by Rosie Lewis
A spasm of pain passed over her face. ‘You sound just like Mark,’ she said, looking up at the ceiling with a mixture of scorn and exasperation.
I looked up sharply. I knew that Mark was her ex-fiancé and had walked out on her, but I had no idea there had been any contact between them. ‘He knows about Hope?’ I asked, surprised. She stood abruptly and began pacing the room. ‘Ellen?’
‘Yes, he knows,’ she snapped. ‘Social services insisted he has rights. They told him yesterday and now he won’t stop calling me.’
I frowned. She hadn’t confided much about him, but I was under the impression that she had been heartbroken over the break-up. ‘Does he want to see her? Is that why he –’
‘He says it was my fault we ended, that I kept pushing him away until he had no choice but to leave.’
I considered that for a moment. ‘And what do you think?’
She stopped pacing for a moment and shrugged. ‘I suppose he’s right. I’ve done it all my life. But now he wants to get back together and play happy families.’
‘And you don’t?’
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back in frustration. ‘I’ve told you, Rosie, I’m not normal. It could never work. He’s better off without me.’
‘And Hope is too?’
She sighed contemptuously and began pacing again. I let a few seconds pass and then said, ‘Presumably Mark knows you well?’
She scoffed. ‘Mark thinks he can make everything better. He says love’s a cure for everything.’
‘Well, I’d agree with him there.’
She shook her head and narrowed her eyes, tuning me out. Continually moving, she paused between each step as if her thoughts were weighing so heavily that she was fearful she might step through the floor. Every so often she looked over at me and I got the sense that she wanted to open up, but she just couldn’t find the words to begin. Eventually I invited her to join me in the kitchen, where I switched the kettle on. I emptied the teapot, swirled tap water around the inside and filled it with boiling water, adding two teabags before replacing the lid.
Sitting on a high stool, I rested my mug of tea on my lap and stared at the rising steam. Ellen continued to pace, biting her lip as she went. I had the feeling she was close to opening up because as I stared at my drink I could feel her eyes on me. Finally, she started to talk. ‘I’ve tried so hard to forget,’ she said in a low monotone, her voice sounding as if it was coming from far away. ‘But since,’ she inclined her head towards the living room, where Hope was now sleeping peacefully, ‘since last month, I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. What happened when – when –’ she stumbled over her words, licking her lips as she grappled for the right way to express herself. ‘When –’
‘When you were little?’ I suggested, not daring to move. I didn’t want anything to put her off continuing.
She shot me a look and then pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘All that hurt,’ she said, shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’ve tried so hard to put it all behind me. When I met Mark I thought I’d finally overcome the past. But it never goes away, no matter how badly you want it to. It seeps into everything, ripping and tearing it up. I don’t want that for Hope. She has a chance to escape that sort of life – how can I take that away from her?’
‘Your mother, you said?’ I asked, carefully avoiding her question with one of my own. She nodded and began to shake uncontrollably. It was difficult to watch and I felt sorry for pressing her then, but at the same time I knew that something had to give. I had pussyfooted around her fear of Hope for weeks and it hadn’t helped either of them. Silence might be less painful for both of us, but it would resolve nothing. ‘What happened, Ellen?’ I prompted gently.
Her eyelids flickered as she looked over at me, and I could see she was struggling to express herself. ‘She was brutal,’ she managed to say, blinking away the tears. ‘From as early as I can remember I was petrified of her. You never knew, you see, what mood she’d be in when you got up. One day she’d be OK and you’d start to relax, but the next she’d drag you by the hair and starve you.’
I nodded as she spoke in what I hoped was an encouraging way, and I was struck by the way she distanced herself from her story by referring to herself in the second person rather than the first. Ellen opened her mouth and closed it again. My heart filled with sorrow for her. ‘That must have been very hard, not feeling safe.’ It was one of the first things I told children as soon as they arrived in placement – ‘You’re safe now.’ For many, these words came as such a relief.
She dabbed her nose on her sleeve and nodded. ‘I still don’t know why she was like she was. All I know is that she didn’t love me, didn’t even like me, actually.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued, her voice reedy with emotion. ‘Do you know what my earliest memory is?’
I pressed my lips together and shook my head, restraining myself from standing up and putting an arm around her. ‘I’m sitting on the floor in the kitchen, stacking tins or whatever it is that toddlers do. My mother walks in and I smile up at her. We’d had a few good days and I’d almost forgotten what she could be like. I adored her.’ Ellen faltered and then cleared her throat. ‘But then I notice that look on her face she gets sometimes and I start to cry because I know what’s coming, but still I put my arms up to her when she comes over because I think maybe there’s a chance that she’ll be nice to me. I think that maybe if I look at her and show her how much I love her she’ll pick me up and comfort me. Do you know what she does then? She kicks me in the face. No warning, no build-up, nothing. She just kicks me in the face and then stands over me, screaming, ‘You disgust me, Ellen. You’re a disgusting, horrible child.’
