Fear of Falling

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘I’ve tried it, left a message.’

  ‘Any upset this morning, any arguments?’

  ‘No.’ Mac would have said if there had been.

  ‘The description we have for her is white, four foot three inches tall, shoulder-length blonde hair, wearing a navy school jumper and trousers, and a navy and red hooded coat.’

  ‘She’s taken her coat?’ I asked Lisa.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any bag?’ PC Ingle said.

  ‘Red backpack,’ I said.

  ‘Have you a recent photo?’

  ‘Yes, on my phone.’

  ‘Can you email it to me?’ She gave me her address.

  Once I’d done that, she said, ‘Any idea where she might be headed?’

  ‘No.’ I told her who I’d already contacted.

  I pressed my hand to the top of my chest, made small circles, trying to ease the crushing pressure there.

  ‘Has she done this before?’ PC Ingle said.

  ‘Not from school. She’s gone missing from us a few times,’ I said.

  ‘Did she come back on her own then?’

  ‘No. But we found her.’

  ‘Sandra says she’s not registered with any special needs.’

  ‘That’s right. But she’s vulnerable,’ I said.

  ‘Of course any child—’

  ‘No. She’s been referred to CAMHS.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She self-harms,’ I said.

  PC Ingle blinked, gave a nod.

  ‘And she can get very agitated, angry,’ I said.

  ‘Is she any danger to others?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ My voice broke. I cleared my throat. ‘She has issues. She likes her own space. If she’s crowded, she gets overwhelmed and she can react badly.’

  ‘Violently?’

  ‘She’s only trying to get away from the situation. She can’t help it,’ I said. ‘It’s just how she is.’

  ‘Let’s swap numbers and I’ll pass on what you’ve told me.’

  When she’d gone, Sandra offered me a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, no, but if I could just use the loo? Then I want to go looking for her.’

  I chose to walk in the direction of our house first, along the main road. It was twenty minutes away. I checked each side street and looked down the alleys and cul-de-sacs.

  What had made her leave? An argument? Some nasty game in the playground or had she simply found the prospect of another two and a half hours in the place intolerable?

  Was she running away from something? Or in search of something?

  Chloë was isolated in school: regarded as disruptive or sometimes plain weird, she was given a wide berth by her classmates. There was a boy in the year above her who was also adopted. I’d talked to his mother a couple of times in the past, hoping to find common ground, someone who would understand what we were going through, but our experience of parenting diverged so much. ‘We’ve been lucky,’ she’d said. ‘Wesley’s such a sweetie. Just a joy.’ I’d felt inadequate in the face of their contentment.

  Whenever I met anyone I asked if they’d seen a little girl in a red and navy coat, showed them the photo on my phone, shielding it against the rain, and indicated her height with my hand. I had looks of concern and sympathy but no sightings.

  At the crossroads I went into the park. The rain was heavier now, the playground deserted.

  I spoke to a dog-walker and to a man on a bike, but they’d not seen her. I was cold and sick and shivery. Nightmares crowded my head. Chloë hurt. Chloë snatched, screaming. Chloë hanging.

  A splash of red caught my eye as I turned into one road and my heart thudded but it was only the postman.

  My phone rang. It was PC Ingle. ‘We’ve found her. She’s fine.’

  I broke into a sweat. Felt dizzy.

  ‘We’re bringing her home now. Are you at home?’

  ‘Almost, yes,’ I said. ‘Where was she?’

  ‘At a bus shelter on Otley Road.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  I called Mac immediately and told him the news. As soon as I was home I left a new message for my mum. Bel and Freya, coming through from the living room, heard me talking.

  ‘Where was she going?’ Bel said.

  ‘I don’t know. She’ll be back soon. Maybe if you could give us some space? I’m sorry, but it’ll be easier . . .’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Bel said. ‘We were going to have a look round Cardinal Heenan’s, anyway. We can get a cab. Or take your car?’

  ‘Shit. It’s at school.’ Suddenly the fact that I’d left the car seemed an enormous hassle. ‘Shit. I just left it. I walked back.’

