Will You Love Me? (19 page)

Chapter Fifteen

‘I Don’t Want Her Help!’

Twenty per cent of those who develop anorexia will die from their illness
, I read. I read the words twice. What I was reading was shocking and I was having difficulty taking it all in. I’d been on the computer reading and scrolling for nearly an hour and I was shaken to the core. All I needed to know about anorexia and other dreadful eating disorders was online. Gruesome photographs of emaciated young people accompanied agonizing testimonials from devoted parents who’d battled for years to try to help their child overcome an eating disorder. Some families had won the battle and were now giving support and advice to other families facing the same illness, while others had lost the battle and their child had died. It was heartbreaking, and more than once my eyes welled as I read the painful accounts of young lives ruined and even ended by these horrendous illnesses.

Jill had been right when she’d said that children under ten were being diagnosed with eating disorders – some were as young as five or six. There was mention of the media being partly to blame by using very thin models, and also discussion about various therapies for discovering the underlying problems of the sufferer. It seemed that anorexia and other eating disorders were never only about eating food, but the manifestation of a deeper unhappiness, which often needed to be addressed by the whole family going into therapy.

As well as parents sharing their experiences, there were blogs and forums run by sufferers or those who had recovered, and they described in candid detail the horrors of being at the mercy of a severe eating disorder. One of the most harrowing I read was by a woman, aged twenty-two, who’d suffered from anorexia since the age of sixteen. Her blog stopped abruptly one day, and then her best friend had added a ‘Rest in Peace’ message, stating that her friend had died the day before, having literally starved herself to death. One of the most heartening posts was from a mother who’d twice brought her daughter back from the brink of death and she had now made a full recovery. The mother was sharing what she’d learnt to try and help other parents, and her advice made good sense and fitted in with what Jill had said: give the young person as much control over their food as possible, for eating disorders are tied up with a feeling of helplessness and being at the mercy of others. I also learnt that weighing scales should be put away, as someone with anorexia will often weigh themselves repeatedly – upwards of ten times a day – and if they gain an ounce they purge themselves with laxatives. While I didn’t think Lucy was doing this, as soon as I’d finished on the computer I went upstairs and took the scales out of the bathroom and put them at the back of my wardrobe. We didn’t need them.

What I’d read played on my mind. While Lucy’s eating problems seemed relatively mild compared to the accounts I’d read online, I felt a huge responsibility to make sure she didn’t develop full-blown anorexia, which she could easily do, given her past.

In line with what I’d read, I decided not to do a big supermarket shop during the week as I usually did, but to wait until Saturday when Lucy would be home from school and could come with me to help choose our food. In the same mode, I left the preparation of the ingredients for the fish pie I was planning for the evening meal until the girls were home from school. Adrian had an after-school activity and wouldn’t be home until later.

‘Would you both like to help me make the fish pie?’ I asked the girls enthusiastically, once they’d taken off their coats and had a drink.

Paula looked at me a bit oddly. ‘Fish pie? I like helping make cakes, but making fish pie doesn’t sound much fun.’

Lucy said, ‘Do we have to? I wanted to watch television before dinner.’

‘No, you don’t have to,’ I said, for it seemed counterproductive to insist. ‘I just thought you might like to help, and it wouldn’t take long.’

The girls looked at each other and then at me. ‘We’d rather watch television,’ they chorused.

‘OK. Another time then.’

When dinner was ready I called everyone to the table (Adrian was home by then). As I had done the previous evening, I placed the dish containing the main course in the centre of the table with a serving spoon and, with a warning that the dish was very hot, told everyone to help themselves. The result was the same: Adrian, Paula and I ate heartily, and Lucy took the tiniest of amounts, but ate it all. She also had a glass of milk, which would be good for her. She didn’t go to the toilet straight after the meal, so I assumed she wasn’t making herself sick. I therefore remained hopeful that with lots of TLC, and by encouraging her to talk about her problems, her issues surrounding food and eating would gradually disappear.

That first week Lucy was with us, I’d taken her to and collected her from school, and on Friday, when we arrived home, Lucy reminded me: ‘Don’t forget to ask my social worker if I can go by bus next week.’

‘Or you could ask her yourself?’ I suggested. ‘She’ll be here soon.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll be in my room,’ Lucy said, and flounced off upstairs.

