by Cathy Glass
I was on the telephone to my parents for over an hour. They were both so kind and supportive that I kept welling up and had to wipe my eyes. Their kindness – such a contrast to John’s hurtfulness – was almost more than I could bear. As we wound up, I said we’d like to visit them the following day if they were free.
‘Of course,’ Mum said. ‘We’d love to see you and the children any time. But we don’t ever want to see John again. Not after what he’s done to you and the children.’
Fiercely loyal and protective as she was, I could understand her view, but it was important she didn’t say anything similar in front of Adrian and Paula. ‘You won’t have to see John again,’ I said, ‘but the children will be seeing him, and they should have a positive image of their father.’
‘I’ll hold my tongue when they’re around,’ Mum said. ‘But he’s still a bastard.’ It was the only time I’d ever heard my mother swear.
With Beth gone and happily settled at home, I was now free to worry about my situation, which I did for the whole of that Saturday night. I didn’t go to bed until 2 a.m., and then I tossed and turned until dawn. I knew I had to see a solicitor and I was dreading it. I didn’t know what to expect. Divorce was uncharted territory for me; no one in my family had been divorced and I only had one close friend who had been, and she’d had to sell her house and move away. The only firm of solicitors I knew was the one we’d employed for the conveyancing, when John and I had bought our house. At some point I’d have to telephone the firm and make an appointment to see a divorce solicitor, and I tormented myself further with the questions I might be asked.
Despite worrying and having a sleepless night, we had a pleasant day on Sunday, although Mum and Dad went out of their way to avoid mentioning John. He and his crime sat like ‘an elephant in the room’ – massive and unacknowledged, and when Paula innocently said, ‘I’m seeing Daddy next Saturday,’ Mum changed the subject and Dad went very quiet. Understandably, it would take them time to adjust, as it would us. They were of a generation who didn’t divorce but stayed together through ‘better or worse’, although I couldn’t remember John and I having bad times, which was why this had all come as such a shock.
On the drive home I explained to Adrian and Paula that Nana and Grandpa were upset about Daddy not living with us any more, which was why they couldn’t talk about him.
‘I know how they feel,’ Adrian said quietly, and my heart ached for him.
On Monday morning it was strange not having Beth a part of our weekday routine. Sometimes you don’t realize how much a foster child has become part of your life until they are not with you any more. Beth had fully integrated into our family and there was now a big gap. I found myself standing outside her bedroom door, about to go in and wake her and tell her to get ready for school, before I remembered. Then, downstairs, as I prepared breakfast, I automatically reached for the packet of her favourite cereal before I realized. As we ate breakfast, Paula said the table was ‘too big’ without Beth. And later Adrian caught himself waiting for his turn in the bathroom, as he’d done when Beth had been with us, before remembering he didn’t have to wait any more. But as we left for school we were all excited to be seeing Beth soon. The weather was good, so we walked and arrived in the playground before her. Adrian, as usual, ran off to play with his friends – he could see Beth at break and lunchtime.
As I waited with Paula in the playground, I noticed Jenni’s mother standing with another mother a little way off, both looking at me as they talked. I had the feeling they were talking about me, possibly discussing Beth’s return home, for Beth had told all her friends and her teachers she was going home. The playground continued to fill and I concentrated on the school gates. A few minutes before the klaxon was due to sound I saw Beth come in, smart in her school uniform, walking proudly between her parents and holding their hands. She was smiling broadly, although Derek and Marianne looked serious – hardly surprising given the playground gossip. Jenni’s mother and her friend weren’t the only ones looking. Possibly it was my imagination, but it seemed the noise level in the playground dropped slightly as others turned to look too.
‘Beth’s here,’ I said to Paula, whose view was blocked by parents.
I took her hand and we walked over to where Beth stood with her parents.
‘Cathy, lovely to see you!’ Marianne exclaimed as we approached.
‘And you,’ I said, hugging her. I then hugged Beth and Derek. ‘Have you had a nice weekend?’
‘Wonderful!’ Marianne enthused. Beth was already talking to Paula. ‘I should really be at work,’ Marianne added. ‘But Derek felt a bit uneasy coming in by himself on the first day.’
‘I can wait with you for moral support?’ I suggested to Derek. ‘Then Marianne can get off to work.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ Derek said, finally smiling.
‘Thanks, Cathy,’ Marianne said. ‘I’ve arranged to leave work early this afternoon so I can be here, and I’ll be cutting my hours anyway when Derek goes back to work.’
Marianne kissed Derek goodbye on the cheek and then hugged and kissed Beth. Other parents in the playground were still watching and Derek saw them too. ‘Bye, love. Have a good day,’ Marianne said as she walked away.
‘Bye, Mum!’ Beth called. ‘See you later.’
Interest in Derek and Beth gradually evaporated and the prying stares disappeared as conversations resumed. I waited with Derek, talking about the weekend, until the klaxon sounded, when Beth kissed her father goodbye and ran over to line up with her class. When the teachers came out to lead their classes into school, Miss Willow made a point of looking over and giving Derek a little wave and a smile, which was thoughtful. She was possibly aware that Derek would be feeling uncomfortable on his first day back, and I could see he appreciated her kindness. He returned her wave and smile.
