Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  I glanced at the contact supervisor. It wasn’t for me to say it was time to go. ‘One more game and then you need to pack away and say goodbye,’ she said.

  As I waited I picked up from the coffee table my empty stay-fresh box that had contained the pasta bake.

  ‘Why are you taking that?’ Amanda asked, looking up.

  ‘I’ll take it home so I can use it again,’ I said.

  ‘It’s Cathy’s,’ Melody added.

  ‘Oh, is it?’ Amanda said, as though she had forgotten.

  The game ended with Amanda winning again and she began to draw another grid for the next game. It was now nearly 5.45. Contact should have ended fifteen minutes ago. ‘Time to pack away,’ the contact supervisor finally said. Standing, she came over.

  ‘Oh, just when I was winning!’ Amanda lamented, like a child might.

  ‘We can play it again next time,’ Melody said, and handed the clipboard and pencils to the contact supervisor. She then hugged and kissed her mother goodbye.

  ‘See you Wednesday,’ I said. Amanda looked confused. ‘Wednesday is the next contact. It’s Monday today.’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked.

  ‘You should have a letter with the days and times of contact,’ the supervisor said.

  ‘She’ll have lost it,’ Melody said.

  I picked up one of the unused sheets of paper from the coffee table and, taking a pen from my bag, wrote down the days and times of the contact. ‘Here we go,’ I said, passing the sheet to Amanda.

  ‘I hope I don’t lose this too,’ she laughed. Melody smiled.

  With a final goodbye, we left. I felt I had been of some help and Amanda had appeared less resentful towards me.

  ‘You like playing noughts and crosses then?’ I said to Melody as we went down the corridor.

  ‘It’s OK.’ She shrugged. ‘Miss May taught me today and I showed Mummy how to play. It was all right to begin with, but then it got boring. I kept playing because Mummy didn’t want to stop. So I let her win.’

  ‘But you had a nice time?’

  ‘Yes. Mummy was happy.’

  ‘Good.’

  I was pleased they’d had a nice time and Amanda had been happy. It’s important for the child to leave contact with a positive feeling.

  On Wednesday, I made a casserole and rice pudding again. I tend to make the children’s favourite dishes every week and these were good winter warmers. Melody was sure her mother would like the casserole, and she’d already had some of my rice pudding the week before and enjoyed it. We arrived at contact five minutes early, with Melody carrying the two stay-fresh containers. The receptionist said that Amanda hadn’t arrived yet and asked us to sign in and go to the waiting room. Melody immediately grew anxious. ‘I bet Mum’s got lost again.’

  ‘Melody, we’re early, and your mother has been here three times before,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she won’t get lost now. Let’s sit down and I’ll show you what five minutes is on my watch.’ We settled in the waiting room and I explained the time as I was doing at every opportunity so that Melody would learn to tell the time. But as the minutes ticked by I realized this exercise was becoming counterproductive, as I was drawing attention to the fact that her mother was getting later and later. Instead, I picked up a couple of children’s storybooks from the table and tried to distract Melody by reading, but without success. The door to the centre periodically opened and closed as other families came or left, and Melody kept going into the corridor to check if it was her mother.

  ‘Where is she? Where has Mummy got to?’ she asked, worried, returning again to sit beside me.

  At 4.20, when Amanda was twenty minutes late, I left Melody in the waiting room and went to speak to the receptionist. ‘Has Amanda phoned in?’ I asked.

  ‘No, nothing yet. We have been trying to call her, but she’s not answering.’

  ‘How much longer will you give her?’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the manager.’

  I returned to the waiting room and the minutes ticked by. At 4.30 the manager appeared. ‘I’m sorry, but it seems that your mummy isn’t coming today,’ she said to Melody. ‘We’ll give her five more minutes.’

  I nodded sombrely. ‘She hasn’t phoned then?’

  She shook her head. Melody looked crestfallen.