Ellen looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Her words are still here,’ she wept, jabbing her forefinger into her temple until the skin whitened around it. ‘Everything she did and said reminded me that I was a complete failure, and that never goes away, no matter how hard you try to forget. God, no wonder I never realised I was pregnant. I’d been carrying that weight around inside me ever since I could walk. Do you know what the strange thing is, though? I still long for her, almost every day. When I was in A&E with Hope, all I wanted was my mum. How screwed up am I?’
‘Oh, Ellen,’ I said, on the verge of tears myself, ‘that’s not strange at all.’ So many of the children I had looked after spent their days pining for the love of a mother who was sealed off from them; one that never had existed and probably never would. Hungry for affection, it was so hard for them to accept that they wouldn’t ever have access to the source of comfort so many others took for granted.
Such callous abuse cut me to the core, and a hot feeling of anger pressed on my breastbone as I thought about the parents who abused their own offspring to fulfil their own needs. I could see how Ellen’s past had led her to believe she was unlovable, so much so that she ended up pushing anyone close to her away, but I had seen youngsters resist and move on from that sort of cruelty. ‘Lots of people learn from their parents’ mistakes, Ellen,’ I said quietly. ‘They know how bad it feels to live like that, so they do the opposite. Having your own child is like being given a second chance.’
Staring at the floor, she bit her lip, eyes darting rapidly to and fro. ‘But what if I can’t?’ she cried. ‘Sometimes I feel so angry. What if I end up being just like her? I can’t take that risk with Hope. I want someone to sing her lullabies and rock her to sleep, to read her bedtime stories and tuck her in at night, to have all the things I never had.’
I placed my hand, palm down, on the worktop. ‘Exactly,’ I said with a meaningful look. ‘And you can give her all those things. You’re not your mother, Ellen. You’ve made a conscious choice not to be like her. That means that Hope will be safe with you.’
We talked until the light outside faded and the air around us cooled. I drew the curtains, lit the lamps and began stacking logs in the grate. Hope stirred, surprising us both with a loud, adorable yawn as I
lit the kindling. Waiting to be picked up, she fidgeted, making sweet little noises as she sucked on her fist. Ellen gathered up her things while the bottle was warming, and as she passed me on her way to the hall I placed my hand on her arm. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Ellen,’ I said quietly.
She gave me a tearful, grateful nod in return. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be all right,’ she said, before letting herself out, perhaps quietly counselling herself as well as trying to reassure me.
Emily and Jamie charged downstairs at the sound of the front door closing. To make up for missing out on an earlier cuddle, I told Jamie he could give Hope her bottle. Grinning widely as he sat on the sofa, he cradled her carefully in attentive arms. I sat beside him as she fed, my conversation with Ellen replaying itself in my mind. It seemed that the shock of giving birth to Hope had released the demons of Ellen’s own childhood, ones that she had tried very hard to lock away. Now, it was as if she was trapped between two lives – the one carved out for her by a callous parent, and the peaceful, happy one she craved. Affected by what I’d heard, I was desperate to help her find a way to move on.
When Ellen arrived for her next contact with Hope she was withdrawn, something I had anticipated after our heart to heart the day before. Hope was in her sixth week but still had her days and nights mixed up, and she slept heavily as I made us some tea. When she eventually whimpered I re-boiled the kettle and dropped her bottle into a jug, handing the milk to Ellen without comment when it was warm enough.
My heart soared as she lifted the drowsy baby from her crib, and I couldn’t resist peering in at the pair of them from the kitchen. Hope sucked without fully waking, her hands flexing and relaxing as she drank. Ellen’s eyes never left her daughter’s face, tears rolling down her cheeks as she sang softly under her breath and rocked her gently to and fro. My heart went out to her, my own eyes misting at the sight.
The moment seemed to be a turning point for Ellen. From then on, whenever she arrived for contact she went straight to Hope and picked her up, cradling her if she was asleep, playing with her during her lengthening wakeful periods. One afternoon towards the end of March, when Hope was six weeks old, Ellen rested her on a blanket on the floor. Hope lay still for a few minutes, thin legs bowed beneath her nappy, but, having recently woken from a long sleep, she grew livelier with each passing second, her grey-blue eyes flicking from her mother’s face to the ceiling and back again. Leaning forward at the waist, Ellen began making soft cooing noises. Hope caught her breath and stilled, watching her mother intently. Concentrating hard, her eyes were wide, her tongue darting between intrigued lips. The next second, her mouth opened in a silent laugh, her eyes lighting up with a fleeting twinkle. Ellen shot me a look of amazement. ‘Was that –?’
‘Her first smile? Yes, I think it was!’ I said, laughing.
Ellen made a noise of disbelief, a sort of half laugh, half cry. Scooping Hope up, she closed her eyes and clutched her baby to her chest.
The weeks of early spring passed rapidly, with Ellen taking over care of Hope whenever she was around. She spoke to her baby almost constantly, reading about ways to stimulate and encourage her development when Hope slept. With her confidence burgeoning, her careful attentiveness turned playful and she would nuzzle Hope’s neck with her chin or blow raspberries on her tummy, her baby convulsing with breathless giggles as she gripped her mother’s hair. It was like watching someone reinvent themselves before my eyes, and I couldn’t have been happier to witness it.