I walked with Derek out of the playground and then we said goodbye and went our separate ways home. That afternoon, when I returned to school to collect Adrian, I kept a lookout for Marianne and Derek with the intention of once again standing with them. The playground can be a lonely place for parents, just as it can be for children, if everyone but you appears to be chatting happily with friends. I saw Derek and Marianne come through the school gates; she had her arm loosely linked through his. I was about to go over when Frances, April’s mother, went up to them. Offering her hand for shaking and with a big smile, she introduced herself and then they began talking. I remained where I was. I didn’t want to intrude, and it would be good for Beth if Marianne and Derek got to know her friends’ parents. It was thoughtful of Frances to approach them, for she was quite a shy person herself, but having appreciated Beth offering friendship to April, she was now doing the same to Marianne and Derek. I was very touched.
But there was another reason why I was so moved and was having to blink back my tears. For as I looked at Derek and Marianne – now truly a couple – I was reminded of the days when John had come with me to meet Adrian from school. We had stood side by side, together, in the playground – a couple – just as Marianne and Derek were doing now. But as they were at the start of their life together, my life with John had ended. We would never be a couple again, and I was very sad.
Epilogue
A week later school broke up for the long summer holiday, and by the time school returned in September the playground gossips had lost interest in Derek and Marianne. They were just another couple waiting for their child. Derek, now in good health, returned to work at the end of September and Marianne shortened her hours, so they could both share childcare and the school runs. Sometimes Derek was in the playground and sometimes Marianne was, and occasionally they were together. We always chatted if there was an opportunity, and also if we saw each other by chance in the high street or one of the local parks.
Beth’s birthday was in October and she wanted a party at home. Marianne had never organized a children’s birthday party before and asked me for some advice on games and
party food. Beth invited eight friends from her class, including Jenni, who surprisingly was allowed to go. I was pleased Jenni’s mother had managed to put her own prejudices aside for the sake of her daughter. I think Derek was pleased too, although he didn’t say much.
At the beginning of November, Adrian, Paula and I visited Beth at home. Marianne and Derek made us feel very welcome and it was clear Beth was happy and settled. Beth showed us some photographs of her party, and also of her natural mother, which her father had found and given to her. Marianne told me that she and Derek had spoken to Beth about her mother and had reassured her that if she ever wanted to contact her, they would try and trace her, but Beth didn’t want to at present. She told Marianne she was her mummy now.
Marianne and Derek were married at the end of November in a small ceremony at the local register office. Beth was the bridesmaid, and two friends from Marianne’s work were the witnesses. After the service the five of them went out for dinner at a nice country restaurant.
Jessie continued to monitor the family for the first year and then, satisfied there were no concerns, the social services’ involvement ended.
And what of John and my family? I took some time off from fostering after Beth left so I could concentrate on Adrian and Paula and also get my own head sorted out. But you can’t stay upset and angry forever. At some point, you have to put the past behind you, let go and move on. John saw Adrian and Paula regularly and I had to accept that Sunday outings with their father were part of my new life. I kept myself busy on those days, and when I returned to fostering I used the time to give the child I was looking after one-to-one attention, which they appreciated. My parents didn’t see John again, and while I never completely forgave him I was always polite when he telephoned to arrange contact or speak to the children, or when he came to the door to collect them on a Sunday. I’ve never remarried, although I have dated. Like many parents who are deserted by their partners, I think I probably overcompensated for the absent parent and invested all I had in my children. But then I know I must have done something right when I look at the wonderful people they’ve become.
Emotional incest is rarely spoken of and often missed or undiagnosed, but it is a form of abuse that can, and does, wreck lives. Derek, Marianne and Beth were lucky to receive the help they needed; many others do not. The parent–child relationship is very special and quite distinct from the relationship an adult has with another adult – on all levels. A child can never be used as a substitute or surrogate partner, regardless of how abandoned or lonely the adult may feel. Children need their childhood so that they can flourish and grow into healthy and emotionally mature adults. Well done Marianne, Derek and Beth. You are truly a lovely family.
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Chapter 1
The article in the newspaper was tiny, considering the crime. It told of a six-year-old girl who had lured a local toddler from his yard, taken him to a nearby woodland, tied him to a tree and set fire to him. The boy, badly burned, was in hospital. All that was said in what amounted to no more than a space filler below the comic strips on page six. I read it and, repulsed, I turned the page and went on.
Six weeks later, Ed, the special education director, phoned me. It was early January, the day we were returning from our Christmas break. “There’s going to be a new girl in your class. Remember that little girl who set fire to the kid in November …?”