  It’s dreadful for a child to sit waiting for a parent who doesn’t show, and the next five minutes were excruciating. Now I was more aware of just how vulnerable and needy Amanda was I shared some of Melody’s concerns, although I didn’t tell her. I reassured her as best I could and at 4.35, when the manager reappeared and said we should go, it was something of a relief. If Amanda wasn’t coming then it was better we left now before Melody became more anxious and upset.

  ‘Mummy hasn’t had her dinner,’ Melody said as I picked up the boxes. ‘Can we leave them here in case she comes, then she can have her dinner later?’

  I looked at the manager. ‘Is that possible?’ I asked, although I knew the centre closed at 6 p.m.

  ‘I’ll put them in the fridge,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ It helped to reassure Melody a little, although whether Amanda would arrive before the centre closed we wouldn’t know.

  Melody and I left, signing out on the way, but outside she burst into tears. ‘Where’s my mummy? Where is she? She’s lost and all alone.’ I put my arm around her and comforted her as best I could.

  Chapter Eight

  Difficult

  When Melody and I arrived home on that Wednesday Lucy and Paula were downstairs, holding a ruler each, and were surprised to see us home early.

  ‘Mummy didn’t come to contact,’ Melody said, fighting back fresh tears.

  ‘Oh dear! Did she phone to say why?’ Lucy asked, having had experience of similar.

  ‘No,’ Melody said, her bottom lip trembling. Paula was looking sad too.

  ‘Could you take Melody to play a game or something while I make a phone call?’ I said.

  ‘You can help with my maths homework,’ Paula said. ‘We’re measuring everything in the living room. I have to make a scale drawing.’

  Sufficiently intrigued, Melody went with them, which allowed me to phone my fostering agency without being overheard. ‘Amanda didn’t show for contact,’ I told Jill. ‘I wondered if you’d heard anything from Neave?’

  ‘No, and I doubt there’s anything to be gained by phoning her now. She’d have called if she knew. I’ll phone her in the morning. How has Melody taken it?’

  ‘She’s upset and worried.’

  ‘The poor dear. Her mother has probably just forgotten – you said she was very forgetful.’

  ‘Yes, I know, thanks, Jill. Speak tomorrow.’

  During the evening I reassured Melody a number of times that nothing bad had happened to her mother, and that I’d find out tomorrow from her social worker where she’d got to.

  ‘Will I be able to see Mummy tomorrow, as we missed contact tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it, love. The Family Centre is usually fully booked, but I can ask, and Friday – your next contact – will come quickly.’ It was all I could offer.

  Melody took a while to settle that night and I sat with her until she fell asleep with her face pressed against the rag doll we’d bought on our shopping trip on Saturday. She’d named the doll Lizzie after a girl she’d been playing with at school and whom she now viewed as a friend.

  The following morning Melody was already awake when I went into her room. I suspected she had been for some time and she’d been dwelling on what had happened. ‘If you speak to my social worker, can you tell her to tell Mummy I love her, and to make sure she knows where the Family Centre is, and she has to go on Friday? She might have lost the sheet of paper you gave her, like she did the letter.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ I said.

  ‘And Neave has to tell her which bus to catch.’

  ‘Yes. OK. I’ll remember.’

  I doubt parents of children in care fully appr
eciate just how much their children worry when they don’t show for contact. It also adds to their feelings of rejection.

  ‘I expect that’s what happened,’ Melody said, still trying to rationalize her mother not seeing her. ‘She lost the letter, then lost the paper you gave her, and didn’t know which bus to catch.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ I said. ‘Now come on, up you get, ready for school.’ Although how the poor child would ever concentrate on her schoolwork I had no idea.

  Melody, Paula and I had porridge for breakfast – Adrian and Lucy had had theirs – and then, calling goodbye, Melody and I left for school. Once I’d seen her into school I returned home, expecting Jill to phone having spoken to Neave. However, when the phone rang mid-morning it was Neave herself. ‘I understand Amanda didn’t show for contact last night. Do you have any idea where she might be?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Melody hasn’t said anything?’