It was during one of our quiet moments together, as we sat reading, that Ellen told me a bit more about her family. From the way she had described her past, I imagined her as an only child of a single mother, when in fact her parents had stayed together until her father passed away when Ellen was in her early twenties. According to Ellen, her father had been a distant man who often worked away, and it was during his long absences that her mother was most abusive. While Ellen had been singled out for her worst punishments, her elder sister appeared to be well treated, something that compounded the hurt. It came as a huge shock to Ellen when, as a teenager, her elder sister accused her father of molesting her throughout her childhood.
Her father was sent to prison and, sickeningly, her mother stood by him and disowned her eldest daughter. With parole, Ellen’s father served just over two years, and on release his wife accepted him back into the family home with open arms. Since the case made all the local newspapers at the time and there was much speculation as to whether her father had abused other young children, Ellen felt her family was notorious, particularly as they found themselves targeted by vigilantes. As soon as she was old enough Ellen fled the area, and she still had no idea of her sister’s whereabouts – unsure if she was even still alive.
As I listened to her story a wave of fury swept over me, although I felt calmer when she told me that she had returned to confront her mother after her father’s death. Her mother refused to acknowledge any mistreatment, as abusers often do, but she had been unable to meet Ellen’s gaze, and knowing that she had been challenged satisfied my thirst for justice.
I made sure I updated Graham, the social worker, regularly with positive reports of Ellen and Hope’s growing bond, careful not to exaggerate her progress in case he should think that I was overstepping the mark. My calls were met with a sort of impassive lethargy and I began to fear that Hope’s future had already been decided, especially when Graham recalled Ellen for a second psychiatric evaluation.
Ellen had been so relieved when she told me that she had passed an initial assessment, and she was bemused when the local authority ordered a second opinion. I had heard of social workers requesting repeated assessments of birth parents from different psychiatrists until their professional conclusion matched that of social services, and so, although I tried to reassure Ellen, I was secretly afraid that things weren’t going her way.
In mid-April, when Hope was two months old, Ellen was summoned to the local authority offices for a meeting with Graham and his team manager. I wanted to believe that everything would work out for her, but it was impossible to second guess their care plan, and when I saw Ellen later that same day it was instantly clear that it was not good news.
‘They’re parallel planning,’ she sobbed as she walked up the wet path towards me. The rain had been relentless since dawn, the spiralling ribbons of water coursing over her feet and turning the small pile of fallen leaves at the end of the path into a sludgy mess. Standing aside to let her in, I squeezed her arm as she walked past me into the living room.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s standard procedure,’ I said consolingly as I sat on a nearby armchair. Parallel planning meant that social workers were investigating a number of options for Hope’s future. It was a way of ensuring that there was no delay in securing permanency for a child. ‘Just in case things don’t work out as planned.’
‘No, but that’s the thing,’ she choked tearfully. ‘They don’t want me to have her – I could tell. Graham made it obvious. He said that they have lots of wonderful couples who are desperate for a healthy baby like Hope. He said they have concerns because I’ve been depressed in the past and, well, you know what sort of childhood I had.’
‘What about Mark? Hasn’t he shown an interest?’
‘He’s asked to be assessed but he works long hours and doesn’t have much of a support network. They’ve said they don’t think he’ll cope on his own.’ She glanced towards the crib where Hope was sleeping. ‘I love her so much, Rosie. When Graham said they might take her away for good I was frantic. Whenever I leave here all I can think about is being near her again. The thought of her going away for good, somewhere I can’t hold her …’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could bear it,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘But maybe Graham’s right. I’m on my own and I have to work. I’ve tried to picture myself being one of those mums who’s brilliant at juggling it all but it’s like trying to grab hold of thin air because I have nothing to base it on. The couples Graham was
talking about are all professional people with plenty of money and lovely houses. If she’s adopted, they could give her everything.’
I gave her a sceptical look. ‘Maybe they can. I’ve known brilliant adopters, and I’m sure whomever she went to would love her like she’s their own. But you can do that too. A big house and plenty of money doesn’t mean much to a baby, Ellen. If you truly want to, you can give her everything she needs.’
‘I do want her, with all my heart.’
‘Then you must fight for her,’ I said. Plenty of the abusive parents I had met were vocal in shouting their love for their children from the rooftops, but it rarely translated into action. Sometimes, all social workers wanted to see from parents was a commitment to doing the best for their children.
‘I don’t think I’m strong enough,’ Ellen said huskily, tears spilling freely from her eyes.
I got up and sat next to her, taking one of her hands in mine. It was small and warm and trembling. ‘You’re going to have to be, darling,’ I said, with a firm nod of my head. ‘If you want to keep her, you’re going to have to be strong. And if you want me to, I’ll help you every step of the way.’
She took a breath. ‘But I’m on my own. My life’s not set up the way those adopters’ lives are. I have no family and no security. All I have is my job, a tiny flat and a huge mortgage. Oh, and a depressed dog who’s left on his own all day. I don’t know how a baby could possibly fit in to all of that.’