I taught what was affectionately referred to in our district as the “garbage class.” It was the last year before congressional law would introduce “mainstreaming,” the requirement that all special needs children be educated in the least restrictive environment; and thus, our district still had the myriad of small special education classrooms, each catering to a different disability. There were classes for physically handicapped, for mentally handicapped, for behaviorally disordered, for visually impaired … you name it, we had it. My eight were the kids left over, the ones who defied classification. All of them suffered emotional disorders, but most also had mental or physical disabilities as well. Out of the three girls and five boys in the group, three could not talk, one could but refused and another spoke only in echoes of other people’s words. Three of them were still in diapers and two more had regular accidents. As I had the full number of children allowed by state law for a class of severely handicapped children, I was given an aide at the start of the year; but mine hadn’t turned out to be one of the bright, hardworking aides already employed by the school, as I had expected. Mine was a Mexican-American migrant worker named Anton, who had been trawled from the local welfare list. He’d never graduated from high school, never even stayed north all winter before, and certainly had never changed diapers on a seven-year-old. My only other help came from Whitney, a fourteen-year-old junior high student, who gave up her study halls to volunteer in our class.
By all accounts we didn’t appear a very promising group, and in the beginning, chaos was the byword; however, as the months passed, we metamorphosed. Anton proved to be sensitive and hardworking, his dedication to the children becoming apparent within the first weeks. The kids, in return, responded well to having a man in the classroom and they built on one another’s strengths. Whitney’s youth occasionally made her more like one of the children than one of the staff, but her enthusiasm was contagious, making it easier for all of us to view events as adventures rather than the disasters they often were. The kids grew and changed, and by Christmas we had become a cohesive little group. Now Ed was sending me a six-year-old stick of dynamite.
Her name was Sheila. The next Monday she arrived, being dragged into my classroom by Ed, as my principal worriedly brought up the rear, his hands flapping behind her as if to fan her into the classroom. She was absolutely tiny, with fierce eyes, long, matted blond hair and a very bad smell. I was shocked to find she was so small. Given her notoriety, I had expected something considerably more Herculean. As it was, she couldn’t have been much bigger than the three-year-old she had abducted.
Abducted? I regarded her carefully.
Bureaucracy being what it is in school districts, Sheila’s school files didn’t arrive before she did; so when she went off to lunch on that first day, Anton and I took the opportunity to go down to the office for a quick look. The file made bleak reading, even by the standards of my class.
Our town, Marysville, was in proximity to a large mental hospital and a state penitentiary, and this, in addition to the migrants, had created a disproportionate underclass, many of whom lived in appalling poverty. The buildings in the migrant camp had been built as temporary summer housing and many were literally nothing but wood and tar paper that lacked even the most basic amenities, but they became crowded in the winter by those who could afford nothing better. It was here that Sheila lived with her father.
A drug addict with alcohol problems, her father had spent most of Sheila’s early years in and out of prison. He had no job. Currently on parole, he was attending an alcohol abuse program, but doing little else.
Sheila’s mother had been only fourteen when, as a runaway, she took up with Sheila’s father and became pregnant. Sheila was born two days before her mother’s fifteenth birthday. A second child, a son, was born nineteen months later. There wasn’t much else relating to the mother in the file, although it was not hard to read drugs, alcohol and domestic violence between the lines. Whatever, she must have finally had enough, because when Sheila was four, she left the family. From the brief notes, it appeared that she had intended to take both children with her, but Sheila was later found abandoned on an open stretch of freeway about thirty miles south of town. Sheila’s mother and her brother, Jimmie, were never heard from again.
The bulk of the file detailed Sheila’s behavior. At home the father appeared to have no control over her at all. She had been repeatedly found wandering around the migrant camp late at night. She had a history of fire setting and had bee
n cited for criminal damage three times by the local police, quite an accomplishment for a six-year-old. At school, Sheila often refused to speak, and as a consequence, virtually nothing was contained in the file to tell me what or how much she might have learned. She had been in kindergarten and then first grade in an elementary school near the migrant camp until the incident with the little boy had occurred, but there were no assessment notes. In place of the usual test results and learning summaries was a catalog of horror stories detailing Sheila’s destructive, often violent, behavior.
At the end of the file was a brief summary of the incident with the toddler. The judge concluded that Sheila was out of parental control and would be best placed in a secure unit, where her needs could be better met. In this instance, he meant the children’s unit at the state mental hospital. Unfortunately, the unit was at capacity at the time of the hearing, and thus, Sheila would need to await an opening. A recently dated memo was appended detailing the need to provide some form of education, given her age and the law, but no one bothered to mince words. Her placement was custodial. This meant she had to be kept in school for the time being, because of the specifics of the law, but I need not feel under any obligation to teach her. With Sheila’s arrival, my room had become a holding pen.
Youth was my greatest asset at that point in my career. Still fired with idealism, I felt strongly that there were no problem kids, only a problem society. Although initially reluctant to take Sheila, it had been because my room was crowded and my resources overstretched already, not because of the child herself. Thus, once I had her, I regarded her as mine and my class was no holding pen! My belief in human integrity and the inalienable right of each and every one of my children to possess it was trenchant.