  ‘No, she thinks she might have got lost. She said to tell you to make sure her mother has the details of the Family Centre and knows which bus to catch. Amanda is very forgetful, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but it seems to be getting worse. I’ve tried to phone her, but she’s not answering. I’m in a meeting soon and I’ll visit her flat when I get out. Amanda threatened to commit suicide if I took Melody into care, but she seems to have been coping. I understand from the contact supervisor that they had a good contact on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, they played noughts and crosses.’

  ‘How did Amanda appear then?’

  ‘A bit disorientated and confused, but otherwise all right. She didn’t seem depressed.’

  ‘No, that’s what the contact supervisor said. Hopefully Amanda will be home again by the time I visit her, and remember I’ll be observing contact on Friday.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you update Jill? I don’t have time now,’ she said.

  ‘I will, and Melody said when you speak to her mother, please tell her she loves her.’

  ‘Sure.’

  We said goodbye. I felt very uneasy at what Neave had said about Amanda threatening suicide. I phoned my fostering agency to update Jill. She wasn’t in the office, so I left a message with a colleague, paraphrasing what Neave had told me.

  I didn’t hear anything further from Neave or Jill, so just before I left to collect Melody from school I telephoned Jill again.

  ‘Sorry, Cathy, I’ve been tied up. I got your message and I’ve spoken to Neave. She visited Amanda’s flat earlier this afternoon but she wasn’t there. She spoke to someone in the house who seemed to know her. He said she was hardly there now and thought she may have moved. Neave said that contact will go ahead on Friday.’ This seemed reassuring, as it was quite possible Amanda had missed contact because she was in the process of moving. Some parents of children in care lead very chaotic lives, especially when substance abuse is involved. They can disappear for days, even weeks, and then reappear somewhere else. I would need to think carefully about what I told Melody.

  When I met her at the end of school it was Miss May I had to reassure first. ‘Have you found her?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Melody said her mother was lost. I do hope she is all right.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ I said. ‘She didn’t arrive for contact, but Melody should be seeing her tomorrow as usual.’

  ‘There you go,’ she said to Melody, clearly relieved. ‘I said she’d be all right.’

  Miss May then told me what homework Melody had in her school bag and, wishing each other a pleasant evening, we said goodbye. As Melody and I crossed the playground a girl of a similar age to Melody came up to her. ‘Have they found your mummy now?’ she asked her quietly.

  ‘Maybe,’ Melody said a little sullenly.

  I smiled at the girl and she returned to her mother. ‘Was that Lizzie?’ I asked.

  Melody nodded.

  ‘She seems very nice. You could invite her to our house to play one time.’

  But Melody’s thoughts were on other matters. ‘Did you speak to Neave?’

  ‘Yes. She thinks your mummy may have moved, but she will come to contact on Friday.’

  ‘We’re always moving,’ she sighed. ‘She’ll get even more lost now!’

  Without any evidence to the contrary, Melody, like me, accepted this as a plausible explanation for her mother not going to contact. Once home she watched some children’s television until dinner was ready, and then after we’d eaten I helped her with her homework.

  ‘When you cook tomorrow can you do some for Mummy?’ she asked me as I took her up to bed.

  ‘Yes, of course. Although I’m not sure what it will be yet.’

  ‘Chicken nuggets and chips is her favourite and mine,’ she said.

  ‘OK. We’ll have that,’ I smiled. I usually cooked proper meals, so processed food wasn’t going to harm anyone once in a while.

  The following morning Melody was very happy because she thought she would be seeing her mother and was having her favourite dinner. ‘Six nuggets and medium French fries,’ she told me in the car as if ordering from a fast-food takeaway. I had to laugh.

  Having seen Melody into school, I drove to a large supermarket on the edge of town to do a big shop for the weekend, as my parents were coming for dinner on Sunday. On returning home, I’d just finished putting the cold foods in the freezer and fridge when the phone rang. I answered it in the kitchen, surrounded by the bags I’d yet to unpack. It was Jill, and I knew straight away that something was wrong: she has a habit of saying ‘Cathy,’ and then pausing, as though steeling herself before continuing. ‘Amanda is in hospital.’

