Angels in Our Hearts

by Rosie Lewis

  The problem was that, two weeks after her first visit, Ellen was still showing minimal interest in her baby. With the awkwardness of the first meeting over and done with, she found a place easily among us, as I sensed she would. She relaxed enough to chat about day-to-day things, and I felt comfortable in her company. We managed to get a bit of a rapport going but still, both of us continued to tiptoe around the elephant in the room – her avoidance of Hope. She began to open up about other things, telling me that she was still adjusting to being alone after the end of a serious relationship. When I sympathised she almost bit my head off, telling me it was ‘just one of those things’, but the weepy expression on her face belied her shrugs.

  Despite her snappiness and tendency for gloom (if she dropped something, her automatic reaction was to groan and pronounce it ‘Typical!’), she was a straightforward character and fundamentally I liked her. Whenever she was around she busied herself with sterilising and making up bottles, washing Hope’s vests and sleep suits and generally making herself useful, but if I so much as suggested any sort of hands-on care she lost what little colour she had and raced off to the bathroom.

  What I couldn’t work out was why she continued to visit so diligently, if she had no intention of caring for Hope herself. It was as if being around her daughter and dealing with the practicalities was enough for her, and I wondered if perhaps she was afraid of getting too close. She didn’t strike me as the sort of person who would abdicate responsibility easily – she told me how hard she’d worked after leaving school, making her way up the ladder and securing a responsible office job – and if it was fear holding her back, I wanted to help her, or at least know that I had tried.

  Whatever the truth of it, I knew the situation couldn’t continue. Understandably, social services were keen to reach a swift decision on Hope’s future, and whenever Graham Thorpe, Hope’s social worker, called for an update, he sounded none too impressed with the lack of progress. I felt a little guilty as I reported Ellen’s reluctance to bond with her daughter – almost as if I was betraying her – but it would have been irresponsible of me to skew the facts, however much I had come to like Ellen. Graham confided that she had been invited to attend counselling sessions but had so far declined, something she hadn’t mentioned to me. Refusing to engage was another black mark against her and would do nothing to improve her chances of keeping her baby, if she even wanted to – it was difficult to tell.

  Remembering what Ciara, one of the midwives, had said about post-natal post-traumatic stress disorder, I rose early one morning and researched the condition on the internet. I already knew a little about it, as a police officer friend of mine who had been involved in helping victims of the 7/7 bombings was still suffering terrible nightmares months later, and I had heard of soldiers suffering in the same way after being in war zones. Until Ciara mentioned it, though, I had never heard of childbirth being a potential trigger.

  According to a number of websites, anyone could develop post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) after a period of intense fear or shock. Often, sufferers seek to avoid anything that could remind them of the traumatic event, so victims of the terrorist attacks in London might steer clear of public transport. Sadly, women who suffer extreme distress as a result of a difficult labour sometimes seek to avoid the biggest reminder of the ordeal – their own baby.

  In a society where birth and newborns are romanticised, a woman in such a situation might feel even more isolated, especially when the potent cocktail of wildly fluctuating hormones is added to the mix. While Ellen’s labour may not have been traumatic in a physical sense, I guessed that giving birth unexpectedly might have had a massive psychological impact.

  Post-natal PTSD certainly might explain her closed-down expression whenever she glanced at Hope, conflicting emotions perhaps leaving her frozen. But I suspected that there was more to her distance than that. One site I came across detailed some heartbreaking case studies of new mums who had felt so overwhelmed by panic that they ended their lives, too terrified to reach out for help through fear of being judged. Many of them had no close relatives to turn to for support, and as I read about them I thought of Ellen’s caginess whenever our conversation drifted towards family. As far as I could make out, apart from work colleagues there was no one close to her; no mother, father or even siblings.