  ‘We can fetch it,’ Bel said.

  ‘You aren’t insured. Third party only,’ I said. The last thing we needed was Bel writing off our car on top of everything else.

  ‘Fine,’ Bel said shortly. ‘Come on, get your coat.’ She beckoned to Freya.

  Moments after, PC Ingle arrived with Chloë and another police officer.

  Chloë came in, eyes averted. She was soaked, her hair all rats’ tails, her lips tinged blue.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said gently.

  A nod.

  ‘Take your coat off, and your shoes. I’ll make you some hot chocolate.’

  I asked the officers, ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee’d be great, thanks, two sugars,’ PC Ingle said.

  Her colleague shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’

  Chloë’s shoes had leaked: the toes of her socks were wet. She sat down, tense, unmoving, her head tilted to one side and down, as if braced for a blow, trembling.

  ‘I was saying to Chloë in the car, if anything’s wrong at school she should tell you about it, or a teacher, not just go running off,’ said PC Ingle.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Did something happen at school?’

  Chloë shook her head.

  ‘Where were you going?’ I said.

  ‘Nowhere,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Why were you at the bus stop then?’

  ‘It was raining.’

  ‘Can you tell us why you left school like that?’ PC Ingle said. Silence.

  ‘Chloë?’ I said.

  A shrug.

  I put the drinks down.

  PC Ingle shifted in her chair. ‘You see, you’ve caused a lot of worry, for your family and your teachers. Not only that but it’s my job to protect the community, to keep people safe. If all the other police officers and I are looking for you, and someone else needs us and they’re in real danger, we can’t be there to help them. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chloë said.

  ‘She does,’ I said. ‘And you’re sorry, aren’t you, Chloë?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She shivered.

  ‘You go and get changed,’ I said.

  Chloë got up and moved to the door.

  ‘You just think, next time,’ PC Ingle said, ‘if you feel like running away, you talk to someone. Someone your age shouldn’t be off on your own when you should be in school. It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the police officer, when Chloë had gone. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope she’s learned her lesson,’ she said, getting up.

  I hadn’t the heart to set her straight. It seemed impossible for Chloë to learn from bad experiences, like most other kids might. Star charts, rewards and punishments, none of that could help. She was stuck, trapped in patterns of reaction, of flight, of constant anxiety and self-doubt.

  The few books I’d been able to find on adoption, the ones that actually acknowledged the scale of trauma and loss involved, had given me some guidance on how to deal with Chloë’s anxiety and her outbursts, to understand how fundamental her fears and sense of abandonment were, how her start in life had programmed her to fear trust and love, to believe that she didn’t deserve any happiness. The authors also suggested that reunion with the birth-family was one way for the adoptee to heal. But it
wasn’t an option until Chloë was eighteen.

  We didn’t know how to make it any better for her. We’d asked for help time and again but there was nothing. She didn’t meet the criteria; there weren’t enough resources; there wasn’t anything suitable in the area.

  We were howling for the moon.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  By May 2015 my mum’s health had deteriorated so much that the only treatment left was palliative care and she had been moved into a hospice.

  ‘It’s just a question of time,’ the nurse had said, the evening before, to Steven, his wife and me. ‘Could be hours, could be days.’

  ‘Would you like to come with me to see Grandma?’ I asked Chloë.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She’d taken some bubble-wrap off a handbag I’d had delivered and was popping the blisters with her thumbs.

  ‘It’ll be a chance to say goodbye. I think you should. She’ll be asleep mostly. Chloë?’

  She continued pressing the plastic.

  I bit back my irritation. I remembered the first time I’d seen her, how she’d kept her back to me and pressed the buttons on the farmyard toy. She was thirteen years old now but still so much like that toddler.

  ‘I’m leaving in twenty minutes. I’d like you to come, but it’s up to you.’