  ‘Oh no. What’s the matter?’ Immediately my thoughts raced through possible scenarios, including her being knocked down, a drug overdose and a suicide attempt.

  ‘She has been sectioned under the Mental Health Act,’ Jill said. ‘She’s been in hospital since Wednesday but wasn’t carrying any ID, so the police have only just found out who she is.’

  ‘Wednesday. So is that why she wasn’t at contact?’

  ‘It seems she was on her way to the Family Centre but got on the wrong bus. When she realized, she wanted the bus driver to turn the bus around and take her back. The driver thought she was joking to begin with, but then she became aggressive and kept hitting his arm and shouting while he was driving. He parked the bus and called the police. They found her to be very confused and agitated, and arrested her. They took her to the police station, where her behaviour gave them further cause for concern. They called the duty psychiatrist, who felt she needed hospitalization. Amanda refused to go voluntarily, so she was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’

  ‘Oh dear. How long will she be in hospital?’

  ‘It’s a Section 2, so up to twenty-eight days, although it could be extended if necessary. She’s in –’ and Jill named a large hospital in the area that had a psychiatric unit. ‘Neave said it’s not appropriate for Melody to visit her until she is assessed and stabilized.’

  ‘No, I can see that. Do you know how long that is likely to take?’

  ‘Probably about a week. Neave will meet Amanda and the clinician responsible for her towards the end of next week. Best tell Melody that her mother is in hospital without going into details, unless she asks.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, worried. ‘Poor Amanda.’

  ‘At least she will get the help she needs now,’ Jill said. ‘Apparently her behaviour has been giving cause for concern for some time.’

  ‘Yes, it was very odd and worrying at times. So Melody will be able to see her once she’s assessed and stabilized in a week or so?’

  ‘It’s not definite. It will depend on how quickly Amanda responds to the treatment, so don’t build up Melody’s hopes.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Keep her busy over the weekend and phone the agency’s out-of-hours service if you need to.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’ My fostering agency provided an emergency service twenty-four h
ours a day, every day of the year.

  I replaced the handset with a deep feeling of sadness and concern for Amanda. Here I was in the familiar comfort of my home, looking forward to the weekend, while Amanda was being detained in a psychiatric hospital against her will. While I appreciated it was for her own good and she would get the help she needed, I felt a cold pang of fear. I think most of us at some point in our lives tread a narrow line between being mentally healthy and harbouring strange and irrational thoughts. How easy it would be to slip over that line and lose touch with reality and not be able to make decisions for oneself. I could picture Amanda on the bus, suddenly realizing she was heading the wrong way and then panicking that she would be late for contact. Her response may have been ridiculous, but it had a child-like logic to it: I need to see my daughter, make the bus driver turn the bus around. It saddened me greatly, and the rest of the afternoon I was plagued by worrying thoughts of Amanda. Did she understand why she was in hospital? Did she know her daughter was safe with me? Did she have a change of clothes with her? Was she frightened or heavily sedated? I knew she would be well looked after, but it didn’t stop me from worrying. And what would I tell Melody?

  When the phone rang shortly before I was due to leave to collect Melody from school I snatched it up, thinking there might be more news about Amanda, but a female voice I didn’t recognize said, ‘Hello, Cathy Glass?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘This is Nina French, the Guardian for Melody.’ It took me a moment to realize who I was talking to.

  ‘Oh, yes, hello. Neave said you would be in contact.’

  ‘Good. You understand my role?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Guardian ad Litem (or Guardian) is a social worker appointed by the court in child-care proceedings for the duration of the case. He or she is independent of the social services but has access to all the files. They see all parties in the case and report to the judge on what is in the best interests of the child.

  ‘I’m phoning to introduce myself,’ she said, ‘and make an appointment to visit you and Melody. I suggest after school, so she doesn’t miss any more schooling. I’ll be speaking to her teacher and also observing her and her mother at contact.’ This was usual for the Guardian, except of course there wouldn’t be any contact in the foreseeable future.