  Interestingly, one site I clicked on suggested that previous traumas were sometimes reignited by childbirth, and that it wasn’t unusual for mothers (and fathers) who had been adopted or fostered as children to start experiencing flashbacks to their early lives after having a child of their own. A psychologist went on to explain that if a woman had been sexually abused during childhood, the loss of control experienced during labour sometimes proved to be a potent reminder of her own powerlessness. The let-down reflex and physical sensations associated with breastfeeding also sometimes resurrected painful memories that had long since been buried. The thought that the momentous experience of childbirth could be overshadowed in such a way filled me with sadness and really got me thinking. As the days passed I became more and more convinced that Ellen was guarding more than just her own emotions.

  Halfway through her third week of contact, when Hope was about five weeks old, I presented her with an album of photos chronicling her baby’s days since birth. It was something I did for all the children I looked after, although when they were older I kept a weekly rather than daily record. She stared at me for a long time, seemingly astounded, as if she’d never been given a present before. ‘It’s nothing much,’ I said, waving my hand through the air as she opened the cover and slowly, reverentially turned the pages. ‘Just a little something to …’ I broke off at the sound of a small cry from Hope. Ellen looked up sharply, her hand frozen in mid-air.

  Looking past me to where her baby was resting on a soft blanket spread out over a rug in front of the fireplace, her brow crumpled. My eyes followed hers just as Hope’s cries began to escalate into tiny screams. With some difficulty I restrained myself from going to her, compelling Ellen to comfort her instead. ‘I think she’s hungry,’ I said, gently prompting. And then, turning towards the kitchen, I said, ‘I’ll get her bottle ready.’

  She caught me by the forearm, her grip tight and frantic. ‘No,’ she almost snarled, her eyes spinning from Hope to me and back again. Her hair was beginning to slip out of her ponytail and she looked very young and vulnerable. ‘I’ll get it for you,’ she said, a little more gently, and from her panicked expression I could tell that she found her baby’s cries unbearable. At the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything about them.

  After settling Hope into her crib for a sleep half an hour later, Ellen handed me a cup of steaming tea. She was looking at me carefully, and a moment later she sucked in a breath as if readying herself to say something. I felt my pulse quicken, but before she could get any words out the telephone rang. ‘It’s probably someone selling something,’ I said, with a little shrug of my shoulders. I was ready to ignore it but when the shrill tone finally stopped I knew the moment was lost; Ellen had turned away and was folding one of the small cardigans my mother had knitted for Hope. Cupping the mug of tea in my hands, I stood staring at Ellen’s back, but when the insistent ring started up again, I answered it after only a moment’s hesitation.

  It was Graham, Hope’s social worker. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked. We hadn’t spoken for a couple of days but I knew he was in the process of compiling a report for the interim court hearing. Without positive feedback, he was likely to proceed with a request for a reduction in contact. ‘Erm, OK. Ellen’s here at the moment. Can we talk later?’

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid, Rosie. I really need to finish this report and I’m tied up in meetings for the rest of the day.’

  Cupping my hand over the mouthpiece, I whispered to Ellen’s back, ‘Sorry, I’ll nip in the other room to take this.’ Feeling faintly embarrassed since there was only a wall separating us, I told Graham that there wasn’t much t
o report.

  ‘She still hasn’t even picked the baby up?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I said hesitantly, ‘but I get the feeling she wants to. Something’s holding her back.’

  ‘Yes,’ Graham said heavily. ‘She’s a very troubled girl. The sooner we get Hope sorted the better.’

  My jaw grew tight, knowing that Graham was talking about adoption. Despite a strong desire for Hope to settle into permanence as quickly as possible, I couldn’t help feeling sad knowing it probably meant lifelong separation from Ellen. ‘Graham, I really think that with support –’

  ‘Rosie,’ he interrupted sharply, ‘Ellen’s making no effort to bond with Hope. I’m not feeling optimistic at all, especially not with her past. No, I’m afraid it’s all looking a bit grim.’

  Nettled, I didn’t take everything he said in. ‘It’s been less than three weeks,’ I said with a slight coolness, ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Look, to be frank, Rosie, you’re not paid to think.’