  I went up to brush my teeth and get ready. When I came down Chloë was outside, smoking. Another battle I’d lost. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Yes.’ She squashed her cigarette on the top of the wheelie bin then put it inside. It was May, still light at eight o’clock. The garden was neglected, last season’s plants withered and brown, the shrubs desiccated, clumps of couch grass and dock leaves the only things thriving. With all the hospital visiting on top of work and dealing with Chloë, I’d not had time to plant anything or water what was there.

  She pulled the headphones from her coat pocket, effectively ruling out any conversation on the drive over.

  When we reached the car park I signalled to Chloë to remove her headphones. ‘She looks a bit strange,’ I said. ‘So it might be a bit of a shock.’

  Chloë gave a nod.

  Once we’d signed in we went straight through to her room. A nurse there greeted us and said, ‘We’ve just turned her and she’s got a new nightie on.’

  Chloë made a sound in her throat.

  ‘You all right?’ I said. ‘She does look different, doesn’t she?’

  My mum’s face was waxy, grey, gaunt, her cheekbones protruding and her eyes sunken. Her mouth was open. She looked smaller in the bed, shrunken, not that she’d ever been overweight, like me.

  ‘Her breathing’s changed,’ I said to the nurse. The rhythm was erratic, a hoarse rasping and gurgling, then a long pause.

  ‘Yes, we call that Cheyne-Stokes. It’s a sign that she’s getting closer.’ The nurse stroked my mum’s cheek. ‘She’s not in any pain, are you, my love?’

  I got a tissue from the box on the side and wiped my eyes.

  ‘Cup of tea, juice, anything?’ the nurse said.

  ‘No, thanks, we’re fine,’ I said.

  ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘You can sit there,’ I said to Chloë, pointing to the nearest chair. ‘I’ll go round the other side.’

  Standing at the bedside I took my mum’s hand. It was warm and limp, blotched with bruises from the cannula.

  ‘I do bruise easily,’ she’d said one time, when I was still at home.

  ‘Like a peach,’ my dad had said, and kissed her. They’d laughed.

  I missed my dad but I was glad he’d died first and hadn’t had to cope on his own without my mum.

  When I trusted myself to talk I said, ‘Hello, Mum. I’m here and Chloë’s here too. It’s been a lovely day. Sunny and breezy. Getting windy now. They reckon there’s a storm on the way.’

  I looked over at Chloë. ‘They say it’s good to talk, though we don’t know whether she can really hear.’

  ‘Because she’s asleep?’

  ‘She’s unconscious. We can’t wake her up. Chloë’s here,’ I said again.

  ‘Hi, Grandma.’ She looked uncomfortable.

  ‘They’ve got Wi-Fi,’ I said. ‘We can play some music. She loved Petula Clark, and Dionne Warwick. See if you can find something on your phone.’

  We listened to ‘Walk On By’ while I sat and held my mum’s hand. After a while I said, ‘Chloë, I’m going to stay here tonight so I’ll see how your dad’s doing and if he can pick you up. If not then I’ll get you a cab.’

  Mac was working late at the shop.

  I stepped out into the corridor and rang him. He was just locking up. ‘Sure, I’ll swing by.’

  I rang Steven next, the strains of ‘This Girl’s In Love With You’ faint from the room behind me.

  ‘Her breathing’s more laboured. They reckon that means she’s closer to the end. I thought you’d want to know. They can’t say how long. But I’m going to stay over.’

  ‘We’ll come down first thing. Sevenish. But ring me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Back in the room, I saw that Chloë had her hand over my mum’s. I felt a lump in my throat. ‘Dad won’t be long,’ I said.

  The song ended.

  ‘Where will you sleep?’ Chloë said.

  ‘I’ll sit up. I might doze. She loved to knit, didn’t she?’ I said, wanting to revive some good memories for Chloë. To remind her there was so much more to my mum than the frail body in the bed. ‘She could follow any pattern.’

  ‘Like those gloves,’ Chloë said.

  ‘The fingerless ones. You wore them till they dropped to bits. And the puddings she made.’

  ‘That white one.’