‘I’ll be in my room too,’ Paula said, following Lucy upstairs.

Adrian wasn’t home yet, so when Stevie arrived fifteen minutes later there was just Toscha and me to greet her. I opened the front door and Stevie took one look at the cat and cried out: ‘I hate cats! They make me sneeze. Can you put it out?’

Toscha didn’t need putting out. Stevie’s cry had startled her so much that she’d shot out right past her, which just left me to welcome Lucy’s social worker.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

‘No. I’ll keep it on, thanks.’

I showed Stevie through to the living room and then offered her a drink.

‘Water, please,’ she said.

I poured the glass of water and when I returned to the living room Stevie was still standing.

‘Do sit down,’ I said.

‘Where? Which chair does the cat sit on? I can’t sit where the cat does or I won’t stop sneezing.’ So I guessed she had a bad allergy to cat’s fur.

‘She sits over there,’ I said, pointing to Toscha’s favourite seat by the window. ‘Although I do vacuum the cushions regularly.’

Stevie sat on the sofa furthest from Toscha’s favourite seat and set her briefcase on the floor beside her. ‘Where’s Lucy?’ she asked, quite brusquely.

‘In her room,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to persuade her to come down later. I’m afraid she’s still a bit anti social workers at the moment. She wouldn’t see Jill, either.’

‘I’ll need to see her at some point,’ Stevie said bluntly.

‘Yes, I appreciate that,’ I said. ‘I can always take you up to her room, if she really won’t come down.’ For I knew it was a requirement that the social worker had to actually see the child when he or she visited. The same wasn’t so for my support social worker.

Stevie opened her briefcase and took out a wodge of papers. ‘Here’s the paperwork you need,’ she said, handing me the placement and essential information forms. ‘You can look at those later.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, setting them beside me on the sofa.

‘So, how is she?’ Stevie asked, taking a pen and notepad from her briefcase. ‘Jill tells me you’ve got some problems.’

‘Not so much problems,’ I said. ‘Lucy is settling in well. More worries.’

‘Go on then,’ she said, with her pen poised. I was finding her manner rather abrupt and I wondered if this was the reason why Lucy had found it difficult relating to her.

‘Well, her eating,’ I began. And I explained my concerns about how little Lucy ate, her anxiety around food and that she was thin. I then asked about the medical.

‘Lucy had a medical,’ Stevie said defensively. ‘You can’t have a copy, it’s confidential. But I can tell you she’s in good health.’

‘So nothing was said about her eating or weight?’

‘Her weight’s low. At the very bottom of normal. The last carer thought she could be anorexic, but it wasn’t confirmed. We’ll start Lucy in therapy once she’s with her permanent family – after the final court hearing.’

‘But that’s a year away,’ I said, concerned.

‘Yes. But we don’t usually start therapy until the child is settled, and she won’t be staying here. As an experienced foster carer I’m sure you know the reason – therapy is long-term and it releases all sorts of emotions, behaviour and pain which are best dealt with in a settled environment. If you’ve still got concerns in a few months, we’ll send her for another medical. But too many medicals are a form of abuse. You wouldn’t like to keep having to take off your clothes in front of strangers, would you?’

I thought this was a strange comment. We were after all talking about a doctor and a possible life-threatening condition. But I didn’t comment.

‘Was there anything else?’ Stevie asked.

‘The allegations Lucy made about her stepfather, Dave …’ I said.

‘Yes. Jill told me. The matter’s already on file. It was investigated at the time and there was no evidence.’

‘I see,’ I said thoughtfully, meeting Stevie’s gaze. I was expecting her to give me a little more detail and clarification, but she just looked back, waiting for me to move on to whatever else I had to raise.

‘I’ve seen Lucy’s teacher,’ I said. ‘As you know, Lucy is behind with her education so I’ll be helping her at home to catch up.’

‘Don’t put the child under pressure,’ Stevie said bluntly. ‘There’s enough going on in her life.’

‘Of course I won’t put her under pressure,’ I said. ‘Lucy’s happy for me to help her. She was so pleased when she got all her maths homework right. You could see her confidence grow.’