  I caught my breath and said nothing, his words about Ellen’s past beginning to register. After a moment he seemed to realise he’d been a bit sharp and rushed to cover himself. ‘What I mean is, leave us to worry about the care plan. Ellen can’t go swanning in and out of the child’s life whenever she feels like it and not even lift a finger to care for her. You’re doing an excellent job with young Hope so just carry on doing what you’re doing and I’ll keep you informed. I’m sure we both want to secure a positive outcome for her.’

  Annoyed, I made a noise of assent but said little else. Graham still hadn’t visited personally to check on Hope, sending an agency social worker as stand-in on his behalf. I knew how overwhelmed the local authority staff were and so had no complaint about that, but since we hadn’t even met, his praise came across as a little false. Being slapped down for offering an opinion was irritating as well, but the wishes and feelings of foster carers were often disregarded, so I was used to that. It was fair enough in some ways – I was just a foster carer with no official qualification in social work, but I had spent more time in Ellen’s company than any other professional. Surely that should count for something? What had really annoyed me, though, was Graham’s attitude towards Ellen, when he barely knew her. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but I minded on her behalf.

  ‘If she’ll relinquish Hope and agree to the adoption, things will run a lot more smoothly,’ Graham continued. He was speaking quickly, clearly in a rush. ‘We have several couples on our books waiting for a white British baby and countless others further afield. What I need you to do, Rosie, is record absolutely everything. If Ellen contests our decision your diaries may be summoned by the court.’

  The next day, as soon as Ellen took her coat off and sat on the sofa, I was beside her, Hope wrapped in a blanket in my arms. ‘Ellen,’ I said, my tone serious. She turned her head and looked at me quizzically. ‘It’s time, love.’

  ‘Time?’ Her expression grew wary. ‘For what?’

  ‘To take a risk.’

  She stopped cold, her eyes falling to her sleeping daughter. Shifting so that my knees were close to hers, I leaned towards her but, startled and panicky, she kept her hands frozen in her lap. At that moment the phone rang and my heart leapt with gratitude; the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. ‘I have to get that,’ I said in a rush, making a snap decision. Standing abruptly, I planted poor Hope unceremoniously onto her mother’s lap.

  Ellen’s eyes widened with alarm, but instinctively she closed her arms around her daughter. As soon as I was confident that Hope was secure I whisked my hands away and rushed off to the kitchen to answer the phone. It was one of those annoying recorded announcements, as it happened, but rather deviously I stayed in the kitchen, bustling around with the phone fixed to my ear. Downstairs, our house is open plan; as I pulled damp clothes from the washing machine and draped them one-handed over the radiators I kept my eyes trained on Ellen. She was cradling Hope as tenderly as any new mother and, touched, I felt a jolt of optimism at the sight, hopeful that some time alone without the pressure of someone watching might help Ellen to relax and build the confidence she needed to start caring for her daughter. When I returned about ten minutes later, though, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know how to hold her.’

  I knelt in front of her and touched a thumb to Hope’s forehead. ‘But you are holding her, my love.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not. Not properly. I don’t know where to put myself to make her comfortable. My arm’s digging in the back of her head.’

  I laughed under my breath. ‘She looks happy enough to me.’ It was true. Hope was staring up at her mother’s face with solemn intrigue, her tiny fingers moving fluidly through the air between them. Every so often she interlaced them like an elderly professor, quietly assessing this new situation.

  ‘I don’t know anything about looking after a baby,’ Ellen said in shallow, jerky breaths. ‘I haven’t got a clue what to do if she cries or throws up or anything.’

  I scoffed. ‘You learn quickly when a baby’s involved, believe me. They don’t give you any choice.’

  ‘How? How will I learn?’

  ‘You’ll learn together. Hope will let you know what she needs.’

  Ellen let out a frustrated breath. ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  I gave her a pacifying smile and shook my head. ‘I don’t mean to. It’s the most natural thing in the world and the hardest, all at the same time. You’ll gradually get to know what to do when she cries or if she won’t go to sleep. But I tell you something. Whatever happens, and wherever she goes, you’ll never learn to stop loving her.’ I shook my head. ‘No, you’ll never be able to do that.’