  ‘Pavlova,’ I said. ‘You always cleared your plate at Grandma’s. She loved you so much.’

  ‘Can I wait for Dad outside?’

  ‘Sure. Tell you what, I need to go to the loo so how about you stay here while I go, say your goodbyes, and then you can go down to Reception?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, rocking lightly on her feet, eager to get away. Anxious again.

  Chloë’s eyes were bright, glassy when I got back. Perhaps she’d cried. It was hard to tell.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, kissing the top of her head.

  Mac popped in a few minutes later. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. She’s getting weaker.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I said.

  Once he’d gone, I made myself as comfortable as I could and sat, held my mum’s hand and listened to her breathe. When the nurse called in again, I took a cup of tea and some biscuits.

  The building was quiet, just the occasional snatches of sound, voices from the corridor, the squeak of a trolley, then the bang of a door, an engine starting outside.

  There were some foam lollipops in a tray of water and I used one to moisten her lips, which were peeling and crusty, gummy at the corners.

  I grew tired but not enough to sleep. Several times the pause between her breaths stretched out, but then came the creak and draw of another. Heart still beating, blood still pumping.

  I opened the curtains and turned out the lights. The moon had risen high and bright, and the branches were silhouetted in front of it, buffeted by the wind. I liked the dance of the trees. The simple beauty of it.

  Later I tried to sing to her, ‘You Are My Sunshine’, one of the songs she used to sing me to sleep with, one that I’d sung to Chloë, but tears robbed my voice.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ I told her. ‘Mac and me and Chloë, Steven and Kim. We’ll look after each other, love each other. You can rest now, Mum. You can go.’

  The night deepened. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts wander: Freya’s birthday soon . . . How long would it take to sort out my mum’s estate? Six months? A year? Must get our boiler serviced. Cancel Bel and Thomas – whatever happens we won’t be having people round to dinner on Saturday . . . Nice guy, Thomas, rides a horse . . . Chloë used to
love riding at the community farm. Would she go again?

  I shifted position. And stared out into the dark, the silver shafts of light, the boughs dipping and swaying. The wind calling her on.

  I listened for her breath. And waited. I held my own. And she was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘Chloë, we want you to stay here. These eejits, you don’t know them. They don’t care about you.’ Mac was furious, flinging up his hands as he spoke.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Chloë’s face was screwed up, head thrust forward as if she’d charge. ‘They’re my friends.’

  ‘Get them to come round, then,’ I said. ‘Let’s meet them.’

  She sneered. ‘No. That’s weird.’

  ‘You’re only thirteen. How old are they? The drugs, the drinking – it’s not safe,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t keep me locked up. Fuck you!’ She kicked at the table. A glass rolled off and smashed on the floor. She gave a little laugh.

  I looked at the glass. Shards glinting. Dangerous. Thought of the lattice of scars on her belly, legs and arms.

  ‘If you leave this house now,’ Mac said, ‘I’ll report you missing and the police will get involved.’

  Chloë was balancing on the balls of her feet, buzzing with energy. Her eyes fixed on mine for a moment, a blaze of rage making them greener. Then she turned and ran upstairs.

  I put my head into my hands. ‘God. I don’t know what else we can do.’ I opened my eyes and looked at Mac. ‘What can we do?’

  I went to fetch the dustpan and brush from under the sink.

  There was an enormous thump from upstairs and the whole house shook. Then crashing and more thumps.

  ‘Jaysus!’ Mac got to his feet.

  ‘Leave her,’ I said.

  ‘She’s trashing the place,’ he yelled.

  ‘And how will you stop her?’ I shouted back.

  ‘Christ!’

  Another crash, then several bangs. I could feel the vibrations through my legs into my stomach.

  ‘We could ask for respite,’ I said. ‘If we keep asking, surely they’ll have to try to find something. Get the funding somehow.’

  ‘We need it now. It’s not going to happen. We’re fucking kidding ourselves. How bad does it have to get before they listen? Unless we put the ball in their court. Tell them she needs to go back into care.’