsea had both been placed with foster carers and were doing well. But Jodie exhibited ‘very challenging behaviour’. I heard Dave deliver this euphemism and raised my eyebrows. All foster carers knew what that really stood for. It meant ‘completely out of control’.
‘I think it would be useful,’ said Dave, looking at me, ‘for you to hear from her social worker now. Gary’s been on the case for two years. Feel free to ask any questions.’
Despite his youth, Gary was confident and methodical as he gave me an overview of Jodie and her family.
‘I’m afraid that the general picture isn’t good, as you’d expect. There’s severe disruption inside the family. Jodie’s mother is an intravenous drug user and her father is an alcoholic. In recent years, Jodie’s suffered a number of injuries while at home, including burns, scalds, cuts, bruises and a broken finger. All of these were recorded at hospital, and although it was suspected that some of the injuries were non-accidental, it was impossible to prove that this was the case.’
Gary went on with his tale of neglect and misery while I concentrated on absorbing the facts. It was an appalling case history but I’d heard similar stories many times before. Nevertheless, it never ceased to amaze and horrify me that people could treat their children with such cruelty and indifference, and I was already feeling for this poor little girl. How could any child grow and be normal in such circumstances, and with such parents as her role models?
Gary continued, ‘Jodie’s no longer in school because of the recent moves, which is why she’s been assigned a home tutor. She has learning difficulties and a statement of special needs.’
That was straightforward enough – I was used to looking after children with developmental delays and learning difficulties. I suspected that Gary was giving me the censored version of Jodie’s case history. In all my years of fostering, I’d never heard of a child going through five carers in four months. When he paused and looked at me, I seized my opportunity.
‘It would be helpful if you could tell me the make-up of the families of the previous carers,’ I said, hoping to discover clues to explain why Jodie had gone through so many, so fast. ‘How many children did they have, and were they older or younger? Had the carers had experience with this type of child before?’
Gary coughed and looked a little shifty. ‘The previous placement breakdowns were purely circumstantial,’ he said. ‘One of the couples were first-time carers and Jodie should never have been placed with them – that was an error on our part and it’s no surprise that it didn’t work out.’
That was fair enough, but as he went through the other placements, he sounded unconvincing to my ears: the others had all been experienced professionals, and yet one couple had lasted only three days. Gary’s explanation that circumstances were to blame was clearly a damage limitation exercise for Jodie’s sake, so that I didn’t get frightened off.
Deirdre, who was the link worker representing Jodie’s present foster carers, felt obliged to speak up in their defence. After all, if Jodie was as harmless as Gary was making out, it didn’t exactly reflect very well on their ability to cope.
‘Jodie has delayed development,’ she said. ‘In most respects, she acts like a three-or four-year-old rather than an eight-year-old. She throws terrible tantrums and is consistently aggressive and uncooperative. Her behaviour is violent, abusive and destructive. Even though she’s only been with Hilary and Dave a short time, she’s already broken a number of objects, including a solid wooden door.’
I raised my eyebrows. Quite a feat for an eight-year-old. But Deirdre wasn’t finished yet, and she went on with her litany of Jodie’s faults and shortcomings. Jodie’s carers had described her as ‘cold, calculating, manipulative, very rude and totally unlikeable’. Harsh words to pin on a little girl.
Surely, I thought, someone could say something nice about her, even if it was only that she liked her food. Children in care tend to eat ravenously, because in the past many of them haven’t known when the next meal would arrive. But no, not so much as ‘she does like her chocolate’. It appeared that Jodie did not have a single endearing
feature. Instead, there was just a list of transgressions, with a footnote that her present carers had found her physically frightening: Jodie was a big girl, and she had threatened them.
I looked at Jill and we exchanged glances. Threatened them? I thought to myself. But she’s only eight years old! How dangerous can she be? I began to feel as though I was on Jodie’s side. What must it be like, having everyone dislike you so vehemently? No wonder she wasn’t able to settle anywhere.
The next person to speak was Sally, the guardian ad litum, who briefly outlined the legal position: Jodie had been taken into the care of Social Services under what is known as an Interim Care Order; that meant she’d been removed from home against the parents’ wishes and was now in the temporary care of the local authority. Proceedings to decide Jodie’s future were now beginning; if the court judged that she was better off at home, and all the fears for her safety there were put to rest, then she would be returned to her parents’ care. If not, and the court still considered that she would be in danger if returned home, her care order would become a Full Care Order, and Jodie would be permanently removed from her parents, to long-term fostering, adoption, or – the least likely option – some kind of residential care home. This whole process is lengthy and complicated, and while it is supposed to take as little time as possible, it usually takes at least a year, sometimes longer, before the court comes to a final decision.
When Sally had finished, she was followed by the home tutor, Nicola, who explained that she’d been teaching Jodie for a month, using material that was working towards Key
Stage One, which is designed for pre-school children. This might sound shocking but, in my experience, it was not unusual. I had, in the past, cared for children who couldn’t read or write long after their peers had mastered the three Rs. A difficult background and home life often seems to produce children who are unable to learn as quickly as those from a stable family.