  Ellen jerked her head up sharply. She was frowning and I gave her a direct look. ‘Perhaps you haven’t recognised it yet, or maybe it’s so scary that you can’t even begin to, but I can see it, even if you can’t.’

  ‘See it? What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re smitten, Ellen. It’s written all over your face.’

  Before I’d even finished my sentence Ellen gave a loud sob, and Hope’s arms splayed out in shock, her bottom lip trembling. She stared up at Ellen with wide eyes, her lips rolled in on themselves, her face turning crimson from holding her breath. ‘There, it’s all right,’ I said soothingly, slipping my hands beneath her arms and twisting her carefully away from Ellen onto my shoulder. Rubbing small circles on her back to encourage her to breathe, I could feel her tense body slowly unwinding and then she bawled, the screams coming in short bursts between sharp, panicky breaths. Eventually, they slowed until she was mewing like a kitten, her face wet with real tears. ‘That’s better, shhh,’ I crooned, twisting my head to look at Ellen as I moved from one foot to the other. She was crying into her hands, shoulders trembling.

  ‘Ellen?’ I said softly, after calming Hope and settling her in her crib. Ellen continued to sob, hands still covering her face. I sat beside her and waited quietly. After a minute or so she lowered her hands and sniffed, apologising. ‘Don’t,’ I said, handing her a tissue. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’

  She jutted out her chin and blew air up on her face until her fringe fluttered. At that moment there was a heavy clomping on the stairs and then Emily and Jamie appeared in the open doorway, their bright smiles fading when I raised my eyebrows and made a face at them. Emily backed from the room, dragging Jamie by the jumper. ‘Hey! Get off! I want to cuddle Hope,’ I heard Jamie shout before Emily closed the door discretely behind them.

  A scuffle ensued in the hall but Ellen didn’t seem to notice. After blowing her nose she rolled the tissue up into a ball and shoved her hands between her knees, looking up at the ceiling. I watched her without saying anything, waiting for the power of silence to do its work. ‘I’m not a nice person,’ she said, after what felt like an age.

  An unexpected chill ran across my scalp, Graham’s words about Ellen being troubled coming back to me in a rush. Howe
ver much I felt I had the measure of her, foster carers took a risk when opening up their homes to birth parents. The truth was, I had no idea what he’d been referring to when he mentioned her past; I barely knew anything about her at all. I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck and took a steadying breath. ‘Why do you say that?’

  She groaned and leaned forward, forearms touching her knees, hands cupping her face. ‘Because I’m not.’

  I pursed my lips and shook my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t see that at all.’

  She let out a frustrated breath. ‘You don’t know anything about me, Rosie.’

  I paused, considering. ‘I know enough. I know you’re considerate and kind and warm.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she scoffed, sounding angry. ‘I walked out on my own baby. What sort of person does that?’

  I thought about it and answered gently. ‘A very frightened one, I’d say.’

  She spun around to face me. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing black. ‘Most women would do anything to protect their babies, no matter how scared they are. Even animals know how to do that – I read something once, about female gazelles. Did you know that they walk away from their young as soon as they’re born?’ I shook my head but Ellen didn’t notice; she was staring at her hands as she knotted them over and over in her lap. ‘People used to think they were cold, reckless animals until someone realised that what they were doing was diverting the attention of predators away from their babies and onto themselves. That’s normal. It’s what most people do. What I did was unnatural. There’s something wrong with me. I’m like my mother. She should never have had children and neither should I.’

  I nodded slowly, aware that Ellen had stilled and was watching me intently, trying to gauge my reaction. As I considered a reply, my mind flashed back to the child psychology books I’d read when registering as a foster carer. How someone responded to disclosures mattered; tone, pitch and posture all worked together to either encourage or deter the child from continuing. Something as simple as a minute shrug or a raised eyebrow had the power to undermine the child’s trust, perhaps deterring them from ever disclosing anything again. Instinct told me that talking to adults wasn’t too far different, and so I waited a few seconds, mentally rehearsing my voice until it was neutral, and then said, ‘I think you’d make a wonderful mother, Ellen, if only you’d give yourself that chance.’