‘So what are you doing to meet her cultural needs?’ Stevie now asked. Before I had a chance to answer she’d added: ‘I wanted a foster family to match her ethnicity, but we didn’t have one.’ And I felt she could have added, ‘So you’ll have to do.’

I wondered if this was the reason for the sharpness in Stevie’s attitude towards me. She was dual heritage, although not of the same racial origins as Lucy, so possibly meeting Lucy’s cultural needs was a sensitive issue for her, and higher on her agenda than it might otherwise have been. However, like most foster carers, I was used to looking after children from different ethnic backgrounds and prided myself on meeting their needs, although many, like Lucy, had been born in the UK and saw themselves as British.

‘I’m right in saying Lucy was born in this country and her mother is English?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and her father is Thai, which seems to have been forgotten,’ Stevie said. ‘Lucy has been raised mainly by white English people. I’ll try and trace her father and arrange some contact, but you need to start engendering a positive cultural identity in her. Talk to her about Thailand, cook some Thai food and hang the Thai flag on one of the walls in her bedroom along with some pictures from her country.’

I knew better than to say that England was Lucy’s country, so I just nodded agreeably. I heard the front door open and close as Adrian returned home from school. ‘That’s my son,’ I said to Stevie, and Adrian called ‘Hi’ from the hall as he went through to the kitchen.

‘I’ll be trying to set up some contact with Lucy’s mother too,’ Stevie continued. ‘Lucy hasn’t seen her mother in over six months and only twice the year before that. At present I don’t have her current contact details, but as soon as I do I’ll arrange for Lucy to see her. I think that’s everything,’ Stevie concluded.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Lucy’s background that will help me look after her?’ I asked.

‘Everything you need to know is in those papers,’ she said, nodding to the placement and essential information forms beside me on the sofa. I doubted it. These forms usually provided basic information on the child, but gave little more background information than the referral. It wouldn’t give me a clearer understanding of Lucy’s past. Foster carers rely on the social worker for that; some are forthcoming and others are not.

‘Lucy doesn’t have any other relatives apart from her mother, does she?’ I asked.

‘Yes, she does,’ Stevie said, quite curtly. ‘There’s her father, although we’re not sure if he’s in this country. And Lucy has two uncles on her mother’s side, although she doesn’t see them. She also has a maternal grandmother and a distant aunt on her mother’s side. Lucy stayed with the aunt for a short time when she was a baby.’

‘So Lucy has a grandmother?’ I asked, slightly surprised that Lucy hadn’t mentioned her when we’d talked about my parents, whom she would meet soon.

‘As far as we know, Lucy has never seen her grandmother,’ Stevie said. ‘Bonnie is estranged from her family. She’s had a hard life too.’

I nodded sadly. ‘Well, at least Lucy has been saved from further suffering,’ I said, trying to focus on the positive.

‘The care plan for Lucy is a Full Care Order,’ Stevie said, oblivious to my sentiment. ‘Then for a relative to look after her long-term, if there is one, or, if not, a long-term foster placement to match her cultural needs.’

I nodded. ‘Lucy would like to use the bus to go to school from next week,’ I said. ‘Is that all right with you?’

‘Yes. Why shouldn’t it be? She’s not likely to run away. She hasn’t got anywhere to run to.’

‘I just wanted to check with you first.’

‘Well, if that’s everything, can you take me up to see her now?’ Stevie said, putting her pen and notepad into her briefcase.

I stood and led the way out of the living room and upstairs to Lucy’s room, where I knocked on her bedroom door. ‘Lucy, Stevie wants to see you,’ I said, and opened her door a little. ‘Can she come in?’

‘No!’ Lucy said loudly. ‘She can’t!’

I glanced at Stevie, but opened the door slightly wider so I could see in. Lucy was sitting on her bed cuddling Mr Bunny. ‘She needs to see you, love,’ I said. ‘To make sure you’re OK.’

‘Tell her I’m OK,’ Lucy said rudely.

‘And I need to talk to you,’ Stevie added, over my shoulder.

‘Go away. I’m not talking to you,’ Lucy said.

‘Don’t be rude, love,’ I said. ‘Stevie only wants to help.’

‘I don’t want her help,’ Lucy said.

‘Suit yourself,’ Stevie retorted with a shrug. I think it was supposed to be a joke to defuse the atmosphere, but it didn’t work.